AN OLD WAR SONG.

New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, Volume 1, Issue 8, 1 May 1900, Page 641

AN OLD WAR SONG.

By M. Frasbr Huqhks

IgjjipUJjßE is no hero bat Tommy, and aR Kipling is his poet. So be it. We f"^"" are all quite prepared to do our part in worshipping the risen sun. But, by reason of his very brightness, the object of our devotion is apt to cause afaintnessby the way, a longing for something less dazzling and— dare we say ?— a trifle less vulgar. Let us seek then the cool bye-paths of literature, and, since the stress of our times has decreed that strife shall be the sole occupant of our thoughts and books, let us see if we cannot find some grove which, though resounding with martial strains, is yet hallowed by the reverence of many generations. Long ago, before William the Conqueror was dreamt of, the pleasantest part of England for a scholar to live in was North umbria, with its wild coasts and angry sea. There, as a rule, he lived in peace in some monastery, translating and transcribing the works of the fathers. But at times his quiet was rudely broken by the wild visits of the Northmen, who, descending on the coasts, carried off from the houses of learning such treasures as they could lay their hands on. Rude and barbarous as these Scandinavian tribes were, they had yet some form of intellectual amusement in the stirring tales of their heroes and warriors, which they chanted to one another as they lay round their wood fires when the toils of the day were over. Of such tales the best known to us is that of

"Beowulf." Perchance somo Northman, more peaceably inclined than his fellows, settled on the Northumbrian shores and told the tale to his neighbours ; perchance some captive heard the story sung by his conquerors over their mead ; we know not how, but certain it is that this outland story was written down in our tongue, and bocamo part of our literature. It is a matter of dispute as to when it assumed its present form, perhaps as early as the eighth century, but there is no doubt that the story itself is older even than that. It is written in the Wessex dialect of the Anglo-Saxon language, but as we know, it first came to Northumbria. This leads us to believe that the version wo have is merely a transcript of an old Northumbrian one. The song sets forth the mighty deeds of one Beowulf, and runs somewhat thus: In a sea-bound kingdom there lived a king called Hrothgar, who, with his thanes, might have lived happily save that his land was infested by a terrible monster called the gretideU Every night when, weary with the mead drinking, the thanes lay asleep, the awful grendel entered and, seizing one of them, devoured him as h"e lay. Adjoining Hrothgar's kingdom was a fair realm ruled over by a king who had one son named Boewulf. When the young prince heard of the ravages of the grondel ho resolved to rid the unhappy land of such a torment. He came to Hrothgar, who gladly

accepted his aid, and together they lay down in the halls with the thanes. The king, heing weary, fell asleep, "but Boewulf lay wakeful. And as before the grendel entered, seized his prey and devoured him. Then he came to where Beowulf lay, and put out his paw to seize him. But Beowulf raised himself on his elbow, and held the paw in the grip of his strong right hand. The monster felt that he had met his match, and struggled to escape, pulling towards the door. The noise roused the halls, and one of Beowulf's companions raised his sword to slay the grendel. But against that scaly hide no steel could avail, and the edge turned again. And now all felt that, over such a monster, only the strong right hand of a man could prevail. Thus for long they struggled, the grendel pulling towards the door, and the hero pulling inwards. At length, the right hand grip overcame, and though the monster escaped, he left his arm in the hero's hand, and crawled across the fens and desert places to die in agony. And now, great was the rejoicing in the halls of Hrothgar, and many were the gifts bestowed on the hero. But they rejoiced too soon, for the mother of the grendel rose from the depths of her slimy ocean caverns to avenge the death of her son. She, if possible) a fouler monster, crept to the halls of the mead-drenched thanes, and. seizing for her prey one of the sleeping warriors, bore him away. And Beowulf and the king followed hard after her. And when they came to the edge of the sea they found on the cliffs the dead thane's armour, but the sea- wolf had disappeared in the depths below. And they looked over and saw great snakes and loathly creatures that writhed and wallowed in the slimy sea. Doubting, but with a brave frout, Beowulf descended, and entered the cavern of the sea-wolf. It was a gruesome place, void of water, and lit up with a pale lurid glare. Then began a grim and terrible straggle, and even the strong right hand grip of the hero availed him not, until he espied a huge sword, forged by a giant, leaning against the cavern walls. This he seized, and with vast strength smote

the fiend so that her head rolled off. The poison in her veins was so powerful that it melted the tempered steel, and only the hilt was left in the hand of the hero. Bearing the head, Beowulf i"eturcred to his friends, who had long giyen him up for lost, and showed them the bladeless hilt. They rejoiced greatly, loaded the hero with wine cups of gold and many jewels, and with much honour he returned to his own country. Such is the main outline of the story of Beowulf, and, as he scans it, certain characteristics force themselves on the attention of the thoughtful reader. He is struck by the introduction of certain moral, almost Christian touches, which hardly seem in accordance with what we know of the wild nature of the Northmen. Such, for instance, is the notion that against dragons and such evil things it is only the strong right hand grip of a man that can avail. These touches were probably introduced by the later scribes, who certainly were monks, and palled with the laudable desireof conveying some teaching in the poems they transcribed. Again there is throughout the poem a curious mixture of scenery and surroundings. The scene is laid in Denmark, yet to anyone familiar with the Northumbrian coast it must be appai'ent that the scenery described is exactly that to be met with on the bold heads and rocky cliffs of that storm-beaten coast. This fault, if fault we can call it, is hardly blameworthy when we consider that the original tellers of the story and the later writers were respectively Northmen and Northumbrians. We find the same thing occurring in a later English poet. Caedemore writes of patriarchs and prophets, but he places them in the midst of Northumbrian scenes, aud makes them walk over Northumbrian moors. It reminds one very much of those pictures of the old masters where the Wise Men are represented as courtiers in puffed sleeves and knee breeches, or the disciples as Italian peasants, pulling off one another's stockings preparatory to the washing of their feet by the Master. And lastly, there is a total absence of all mention of the softer love element which is

the almost inevitable accompaniment of all our war songs. We sing of glory to be gained on the battlefield, but we tell, too, of the bright eyes awaiting the hero on his return ; we chant of victory, but it is a maiden's hand that bestows the laurel and crowns the victor. Such was not the case in those grim days when a man's soul lusted after blood and wine, when he loved his ship or his sword first, and his wife — afterwards. So that when a hero had victory in his youth, peace to revel in the fruits of it in later life, and one last glorious fight for a finish, he was well satisfied. Wherefore in the minds of the warriors of those days the consummation of his happiness was granted to Beowulf. He succeeded to the dominions of Hrothgar, and drank the mead in the halls of Hrothgar through many days. But at length he fell mortally wounded in a combat with a dragon. They buried him within sound of the mighty sea, " and round about the mound rode his hearth-sharers, who sang that he was of kings, of men, the mildest, kindest, to his people sweetest, and the readiest in search of praise." ***** After all the theme of the Beowulf song is not an unusual one for the slaying of a monster, sea or otherwise, by a warrior doughty among his compeers is, like the story of the Great Flood, a common heritage among the literatures of the nations. It occurs in the old cycle of the " Siegfried " legends, and notably for us, in the Maori stories which have their origin on the waters of the Wanganui River. again a hero, one Aokehu, meets with the dread Tutae-poro-poro and earns for himself the immortal title of the Taniwha Slayer. Although outwardly and superficially alike, the stories of Beowulf and of Aokehu present a dissimilarity of motive which may serve to illustrate the

difference in the two nations which gavo them birth. The legends of the Maoris deal with a time when the race was in its infancy, and actuated only by the elemental motives which form the mainspring of tho actions of the human race, love, hate, revenge. The conception of anything higher is, us yet, beyond them. It is revengo, puro and simple, which moves Aokehu to the performance of his great deed with its Jonah-liko accompaniments, and though, thereby, his people are freed from a great terror, consideration for them is not the motive that inspires their saviour. Now although the old Norse heroes could not lay claim to any grout degree of moral refinement, yet they had loft behind the most rudimentary stage of their national life, and some glimmerings of higher things had come to them. However much we may ascribe to the old chroniclers, -it cannot be denied that Beowulf's motive in slaying tho sea-monster is a greater one than mere reveuge, some pity for the pest-stricken laud mingles with his love of personal glory. And yet, combined with the Maori thirst for revenge, there is a certain feeling for, and observation of the beauties of Nature which is lacking in the story "of tho Viking hero. The road to Aokehu's river-homo lies near a land of sweet smelling flowers and brilliant blooms. Such sights of delight are denied to Beowulf in his cold Northern land, Nature to him presents no soft allurmonts ; she in the old grey earth washed by the cold, eternal sea. To tho sea-rovers, as wo have said, there came nothing of the softer elements of home, and wife, and child. "The sea is our mother, our ship is our wife," so they chanted at their mighty mead-feasts, seeking little of that love which, when thwarted, leads men to slay, not only the object of their passion, but to nend a whole tribe from the World of Life.