unbroken row. Single persons (minstrels) took the place of the dancing multitude, and chanted in a sort of "recitative," some song full of myth and legend, but centred in the person of the tribal god. Now what is such a song? It is The Epic. [Epic, from Greek Epos, a "word," then a "narration": cf. Sagâ something said.]

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It is important to remember that the Epic was not the result of that individual effort to which we now give the name of poetical composition.

To use Mr. Tylor's words (Primitive Culture, 1. 273), epic poetry goes back "to that actual experience of nature and life which is the ultimate source of human fancy." Perhaps "source" is not quite accurate; we should prefer to say that it is experience of nature and experience of life (i.e., mythology and legend), which awaken and stimulate the inborn human fancy, that is, the creative power of poetry. This creative power, in early times, when the great epics were forming, when their materials were gradually drawing together, lay rather in the national life itself than in any individual. There were no poets, only singers. The race or nation was the poet. For the final shape in which these epics. come down to us, we must assume the genius of a singer-poet.

characteristics.

We note further that the personages of the Epic must be humanized,i.e., partake of our passions and other Otherwise they could not awaken human interest. But the background across which these huge beings move must be the twilight of legend and myth. Instead of taking the Homeric poems as illustration, we prefer to give a brief outline of our own national epic,— Beowulf.

[Beowulf, the only complete epic preserved from Anglo-Saxon heathen poetry, is based on legends and myths that arose among the northern Germanic tribes before the conquest of Britain in the Fifth Century. The poem in its present shape was probably composed at one of the Northumbrian courts before the Eighth Century. The Ms. is a West Saxon copy of the Tenth Century. There are besides a few fragments preserved. Probably many other AngloSaxon epics were lost in the wholesale and wanton destruction of Mss. when the monasteries were broken up under Henry VIII.]

The story of Beowulf is now becoming familiar to all readers; we give a bare outline. A powerful king of the Danes (Hrôthgâr) builds a banquet-hall. But he does not enjoy it long. A dreaded monster (Grendel) lives in the neighboring fen, and hears with envious heart the sounds of revelry. So he comes at dead of night, enters the hall, seizes thirty of the sleeping vassals, and bears them off to be devoured in his home. Nothing can withstand him. The banquet-hall lies empty and useless. Over the sea lives a hero who is moved to help Hrôthgâr. The hero's name is Beowulf. He bids his men make ready a boat, and with fourteen vassals puts to sea. He arrives at Hrôthgâr's court, and a grand banquet is held in the hall; but at night the Danes retire, leaving Beowulf and his warriors to guard the post of danger. Grendel comes, and a terrific combat follows between him and Beowulf, which ends in victory for the latter. He tears out Grendel's giant arm from its socket; with "shrill death-song" the monster reels away to die amid his fen. That day the Danes and their deliverers rejoice, and there is another feast. The Danes now remain in the hall; Beowulf

goes elsewhere. With night comes the mother of Grendel, a huge and terrible monster, to avenge her

son's death, and kills one of the dearest vassals of the king. The next morning Beowulf goes on a quest of vengeance. He comes to the dismal home of the monster, plunges into the dreary waters, and far below the surface meets and conquers the hideous being. The foes of Hrôthgâr are now put to death, and Beowulf, laden with gifts and honor, returns home.

Fifty years pass. Beowulf is an old king who has ruled with strong hand and gentle heart over his people. But now a dragon comes to waste the land. The old hero girds on his armor for a final struggle. He goes down to the dragon's cave; but at sight of the monster, belching flame, the vassals of Beowulf ignominiously fly, and the king fights single-handed and weary against the fire and poison of the dragon. At last, one young warrior, ashamed of his flight, returns; and together, king and vassal slay the monster. But Beowulf is mortally wounded. After a few strong words, exulting that he has fought the good fight of life, he dies. They build a great mound for him by the sea, and bury him with honors of flame and song.

This is the epic of Beowulf. Now let us try to trace those threads of myth and legend mentioned above. We should guard against a too implicit trust in apparently conclusive parallels between mythology and epic; but still, in taking the following analysis (mainly that of Müllenhoff and Ten Brink), we shall not be far out of the way. The principle is sound.

The northwest coast of Europe, where our epic had its origin, is exposed to the ravages of ocean storms. Over the low lands, along the borders of the Cimbrian peninsula, swept in fury the tempests of spring and fall.

The sea broke its bounds and raged over the flat country, sweeping away houses and men. Against these wild storms came the gentle spring-god, the god of warmth and calm. This god men called Beowa. The god conquers the monsters of the stormy sea, follows them even into their ocean home and puts them to death. Grendel and his mother may fairly be taken as types of these storms. In autumn they burst forth afresh. The waning power of summer closes with them in fiercest struggle. After long combat both the year and the storms sink into the frost-bound sleep of winter. So much for "the experience of nature,"-i.e., mythology. Now for the "experience of life," legend. History tells us that early in the Sixth Century, one Hygelac, king of the Getæ, came down from the north and went plundering along the Rhine. The Frankish king, Theudebert, met and fought Hygelac, and the latter fell. His follower and nephew, however, Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, did great deeds. Fighting until all others had fallen, he escaped by a masterful piece of swimming, and went back to his island home. His fame spread far and wide. He grew to be a national hero. Songs were sung about him. Wandering minstrels chanted his praise from tribe to tribe. What these wandering minstrels were, and how important was their profession, may be gathered from an AngloSaxon poem, which is probably "the oldest monument of English poetry,"- Wîdsith, "the far-wanderer." In the one hundred and forty-three verses preserved to us, the minstrel tells of his travels, of the costly gifts he has received, of maxims of government he has heard, of famous heroes, kings and queens whom he has visited

(a wild confusion of half historical, half mythical names from different lands and times), and of the countries he has seen. He refers to some evidently well-known legends. Wîdsîth is the ideal minstrel; and this strange poem gives us ample hints as to the spread of legends. by men of his craft. Then, too, Tacitus tells us of this custom (Ann. 2, 88); Arminius, liberator of Germany, "caniturque adhuc barbaras apud gentes."1 In all this singing, there was small risk that Beowulf's deeds would lose any of their greatness. In fact, they acquired at length certain touches of the supernatural.

Thus, then, we have hymns in honor of Beowa, the liberating and national god; songs in honor of Beowulf, the national hero. Little by little, the two became one person; and myth and legend, hymns and songs, crystallized about the common centre, until some gifted minstrel gave them form and unity in the epic of Beowulf. Unfortunately the form halts behind the matter: owing to the rapid christianizing of England, the epic, says Ten Brink, was "frozen in the midst of its development." Such as it is, however, it is a noble herald of the long line of English poetry. — We now abandon the historic method, and look at the epic as it lies before us as well in the Iliad and the Odyssey, as in Beowulf.

1 Jornandes, writing about 552 A.D., mentions the legendary songs of the Goths. Thus, in regard to their migration toward the Black Sea: "quemadmodum in priscis eorum carminibus, pæne historico ritu, in commune recolitur." Cf. W. Grimm, Heldensage, 1.