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The remaining poems of the cycle, all late in style and tone, deal with the fates of Gudrun and her brothers, and owe their existence to a narrator's unwillingness to let a favourite story end. The curse makes continuation easy, since the Giukings inherit it with the hoard. Gudrun was married at the wish of her kinsmen to Atli the Hun, said to be Brynhild's brother.
And since the point of view of the secondary personage is just as internal to the events themselves as that of the leading actor, the story may be told with an immediacy, a vividness, and a plausibility approximating closely the effect derived from a narrative told by the hero. And there is now less difficulty in accounting for the narrator's knowledge of all the details of the plot.
Every schoolgirl knows the lines: "Scarce had lamented Forbes paid The tribute to his Minstrel's shade; The tale of friendship scarce was told, Ere the narrator's heart was cold: Far may we search before we find A heart so manly and so kind!" In one place, Mr. Croker says, that at the commencement of the intimacy between Dr. Johnson and Mrs. If, therefore, Mrs.
The crickets accompanied the narrator's voice with the shrilling of their wing-cases, and ever and anon his words, uttered in the softest of all dialects of human speech, would be answered by the fluted plaintive croaking of the frogs, which hearkened from across the road a friendly, if apprehensive audience.
Bareboaster's, and yonder are Count Thingumbob's and Prince Whatyoumaycall's. So you retreat once more, baffled." Fortifying himself with more tea and cigarettes, the victim of Moscow went on: And the Moscow saints and parishes have such names!" Here the narrator's feelings overcame him, and when I asked for some of the parochial titles he was too limp to reply.
How evident, again, is the slightness of the narrator's hold upon the Twrch-Trwyth and his strange story! How manifest the mixture of known and unknown, shadowy and clear, of different layers and orders of tradition jumbled together, in the story of Bran the Blessed, a story whose personages touch a comparatively late and historic time.
"He came," said the émigré, "like Pluto out of the earth. He was breathless as one out of prison his linen was torn. There was," the narrator's voice halted, then hardened in tone, "there was blood upon his sleeve. At the time I supposed that, in bursting through that grille of the forest, branch or briar had drawn it. There was blood, sir, about your brother?" "Yes.
Of course, one and another of the narrator's auditors thought himself such a person, and hied him away to the conical hill that rises so conspicuously at the entrance to the estuary of the Forth.
Mathew Clark, the Presbyterian Minister of Stoneykirk, has copied down his deposition, duly attested by the cross set opposite to his name. The good clergyman has, I fancy, put some slight polish upon the narrator's story, which I rather regret, as it might have been more interesting, if less intelligible, when reported verbatim.
'Not that we should dismiss them as old wives' fables an all too common method or even doubt the narrator's good faith. We should treat them like tales of big fish that get away; sometimes there is good corroborative evidence that they really were big fish, sometimes not. We shall return to these false memories. Was there a coincidence at all in the Society's cases printed in the Census?
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