406   Unferth, son of Ecglaf; *499 Unferð, Ecgláfes bearn

Quite contrary to his usual manner the author suddenly produces Unferth ‘out of his hat’, without warning and with his full style: name and patronymic. This exceptional procedure must be significant. Certainly it shows that Unferth son of Ecglaf was already a well-known figure in the court of Heorot before ever our author wrote his Beowulf. No visit to Heorot would be complete without a glimpse of him–it would be like going to Camelot and never hearing of Sir Kay. The audience was waiting for his appearance, and now would be eagerly attentive. He had a traditional temper of mind and behaviour already attached to him (as rough discourtesy was attached to Kay): envious, intelligent, but malicious and ‘worm-tongued’. What would he say?

Less certainly, but probably, this was how he usually made his appearance: a watchful man, sitting ‘at the feet of the king’, unobtrusively, hardly noticed at first by strangers, listening to all that was said, and careful to wait before speaking, until his entry would be most effective. The patronymic was important, because it was connected with sinister traditions about his dealings with his kin–that belonged to him personally, quite apart from his connexion with the Grendel-story.

Whether he has an historical ‘kernel’ (likely enough) or not, Unferth belongs primarily to the politico-dynastic side of the English traditions concerning the Scyldings and the court of Heorot. But when tales of the Grendel-kind became attached in legend to Heorot, it was probably inevitable, from his position there, that he should become involved in them also. It seems unlikely that our poet was the first handler of the Heorot-story to make this link. In that case some contact or clash between Beowulf, the bane of Grendel, and Unferth must already have become part of the tradition. But it is probable that the clash and ‘flyting’ was made much more important than it had been, by our author. He evidently took much trouble with it; he made it into one of his major set-pieces, and did not disappoint the interest he had aroused with his lines 406–7 (*499–501).

The originality of the author of our Beowulf was probably not shown at any point by sheer invention (even of minor characters or events), but by (1) making the centre the Grendel theme, previously only one of the accretions to the Heorot-story, and to it incidental: its two main pivots had been the Heathobard feud; and the ambition of Hrothulf and the ruinous kin-strife after Hrothgar’s death. (2) enriching the whole poem with references to other cycles of story. Not only to the Geatish-Swedish feud, which the placing of Beowulf as his central character naturally involved; but to important items in English (Offa) and Jutish and Frisian story (Hengest); as well as occasional references to Swedish, Danish and Gothic tradition, or other minor peoples (Wendlas, Wylfingas, Helmingas, etc.). So that (as we still feel, though our sight is now blurred and the landscape darkened) his poem is like a play in a room through the windows of which a distant view can be seen over a large part of the English traditions about the world of their original home.

Ecglaf may sound like an invented counterpart to Ecgtheow. But the resemblance is probably purely accidental–supporting rather than casting doubt on the view that the ‘historical’ placing of the two characters (Unferth and Beowulf) were processes independent of their passing contact. An invented similarity would have been made more of.

452 ff.; *555 ff. [Beowulf’s fight with a sea-beast]

A good example of the difficulty of understanding Beowulf (and of translating it). The obstacles are often, as here, of two kinds. The author is referring to things or actions very well known to himself and his audience, and therefore has no need to be precise; but we may be quite unfamiliar with them. He can therefore afford to be literary or ‘poetical’ in what he says: that is, not put things in an obvious way; but his and his contemporaries’ notions of literary style may be quite alien to our taste or habit. We may thus get (or feel we are getting) a crabbed line or two, about something which we dimly see or not at all.

We are, or at any rate I am, not familiar, as actor or onlooker, with savage infighting with a sword. Nor indeed with swords in their variety. But it does not take a great effort of imagination to get some idea of Beowulf’s predicament. He was seized by a sea-beast of great strength, and no doubt held close. It took great strength to resist the grip sufficiently, to prevent himself being gored or bitten; but he had only one hand; the other held a naked sword (439, *539). That is a weapon at least two feet long. Only by a great effort could he retract this so as to level the point (453, orde *556) at his enemy; there would then be little if any striking-distance, and to thrust this through the tough hide would require very great strength of hand and arm. It was a great feat. But it is recorded (hardly ‘described’!) in the words: ‘fast the grim thing held me in its gripe. Nonetheless, it was granted to me to find that fell slayer with point of warlike sword; the battle’s onset destroyed that strong beast of the sea through this my hand’ (451–4). The great strength of hand in this one terrific jab is (or was for the poet’s audience) emphasized by the curious impersonal expression; the desperate effort to make a moment’s opportunity for the jab is (simultaneously with Beowulf’s ‘sportsman’s modesty’ of expression) exhibited in hwæþre mé gyfeþe wearð . . . (*555), ‘Nonetheless it was granted to me . . .’ (452). I suppose that in modern terms the nearest would be ‘Yet a chance came for me’, or ‘Yet I found a chance to get my sword’s point into the beast’.

465–6   Fate oft saveth a man not doomed to die, when his valour fails not; *572–3 Wyrd oft nereð unfǽgne eorl, þonne his ellen déah

(Cf. the note to 367, Fate goeth ever as she must!) This as it stands is about as completely an ‘illogical’ reference to Fate as could be devised. Fate often preserves (from Fate?) a man not at the time fated to die, when his courage does not fail–preserves him from what–death (already fated)!

This requires a considerable note to elucidate. To go to the kernel of the matter at once: emotionally and in thought (so far as that was ever clear) this is basically an assertion not only of the worth in itself of the human will (and courage), but also of its practical effect as a possibility, that is, actually a denial of absolute Fate. It is no doubt a ‘saying’ not first devised by our author, but a saying that would appeal to and be likely to come from such a character as his Beowulf, young, strong, fearless. I myself think that it is a saying ultimately from popular rather than ‘heroic’ or aristocratic language: and that its ‘illogicality’ is much reduced if, in that light, we realise that wyrd is (or was) not philosophic Fate, but fortune or chance, and unfǽgne probably does (or did) not mean ‘not doomed to die’, but ‘undaunted by circumstances, not unnerved’. ‘Fortune (as oft is seen) saves an undaunted man, when his vigour does not fail’ does not seem so absurd.

As for ellen, ‘vigour’ is about right: it is not a purely poetic word, though most used in heroic verse. Though it sometimes appears in contexts where ‘strength’ might fit, it does not mean ‘physical strength’, not the bodily instrument but the strength and heat of spirit driving a man to vigorous action. Not limited to modern ‘courage/valour’, since it was not solely exhibited in situations of danger or the conquest of fear. Basically ellen referred to the competitive, combative spirit of proud individuals. A runner in a race must show ellen. Even Unferth’s envy and malice showed ellen.

As for wyrd, ‘the turn of events, how things go’, this sense is found in ‘heroic poetry’ (e.g. in Beowulf, hé ne léag fela wyrda né worda, ‘he did not conceal anything of what had occurred or been said’ [cited in the note to 367]). But it is not there the usual sense; and a meaning equivalent to ‘chance’ or ‘fortune’ must be regarded as mainly belonging to more popular language, less concerned with high destinies.

As for unfǽge: fǽge is a difficult word, but in all probability was in origin a popular (even agricultural) word without reference to doom or Fate: ‘ripe (to fall), gone soft, rotten’. Even in heroic poetry the sense ‘doomed to die’ is rather contextual than contained in the word itself, and in many cases ‘near death’ is all that it really means. In popular language a fǽge man was not so much a man ‘doomed’ as a man without (or who had lost) pith or vigour, whose ellen ne déah. Unfǽge is only found in this apophthegm (*572–3) and again in *2291 [translation 1929–30 ‘one whose fate is not to die’]. In the apophthegm the popular sense ‘not enfeebled’ will fit well, as we see. In *2291 the precise sense is less certain, since it refers to the man who raided the dragon’s hoard and so roused him to fury, and was instrumental in causing Beowulf’s death. But unfortunately, both from the tantalizingly allusive way in which this story is told, and from the grievous damage to the manuscript which has made the account of the raid on the hoard illegible (*2226–31, 1875–8), we are in doubt about the tale and the character of the man. If he was a man who showed resolution, and at least the will and courage of desperation in his dreadful feat, then unfǽge in *2291 may agree with *573. I think this is probable. He had actually gone forward to this place with cunning stealth (dyrnan cræfte *2290, 1928), stepping close to the dragon’s head. So a resolute man by the grace of God (Waldendes hyldo *2292–3, ‘the favour of the Lord’ 1931) may well escape unharmed!

We learn that the raider did not plunder the hoard of his own accord (Nealles mid gewealdum *2221, ‘By no means of intent’ 1869): he was a fugitive slave who had committed some crime (synbysig *2226, ‘a man burdened with guilt’ 1873–4) and fled from heteswengeas (*2224, ‘the lashes of wrath’ 1872–3) probably implying being killed rather than a frightful beating. If as seems most likely the next words are ærnes þearfa ‘lacking any shelter’, then, as what can be read of the badly damaged passage suggests, he did not know until he got inside that he had entered a dragon’s lair and hoard. ðám gyste gryrebróga stód *2227 (‘upon the trespasser dire terror fell’ 1875–6); but this does not make him a feeble coward. He showed desperate courage. In spite of his appalling situation, he saw how he might turn it to his advantage. Evidently he did not give way to panic, nor shriek (as one fǽge) which would have been the end of him. He seized a great gold-plated goblet (1922, fǽted wǽge *2282) and made off, took it to his master, and with it bought his pardon. The act of a pretty tough man. One deduces that his crime had been a violent one, and also that the fǽted wǽge was of immense value! That later he is called hæft hygegiómor (*2408, ‘a captive with gloomy heart’ 2026) and is forced to go héan and ofer willan (‘in shame’ and ‘against his will’) as guide back to the lair, does not detract from this at all. He was now accused of rousing a dragon who had burned and ravaged the land, and destroyed the king’s house and throne: he might well now be hygegiómor.

Since unfǽgne (*573) is the first occurrence of fǽge in Beowulf, I append a note on this word, with special reference to the assertion of its ‘original meaning’ (above).

It seems to me that the etymologists are here probably right. fǽge derived from Germanic *faigī did not in origin mean ‘fated’. It probably meant, as I have said, ‘ripe’ or ‘over-ripe’ (of fruit, etc.) > ‘rotten, crumbling’ > (of men) ‘near the end of their time, at the point of death’. This is really the sense in this passage in the Old English poem Guthlac (which is hardly less ‘illogical’ in appearance than Beowulf *572–3): Wyrd ne meahte in fǽgum leng feorh gehealdan . . . þonne him gedémed wæs (‘Fate could not any longer keep life in the man than was ordained for him’). Saint Guthlac was dying of a mortal disease and was ‘at death’s door’. However, fǽge had a curious sense-development. It partly remained on the old level; but it was also affected by two things: current (vague and hardly philosophical) notions of Fate, especially as governing the time of a man’s death; and actual observation of the moods and behaviour of men. When used of men it moved from the sense ‘rotten, etc.’ > ‘soft, sluggish, inert, poor-spirited’. But this might be blended with the observation in what seems to them to be an inevitable situation–especially if their notions of ‘Fate’ are held strongly enough to make them ‘fatalistic’: they ‘throw in their hand’, yield to circumstances, make no effort to save themselves; or in some cases act wildly and irrationally, becoming ‘fey’, and making disaster certain by their own actions. It is to this ‘loss of nerve’–a form of cowardice (in the Germanic view a loss of ellen, though not mere timidity, which would seek flight, if possible)–that fǽge and unfǽge often refer. The links in the sense-development (which must go far back) are now largely lost. But that the sense ‘spiritless, unnerved, ellenléas’ existed in Old English, apart from passages where ‘Fate’ is mentioned, is seen in the formula (ne) forht ne fǽge ‘neither timid nor irresolute’.

512 ff. fair words he said: . . .; *630 ff. [Béowulf] gyddode . . .

gyddode ‘uttered a gidd’. This is often translated ‘lay, song’, but though it could refer to things ‘sung’, its meaning was wider. It meant any form of words (short³³ or long) of composed or premeditated style, or speech on a formal occasion. In the last case the rhetorically skilled would no doubt be able impromptu to adorn words with alliteration and other graces, but the essential thing that made a gidd was probably the use of a reciting tone, which we should probably call ‘sing-song’ rather than ‘singing’–rhetoric (‘making a speech’), recital (of a tale), and in later times reading aloud (as e.g. in vernacular addresses or sermons) were probably far more alike then than now. A colloquial conversational tone was probably not admired. On the other hand the natural rise and fall of the voice and its emphases were not disregarded or distorted as in modern singing: they were, rather, enhanced, the pace slowed, and the enunciation more ‘orotund’. The gyddum of *151 (121 ‘in songs’) implies that knowledge of the troubles of Heorot was not just popular rumour or talk, but that formal ‘tales’–in verse or otherwise–had been composed on the topic. Here it may be noted that Beowulf’s gidd (513–19, *632–8) exactly fills seven lines, is natural and straightforward in construction, and very little altered or ‘adorned’ to fit into verse: probably not very different from the actual words that a man of courtly breeding could produce on such an occasion impromptu. [See further pp. 347–8.]

524–30; *644–51

[I give here the Old English text of this passage together with my father’s translation as given in this book.

644                      oþ þæt semninga
sunu Healfdenes   sécean wolde
ǽfenræste;   wiste þǽm áhlǽcan
tó þǽm héahsele   hilde geþinged,
siððan híe sunnan léoht   geséon meahton
oþðe nípende   niht ofer ealle,
scaduhelma gesceapu   scríðan cwóman
wan under wolcnum.   Werod eall árás.

524 until on a sudden the son of Healfdene desired to seek his nightly couch. He knew that onslaught against that lofty hall had been purposed in the demon’s heart from the hours when they could see the light of the sun until darkling night and the shapes of mantling shadow came gliding over the world, dark beneath the clouds. All the host arose.

In a lengthy discussion in his lectures on the textual cruces in Beowulf he wrote that ‘the general meaning of the passage is in brief clearly: “Hrothgar knew that Grendel would come (as every night) at the determined time, i.e. when darkness came.”’ He was now opposed to Frederic Klaeber’s interpretation, that ‘lines *648 ff. plainly mean: “from the time that they could see the light of the sun, until night came” . . . The king knew that fight had been in Grendel’s mind all day long: Grendel had been waiting from morning to night to renew his attack on the hall.’ He believed that *648–9 should not be taken in this way to refer to Grendel’s thought and purpose, but on the contrary must give the time and reason for Hrothgar’s sudden departure, followed by the break-up of the assembly (Werod eall árás). In that case (he wrote),‘siððan means “as soon as” > shading as it often does into “since” = “because”; oþðe does not mean “until”; and geséon meahton is probably corrupt.’ On this last point I cite his text in full.]

However the rest is construed this last must refer to a sign of oncoming night (for Grendel’s determination was to come after daylight, as much as Hrothgar’s desire to leave the hall was then aroused). Unless híe sunnan léoht geséon meahton can be made without emendation to be such a sign, a negative must have been omitted.³⁴

I used to suggest that the words meant ‘they could see the sun shining into the hall, because it had sunk so low that it was on a level (say) with the west windows’. But even if it were a matter of common knowledge that Heorot was so placed and built as to make this possible, it would be very far-fetched and to an Old English poet an unnatural thing to say; while the oþðe clause which continues and elaborates the picture refers to common observation of sunset and nightfall out of doors.

The ne has been omitted: without it the line has a very much louder ‘false ring’ than with it. ‘Logical’ scholars are always very shy of admitting that a negative has been omitted; to insert one makes a great logical difference! But looked at either palaeographically or psychologically omission is a likely event that may easily happen. ne is a small word. In such a case as this it follows n. Phonetically it was reduced to nә, n in colloquial pronunciation, and was in fact often hardly audible or indeed phonetically omitted–hence the habit, already growing strong in Old English, of reinforcing pre-verbal ne with another negative adverb: ná, etc.

[With regard to the meaning of oþðe ‘or’ my father noted: ‘It is undoubted that oþðe can be used sometimes not for ‘or’ as an exclusive alternative, but to introduce an alternative (and more emphatic) mode of expression, or to add some point implied but not previously said.’ Here he would translate it ‘or to say more’, ‘and what is more’. He proposed the following translation: ]

until suddenly Healfdene’s son (Hrothgar) was eager to go to his bed at evening, knowing that it was due time for the monster to come on a raid to the high hall, since they (he and all people in that place) could not see the light of the sun, and more, darkling night over all, shapes of mantling shadow were coming stalking gloomy under the clouds. All the host arose.

[It will be seen that he had now rejected the translation (lines 527–8) ‘from the hours when they could see the light of the sun until darkling night . . .’, but he did not change the typescript C in this respect.]

549   esquire; *673 ombihtþegne

The ombihtþegn must have been one of the Geats. Nothing is said about the differences of rank and function among the fifteen Geats when they set out. But it is gradually made clear to us that (whatever folk-lore research may say about supposed origins) the conception that the author had, and evidently expected his audience to have, of Beowulf was that of a ‘prince’: a young man of high rank in his own court, sister-son of a powerful king, in addition to his personal valour. He thus has a þegn attached to his personal service, as ‘esquire’. The duty of such a man was to care for the arms, and produce them when required. The word ‘esquire’ is derived from Latin scútum ‘shield’ (scútárius ‘shield-bearer’ > Old French esquier), which with the development of heraldry, and of panoplied knights on horseback, became both a more personal and symbolic thing, and also larger and heavier. Here the ombihtþegn has as special care the costly and ornamented sword–the most precious and personal item of armament. This is brought into connexion with Beowulf’s vow to eschew weapons: immediately after handing over his sword he repeats it; but as Old English sweordbora = esquire shows, the sword was in any case at that date the chief care of such a person.

555–6   Nought doth he know of gentle arms; *681 nát hé þára góda

[My father argued that the meaning of this was ‘Grendel does not know what is right and proper (for a knight), so as to answer me with stroke of weapon’. ‘The word þára does not refer back to anything previously said, but is an example of the definite article used of what is well-known, or customary–similar to our use of ‘the’ with an adjective (now usually singular) as in ‘the good’ = ‘what is good’–but góda is here the genitive plural of the noun gód.’ He made no mention in this note of his translation ‘gentle arms’ (556), used in the sense ‘noble, honourable’, which is found in both texts.]

567   Nay, they had learned . . .; *694 ac híe hæfdon gefrúnen . . .

How had they learned this? [that a bloody death had ere now in that hall of wine swept away all too many of the Danish folk.] Clearly the line does not refer to the reports of Grendel that had reached Geatland. The band did not set out on a ‘forlorn hope’ or a suicidal venture. As the story is told the Geatish witan supported Beowulf in his desire to pit himself against Grendel, and believed the feat to be within his measure. Success, and the hope of return, depended for his companions primarily on Beowulf, and they cannot have despaired of his ability from the outset. The reference is thus evidently to conversation in the hall. Though, as I have suggested [see pp. 211, pp. 229], Beowulf’s companions were probably not sitting with him, near the king, but together on a bench further down the hall, they certainly heard Hrothgar’s (intentionally alarming) account of Grendel’s raids, 381–95, *473–88. If they heard it, they would not be much impressed by Unferth’s sneer, 427–31, *525–8, but it can hardly be doubted that their Danish neighbours and companions in the hall had further elaborated the gruesome tale, for the saving of Danish ‘faces’. Indeed after Beowulf’s speech, which though primarily addressed to Unferth steadily rises in anger and loudness of utterance to the challenging conclusion, there would, one feels, be quite a number of Danes willing to make the companions of the cocky young Geatish captain shudder at the thought of a night in Heorot.

569–70   a victorious fortune in battle; *697 wígspéda gewiofu

[The conclusion of this note is very rough and hastily written, and I have introduced a short passage attempting to repair an apparently broken text.]

wígspéda gewiofu is a remarkable phrase. It means evidently: ‘(had granted to them) destinies of victories’, apparently plural because a grant was made to each man individually (Hondscioh being left out of account [see 1745 ff., *2076 ff.])

The word gewife is a verbal derivative, of which the original meaning was ‘product of weaving (together)’. It is only found, however, as seen above in the figurative sense of ‘design, fate, fortune’. It is remarkable that this apparently ‘mythological’ (or allegorical) word should only be found in Beowulf among literary texts, although other words belonging to the same region of thought (e.g. wyrd) are frequently used. This probably indicates that the pictorial ‘figure’ of weaving, in connexion with ‘fate’, was obsolescent, and soon ceased to be current.

Klaeber says: ‘As the context shows, the concept of the ‘weaving’ of destiny (by the Parcae, Norns, Valkyries–here he gives references to Grimm and others) has become a mere figure of speech’. Personally, I doubt very much that the use of ‘weave’ in this connexion had ever been anything more. There has been a great deal of mystification, inaccuracy, and fanciful ‘web-weaving’ in all discussions of ‘mythology’, supposed primitive or common Germanic mythology not least; and the works cited by Klaeber are no exception. Grimm (Deutsche Mythologie) in particular provides a wonderful nexus of citations and references, but I think that anyone approaching his treatment of the ‘Fates’, and kindred matters, critically will feel that in general his ‘evidences’ do not support his theories, even when they do not actually disprove them. His great work is now, alas! antiquated, inevitably: it is vitiated (1) by his, naturally for his time, inaccurate linguistics; (2) by his desire to see as much ‘heathendom’ as possible everywhere; (3) by his refusal to give weight to the fact that nothing got written down in Germanic languages until people acquainted with Greco-Latin learning got to work; and (4) by confusing matters that, though maybe akin, are nonetheless different in origin, purpose, and imagination: e.g. the Fates and Valkyrjur; or weaving and spinning.

Let us take one prime point: weaving. Though related activities, weaving and spinning are quite distinct operations (of wholly different imaginative suggestion). What is more: weaving needs a more or less elaborate machine (loom) and tools; it was not a specially female operation–it remained largely a masculine craft down to Bottom and beyond. The picture of three old sisters sitting at a loom (or three looms?) to determine the length of a man’s life cannot have been a primitive notion. On the other hand spinning (the production of threads) was far more ancient, and was specially associated with women (as still the ‘distaff side’ and ‘spinster’ remind us). [The Greek names of the Fates (Moirai, Latin Parcae) were Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Clotho is ‘the Spinner’ who spins the thread of life;] Lachesis ‘allotting, lot’ is this thread’s determined length; but Atropos [the ‘unturnable’] simply represents the inexorability of the allotment, which no human will can alter. In any case the allegory deals primarily with length of human life, and is not a general ‘historical’ allegory at all. We do not know about ancient Italic ‘mythology’. But the Italic ‘weaving’ words do not appear ever in any such area of thought. The literary uses are derivative from Greek. Latin Parca was originally singular. According to Walde, with probability, it is the name of a divinity concerned with birth (parere)–the ancestress, so to say, of the fairy godmother at christenings!

569 ff.; *696 ff.

[The commentary here is more easily followed from the Old English text, which I set out here together with my father’s translation.

700 705

Ac him Dryhten forgeaf wígspéda gewiofu,   Wedera léodum, frófor ond fultum,   þæt híe féond heora ðurh ánes cræft   ealle ofercómon, selfes mihtum.   Sóð is gecýþed, þæt mihtig God   manna cynnes wéold wídeferhð.   Cóm on wanre niht scríðan sceadugenga.   Scéotend swǽfon, þá þæt hornreced   healdan scoldon, ealle bútan ánum.   Þæt wæs yldum cuþ, þæt híe ne móste,   þá Metod nolde, se scynscaþa   under sceadu bregdan, ac hé wæccende   wráþum on andan bád bolgenmód   beadwa geþinges.

569 Yet God granted them a victorious fortune in battle, even to those Geatish warriors, yea succour and aid, that they, through the prowess of one and through his single might, overcame their enemy. Manifest is this truth, that mighty God hath ruled the race of men through all the ages.

There came, in darkling night passing, a shadow walking. The spearmen slept whose duty was to guard the gabled hall. All except one. Well-known it was to men that, if God willed it not, the robber-fiend no power had to drag them to the shades; but he there wakeful in his foe’s despite abode grimhearted the debate of war.]

It should be noted that there is not a break or ‘jerk’ at bregdan *707 [a reference to the punctuation in Klaeber’s text: bregdan; -]: ac refers precisely to what is there said, even though he is of course the ‘one’ (ánum *705) who alone kept awake and watchful. Þæt wæs yldum cúþ is not a mere tiresome repetition of the same idea as that already expressed in *700 ff., Sóð is gecýþed . . . The poet’s moralizing may not be according to our taste, generally, or in this particular place. I would prefer that he had not inserted Þæt wæs yldum cúþ . . . under sceadu bregdan into his remarkable description of the approach of Grendel. Nonetheless the insertion has a point. It is part of the characterization of the hero Beowulf, and goes with Wyrd oft nereð etc. [see note to 465–6]; and at the same time it reinforces *696–9 (above): the reflexion that God works through men and their powers (which He provides). Sóð is gecýþed is an ‘exclamation’ of the author to you, who are supposed to share his religion, though possibly not to have reflected much upon it. But we then re-enter the story: Þæt wæs yldum cúþ means ‘it was then generally recognized’, and so by Beowulf himself. But he believed in ellen [see note to 465–6 at p. 257], and he did not merely lie down ‘resigned’; his strength was God’s gift (‘God’s grace to him’ 546–7, Metodes hyldo *670), and he meant to use it, even if in the last resort the issue was in God’s hands. It was part of his ellen that his heart was not filled with fear, but with wrath; anything more that he had learned about the monster since his arrival had made him hate Grendel more, and more resolved to overcome him.

[From this point the text continues for several further pages, I think clearly written at the same time as the preceding note, but these were separated off later by my father with this title:]

Excursus on references to the power of God as ordainer of events (Metod) in Beowulf with special regard to *700–9, [572–9]

[There is also a typescript of this text, headed only EXCURSUS, a copy of the manuscript of remarkable exactness and scarcely any deviation from it in any detail. That an amanuensis could do this seems almost as unlikely as that my father would copy a text of his without making the smallest alteration.]

There can be no doubt that, like the author of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, the author of Beowulf was deeply interested in the contemporary ‘code’ of the aristocratic class, its values and assumptions; and his whole story is told with these in mind, and with a critical attitude towards them. Also, like the later poet, he vividly realized the story he was telling (monster and all) as such, and told it very well,³⁵ moralizing apart, with an equally clear grasp of character in his actors. But the difference between the two poems is, of course, very great. First of all they deal with wholly different points of morality and ‘code’; secondly, the later poet seldom addresses his audience, or comments. He was dealing with a problem much simpler, from the point of view of literary handling, addressing a ‘Christian’ audience, members of a religion established many hundreds of years, and was not concerned with its foundations, but with an excrescence or ‘heresy’ that was or had been current and ‘fashionable’; he was criticizing the picture of the ‘man of honour’ as it still appeared in the minds of men of birth and breeding. The tale he told, partly by its inherent character, and partly by his skill in shaping his version, was much more suitable to his purpose, and the ‘moral’ or ‘morals’ arose naturally from the actions and speeches of his characters. His personal intrusions are rare, and mostly those of a simple narrator saying ‘I will now tell this’, or ‘I will pass over that’–with one major exception: the long passage 624–665,³⁶ where the picture of the author’s ‘perfect knight’ is set up, and his ‘values’ described.

But the author of Beowulf was writing for a society in which Christianity had not long been established, a few generations perhaps, but kings and nobles knew and honoured the names of their pagan ancestors, not so far back. Their scops and þyles remembered and recounted still histories and tales, greater and less, out of a time of pure heathenism. Christianity had done little, in the noble class, to soften the sentiments behind the code of honour. Physical courage (and sheer strength of body), pride and a fierce individualism which would brook no humiliation, and the duty (and pleasure) of revenge, were the chief features of ‘the man of honour’. The fundamental tenets of One God, creator and ruler of all, inscrutable maybe in His decisions in this or that case, but still ‘benevolent’ to Men, and each man, and of a life hereafter, had not dethroned Fate, inexorable, unconcerned with good or ill in deeds, and the opposition to it of unbending pride, self-will, with the reward of dóm: glory, the praise of men (not of the Judge), now or hereafter. Fate and glory never have, of course, been completely dethroned, but it is a matter of degree.

The vividness of the ‘sentiment’ and its powers over actions and approval of actions among a warlike noble class still in (say) the early ninth century is one that can hardly now be appreciated. The story that the poet chose to tell (and all its background in personal and national feuds and hatreds) was threaded through with it. And so still was the very language that he had to use. It was a good tale, much of it already known and popular with the kind of men that he addressed. But as is clear enough he retold it with a purpose. This ‘purpose’, and shift of valuation, which he had in mind might in brief be represented thus:

‘There is One God, supreme ruler of the world, and true King of all mankind. By Him all events (wyrd) are governed; [added later to the manuscript for He is the Metod, the Ordainer]. From Him proceed all good things and gifts (including courage and strength). This has always been so. It was so in the days of your fathers’ fathers. What is more, they knew it, even as all the descendants of Adam, unless seduced by the Devil, or falling into despair in evil times. Good and wise men of those days feared God and thanked Him.

‘Here is the great warrior Beowulf. You admire him. He was worthy of it. God gave him an astonishing gift of more than human strength–he recognized it as a gift. As a boy he was of course rash and heedless, and enjoyed showing off his strength. But now he comes to manhood. He is still proud and self-confident, not unnaturally in one so indomitable, but he is aware of God. You will observe that though he is eager for glory, and the approbation of good men, self-aggrandisement is not his main motive. He may earn glory by his deeds, but they are all in fact done as a service to others. His first great deed is the overcoming of a monster that had brought untold misery on Hrothgar and his people: Grendel, a féond mancynnes. His other deeds are done as a service to his king and his people: he dies in their defence. Beowulf does not come first with Beowulf. He is loyal, even to his own disadvantage. Loyalty you also admire, though it is today less practised than courage and emulation.

‘He was the king’s cousin. When Hygelac threw away his life and most of his fighting force in a rash raid into Frankish territory, he left only a boy heir, Heardred. Beowulf was the chief noble and greatest warrior in the kingdom, but he (unlike Hróðulf whom stories make much of) did not attempt to set him aside, though a desperate struggle with the Swedes was imminent. He succeeded to the throne only when the Swedes had slain Heardred; he helped to re-establish the kingdom; and he died in ridding it of a monster greater and more terrible than Grendel.

‘This then is a story of a great warrior of old, who used the gifts of God to him, of courage, strength and lineage, rightly and nobly. He may have been fierce in battle, but in dealing with men he was not unjust, nor tyrannical, and was remembered as milde and monðwǽre [in the last lines of the poem]. He lived a long while ago, and in his time and country no news had come of Christ. God seemed far off, and the Devil was near; men had no hope. He died in sorrow fearing God’s anger. But God is merciful. And to you, now young and eager, death will also come one day, but you have hope of Heaven. If you use your gifts as God wills. Brúc ealles wel!’³⁷

But to present this ‘message’ in his day the poet had constantly to point his story, by reminder of God as Ruler, Giver, and Judge. He may have done this more than necessary, or more than we feel is necessary, in places even unseasonably, but he did not write for us. There can be little doubt that what he wrote made a powerful impression in his time, and continued to be read long after. A reward (which he can hardly have expected) was granted him: that his work should be the major piece of Old English verse that has survived the wrecks of time–still profitable for men to read in its own right, quite apart from its acquired value as a window into the past. A punishment for its small defects (which he did not deserve) is that ignorant men, even of his own faith, should scoff at it, or call it ‘small beer’. That his work cannot now be read at all without trouble, nor understood and valued in detail without sustained effort, is due under God to wyrd, the doom of men to live briefly in a world where all withers and is forgotten. The English language has changed–but not necessarily improved!–in a thousand years. Wyrd has swept away to oblivion nearly all its kin; but Beowulf survives: for a time, for as long as learning keeps any honour in its land. And how long will that be? God ána wát.³⁸

627   a ghastly fear; *769 ealuscerwen

The general meaning of the passage is clear, and the contextual meaning of ealuscerwen is defined within fairly close limits: it must mean something like ‘horror’. But it is a good example of the difficulty that is sometimes met in discovering the etymology and original significance, and the contemporary meaning and associations, of a word that (by chance, probably) occurs only once in Old English. ‘On all the Danes, on dwellers in the town, on every bold heart, on every man, fell ealuscerwen.’ We note that, as usual, the narrator inserts into the middle of description of what is happening inside the hall a brief ‘snapshot’ of what is happening outside. There is a terrible din in Heorot. It is heard in all the houses of the royal burg clustered in the neighbourhood. The Danes, however céne they may be, hearing it feel ealuscerwen. Then the noise, after a lull while Beowulf and Grendel wrestle, bursts out afresh, and the Danes feel atelíc egesa (*784, ‘dread fear’ 639–40). ealuscerwen, therefore, probably means something like atelíc egesa ‘horrible dread’.

But how does this word, a compound that has as its first element ealu ‘ale’ arrive at such a sense? Does ealu here mean ‘ale’?

Yes, it does–that is, whether it meant ‘ale’ originally or not, ealu- was thought to be identical with the ordinary word ealu ‘ale’. This is shown by a passage in the poem Andreas [an apocryphal legend of St. Andrew]. This passage (Andreas 1524–7) describes the overwhelming of the heathen, cannibal Marmedonians by a miraculous flood: fámige walcan / mid ǽrdæge eorðan þehton; / myclade mereflód; meoduscerwen wearð / æfter symbeldæge [‘the foaming waves at dawn covered the earth; the flood of water grew great; there was meoduscerwen after the day of feasting’]. We cannot doubt that the expressions ‘mead’-scerwen and ‘ale’-scerwen, both describing ‘woe’ or ‘horror’ are related. Andreas clearly imitates Beowulf in places. This may be one of the places. In that case, the comparison would only show that the poet of Andreas knew ealuscerwen from Beowulf, took ealu as ‘ale’, and produced a variation meoduscerwen, relying on his audience’s knowledge of Beowulf.

But the situations in Andreas and Beowulf are not in fact similar. And we may go further: unless in ealuscerwen it was clearly felt by listeners to Old English verse how the sense ‘ale’ was related to the total sense ‘woe/horror’ of the compound, it would be frigid, not to say ridiculous, to coin a mere imitative variation with ‘mead’.

So the problem of interpretation is really unaffected by the relations of Andreas and Beowulf, or the question whether Andreas was merely imitating Beowulf, or whether both were drawing in common on the inherited stock of Old English verse-words, and Old English descriptions of fear and disaster–following after mirth and feasting. The key to the problem is, therefore, in scerwen.

[My father thought it probable that scerwen was an abstract noun derived from a verb scerwan, recorded only in a compound form be-scerwan ‘deprive’. Probably related verbs without the w-element, as O.E. scerian, scirian, have the meaning ‘allot, assign’. But noting that words that have the sense ‘take away, deprive, rob’ can add the prefix be- with change of construction rather than of sense, he concluded that a possible meaning of the element scerwen was ‘tearing away, robbing, depriving’, and gave it as his opinion that ealuscerwen and meoduscerwen both basically mean ‘cutting off, deprivation of ale or mead.’]

They got their sense of ‘horror and woe’ not just crudely because an announcement in an ancient English hall ‘no beer tonight’ would have caused horror and woe (or even panic), but because ealu and meodu were symbols of the mirth and pleasure of peace, and life at its brief and passing best. Thus at the opening of the poem Scyld is said to have ‘denied the mead-benches’ to his foes. This does not mean that he marched in and pulled away the seats from under his enemies; but that the whole life and peace and honour, each in their separate halls, of the kings and lords that opposed him was overthrown.

If this interpretation is correct then actually the use in Andreas is nearer to the original simpler use, and the use in Beowulf remoter; and the occurrence of these two hapax legomena [words only once recorded] in Andreas and Beowulf is not evidence of the direct relationship of the poems. meoduscerwen æfter symbeldæge: a rude end to mirth after joy: that is the kind of phrase in which ‘deprivation of mead or ale’ got its sense of grief and horror. In Beowulf there had been a feast, but the description of it is many lines away. And ‘a rude awakening’ does not in fact suit the context too well. The coming of Grendel was expected. His raids had endured twelve years. What caused the ealuscerwen was his hideous cries and the din of the grim battle in the hall.

But other explanations fit even less well. For instance, ‘allotting of ale’ [see the editorial note above]–used ironically, as ‘a bitter drink’. Again the Andreas passage is much more suitable: the heathen are being drowned. But I still think this explanation impossible. meodu and ealu are good symbols and cannot just be used to mean the opposite. The Beowulf usage would be incredible. Had meoduscerwen meant ‘dealing out of mead’ then in such a context any Old English poet would have put in a negative, or a bad adjective, as indeed we see later in the same passage in Andreas, Þæt wæs biter béorþegu, 1533, ‘that was a bitter beer-drinking’.

687–8   had dragged his footsteps, bleeding out his life; *846 feorhlastas bær

‘bore his life-tracks’–what does this mean? Probably, ‘dragged a trail marked by his life-blood’. feorh means vitals or life-principle, and any part or element in which this resides. Cf. *2981 wæs in feorh dropen, 2503 ‘he was stricken mortally’; and for a passage where feorh seems plainly to signify ‘blood’ cf. *1151–2 Ðá wæs heal roden féonda féorum, 944–5 ‘then was that hall reddened with the life-blood of their foes’.

691–2   doomed to die he plunged; *850 déaðfǽge déog

[The word déog does not occur elsewhere. My father examined the attempts to identify it or to correct it, and concluded that ‘the best that can be done’ is to suppose it to be a corruption of déaf ‘he (had) dived’, past tense singular of dúfan.]

705–10; *867–74 [Passage concerning verse-composition]

This is an interesting (and in Old English unique) reference to the manner and mode of alliterative composition. (Compare the equally interesting passage 1767 ff., *2105 ff., describing Hrothgar’s personal performance as narrator and singer: that deals with the kind and content of ‘literary’ compositions.) This passage has, of course, attracted attention, and has been the subject of varied translations and interpretations: some of them in my view erroneous, especially those that compare the Beowulf passage with the famous passage in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, lines 30–6. They should, however, be compared; and lines 42–4 of the prologue to Chaucer’s Parson’s Tale also.

[Beowulf *867 ff. 870

Hwílum cyninges þegn guma gilphlæden,   gidda gemyndig, sé þe ealfela   ealdgesegena worn gemunde,   word óþer fand sóðe gebunden;   secg oft ongan síð Béowulfes   snyttrum styrian, ond on spéd wrecan   spel geráde, wordum wrixlan;

translation 705–10

At whiles a servant of the king, a man laden with proud memories who had lays in mind and recalled a host and multitude of tales of old–word followed word, each truly linked to each–this man in his turn began with skill to treat in poetry the quest of Beowulf and in flowing words to utter his ready tale, interweaving words.

Sir Gawain 30–6	If ȝe wyl lysten þis laye bot on littel quile, I schal telle hit astit, as I in toune herde        with tonge, As hit is stad and stoken In stori stif and stronge, With lel letteres loken, In londe so hatȝ ben longe.
translation (J.R.R.T.),	.............
stanza 2	as it is fixed and fettered
	in story brave and bold,
	thus linked and truly lettered
	as was loved in this land of old.
The Parson’s Prologue	But trusteth wel, I am a Southren man,
42–4	I kan nat geeste ‘rum, ram, ruf,’ by lettre,
	Ne, God woot, rym holde I but litel bettre;]

The consideration of the two (contemporary) Middle English passages and their comparison belongs primarily to Middle English studies, and has as its centre the use of lel letteres in Sir Gawain and by lettre in the The Parson’s Tale: the origin of our modern (and inaccurate) term ‘alliteration’. It was a use arising, evidently, from a contemporary 14th century competition and debate between ‘alliteration’ and ‘rhyme’ as structural devices in verse. There was no such competition or debate in Old English times. Rhyme, of course, pleased or excited the attention of poets’ ears, and vocalic rhyme, and consonantal rhyme, (flōd/blōd or sund/sand), was used on occasion; but as an adornment or special effect, not structurally. Alliteration was taken for granted. We therefore must not hasten to assume that it is referred to in Beowulf: it might be, but it is prima facie not likely that it was.

There is at first sight a similarity between the expression with lel letteres loken and word óþer fand sóðe gebunden that has not escaped notice. This similarity is sometimes increased by treating word óþer fand sóðe gebunden as a parenthetic statement, supposedly of this sort: ‘one word led to (found) another truly linked (to it)’. But this fails, before we need to consider sóðe gebunden: (a) because cyninges þegn *867 is left without a verb–secg eft ongan clearly begins a new sentence; and (b) because though word óþer is good Old English for ‘one word x another word’, the use of fand (with word as subject) in the supposed sense is very dubious in any context. In a literary context, expressly referring to poetic composition, the verb fand must certainly have as subject ‘minstrel/poet’ who ‘finds, invents, makes’. There can be no doubt that punctuation with a semi-colon at gebunden is correct. The subject is the þegn, guma gilphlæden who versed in old lays and lore is said now to have contrived ‘other words’–i.e. a new poetic eulogy not in his previous repertoire as such, though as we see he made extensive reference to his ealdgesegena (*869), concerning Sigemund and Heremod.

However, in any case, and with any punctuation, sóðe gebunden cannot, I believe, refer to ‘alliteration’, nor be compared with lel letteres loken, as is often supposed (cf. Klaeber, note to line *870 f.: ‘for the true alliterative “binding”, sóðe gebunden, cp. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight 35: with lel letteres loken’.) If it is translated ‘truly bound’, a false similarity (for speakers of modern English) is created between it and ‘loyally’³⁹ locked (= linked), because treowe, trewe, true ‘dependable, true’ is more or less equivalent to leël, lel (leial, loial). But if modern English has confounded verus and fidelis, sannr and tryggr, wahr and treu, Old English had not yet done so: O.E. sóð is not an equivalent of treowe, triewe. Its normal and central sense is verus, (what is) true in fact, in reality, (what is) in accordance with verity. The sense of sóðe gebunden cannot be in line *871 ‘actually and in fact bound’, but it must be related to that basic sense. Sóðe is probably not the adverb, but instrumental of the noun (= later mid sóðe); in any case the binding or linkage [?present] is not one of external rule, but of reference to ‘truth’ (verity): justly. That is, it is a linking not of metre but of diction: most probably an allusion to the propriety of synonyms or equivalents used in the Old English ‘linked’ verse style, which should share a real and just correspondence with the thing or action spoken of–another aspect of the feature of alliterative verse later described as wordum wrixlan (*874). sóðe gebunden describes the truth and propriety of the terms used, wordum wrixlan the actual variation of words (with different sounds and metrical effects). It is with such questions of the propriety and homogeneity in the use of synonyms and ‘kennings’ that much of the Old Norse Skáldskaparmál is concerned.

The close parallelism of the passages in Beowulf and Gawain thus disappears. The concern of the old courtly minstrels with their far more polished and sophisticated art was with style; the fourteenth century alliterative poets were concerned primarily to conserve their native rum-ram-ruf. But it remains of great interest that the two most gifted authors using the ‘alliterative’ English verse whose work has been preserved should both feel moved to make an allusion to their verse medium.

[My father’s translation of lines *870–1, cited at the beginning of this note, ‘word followed word, each truly linked to each’, interprets the Old English words in the manner that he here strongly opposed, but the text of the translation was not subsequently modified.]

708 ff.; *871 ff. [Síð Béowulfes: The Quest of Beowulf]

It is obviously impossible to discuss in full these two references to heroic ‘matter’ in the poet’s eulogy of Beowulf: Sigemund and Heremod, in the compass of a ‘note’.

Points that might be emphasized are these. (1) The résumé of the content of the eulogy, Sigemund and Heremod, is a story (or stories) within a story (the eulogy) within a story (Beowulf). It is therefore ‘cursory’ to us, who would like to know more; but no doubt it picks out the ‘high lights’ for those who knew: every phrase had a point.

(2) The reported lay does not end until line 747 (*915). Sigemund and Heremod were linked in men’s imagination, if only as supreme examples of the wrecca (see the note to 731, *898). The end is indeed ‘cursory’, where the conclusion is brought back to Beowulf again. We may surmise that the minstrel said, or would have said in real life, more than ‘He there, Beowulf, has proved more satisfactory to mankind and to his friends; the other was possessed by wickedness.’ But the beginning is simply missing–because this is only a story within a story, and síð Béowulfes has been recounted to you.⁴⁰

(3) The Sigemund story survives as a part of the most renowned and long-lived Germanic legend–the Völsunga saga / Niebelungenlied complex–and there is therefore plenty still left to invite (and perplex) comparison. The difficulty of the Heremod legend is of the opposite kind. Probably for the very reason given here (734–5, *901–2), because Heremod’s fame was eclipsed by Sigemund’s, this legend has been lost, except for allusions–though when Beowulf was written it was evidently still well-known in England.

(4) In content and structure the reported précis illustrates the manner (of which Beowulf itself is a sufficient example) of gilphlæden poets in composing such eulogies or lays celebrating the virtues of a chosen hero–no doubt approved by their audience: they drew on ealdgesegene for the adornment and for the pointing by contrast of their account of the central figure (For these O.E. words see p. 280).

(5) But this is a lay within a lay–that is a fictional adornment or pointing of the Beowulf story by its author. Our author then (not the supposed contemporary poet) was the actual selector of the illustrations, of Sigemund and Heremod. His choice, therefore, was very unlikely to be random: it had point for his purposes in his poem as a whole. Various reasons can be guessed.

This last point deserves a little more consideration. How far you may feel these ‘reasons’ to remain ‘guesses’, or to discover truth, will depend on the degree of respect you have for the artistry (or at least for the thoughtful care) with which Beowulf was composed. This respect is, I think, increased by study. Here are some of the reasons which may be surmised, or perceived.

(a) Sigemund and Heremod were both wreccan, as is implied in *898–901, Sé wæs wreccena wíde mǽrost . . . (731 ‘He was far and wide of adventurers the most renowned . . .’). This word is interesting and important, and is quite inadequately represented by the usual dictionary glosses. Beowulf was not (as his tale is here told) precisely a wrecca, but his exploit had this in common with the deeds of wreccan: it was not done in the course of duty, but in a spirit of adventure; and it was accomplished away from home, in the service of the king of another people.

(b) Sigemund was also a monster-slayer (718–19, *883–4). But his most renowned exploit was performed alone (723, *888), like Beowulf’s wrestling with Grendel.

(c) More important still, I think, Sigemund fought and slew a dragon. On this major point see further the note to 710–34, (noting here, however, that if you believe (as I do not) that our poet, either in ‘error’ or on purpose, was attaching to Sigemund a dragon-slaying that did not belong to him this point is not weakened, but reinforced). Now I think that Beowulf is threaded through with ‘irony’, with remarks, references, and allusions, for the full understanding of which the whole poem must be taken into account: both what is said or has happened, and what will happen, must be considered. Thus when the minstrel is represented as singing his eulogy, Beowulf had only wrestled with Grendel, but before his exploit is complete he will have to dare to go absolutely alone into the cave of a monster, and there defeat her. What is more, before his life is complete, he is to fight and slay a dragon, and die in the victory. Sigemund was (or is represented as) the pre-eminent dragon-slayer (not–certainly in the older layers of legend–a frequent exploit!). Evidently in extolling Beowulf Hrothgar’s minstrel had equated him with Sigemund; but he did not know this: that Beowulf was to face a dragon at the end–with different motive (Sigemund’s is represented as plunder, 726–9, *893–6) and result. We shall probably never know whether this ‘irony’ was introduced for the poet’s own satisfaction (and for the more perceptive of his hearers or readers, when they had heard his whole poem through), or was immediately recognizable (i.e. because the ending of Beowulf and/or the Geatish kingdom in a dragon-fight was already part of the legend before our extant poem was made). But it seems to me impossible to believe that it is accidental: that Sigemund, as a dragon-slayer, was made the chief figure of comparison, without any reference to the end of Beowulf (either as planned by our poet, or as already enshrined in legend).

(d) Heremod is introduced because these two great figures, Sigemund and Heremod, in tales of wreccan were already associated; because he was a Dane and this is a song made by a minstrel of Hrothgar’s court, and his legend evidently closely concerned the rise and origin of the line of Healfdene. Heremod’s disastrous decline and fall had ended the previous dynasty and left the interregnum (alluded to in lines 12–13, *14–16). And of course, because his decline into wickedness⁴¹ made a good ending ‘by dark contrast’ to the character of Beowulf. Irony is again present: for the bard was singing of a young man, and though in eulogy he might attribute all kingly virtues to his hero, he could not know that Beowulf would (as the author knew) end with the praises: manna mildust ond monðwǽrust, léodum líðost ond lofgeornost. Contrast the words of the sage old fatherly king, who again alludes to Heremod (1435–49, *1709–24), but addresses a young man in the flush of his double triumph, and presents to him Heremod as an exemplary warning. ‘Learn thou from this, and understand what generous virtue is!’ Ðú þé lǽr be þon, gumcyste ongit!

Hrothgar was an old and wise king, and such a warning was permissible. He had nothing further to gain, and had already rewarded Beowulf with royal courtesy and with princely gifts–to which he was about to add ‘twelve precious things’ at their parting (1566, *1867). It is quite possible that the minstrel was not so single-minded. Members of his craft were accustomed indirectly, or more often directly, to suggest that the virtue of open-handedness in reward of services rendered might well be practised at once–with possibly good effect on future compositions. Beowulf could not (in view of the gifts and gold that he had received)⁴² plead like Gawain that he had no men wyth no maleȝ with menskful þingeȝ (1809; ‘no bearers with baggage and beautiful things’, stanza 72), and could only offer courteous thanks for services. He rewarded the coast-guard with a sword (a very great gift). So much that was customary is omitted, that we can hardly doubt that the guma gilphlæden was also ‘remembered’.

(e) A last point: it is possible to see in the curious repetition of the ‘dark picture’ of Heremod (by the minstrel and by the king) a trace of an older, more historical, tradition concerning the dynasty of Heorot: of Healfdene and his sons. It is like listening to an insistence on the wickedness of Richard III at a Tudor court. The absence of any historical ancestor between Healfdene and the mythical Beow is (in addition to his peculiar name) sufficient indication that he was a ‘new man’ and at best had no direct or clear descent from preceding kings; and no doubt, like other successful interlopers, once securely settled by force he was eager to justify his position by reference to the disorder and misery that preceded him–and later by the fabrication of a genealogy (which resembles a Tudor play with Arthurian origins).

710–34; *874–900 [The sketch of the Sigemund story]

[In this note my father turned to the question of the attribution of a dragon-slaying to Sigemund rather than his son; another discussion of his on this subject is recounted in The Legend of Sigurd and Gudrún, 2009, pp. 351–6.]

I find it impossible to believe that a ‘dragon-slaying’ is here attributed to Sigemund in ‘error’. ‘Error’ in this connexion needs consideration. What can it mean? When used with regard to a purely legendary feature, such as a dragon-slaying, it must imply that the critic imagines that there was (somewhere, sometime) a legend of Sigemund, ‘true’ or at least original or authentic, aberrations from which are ‘erroneous’. But that supposition is itself erroneous: with regard to any ancient legend or legend-complex. Such things never in fact existed except in actual poems or stories told by actual individuals, using, re-telling, re-handling what they had already heard or read. But in the case of the author of Beowulf his version could be ‘aberrant’: that is, it could omit matter which in his time was normally included in a tale of Sigemund the wrecca, or it could add incidents that had not so far been usually added to the tale. (In which case, of course, such incidents would certainly be drawn from other similar tales.) Is this likely in the present case?

No. First, it is highly unlikely that in a précis of the Sigemund story included for a specific purpose, and represented as the lay of another minstrel, the author of Beowulf would alter the tale in a major point from what was in his time current.

Secondly, this is admittedly the oldest reference to the Sigemund story that is now extant, even in point of manuscript date. It is thus antecedently probable that its divergence from later forms of the tale is due to ‘archaism’: it is later accounts that are in ‘error’, that is to say, have altered the story.

No certain conclusion, of course, can be drawn from the absence in the Old English précis of any reference to the son of Sigemund or his connexion with the Burgundians and the sons of Gifeca. In such a précis for such a purpose the author of Beowulf would naturally end the reference to Sigemund with his supreme feat. It is, however, probable that the Völsung story (Wælsinges gewin *877, 712–3) had not yet been connected with the Burgundian saga; possible, that Sigemund had not yet been provided with a son, other than Fitela.⁴³ The Burgundian–Attila matter was however well-known in England, as references in the old poems Widsith and Waldere show. It is a well-known tendency in tales that are popular and long re-told for them to be enlarged, until they become ‘cycles’, taking up or being linked to other stories with which they at first had slender connexions, or none at all. One of the methods used in this process is to provide the original hero with a son, either a newly invented one, or a character in another story. In either case the son will tend to have similar adventures, with variation, to those of his father.

This seems to me to have taken place in the case of Sigemund. But the ‘dragon-slaying’, the supreme feat which made its achiever the most renowned hero of the North, could not be duplicated. It was therefore taken over by the son. But it does not fit him so well. It is indeed unnecessary to his tragic story, and in German it is practically forgotten. Sigemund, whatever historical ‘kernel’ his story contained, belongs to an older, more primitive (indeed more savage) past, in which eotenas and dracan are more appropriate. In the Völsunga saga, a ‘cento’, made of different sources and different lays, one is conscious of this division. It may also be observed that while Sigemund’s name remained fixed, his son’s, sharing the prefix Sige-, is not fixed: in Norse sources it is Sigurðr (which would be O.E. Sigeweard), in German sources Sigfrit (Siegfried), which would be O.E. Sigeferþ. That the name of the original dragon-slayer and prime hero should not be fixed in form would be strange.

731; *898 wrecca

In the social and political Germanic world of the early centuries of our era were founded the divergent developments of this word: on one side to our ‘wretch’, on the other to German Rocke, ‘valiant knight, hero’ (of old). Both lines were fully developed in Old English.

wrecca means in origin an ‘exile’, a man driven out from the land of his home–for any reason: crime, collapse or conquest of his people or princely line, economic pressure or the desire for more opportunity, and often (if he was of high birth) dynastic struggles among members of the ‘royal family’. In *2613 wræcca(n) wineléasum (2194 ‘a lordless exile’) is applied to Eanmund the son of the previous Swedish king Ohthere, driven out by his uncle Onela. In *898 (731) sé wæs wreccena wíde mǽrost it is seen on the other hand that a wrecca might win great renown. Cf. The Fight at Finnsburg 25 where Sigeferþ boasts of his status: Sigeferþ is mín nama, ic eom Secgena léod, wreccea wíde cúð [known far and wide]. The term is also applied to Hengest, *1137 (‘the exile’ 932). It may mean then no more than the immediate fact that Hengest had now under necessity become nominally Finn’s ‘man’, and accepted lodging and ‘keep’ from him, though in a foreign land. But Hengest was probably already a wrecca, an ‘adventurer’, a man who with his héap or personal following had, though a Jute, taken service with Hnæf. Except then in not being ‘legally’ an exile, Beowulf was himself for the nonce of the wrecca-class. With a personal following chosen by himself (héap *400, 323; *432, 349) he had gone off, in time of peace at home, in search of adventure and profit, and offered his service to the king of another people. Ecgtheow, his father, had been in all senses a wrecca, being driven out from his own land because of his deeds (372–4, *461–2), and taking service with the Danish king (‘oaths he swore to me’ 381, *472).

But, of course, in ‘real life’ the position of a wrecca was unhappy. Only a man of commanding character and great courage could long survive in a state of outlawry, still less win renown or wealth. Most such men lived ‘wretchedly’ or perished; while many of them were no doubt justly outlawed or exiled, and were men of evil character. Hence already in unheroic language a wrecca meant a ‘wretch’–either a miserable unhappy homeless man, or a despicable and wicked one.

769–71   Lo! this may she say, if yet she lives, whosoever among women did bring forth this son among the peoples of earth; *942–6 Hwæt, þæt secgan mæg efne swá hwylc mægþa swá þone magan cende æfter gumcynnum, gif héo gýt lyfað

The ‘exclamatio’ Hwæt ff. has been regarded as a reminiscence of Scripture. But there is not in fact any close verbal resemblance between Hrothgar’s words and Luke xi.27: Blessed is the womb that bore thee . . . The ‘exclamatio’ nonetheless has the appearance of an addition, that does not fit the situation. Hrothgar knew all about Beowulf’s parentage, and he himself says (300–1 ff., *373–5 ff.) that Beowulf’s mother was the only daughter of Hrethel. Yet here he says: ‘whatsoever woman bore this son, if she yet lives.’ The difficulty cannot be resolved by making the exclamation ‘general’. It is cast in the present indicative. A general expression would take the form (in this situation when Hrothgar knew the facts): ‘Lo, any woman whatsoever who had borne such a son might praise God for this favour’: mæg and gyf héo gýt lyfað (‘may’ and ‘if yet she lives’) do not fit. The natural way of taking ðone magan (‘this son’) is demonstrative indicating Beowulf (here present). [Added later:] It is possible that praise of the victor’s mother was an old element in the folk-legend of the ‘strong man’ and has not been fully assimilated to his historical background.

783–5   Yet rather had I wished that thou might see him here, Grendel himself, thy foe in his array sick unto death!; *960–2 Úþe ic swíþor, þæt ðú hine selfne geséon móste, féond on frætewum fylwérigne!

This is frequently misinterpreted, even by those whose business it is to know Old English grammar and syntax: e.g. the old J.R. Clark Hall crib has: ‘I heartily wish that thyself (sic! for ðú hine selfne) couldst have seen him’–i.e. ‘I wish (now) that you (Hrothgar) had been there then!’ That (Old English grammar apart) is both a foolish and insolent remark. It is nonetheless retained in C.L. Wrenn’s revision of Clark Hall.

Actually Beowulf says: ‘I would have liked far more that you should be able to see Grendel himself.’ And he means (deprecatingly): ‘I am very sorry only to have an arm to show you; I should have preferred to have presented you with Grendel himself complete–and dead.’

Úþe swíþor: úþe is past tense subjunctive (of unnan) used in an unfulfilled or unrealizable wish: = ‘I should have been more greatly pleased’; móste, also subjunctive (because it also refers to something merely thought and not a fact), is past tense by the sequence of tenses normally practised (as in Latin) by O.E.–and by modern English: so ‘I should have been happier, if he had been here now–or were / was here.’ Translate then: ‘I should have been better pleased that thou shouldst have seen him himself, thy foe in his war-gear, lying felled’ (literally ‘felling-weary’, fyl-wérigne, that is weary (= dead) after being laid low).

on frætewum is probably carelessly used, since warriors fallen in battle were usually on frætewum unless stripped. But it is dangerous to attribute such ‘carelessness’ to this author. The picture Beowulf had in mind was of Grendel complete, but dead. He did not wear ‘armour’ like men, but he had the equivalent of weapons in his hands, each finger of which (as we are soon to learn) had a long tearing nail like steel. Now Grendel is not there entire, and part of his frætwe has been already torn off.

785–6   I purposed in hard bonds swiftly to bind him upon his deathbed; *963–4 Ic hine hrædlíce heardan clammum on wælbedde wríþan þóhte

As wæl- shows, this does not mean that Beowulf thought of catching him alive and binding him. It is a poetic periphrasis (of a kind more admired then than now) for ‘kill him with my hand-gripes’, elaborated in 786–7 (*965–6) ‘that by the grasp of my hands he should be forced to lie struggling for life’.

789–90   I did not cleave fast enough for that; *968 nó ic him þæs georne ætfealh

This is appropriate modesty, and more or less true. If Beowulf had been even stronger than he was, he might have held the ogre in such a way that he could not have got away by leaving one arm. It may be observed that Grendel only put one hand out to grasp Beowulf (*746, *748; 608–10); so that Beowulf never had hold of more than one hand before Grendel pulled away and tried to escape.

791–2   Nonetheless he hath left behind upon his trail his hand and arm and shoulder; *970–2 Hwæþere hé his folme forlét tó lífwraþe lást weardian, earm ond eaxle

Cf. lífwraðe *2877 ‘life-support’ = defence against death (2419 ‘succour of his life’); so here tó lífwraþe = ‘as a defence against death’ = ‘so as to save his life (by escape)’. If Grendel’s arm had not broken off Beowulf would have throttled him. Though there is no suggestion in the actual account of the wrestling (608 ff, *745 ff.) that the casting of an arm was in any way willed by Grendel, as a last desperate trick to escape, the use of swice *966 ‘tricked, cheated’ [bútan his líc swice; ‘had not his body escaped me’ 787–8], and the present lines, certainly suggest that this notion was once part of the tale.

[It will be seen that the words tó lífwraþe were left untranslated in the original typescript B(i), and the omission was not subsequently repaired.]

lást weardian ‘to guard the track’, very frequent in verse = ‘to remain behind’.

797   the great Day of Doom; *978 miclan dómes

Note the reference to Doom’s Day (called in Old English (se) micla dóm, dómdæg and dómes dæg), here actually made by Beowulf himself. Here Grendel is regarded as a ‘man’ with a soul that survives death–cf. 693 ‘yielded up his life and heathen soul’, *851–2 feorh álegde, hǽþene sáwle–as a descendant of Cain. Ignorance of Germanic beliefs untouched by Christian teaching (as they inevitably were before they could be written down) makes it impossible to say whether references to a Last Day are purely Christian or not. Hell was a native word. Punishment of the wicked is certainly contemplated in Old Norse (more or less) ‘heathen mythology’, and the poem Völuspá reserves a place of torment for them; though Hell, like Hades, was the ‘hidden land’ of all the dead–apart from the Odinic conception of Valhöll.

803–5 (of the nails on Grendel’s hand): At the tip was each one of the stout nails most like unto steel, grievous and cruel were the spurs upon the hand of that savage thing. All agreed . . . *984–7 (MS) foran æghwylc wæs steda nægla gehwylc / style gelicost hæþenes hand sporu hilde/[verso of page] hilde rinces egl unheoru æghwylc gecwæð . . .

The manuscript is plainly to some degree corrupt. In my opinion there is far too much hwylc: my suspicion is chiefly aroused by the first ǽghwylc in *984 which is not required for sense, and is in the same manuscript line as gehwylc. The latter is in its right idiomatic place; the former is not.

The attempt to keep the manuscript readings (except for the repeated hilde) leads to a punctuation of this sort: foran gehwylc wæs, steda nægla gehwylc, stýle gelícost . . . ‘in front (i.e. at the tip) each (of the fingers) was, each of the places of the nails, like unto steel’. This carries no conviction. It is the nails themselves, anyway, sticking out at the ends of the fingers like spikes, that are like steel; not the ‘places of the nails’.

Now a way out of this difficulty has been found by emendation of steda to stíðra, genitive plural, ‘stiff’. Cf. *1533 stíð ond stýlecg applied to the sword Hrunting (1282 ‘steeledged and strong’). No reason for the corruption of so well-known and contextually intelligible a word as stíðra into steda can be seen. The resulting metre is scarcely credible. The correction of this by cancelling gehwylc cancels the wrong word, as I have suggested above. Old English seldom violates idiomatic word-order; and where an emphatic adverb usurps the first place in a sentence, as does foran here, the subject should follow the verb. In consequence ǽghwylc *984 must be either a misplaced anticipation or a corruption by anticipation of a word that is not noun or adjective, i.e. not the subject. The former alternative implies that a word, more or less parallel to nægla gehwylc, has dropped out after wæs. The latter is on all counts more probable. I should select as the real word that has been corrupted by anticipation into ǽghwylc is ǽghwǽr ‘at each point’.

The corollary of this decision, which retains gehwylc, is that steda can only be replaced by a word scanning one long monosyllable or two short syllables, and so producing a normal E-line. Far the most probable emendation is to my mind stede-nægla. The corruption of stede into steda, by anticipatory assimilation of word-endings, would be an example of one of the commonest errors of transcription, especially in inflected languages. The word stede-nægl does not occur elsewhere, but it would bear an obvious sense: a fixednail, a nail driven into wood so as to stick out like an iron spike. It would be the equivalent of stedigra nægla.⁴⁴

We thus arrive at:

foran ǽghwǽr wæs

stedenægla gehwylc   stýle gelícost

‘At each tip each of the standing nails was like a steel spike.’⁴⁵

egl. Since Grendel’s nails have been likened (i) probably to iron spikes fixed in a wooden post, (ii) to spurs, it is unlikely that the word egl here is to be identified with egl, egle, a word meaning an awn of barley. It is far more likely that it is an error for eglu, neuter plural of the adjective egle ‘grievous, repulsive’.

The final translation of the passage will thus run so:

‘(They gazed upon the hand set above the high roof, beholding the demon’s fingers.) At the tip at every point each of the standing nails was like steel, spurs on the hand of the savage warrior, horrible and monstrous were they.’

813–15   Sorely shattered was all that shining house within, from their iron bars the hinges of the doors were wrenched away; *997–9 Wæs þæt beorhte bold tóbrocen swíðe / eal inneweard írenbendum fæst / heorras tóhlidene

[For the original text of the translation here see the Notes on the Text p. 116]

If we look at the context and sense of these lines, we perceive that not only is fæst superfluous metrically, but destroys the sense. The poet is speaking of the smashing up of Heorot, not of its strength. It would seem evident, though remarkable, that this passage has been corrupted by reminiscence of *773–5: þæs fæste wæs / innan ond útan írenbendum / searoþoncum besmiþod (631–2 ‘stout was it smithied within and without with bonds of iron cunningly contrived’). There fæste is required; and it is from that passage that fæst has crept into the text of line *998: it should be removed. We should then read, punctuate and translate thus: Wæs þæt beorhte bold tóbrocen swíðe / eal inneweard, írenbendum / heorras tohlidene; ‘the shining house was all broken up within; the door-hinges were wrenched away from the iron bars.’

Here the írenbendum are the transverse iron bars that go across the door, partly serving to strengthen it and bind together the separate planks or timbers, and partly to carry on their ends the rings or hooks (which fit into or over the hooks on the door-post)–the heorras. What is described is probably the forcing of the door outwards in Grendel’s efforts to escape, so that the bars bearing the rings were wrenched off the hooks on the posts (the other part of the ‘hinges’).

817–18   No easy thing is it to escape–let him strive who will; *1002–3 Nó þæt ýðe byð tó befleonne–fremme sé þe wille

The general context indicates that it is death that is not easy (i.e. impossible) to escape; but þæt is indefinite ‘it’, and does not refer to any previous or following words. A rough modern equivalent would be ‘escaping is not easy’. fremme does not mean ‘try it’; but in order to match ‘not easy = impossible’ the poet says ‘let him who wishes to, achieve it’.

1393   a mighty sword and old; *1663 ealdsweord éacen

Cf. 1307–8, *1560–1: the sword was so large that no other man but Beowulf could have wielded it. But éacen probably means more than this: it had an ‘added’ [the etymological sense], i.e. supernormal power: as is indeed shown by the fact that it slays monsters who had put an enchantment on all ordinary mortal swords: cf. 654–5, *801–5.

1395–6   [I slew . . .] the guardians of the house; *1666. . . húses hyrdas

We cannot take a mean grammatical refuge from the charge of ‘inconsistency’ in the story, by treating this as a ‘generic’ plural, like mécum wunde *565, bearnum ond bróðrum *1074. For one thing, they are not good parallels: mécum implies sword-thrusts [so in the translation, 461]; bearnum ond bróðrum is probably an ancient grammatical ‘dual’ idiom. [The translation, very oddly, retains the plural, ‘of brothers and of sons’, 877.] But where is the discrepancy? Grendel received a mortal wound in the wrestling in Heorot and apparently had died miserably on his bed before Beowulf reached his lair. But in *1618–19 we read of Beowulf: Sóna wæs on sunde sé þe ær æt sæcce gebád / wíghryre wráðra, wæter up þurhdéaf (1357–9 ‘Soon was he swimming swift, who had erewhile lived to see his enemies fall in war. Up dived he through the water’). Here (*1666) he says that he slew when he got a chance ‘the house’s wardens’. In *1668–9 (1398–9) he says that he carried the hilt away from his enemies. Surely only an obstinate desire to find fault could find ‘discrepancy’ in this, or signs of ‘another version of the story’! *1618–19 and *1668–9 are both perfectly true, and in accordance with the story told. At the moment when Beowulf dived back up again he had in fact survived the fall in battle of both his foes, and he did carry the hilt away from the house of Grendel and his dam where both lay dead. In *1666 there is no real discrepancy if we consider (a) that sléan means ‘smite’ and Beowulf did in fact cut off Grendel’s head ‘when he got a chance’ (þá mé sæl ágeald, *1665), and (b) that though ‘dead’ this was necessary for the final laying of his fell spirit. Consider the trouble that Thorhallr had with Glámr the dead thrall, until Grettir cut his head off and laid it by his thigh.⁴⁶

1416–97; *1687–1784

The whole of this passage is very important for the general criticism of Beowulf. We have in 1416–25 (*1687–98) a passage describing the ancient sword-hilt that is most interesting and important–especially with reference to the dating of Beowulf, and the blending and fusion of Scripture and pagan northern legend. The archaeological interest is only secondary: for if no swords with runic inscriptions naming their owners had ever been found, the poet plainly describes one, and it is the connexion made between the eotenas of the North and the gigantes of Scripture that is really significant.

We then have Hrothgar’s sermon. In this we have Christian (virtually medieval) motives woven together with the pagan ‘exemplum’ of Heremod. The use of Heremod as a ‘dark contrast’–a ‘caution’–by Hrothgar links together the praise after the second deed with that after the first, where Heremod is also introduced.

The ‘Christian’ part of the sermon is very interesting. It serves to complete (before we finally part from him) the portrait of the patriarchal Hrothgar. But (as we shall see) it raises in very special and acute fashion the questions (a) whether our ‘Beowulf’ has been tinkered with since it was composed: that is, touched up by another poet–I am not speaking of mere scribal corruption and copying; (b) whether it was known and imitated by other poets still extant; and (c) whether Cynewulf is concerned in either or both of the two preceding processes.

On the question of the fusion of Scripture and northern mythology, of Cain-Grendel and the Giants, I have already said what I think in The Monsters and the Critics.

The main Scriptural source of the reference to Giants is Genesis vi.4 (possibly connected with iv.22 and the reference to Tubal-Cain (sixth generation in descent from Cain) ‘instructor of every artificer in brass and iron’). But as I have said elsewhere the main defect of our criticism is ignorance of the native mythology. In Old English we have nothing to go upon, save these same scant and already blended references which we are trying to understand. Outside, we have chiefly Old Norse (preserved late). I do not doubt that English tradition agreed in what one might call the philosophical principle with Old Norse: the essential hostility of the monsters–even those in more or less human form (giants and trolls)–to the ‘humane’, or human-divine. But of its more specific details, which would help to explain the fusion, we are ignorant. Did native tradition contain some Flood tradition which would help to explain 1418–19 (*1689–91)? Probably it did.⁴⁷ But if so it is lost now–except in Beowulf *1689 ff. Such references as eald enta geweorc [‘the ancient work of giants’] (not confined to Beowulf) and ealdsweord eotonisc [‘old giant-forged sword’] are in themselves enough to show that there was in England an ancient imagination of ‘giants’, and that on one side they were (in the language of Genesis vi.4) ‘mighty men which were of old, men of renown’, and also the makers of mighty works beyond human compass. To them were attributed not only wonders of geological origin, nor only relics of bygone masons and smiths, but also works conceived only in the imaginations of poets: human works enlarged and endowed with added power: éacen; things of wonder and magic. Yet they hated men, and were enemies. If with Cain, the outlaw and murderer, you associate the ogre-traditions of the North, it is then clear that such references as Genesis iv.22 concerning Tubal-Cain and craftsmanship in brass and iron will fuse with the ealdsweord eotonisc tradition. You will find in Grendel’s lair enta ærgeweorc *1679, (‘the work of trolls of old’ 1408–9), a sword both of superhuman size and supernatural power, work of the giganta cyn, a relic of the Flood: truly an ealde láfe (*1688, a ‘relic of old days’ 1417).⁴⁸

It is plain that the whole business of fusion, at the upper or mythological end–where contact was closest, Scripture itself being more ‘mythological’ in its mode of expression–was intricate. But this at least we can say: the fusion (at any rate, that which we find in Beowulf) is certainly not that of a pagan who remembers a few items from early sermons. It is the product, as I have said elsewhere,⁴⁹ of deep thought and emotion. It is indeed the product of learning, of a man or men who could read Scripture, who had with their eyes read the Latin words: Tubalcain qui fuit malleator et faber in cuncta opera aeris et ferri–and Gigantes autem erant super terram in diebus illis [Genesis iv.22 and vi.4]. (The very word gígant is derived from Latin and equated with eoten and ent.)⁵⁰

When we pass on to Hrothgar’s sermon, we need not overdo the ‘learning’. We need not see in swigedon ealle ‘all were silent’ (*1699, 1426) a reminiscence of [the opening lines of] Æneid Book II: Conticuere omnes intentique ora tenebant. Inde toro pater Æneas sic orsus ab alto [‘All were still, and held their gaze intent upon him. Then from his lofty couch father Æneas thus began’].⁵¹ You do not need to read Virgil in order to imagine a silence when a venerable king begins a solemn discourse! But we need not, on the other hand, be unduly surprised to find that together with the Bible the poet shows knowledge of a definitely Christian homiletic tradition with an allegorical or symbolic mode of expression–to us ‘mediaeval’ in flavour.

Yet there is, all the same, something odd here. ‘Blending’ is naturally again observable. We have the purely Germanic, northern, story of Heremod alluded to, with special reference here to his unprincely crime of greed: nallas béagas geaf Denum æfter dóme *1719–20, ‘He gave not things of gold unto the Danes to earn him praise’ 1443–4. This is neatly paralleled later, in the picture of the generalized ‘fortunate man’ destroyed by pride, and success corrupted into avarice: gýtsað gromhýdig, nallas on gylp seleð fætte béagas *1749–50, ‘his grim heart fills with greed; in no wise doth he deal gold-plated rings to earn him praise’ 1468–9. Although it would be possible to view this as produced by a homiletic interpolator expanding the moral of *1719–20, I do not personally doubt that the homiletic elaboration of the moral is mainly due to the ‘author’, that the same hand wrote both *1719–20 and *1749–50, and designed them to echo one another.

There are, however, two things to note. Firstly (a point that does not in itself prove any ‘tinkering’ by later hands): the ‘sermon’ or giedd is artistically too long, and also is not throughout suitable; it is too ‘Christian’ in colouring for the good pre-Christian patriarch, Hrothgar. This stricture applies especially to the reference to ‘conscience’ (sáwele hyrde ‘guardian of the soul’), and the allegorical shafts of the evil one (bona (bana) ‘slayer’), *1740–7, 1460–7–even if we accept as ‘Beowulfian’ the passage Wundor is tó secganne (*1724, 1450) to hé þæt wyrse ne con ‘he knows nothing of worse fate’ (*1739, 1460–1), and also (say) *1753, 1472 onwards, in the course of which the theme of the end of youth and fortune is further elaborated–cf. the close parallel especially to *1761–8, 1479–84 provided by The Seafarer 66–71.⁵²

But that is not all. There is a quite exceptionally clear–convincing, in fact inescapable–connexion between Hrothgar’s sermon *1724–68, 1450–84, and the Old English poem Crist 659 ff. and 756–78. The resemblance is one both of matter and turns of expression, e.g. þonne wróhtbora . . . onsendeð of his brægdbogan biterne strǽl [Crist 763–5, ‘when the author of evil . . . sends forth a bitter shaft from his deceitful bow’; beside Beowulf *1743–6 bona swiðe néah, sé þe of flánbogan fyrenum scéoteð. Þonne bið on hreþre under helm drepen biteran strǽle (1463–6).] Indeed it would hardly be too much to say that the ‘sermon’ from *1724–68 (1450–84) reads and rings often more like the author of Crist than that of the author of the rest of Beowulf.

The author of Crist (certainly of the runic passage (797 ff.) and so almost certainly of what precedes it) was Cynewulf.⁵³ Among the ‘signed’ works of Cynewulf are Elene and The Fates of the Apostles. In these poems there are numerous parallelisms of expression with Beowulf. So there are also in other poems: e.g. Guthlac (probably not by Cynewulf) and Andreas (certainly not). From them we can deduce no more than that Beowulf was known and admired by later poets⁵⁴–in itself probable enough. But the feeling (independent of research) that the sermon is overloaded, and partly discrepant in tone and style, is on quite a different footing. I do not doubt that Cynewulf knew and admired Beowulf and echoed it, and I am perfectly certain that he did not in general revise or rewrite it: the style, temper, and mind are quite different from his. But I think that Klaeber hits off the conclusions that must be drawn. In the first place, the king’s address forms an organic element in the structure of the epic; and that the king should deliver a sermon of ‘high sentence’ is entirely in keeping with his character as imagined and depicted in the poem, and with the moral and serious temper of Beowulf as a whole. But in the second place the most reasonable interpretation of the exact situation and resemblances is, nonetheless, that Cynewulf’s own hand has retouched the king’s address: has in fact turned it from a giedd into a genuine homily.

Why? Because at this point there was the nearest point of contact between the two authors and their thought. Whatever we may think of his taste–I think it, as exhibited in his signed poems, bad at worst and poor at best–Hrothgar probably interested him, and especially the sermon. It was too good an opportunity to be missed–and he took it: not of course observing (it was far beyond him) that by making more explicit the moral, and adorning it with the homiletic allegory of his own day, he was damaging a great work (and one in the long run more profoundly significant and instructive than his own overtly ‘Christian’ verse).

I think it is indeed likely enough that there are other ‘Cynewulfian’ touches of improvement in the text of Beowulf. The most nearly certain one is *168–9 (134–5).⁵⁵ This is not only unsuitable (and obscure because its thought, which runs on ‘grace’ and damnation, is not really in harmony with the context) but easily detachable; and not only detachable, but its excision an obvious improvement in verse texture and sense. But detachability is not a certain criterion–not if we are really dealing with Cynewulf. He was an eloquent man with a rich wordhord and a skilled word-craftsman. He could manage joints all right.

Thus if we pass from the general (and I think practically certain) conclusion that a later author has been at work here, to the question of exact detail–what did he do?–we shall not reach any clear result. It is not so much a question of ‘interpolation’ only as of actual rewriting, which might intricately blend old and new.⁵⁶

1583; *1887

Here ends the ‘First Part’ of Beowulf, with pregnant words, and a moving contrast of Age and Youth. Whether or no (as some have thought) this part was originally meant to be the whole poem, and the second part a later enlargement by the same author, in the economy of the whole poem as we now have it the structure is fairly clear.

The First Part depicts the rise of Beowulf, his emergence as a full hæleþ: his coming of age, and acquisition of blǽd, fame and fortune, glorified by the strength and hope of youth. And it is hinted that Beowulf escaped the temptation of blǽd: he did not fall into arrogance, or greed. But the First Part also foreshadows the coming of old age, the bitter wisdom of experience. It makes it very poignant to find the young proud Beowulf so much like Hrothgar so soon as the Link or Interlude of his return home (1584–1851, *1888–2199) is over. The first words that he speaks are reminiscent: 2041–3 ‘In youth from many an onslaught of war I came back safe, from many a day of battle. I do recall it all’; *2426–7 Fela ic on giogoðe gúðrǽsa genæs, orleghwíla; ic þæt eall gemon. Compare Hrothgar, 1485–9, *1769–73. The contrast of Youth and Age–Age and death the inevitable sequel of Youth and triumph seen in the Rise (part I) and Fall (part II) of Beowulf is made far more vivid by thus setting Youth before Age for its judgement.

And finally for us–and I do not doubt also for the poet and his contemporaries–the whole poem is dignified by the connexion with the great Scylding court, the golden House of Heorot glorious and doomed. It gives it what one might call an Arthurian atmosphere and background.

1623   The fierce mood of Thryth . . .; *1931 *MS mod þryðo wæg . . .

[I give here the passage concerning Hygd, wife of Hygelac king of the Geats, in which these words (one of the most beaten grounds in Old English textual criticism) occur, both in the original text (*1929–32) and in the translation (1621–4).

	næs hío hnáh swá þéah,
1930	né tó gnéað gifa   Géata léodum,
	máðmgestréona,   mod þryðo wæg
	fremu folces cwén,   firen ondrysne
1621	Yet no niggard was she, nor too sparing of gifts and precious treasures to the Geatish men. The fierce mood of Thryth she did not show, good queen of men, nor her dire wickedness.

In the first part of his very long note my father was concerned to defend his view, shared by several editors of Beowulf, of how the words of the manuscript here underlined should be emended and interpreted on textual and linguistic grounds alone (i.e. without reference to the legend of Offa: see 1637 ff., *1949 ff.).]

If we knew no more about Offa and his bride than we do about Hygd it is perfectly clear that we have here another case of praise by contrast (compare the way Heremod is introduced, 734, 1435; *901, *1709). We should also by this parallel be led to look for a name (of Offa’s queen) at the beginning of a reference to her. Only in mod þryðo wæg is there any chance of finding one.

Though transition can be abrupt in Beowulf–the transition at 734, *901 is abrupt enough–it is unlikely that Hygd is no more referred to after máðmgestréona. It is possible only if we read Módþrýðo wæg with Módþrýðo as a proper name. The sequence will then be ‘Hygd was good, she was not mean. Módþrýðo (once) showed, good queen of her people (as she became later), dreadful wickedness.’ The placing of the name abruptly at the very beginning is at least nearly sufficient to give the required sense of ‘on the other hand’. But it leaves fremu folces cwén very odd indeed–this is not explained until 1634 ff. (*1945 ff.). Moreover among the 150 or so names in Germanic ending in -þrýþ (-truda, -druda, -þrúðr, &c.) there is nothing elsewhere corresponding to Módþrýðo.

[After a further discussion concerning the formal historical difficulties in the assumption of a proper name Módþrýðo my father emphatically rejected it, and said that mód Þrýðo wæg ‘seems the only possible interpretation of the manuscript’. He took Þrýðo to be the name Þrýðe with the Anglian (Northumbrian) ending -o in oblique cases, corresponding to West Saxon -an, this -o being ‘retained by the scribe since he was at sea as to the sense of the passage’. The meaning is therefore ‘the temper of Þrýðe (Thryth)’.]

But mód Þrýðo wæg makes us say: ‘Hygd was good: she showed the temper of Þrýðe, good queen, her grievous wickedness.’ This is the opposite of the natural intention of contrast. We are driven to assume that ne has fallen out. For the ne at the beginning of the contrast see *1709 (1435). In defence of the emendation mód Þrýðo [ne] wæg we must observe: ne (or any negative particle in any language) appears in logic to be overwhelmingly important, exactly reversing sense, so that it is difficult to conceive of its omission. As a matter of fact (i) it is in writing a small easily omitted word on mere mechanical grounds, especially as scribes do not follow the detail of sense (and the scribe here, as always when faced with legendary names, was plainly at sea); (ii) even in speech it is often reduced to a very fugitive element in spite of continual linguistic renewal, and even then is sometimes accidentally omitted.

[With these remarks on the dropping of negative particles cf. p. 263–The meaning of the passage as emended thus is given in this note: ‘Hygd was not mean. The mood of Þrythe she, good queen of her people, did not show: her grievous wickedness.’ It will be seen that this is very close to the wording in my father’s translation given at the beginning of this note.

Following this discussion he turned to the intricate question of the legends of the wife of Offa–there being two kings of that name: Offa king of Mercia in the eighth century, (‘Offa II’), and Offa king of Angel (the ancient home of the Angles in Schleswig), (‘Offa I’), supposed to be the far distant ancestor of Offa of Mercia. I cite here only his concluding remarks on the subject of ‘Offa’s wife’. Following from his consideration of the view that the story of the wicked wife of Offa II originally belonged to Offa of Angel he continued:]

This I think is enough to show that in ‘historial legend’ Offa of Angel, the reputed (and probably actual) ancestor of Offa of Mercia had a matrimonial legend. That his wife was called Þrýþ (or Þrýðe), Latinized later as Drida. Of her the original story was of the Atalanta type: the perilous maiden who destroys all weakling suitors, but is at last conquered by a strong man, and then becomes a good wife.

Why is it put in here? Of course–according to the method we have already observed in Sigemund and Heremod–as a method of enhancing and pointing praise or blame. Yet it is more ‘dragged in’, or so it appears at first sight, than any other of the ‘episodes’. Sigemund and his dragon-victory have an organic and ironic fitness as a comparison with young Beowulf who is to be slain by a dragon. Heremod is a Dane and connected with Sigemund on the one hand, and on the other a good concrete illustration of the vices that Hrothgar is preaching against. The Fréswæl [the ‘Finn episode’] (as I have laboured to show) is closely connected with the Scyldings, and the house of Healfdene.

Now the connexion (even with the replaced negative advocated above) between Hygd and Þrýðe is somewhat abrupt. Still it cannot be shown that the Offa passage in Beowulf is later than the rest, or contemporary with Offa II. The idea that it is a covert contemporary allusion is certainly to be dismissed. Not only because it is far from covert if contemporary with a king called Offa: its author if he escaped with his head would soon have found himself a wandering minstrel looking for a new patron. But because in history Offa’s queen was like Hygd and not like Þrýðe at all.

If the Offa-story is an elaboration and addition at all, it is one made by the author himself. Why he thought it fitting–and he probably did feel it to have some kind of fitness (such as we can see in Heremod and Finn and Sigemund): he was not as has been supposed a mere dragger-in of old tales–we can probably not now discover in our ignorance of that great nexus of interwoven ‘historial legend’, concerning English origins, and the great royal and noble houses, which he possessed.

1633–4   he of Hemming’s race [Offa] made light of that; *1944 Húru þæt onhohsnode[e] Hemminges mæg

[My father thought it probable that Hemming was Offa’s maternal grandfather. The translation depends on the etymology proposed for the unrecorded onhohsnode. The common rendering ‘put a stop to it’ assumes the existence of a verb unrecorded in Old English *(on)hohsin(w)ian, derived from hohsinu ‘hamstring’ (‘hock-sinew’), supposedly here in a figurative sense ‘to stop, restrain’. In the course of a long and detailed discussion of cognate forms in other Germanic languages my father rejected this as ‘a violent and unlikely metaphor’, and noted that ‘nowhere have we found anything but a literal meaning to “hamstring” a horse.’ ‘What has this got to do with the tale?’ he said, teasing the proponents of this etymology, ‘even the racing Atalanta was not vanquished by being hamstrung!’ [Atalanta in Greek mythology was a huntress who would marry no man who could not defeat her in a race, and if a suitor defeated her he was put to death.)

He himself favoured, very hesitantly, another proposed etymology, that of an unrecorded verb *(on-hoxnian), related in some way to Old English husc, hux ‘scorn, derision’ and the verb hyscan; hence his translation ‘made light of that’. He concluded the note with a translation of the passage in a different style:]

Nonetheless the descendant of Hemming (Offa) laughed at all this, and men in the hall (gossiping over their ale) added that she committed fewer (i.e. no more) crimes from the moment that she became the gold-decked bride of the young warrior.

1666–7   to the hands of mighty men; *1983 MS hæ[ð]num tó handa

[In the manuscript the word reads hæ num, the third letter, ð, which can still be read, having been erased by the scribe. In my father’s translation he added at the time of typing a footnote to mighty men: ‘or Hæðenas, name of a people’.]

What does the manuscript mean, and what is the reason for the erasure? It is easy to rewrite the text and substitute hæleðum. But it is quite incredible as a solution, and does not explain the manuscript. The erasure (never put right) shows that the scribe was bothered–and it is more than likely that we have once again a proper name belonging to heroic tradition. Since the scribe first wrote hæðnum, had he really been preparing the way for a correction hæleðum (incidentally a common word that he nowhere else bungles) we should expect him to have erased either n (so as to insert le before ð over the line) or both ð and n.

Also, there is a proper name *Hǽðne. It occurs in the poem Widsith (line 81), (ic wæs) mid Hæðnum. As far as Widsith goes, these people can hardly be doubted to be the Old Norse Heiðnir, later (with regular loss in Old Norse of ð before n), Heinir, dwellers in the Heiðmörk (modern Hedemarken) in Norway on the Swedish border. The erasure may be due (1) to its being identical in form with hǽðen ‘heathen’, a word of special evil associations in A.D. 1000 (the scribe’s time) and not good associations for the virtuous Hygd–but why not then erase the whole word? Or (2) to the existence in Old English of a form Hǽne (with a similar change to that seen in Old Norse or to actual knowledge of the later Norse form). (1) is hardly likely without (2). I should restore Hǽðnum.

Editors ask: why should this folk appear in Hygelac’s hall? The answer is probably provided by Widsith 81 and a consideration of other stories. The Hǽðne were Hygd’s own people, and just as Danes were in the Heathobard court as retainers of the Danish queen Freawaru daughter of Hrothgar (1697 ff., *2020 ff.), so Hǽðne were at the court of Hygelac in attendance on Queen Hygd.

Widsith line 81 reads: (ic wæs) mid hæðnum ond mid hæleþum ond mid hundingum. Quite apart from comparison with Beowulf a likely emendation of mid hæleþum is mid hæreþum: the corruption of a proper name to a common noun of similar form is well evidenced (cf. Cain to camp, *1261, Eomer to geomor *1960, etc. in Beowulf). But when immediately before hæðnum in Beowulf we find Hæreðes dohtor (1664, *1981) the connexion between Widsith 81 and Beowulf becomes extremely probable.

The Hæreðe are the Norwegian tribe Hϙrðar (stem *haruđ), cf. Hardanger-fjord–incidentally there is a reference in an entry in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (787) to the first coming of the Norsemen in three ships ‘from Hereða land’. The use of the stem of a tribal name as a proper name among neighbours is a common phenomenon: as modern Scott, Inglis, Walsh. The actual relation of Hæreð father of Hygd (presumably a prince of the Hǽðne) to the Hæreþe cannot now be discovered.

Though the passage is obscure (because we do not know what the poet assumes to be known) and also corrupt, we do observe that Hygd had, or was given by our author, a place in the real geographical northern world. Her name is odd (nowhere else recorded in itself, and there is no other record of the name of Hygelac’s queen): it alliterates with her husband’s, and is etymologically related to it: Hygd (cf. ge-hygd ‘thought’) / Hyge-lac. But it also alliterates with her father’s name. I think that the fact that it has an ‘abstract’ look is fortuitous. Women’s names were frequently made from abstract words; occasionally they occur uncompounded, as Hild ‘war’, Þrýþ ‘strength’. After all, Hyge-lac might be interpreted as ‘play of mind’, yet he is no abstraction: there can be no reasonable doubt that he is an historical Geatish king of the sixth century called Hugila(i)k.

It cannot, however, be denied that our poet’s account of Hygelac is a little peculiar, and not free from suspicion of being confused with that of Hrethel (and vice versa).

He is a geongne gúðcyning (*1969, ‘the young warrior-king’ 1654), at the date of Beowulf’s return. His wife is swíðe geong (*1926, ‘very young’ 1619), and so probably not long married, though long enough to have shown herself a generous patroness. Her son Heardred is too young to govern when Hygelac falls in Frisia (1996–2001, *2370–6). Yet when Hæthcyn son of Hrethel fell before King Ongentheow of Sweden, we learn that Hygelac (the surviving son) came up with reinforcements (2471–4, *2943–5) and Ongentheow fell to the sword of Eofor, Hygelac’s thane. Eofor was rewarded with land and treasure (2514–16, *2993–5) and the hand of Hygelac’s only daughter (2518–19, *2997). Cf. ‘to Eofor he gave his only daughter . . . for the honouring of his house’ with Hrothgar on Beowulf: ‘His sire of old was called Ecgtheow; to him Hrethel of the Geats gave as bride his only daughter’ (300–1, *373–5). Two only daughters in the family each given to (somewhat obscure) retainers!⁵⁷

The usual calculations make Hrethel roughly contemporary with Healfdene (fifth century) and Hrethel’s three sons and one daughter therefore roughly contemporary with Healfdene’s three sons and one daughter (see 46–9, *59–63), so Hygelac ought to be about the same age as Halga the third son of Healfdene, and not much younger than Hrothgar. Yet Hrothgar is represented as an old man bowed with years and full of regretful reminiscence; while Hygelac is a bregoróf cyning (*1925, 1618) actually called ‘young’ (1654, *1969), with a very young wife.

This contrast can be partly explained by the nature and limits of ‘historial legend’. The main lines of the traditional characters of ancient historical lays were very much dependent on the circumstances of their death. A character once fixed tends to appear thus at all times when he comes on the stage. Arthur is usually young and eager for novelty. Victoria becomes indelibly fixed by the great act of living and reigning so long as an old and widowed queen. In ‘historial legend’ of the Anglo-Saxon kind any young knight who visited the court of England within, say twenty or thirty years of her death would be likely to find upon the throne a small but venerable figure in black, with white hair. Hygelac on the other hand died in the field as a still vigorous warrior, leaving his heir a minor.

Nonetheless it soon becomes apparent that ‘his only daughter’ married to Eofor after Hrefnesholt [Ravenswood, 2464, *2935] cannot be the daughter of Hygd. Hygd must be a second wife. And the more we try to separate Hygelac from Hrothgar in age (and the younger we make Hygelac die) the more impossible is it for him to have a marriageable daughter to give to Eofor. In fact almost the only difficulty in working out a satisfactory chronology to fit the Beowulf statements is either Hygd’s extreme youth or the only daughter. Something seems to have gone a bit wrong with the ‘history’ of Hygelac.⁵⁸

425	Birth of Healfdene
440	~	Ongentheow
455	~	Hrothgar
465	~	Onela
465	~	Hrothgar’s sister
475	~	Hygelac
495 or later	~	Beowulf

Ongentheow was slain at Hrefnesholt at the age of 65 in A.D. 505. Hygelac was then 30. If he had a daughter she was a child of about seven.

Beowulf visited Heorot c. 515. Hrothgar was then actually old, being 60.

Hygelac married Hygd (a second wife?) about 510; he was 35 and Hygd only about 18. Heardred was born about 511. Hygd was still only about 23 at the time of Beowulf’s return. Hygelac was 40.

Hygelac fell in Frisia c. 525 at the age of 50. Heardred was a minor (about 14): Beowulf was then a tried warrior of 30.

It is a possible explanation that the tradition of the ánge dohtor really belongs to Hrethel; but that the intrusion of Beowulf (unhistorical at any rate as an actual member of the Geatish royal house) by our poet, or the blending of ‘historial legend’ and folk-story in the traditions he knew, has confused matters. It is very likely nearer to ‘history’ that it was Hrethel’s ánge dohtor, Hygelac’s sister, that Hygelac gave in marriage to Eofor. (Ecgtheow has replaced Eofor and caused duplication of the ‘only daughter’.)

FREAWARU AND INGELD

1697–1739; *2020–69

In these lines we have the fifth⁵⁹ of the main ‘episodes’ in Beowulf, and the most difficult and important after Finn and Hengest. In a sense it is not an ‘episode’, or allusion, but an essential part of the Danish half of the scene, as the references to the Swedish-Geatish wars and the fall of Hygelac are of the Geatish half.

The purposes of the passage are clearer than in any other case: it completes the picture of Heorot; it links the Danish and Geatish halves of the scene (for this reference to the troubles of the court of Heorot is actually spoken in Hygelac’s hall), and it gives a peculiarly realistic touch to the whole background. Beowulf reports to the king (in the manner of an ambassador) what he has seen and learned concerning dynastic politics in the south. It is a most ingenious and ‘historial’ use of tradition, selected, as we shall see, with careful attention to chronology. Finally, it illustrates Beowulf himself. The story is all told in the future; and on the whole that device is nearly successful–if we allow a large measure of sagacity to Beowulf, not only in considering court-gossip, and judging the character of kings and queens, but in foreseeing how old retainers are likely to behave. And it is told in this way precisely so that Beowulf should show kingly sagacity and fitness for rule, not merely great physical strength. For all knew that what he predicted did come to pass. This element of political wisdom combined with valour has already been alluded to by Hrothgar in 1546 ff., *1844 ff., praising Beowulf for seizing the opportunity of proposing and promising an alliance between Geats and Danes, who had formerly been hostile.

Altogether a very justifiable ‘episode’, admirably conceived for the purposes of the present poem (and quite undeserving of the strictures that have been passed on it). Its only weakness, in fact, is that the ‘egging’ of the old æscwiga (1715 ff., *2041 ff.) is too precise in detail, too clearly taken from a lay concerning what did happen, to be really suitable to a genuine ‘forecast’.

Purely accidental weaknesses for us (for which the poet could not be blamed) are the dubious places in the surviving text, and the fact that we do not know in detail the story to which he was alluding. We know that it was well-known, so that an allusive reference would be quite enough for the poet’s purpose. But we have to piece much scattered evidence together to make out now what it is all about.

The whole business of the Heathobards and their feud with the house of Healfdene is of the greatest importance and interest: going to the very heart of early Danish (and English) history. But I must limit myself on this occasion more or less to what is essential to the Beowulf reference, and in particular to Freawaru and Ingeld.

Let us first see what can be made out from the passage in Beowulf. From this we learn (1697–1702, *2020–5) that Freawaru was Hrothgar’s daughter, and that she was betrothed to Ingeld the son of Froda: which means according to ancient Northern custom that the marriage-feast, probably at Heorot (the house of the bride’s father) was imminent (at the time of Beowulf’s visit) and its date already fixed: hence the talk in the hall about it was natural. We learn that Hrothgar accounted the match wise politically (þæt rǽd talað *2027, ‘accounts it policy’ 1703), and hoped by it to set a long feud to rest. Note that this does not necessarily mean, though it might mean, that Hrothgar had initiated the match. Since the poet immediately passes to consideration of a people called Heaðobeardan and a fatal battle (1714–15, *2039–40), it is plain that Ingeld and Froda are Heathobards, and that the stage of the feud that preceded the moment chosen by the poet was a disastrous defeat of the Heathobards by the Danes. Though not explicitly stated, it seems certain that among the fathers of the present generation of Heathobards who were then slain and despoiled was the king Froda himself, Ingeld’s father. It is to settle the bloodfeud which Ingeld has against him that Hrothgar favours the match.

From 1715 (*2041) we have a prophetic utterance–actually a sketch based on lays dealing with the affair as history–concerning the failure of the match and the reawakening of the feud. It is plain that Freawaru took with her to Ingeld’s hall a retinue of Danes. Whether they actually behaved arrogantly or not, several of them gave offence by wearing swords (and probably other treasures) won in the old battle from the fathers of men in Ingeld’s court. Strife is thus renewed. An old grim retainer (of the sort that can still be met: more zealous for the honour of the house than the master) eggs a young man, until he kills one of the Danes who wears his father’s trappings. The Heathobard escapes, and the truce is broken on both sides.

The slayer is plainly not Ingeld (mín wine *2047 [translated ‘my lord’ 1721] can mean just ‘my friend’: cf. wine mín Unferð *530, 432–3), since it would appear plain that Ingeld’s personal feud was against the Danish king, not just one of the young knights; and also the important lines 1735–7, *2064–6, show him struggling between love of wife and the old feud.

It would appear that a Dane or Danes retaliated by slaying a Heathobard, and then Ingeld was drawn in. Beyond that point the ‘episode’ does not take us. We can see that it is founded on a pretty extensive story or historial legend, slow-moving, detailed, and with many actors in the English manner, and not contracted, concentrated and intensely personal in the Norse manner.

What happened later can be guessed from the allusion in lines *81–5, 65–9, where it is clear that Heorot was doomed to flames, when a deadly feud between father-in-law and son-in-law should be re-aroused. The statement that Heorot had been so well builded that the Danes thought that nothing but fire could destroy it (635–9, *778–82) is also probably an allusion to the fact that tradition recorded its final destruction by burning.

There are two other allusions from English sources to this story. From Widsith 45–9 we learn that Ingeld was actually defeated at Heorot and the might of the Heathobards there destroyed. Combined with Beowulf *81–5 this shows that Ingeld must suddenly have taken up the feud again and made a descent on Hrothgar, that Heorot was destroyed by fire, but that nonetheless the Heathobards were utterly defeated. Ingeld must have been slain. What was the fate of the hapless Freawaru we do not know.

The other ‘English’ allusion is found in one version of a letter from Alcuin [a celebrated Northumbrian theologian and man of learning] (A.D. 797–close, that is, to the probable date of the composition of Beowulf)–to Speratus Bishop of Lindisfarne. Alcuin says: Verba dei legantur in sacerdotali convivio; ibi decet lectorem audiri non citharistam, sermones patrum non carmina gentilium. Quid Hinieldus cum Christo? [In the rectory of the monks the words of God should be read; there it is fitting that the reader be heard, not the harper, the discourse of the Fathers, not the songs of the pagans. What has Ingeld to do with Christ?] This interesting passage tells us no more for our present purpose than that Ingeld’s name was probably pronounced Injeld, and that lays concerning him must have been extremely popular for him to be thus singled out as the typical pagan hero. For general criticism it tells us a good deal more. Alcuin is rebuking monks for listening to native English lays sung to the harp, and for still taking an interest in pagan kings who are now lamenting their sins in hell. This rebuke is, of course, evidence of the existence at once of a stern and uncompromising reforming spirit, and of laxity (probably culpable laxity for monks). But it shows at any rate the possibility of the combination of Latin and vernacular learning in the eighth century. There is also a via media which, no less Christian than Alcuin, yet does not consign all the past to oblivion (or to hell), but ponders it with increased insight and profundity. This is the way of the poet who wrote Beowulf. More regretfully he refers to the men of old being ignorant of God.⁶⁰

In tradition Heorot seems to have been remembered specially as a centre of pagan worship. We may suspect that this is of importance in the feud and battles that raged round this site, that the feud was indeed a battle for the possession of a sanctuary [on this see the note on æt hærgtrafum, pp. 179–80.] But beyond this the purely English evidence will not take us.

[My father wrote here: ‘To consider the Norse sources would take us too far afield’, but having said this he proceeded to do so (and added the words ‘in full’ after ‘Norse sources’). I give this section of ‘Freawaru and Ingeld’ in a somewhat abbreviated form.]

We touch in this conflict, and in the legends about it, on something very old and central to the nearly forgotten history of the Germanic North in heathen times. All but the final stages are already dim and remote in early Old English traditions. In Norse the whole matter has been confused and distorted by the adoption and ‘Danification’ of traditions that were not in origin Danish (nor Scandinavian?) but belonged to the peninsula and islands of what we may call (for lack of a better word) the Anglo-Frisian peoples, expelled or absorbed by the Danes in the early centuries of our era.

In particular the naif attempt of later chroniclers to accommodate them all in a unilinear Danish royal line has had many ridiculous results: not least the conversion of old wars of peoples into parricide and fratricide among Skiöldung kings and their sons. In addition all that relates to the older heroic world has in Norse been overlaid and obscured by the specially Scandinavian sub-heroic period or Viking-age. An age that was in many ways, though later, not an advance but a relapse into violence and barbarism: a triumph of Oðinn and the ravens,⁶¹ of bloodshed for its own sake, over the gods of corn and fruitfulness [the Vanir]. This is symbolized in surviving Norse mythology itself by the war of Oðinn and the Æsir with Njörðr [the father of Frey and Freyja] and the Vanir.

The Heathobards are specially associated with peace.⁶² With the name of Fróda, in Norse Fróði, friðr [‘peace’] is peculiarly joined. In the background of tradition lies the great peace, the Fróðafriðr, in which there was corn in plenty and no war or robbery.⁶³ Now the later Scandinavian sources have obviously doubled and trebled, and even more greatly multiplied, the number of Frothos and Ingelli (Ingjalds) in their Danish line, merely in the effort to accommodate varying stories. But Heathobard tradition must nevertheless have contained at least two Fródas: one the historical father of their last king Ingeld, and one the remoter (perhaps mythical) ancestor: the Fróda of the Great Peace. The tradition of the Great Peace may be no more than a legendary way of symbolizing a powerful rule, in which (say) the Heathobards were leaders of a confederacy with some religious centre; or it may be in origin mythological: a representation as a dynastic ancestor of the God of the cult and of the Golden Age. Both may well be combined.

Our story refers to the time of the beginnings of Scandinavian expansion and trouble in the islands. Just as the story of Hóc and Hnæf and Hengest reflects the incursion of Danes into Jutland and the peninsula, the Heathobard story depicts their seizure of Seeland, the centre of that world and the seat of its cult. And Seeland has remained ever since the heart of Denmark. There are still Hleiðr–now the village of Leire, and Roskilde, the Canterbury of Denmark, as well as the modern commercial capital Copenhagen: Kaupmannahöfn [‘haven of the merchants’]. It was not a religious war: the Odinic cults of Viking times (which now bulk so large in our imagination of the North) had hardly arisen. It was an attempt to seize the centre of the Anglo-Frisian world, and to conquer it–and it succeeded, and was no doubt a prime factor in the westward migration. The conquests legendarily ascribed to Scyld (the eponymous ancestor) belong doubtless in history to Healfdene or his real father.⁶⁴ And we see the Danes of this house taking on the cultus: they are called Ingwine. The third son of Healfdene is Halga ‘the holy’, and Hrothgar’s daughter is named after Frey ‘the lord’: Freawaru. It is probably not by chance nor by mere invention of our poet (though the precise form of blending is only found in the exordium) that we find in the ancestry of the house of Healfdene, blended with the heraldic military eponym Scyld, the corn hero Sceaf, and Beowulf I, certainly an alteration (or corruption) of Beow ‘barley’ [see the note to line 14]. And we may note that in Widsith Sceafa ‘Sheaf’ is king of the Langobards. The connexion of Langobards and Heathobards is most probable. The Heathobards cannot be identical with the Langobards or Lombards, who had already migrated far from the North in the second century B.C. But they may represent the people from whom the Langobards sprang. There are many instances of names remaining in the North in the old homes while migrant elements (such as Rugii, Goths and Vandals) bore the names far away south.

The struggle for the control of Seeland and the sanctuary and holy site of Hleiðr (where the great hall of Heorot was built) give point to the bitter feud. Coming down to the end of the struggle (remembered in historical or semihistorical legends and lays) we may infer (I think) that the Danes remained in possession while Healfdene lived; and that this old fierce king lived to a great age and died untouched by avenging swords. The tradition of his atrocitas and of his great age–exactly answering to the Old English epithets gamol ond guðreouw [see the note to line 44]–is still attached to him in Norse, even when he is quite cut off from all his true connexions. Even the Old English adjective héah is echoed.

But the Heathobards were not destroyed, and there was evidently a period in which they recovered. It is possible that among the stories in the late Norse sources there linger traces of ancient tradition, when we hear of the ill-treatment of Hróarr and Helgi by King Fróði. Heorogar is only remembered in English. We learn that he died a long way back when Hrothgar was young (375–9, *465–9). His death is almost certainly connected with Heathobard revival. Whether Hrothgar’s assertion that even in youth he ruled ‘a spacious realm’ (376–7, ginne ríce *466) be true or not, it is probable that the Danes lost control of Hleiðr. But the Heathobards were again heavily defeated, this time clearly by Hrothgar. The note of senility and desire for peace (produced by the poet’s painting of him as an old man at the end of a long reign) must not delude us into regarding him as mere peacemaker and consolidator of an inherited power. There are many hints to the contrary. His warlike youth is alluded to (847–50, *1040–2). He had to fight to re-establish himself when he succeeded his brother Heorogar. In particular it may be noted that it was after a great victory that he set up his seat and built Heorot, 50 ff., *64 ff.–þá wæs Hróðgáre herespéd gyfen. This, I think, was clearly the great battle (alluded to in the Freawaru episode) in which Fróda was slain. Hrothgar retook Hleiðr and again became lord of a confederacy (as Healfdene, and in legend Scyld, had been). On this coveted site he built his great hall.

We cannot expect perfectly consistent chronology in an epic based on many lays concerning matters some three hundred years before; and certainly the conception of Hrothgar as an old and venerable king has disturbed it. So too doubtless has the intrusion of the legendary Grendel. As far as our poem goes, we learn that there was a period (undefined) in which Hrothgar dwelt in Heorot in splendour. How soon Grendel came to disturb this we are not told (though the suggestion is that it was soon): precision is not to be expected when fairy-story intrudes upon historial legend. But we are told that Grendel raided Heorot for twelve years (118, twelf wintra tíd *147, = ‘many a year’ 122–3, fela misséra *153).⁶⁵ Now if I am right in supposing that Heorot was built after the overthrow of Froda (and that the poet was referring in line 50–1, *64–5 to the battle mentioned in 1714–15, *2039–40) this period will be just about right. It looks as if the poet knew from tradition how long a time elapsed between the building of Heorot and the marriage of Freawaru, and therefore could give (and had to give) a fairly precise number of years. If Grendel haunted Heorot, it must be before the last outbreak of the Heathobard feud and the destruction of Heorot, and the haunting must occupy a slightly shorter time. This also dictated the placing of Beowulf’s visit (and the end of the haunting) at a time just before the Heathobard affair. [See the note to line 65 ff.] We see thus that the allusion of Beowulf to Freawaru’s betrothal has also a chronological fitness and purpose. At the date of his visit Ingeld is betrothed but not married. That he did not fall with his father in the battle indicates that he was at the date of the battle very young. Fifteen years (about) have since elapsed (including twelve years of Grendel’s hauntings): he was then about ten, he is now about twenty-five. This fits excellently.

Note. The reasonableness and historical air of the chronology when we are considering the traditions concerning Heorot and the Heathobards is only enhanced by the contrast with the inexactitude in 1485, *1769, where (in order to point the moral of pride going before a fall with the example of Grendel, and in order to heighten his picture of the venerable age of the patriarchal king) the poet makes Hrothgar say that he had enjoyed hund misséra (literally 50 years, [‘a hundred half-years’]) of prosperity before Grendel came. Whether applied to the period before the building of Heorot, or to the first peaceful glory of Heorot, or to both, this is of course impossible.

Now we come to the actual story of Freawaru and Ingeld. Comparison of the quite independent English and Norse traditions shows that two things are common to both and therefore ‘original’: the egging of the old retainer, and the love motive. But the Norse (as seen in e.g. Saxo) is altered: it may be called dramatic and intense, if you will. Rather it is theatrical, and certainly brutalized. It may be a dramatic gain to make Ingeld the object of the ‘egging’, and to make him the slayer and truce-breaker.⁶⁶ But certainly such an Ingeld: a profligate whose ‘repentance’ was shown by murdering the guests at his board, would not have become the hero of English minstrelsy. But that we here have that very rare thing in ancient northern legend (and almost unique thing in what survives in ancient English): a love-story, is clear from the survival of this element (however transmuted) in Norse as well as English. In Norse the love of Ingeld becomes, in the fierce and brutalized Viking atmosphere, degraded, a sign of softness and wantonness; no man should ever have given way to it and been forgetful of the duty of murder. Not so in English. The love is a good motive, and the strife between it and the call of revenge for a slain father is held to be a genuine tragic conflict–otherwise Ingeld’s story would not be heroic at all, and certainly not one that any minstrel would have sold for a single dragon (let alone a Shylockian wilderness).⁶⁷ But the love referred to is passionate love, not the mere reverence for queen and consort and the mother of the royal children. The general suggestion of the tale in (Norse and English) is that the tragedy occurred soon after the marriage. And this brings us to a point in the story that the English evidence does not explain. How was the love of Ingeld and Freawaru brought about–in the story?–not in history (where the match may well have occurred, and have been purely ‘political’ on both sides).⁶⁸ Was the story here ‘romantic’: a chance meeting, a disguised prince spying out the enemy’s stronghold; or more realistic: an embassy, an invitation to Heorot under safe conduct, and a feast in which the beautiful princess captivated Ingeld’s heart, as eorlum on ende ealuwǽge bær? (*2021, 1698–9). We cannot tell. The last is, I think, (for Old English) probable. It is possible that ‘myth’ has here again touched ‘historial legend’, just as the traditions of the golden age gathered about the name of Fróda (see pp. 330-1). For it is impossible not to be struck by the fact that the pair of lovers: Fréawaru and Ingeld both bear names including a Frey-element (Frea and Ing); and that Frey fell hopelessly in love with the daughter of his enemies: Gerðr the daughter of the giant Gymir. Yet this does not prove either Ingeld or Freawaru or their love wholly ‘mythical’. History has a way of resembling ‘myth’: partly because both are ultimately of the same stuff. If no young man had ever fallen in love at first sight, and found old feuds to lie between him and his love, the god Frey would never have seen Gerðr. At the same time such a love is more likely really to arise in a people and family whose traditions are of Frey and the Vanir rather than of Odin the Goth.

1708 ff.; *2032 ff.

[My father’s discussion of the difficult lines *2032 ff. in the episode of Freawaru and Ingeld is best understood if the Old English text is set out together (in Klaeber’s punctuation) with his translation as given in this book.

	Mæg þæs þonne ofþyncan   ðéodne Heaðo-Beardna ond þegna gehwám   þára léoda, þonne he mid fæmnan   on flett gð:
2035 2040	dryhtbearn Dena,   duguða biwenede; on him gladiað   gomelra láfe, heard ond hringmǽl   Heaða-Beardna gestréon, þenden hie ðám wǽpnum   wealdan móston, oð ðæt hie forlǽddon   tó ðám lindplegan swǽse gesíðas   ond hyra sylfra feorh. Þonne cwið æt béore   se ðe béah gesyhð, eald æscwiga,   se ðe eall geman . . .
1708	This, maybe, will in that purposed time displease the Heathobardish king and each knight of that folk, when one walks down their hall beside the lady, a noble scion of the Danes amid their host (passage corrupt and doubtful). On him will gaily gleam things prized by their sires of old, a stout sword ring-adorned once treasure of the Heathobards, while yet their weapons they could wield, until they led their comrades dear and their own lives to ruin in the clash of shields. Then will one speak at the ale, seeing that costly thing, a soldier old who remembers all . . .

I am unable to explain the phrase in line 1708 ‘in that purposed time.’]

*2034 Here as in *2054 we have MS gæð. It is the rather absurd convention not to emend this but mark it with a circumflex gð: though emendation is just as much required here as in the case of any other scribal substitution of unmetrical synonyms or dialectic equivalents. We require gangeð.

*2035 This line–the only really difficult and dubious one in the episode–admits of very many interpretations (if emendation is allowed), and even if the silly ones are discarded there is still an unfortunately wide choice. No one could call Klaeber’s note *2034 ff. crystal clear! However, matters can be a little simplified if you start with a preference for reasonable syntax, and a belief that this was also preferred by the poets. Here is a shot at translating the context:

‘It may then give offence to the king of the Heathobards and to all the lords of that people on that occasion when he walks into the hall with the lady, a noble scion of the Danes? amid a company of tried warriors? (reading bi werede [werod ‘company’] for biwenede): on them will gaily gleam the heirlooms of old men (i.e. of the previous generation, the fathers of those present), hard and ring-adorned, the Heathobards’ own possessions, while still they were permitted (sc. by fate) to wield those weapons, and until they led to ruin in the clash of shields their dear comrades and their own lives. In that time there will speak at the drinking an old retainer, who sees a ring (?), one who remembers it all, the slaying of men with spears: grim will be his mood . . .’

It is clear from this that swords are the chief cause of trouble.⁶⁹ This at once introduces several difficulties.

he *2034: who is it? And also how can (if, as they should, he *2034 and him *2036 apply to the same person) ‘he’ wear more than one sword?

dryhtbearn *2035: meaning, and number?

beah *2041: what is this? Can it possibly be a sword? To take dryhtbearn first: this cannot refer to Ingeld: this is not a wedding feast, but plainly a scene in the land of the Heathobards. It does not refer to Freawaru. Dryhtlic can certainly mean ‘noble’ and is applied to Hildeburh (drihtlíce wíf *1158, ‘that royal lady’ 950), but this is derived from dryht ‘court, the assembled warriors of a king’. As first element of a compound it retains its proper sense: a dryhtbearn is a young member of a dryht, a young knight or soldier.

But there is a difficulty of number: he singular, followed by dryhtbearn, him plural (from the logic of the situation and from biwenede *2035 which must, if kept, be a past participle plural). Even if we take he to be used like sum (as it occasionally is in Old English) ‘a man’, the change of number is harsh.

There is one further difficulty. The sense of biwenede ‘treated, entertained’ is evidenced in line *1821 (bewenede, ‘cherished’ 1528). But the use of the genitive plural duguða instrumentally = ‘splendidly’ is not either evidenced or likely.

Emendations are clearly called for: the very difficulty of the passage, in spite of the fact that the general situation is not in doubt, is sufficient to suggest that the text is corrupt in one or more points.

I think one must choose between duguða bi werede ‘among a company of the tried warriors’ and duguðe (or duguðum) biwenede ‘nobly entertained’. The latter alteration makes the further emendation of he . . . gangeð *2034 to the plural hie gangað very desirable. I would thus read þonne hie mid fæmnan on flet gangað, dryhtbearn Dena duguðe biwenede: on him gladiað . . . ‘when they with the lady pace the hall, young Danish knights of the escort nobly entertained: on them gaily gleam,’ &c. It is clear, I think, that the change to hie gangað is a striking improvement resulting in a natural and stylistically normal sentence–if we keep biwenede.

beah *2041: The answer is no. beah, which means a torque, a spiral arm-ring, or corslet cannot = ‘sword’. The difficulty here may perhaps be caused by our ignorance of the specific detail of the English story. The Danish lord singled out by the æscwiga (*2042) may well have had also an heirloom-ring or jewel upon arm or neck.

Still, the æscwiga later only mentions ‘sword’ (dýre íren *2050, ‘his prizéd blade’ 1721–2). beah is very likely a corruption, for instance of bá ‘both’: both the hated Danish lady and her knight. But this would require bi werede, for we should have to keep he in line *2034. Then we should take him *2036 plural as referring to duguða the Danish chivalry. Thus: ‘when he with the lady paces the hall, a young knight of the Danish court in the armed company of their chivalry: on them gleam the heirlooms of their fathers’.

On the whole I lean to this–with or without alteration of beah. ‘he’ may well in the story (as told by the lays that our poet knew) have been a named man, with a specific part to play; just as the name of the æscwiga, and of the young Heathobard and his father, were all probably known. But–and this point has, I think, usually been missed–the device of giving this to Beowulf as a prophecy had forced the poet to vague anonymity. However shrewd a young man Beowulf might be, he could not possibly guess (without extensive knowledge of the Heathobard court) which old retainer would ‘egg’, and which Heathobard would take vengeance. And he could not yet know what young Danes would be chosen to go! Notice the namelessness of he and æscwiga, and þín fæder and hyne (*2048, *2050; 1721, 1723), in contrast to the almost gratuitous name Withergyld (*2051) when Beowulf is referring to the bygone battle which he could know about! We see at once that Withergyld cannot be the father [i.e. of the ‘young warrior’, *2044, 1718–19] or anything more than one of the ‘lords of the Heathobards’, famed as having fallen with Froda.

1746; *2076 [‘Handshoe’]

With the MS Þær wæs Hondscio hilde onsǽge cf. *2482–3 Hæðcynne wearð . . . gúð onsǽge (2087–8 ‘upon Hæðcyn . . . war fell disastrous’). The sense is therefore ‘(death in) battle fell on Handscioh’, and the emendation to hild necessary and certain. The scribe probably (as some editors since) could not believe in a man named Handshoe = Glove, and so took the line to mean ‘a glove (i.e. the glóf of *2085, ‘pouch’ 1753) fell with war (hostile intent) [hilde] upon the doomed man.’

There is however no need to doubt the name. It does not occur elsewhere in Old English, but is evidenced in German, e.g. in the place-name Handschuhes-heim, and is paralleled by the Norse name Vϙttr ‘glove’. At the same time we gather that there were many stories and named characters associated with the courts of Hrothgar and Hygelac in Old English of which we only get hints in Beowulf. Here we must suspect a fairy-tale element: that a man called ‘Handshoe’ should go into a ‘glove’ is remarkable enough⁷⁰ (and has a Grimm sound!)–and not less so when we observe that Handshoe is only recorded here, and only here is glóf used apparently as a ‘bag’.

In fact Grendel’s ‘bag’ must here be meant to be ‘glove’. As originally conceived Grendel was so large that a man could go inside his glove. Compare the adventure of Þórr inside the giant Skrýmir’s glove in Gylfaginning.⁷¹

1767 ff. There was mirth and minstrelsy . . .; *2105 þǽr wæs gidd ond gléo . . .

This passage is obviously both interesting and important for literary history. The author of Beowulf has a poet’s special interest in his craft. Compare the reference to the technical side of verse in *867–74 [see the note to 705–10]. Here we evidently have a reference to forms of composition: ‘genres’; and to matter. Unfortunately the extremely scanty records of Old English verse and prose make it difficult to interpret the passage clearly.

What is preserved is (a) in verse: mainly scholarly polished verse written, and preserved in careful book-hand in a few survivors of the costly books of ancient England. Except for the major example of The Battle of Maldon– clearly of a freer, hastier, and more topical kind, with looser metrical laws, but probably representing a kind that was practised at all times–and a few scraps (such as verses in the Chronicle, or the charms), what we have gives only an indirect glimpse at the minstrelsy of the English hall. Caedmon’s Hymn is all that we have preserved that is certified as extempore.⁷²

(b) in prose: we have no tales, no ‘sagas’, little or nothing of the work of the þyle [see the note to line 3]–except the gloss þylcræft = rhetoric, and probably early royal genealogies, and probably the matter behind some of the entries for the early years of the Chronicle (such as those on Hengest and Horsa). Again there is one exception: the compressed ‘saga’ episode about Cynewulf and Cyneheard in the Chronicle entry for the year 755, which stands out (in manner and matter) as derived from (not actually one) a told tale.

Points that we can note, nonetheless, are as follows. The fact that the king himself plays and recites. For England we have little evidence (except the late tale, apocryphal and impossible, concerning Alfred’s visit to the Danish camp); but that nobles and kings practised minstrelsy is well known in Scandinavia. Indeed the Norse skáld was usually a man of a great house, and also a warrior.

Note. Beowulf expressly says that this took place on the night after Grendel’s defeat, and before Grendel’s mother came. He places it after the King had given him gifts. It refers therefore to the time described previously between *1063 and *1237, 867–1025. But there is no mention there of Hrothgar’s singing or harp-playing. This is not necessarily a ‘discrepancy’. It is an obvious method of enlivening the double account, to tell some things in the narrative and others in the report. ‘Discrepancy’ would only be present if it were impossible to fit in Hrothgar’s performances [i.e. into the earlier account of the occasion]. A northern feast lasted long. Hrothgar’s performances (not all at a stretch: hwílum . . . hwílum *2107–13, 1769–74), can hardly have occurred at *1063–5, 867–9 when only singing and playing in the presence of (fore) Hrothgar is mentioned. It is Hróðgáres scop, not the King, who sings of the Fréswæl (*1066, 870). But it can have occurred at *1160, Gamen eft ástáh (952–3 ‘Merry noise arose once more’), and in the long interval, after Wealhtheow’s perambulation, passed over briefly, *1232–3 Þær wæs symbla cyst, druncon wín weras, 1021–2.

[I give here the original text *2105–13 and my father’s translation 1767–74 of the passage in which Beowulf describes to Hygelac the performance of Hrothgar at the feast.

2105 2110	Þǽr wæs gidd and gléo;   gomela Scylding felafricgende   feorran rehte; hwílum hildedéor   hearpan wynne, gomenwudu grétte,   hwílum gyd áwræc sóð ond sárlíc,   hwílum syllíc spell rehte æfter rihte   rúmheort cyning; hwílum eft ongan   eldo gebunden, gomel gúðwiga   gioguðe cwíðan, hildestrengo;
1767	There was mirth and minstrelsy: the aged Scylding, full of ancient lore, told tales of long ago; now did he, once bold in battle, touch the harp to mirth, the instrument of music; now a lay recited true and bitter; or again, greathearted king, some wondrous tale rehearsed in order due; or yet again, warrior of old wars, in age’s fetters did lament his youth and strength in arms.]

We know little or nothing of the relation of harp-playing to verse, and recitation. The nature of Old English verse, such as that of Beowulf, makes it unlikely that it was ‘sung’ in the modern sense.⁷³ The words feorran rehte *2106 (1769) seem to refer to relating lays or tales of ancient days: the same words feorran reccan are used of the scop who sang a ‘Creation’ lay (*91, 74). In *2107–8 we note that the harp is mentioned, as distinct from feorran reccan, and from gyd, syllíc spell, and from the concluding ‘elegy’.

gyd: (early West Saxon giedd, other dialects gedd) is a word of wide or vague application in Old English verse.⁷⁴ It seems able to be used of any formal utterance, discourse, or recitation. Thus Hrothgar calls his discourse or sermon a gyd *1723 (‘considered words’ 1447), while Beowulf’s formal words when handing over the gifts to Hygelac are called gyd *2154 (‘appointed words’ 1810). But from various uses, and connexion with gléo (as gidd ond gléo *2105), it is plain that it can mean what we would call a lay. Note that the lay of Finn and Hengest is called gléomannes gyd *1160 (‘the minstrel’s tale’ 952). It is thus fairly plain that gyd . . . sóð ond sárlíc *2108–9 refers to a tragic heroic lay (dealing with historial legend): such as the Fréswæl.⁷⁵

spell: it is thus very interesting to see gyd contrasted as sóð with syllíc spell ‘a marvellous tale’. Not that spell means a ‘fairy story’–it means just an ‘account’, report, story. The minstrel’s song about Beowulf’s feat is a spel *873 (‘tale’ 710). But here there is plainly a distinction in matter between the sóð and the syllíc, which is probably not unlike the distinction we should draw between the ‘historical’ and the ‘legendary’ (or rather, marvellous, mythical). Sigemund and his dragon might be a case–a dragon was sellíc: cf. sellice sædracan *1426 (‘strange dragons of the sea’ 1189); but all that lost matter (which we call fairy-tale) of which only traces remain from the North–such as Grendel, and occasional hints in the Elder Edda, and of course more in the Edda of Snorri Sturluson, as in the tales about Thór–is probably meant. Yet note rehte æfter rihte *2110. It was not just a wild invention, but a known tale properly unfolded.

cwíðan: Here we have the ‘elegiac’ strain of lament–of which Old English provides us with more examples: there are traces in Beowulf itself. The passage (for instance) *2247 ff. Heald þú nú, hrúse . . . , 1892 ‘Keep thou now, Earth . . .’ is in the manner of a set lament–and is actually offered as the lament of the last survivor of a race of kings. Cf. *2444 ff. Swá bið geómorlíc . . ., 2057 ff. ‘In like wise is it grievous . . .’, though this is not presented as an actual lament. The most successful and moving lines of Beowulf itself, *3143, 2639, to the end, are a lament. And parts of The Wanderer and The Seafarer naturally come to mind. Indeed the likeness of Hrothgar’s words *1761–8 (1479–84) to part of The Seafarer, already noted [see p. 309 and the editorial note], is so close that we are justified in deducing that the kind of poetic utterance our author had in mind in *2112 [referring to Hrothgar, see p. 347] was not unlike: yldo him on fareð, onsýn blácað, gomelfeax gnornað, wát his iúwine, æðelinga bearn eorþan forgiefene⁷⁶ (The Seafarer 91 ff.); that in fact such lines derive from a very ancient variety of Northern poetic expression. But the special situation of the English–a people amid the ruins, cut off from the old lands, the lands of the heroes of their ancient songs, and gradually as their knowledge grew feeling themselves indeed to be in the Dark Ages after the departure of the glory of Rome⁷⁷–gave a special poignancy to this feeling, and special pictorial vividness to it. Both of the passages from Beowulf cited above are filled with the vision of deserted and ruined halls; gesyhð . . . wínsele wéstne, windge reste réte berofene, rídend swefað, hæleð in hoðman *2455–8, ‘he sees . . . the hall of feasting, the resting places swept by the wind robbed of laughter–the riders sleep, mighty men gone down into the dark’ 2064–7. So also is The Wanderer. Nobody would have better understood or been better able to play Hrothgar’s part than Alfred–who won his mother’s praise for poemata saxonica– the lays of his northern heroic fathers–and yet felt himself almost alone in the Dark Age, attempting to save from the wreck of time some sparks surviving from the Golden Age, from Rome and the mighty Cáseras and builders of the fallen world.

1857 ff. then into Beowulf’s hands came that broad realm . . .; *2207 ff. syððan Béowulfe brade ríce on hand gehwearf . . .

At Beowulfe we begin on folio 179r a sadly dilapidated page, mutilated as usual at the right edge, but also faded badly, and ‘freshened up’ where visible by some later (and unauthorized) hand: the hand of someone either ignorant of Old English or much at sea as to the drift of the passage. A pity: here the poet leaps straight into the dragon-story and the thrilling adventure of the fugitive hiding in a cave by chance, discovering it to be a treasure-hoard, and nearly stepping on the dragon’s head (*2290, 1929) in the dark as he rummaged about. And this is badly spoilt; *2226–31 (1875–8) are practically unintelligible. Allowing for the Old English manner this is a very moving treatment of this ‘fairy-tale’ situation–remarkable for the ‘sympathy’ shown by the author for both the wretched fugitive and the dragon. But it is characteristic of that manner that the narrative is not ‘straight’. First we hear of the dragon. Then, that ‘someone’ got into the barrow, and took a cup. Then, that the nearby folk soon learned of the dragon’s rage. Then we hear more of the intruder: he was a fugitive slave (master unknown). Then some precious details of his experience in the barrow are lost; but it is not until *2289–90 (1929) that we get the detail that he had trodden close to the worm’s head. It is also characteristic of our poet (and of Old English as we know it as a whole) that the scene in the barrow passes at once into an elegiac retrospect on the forgotten lords who placed their gold in the hoard, and then died one by one until it was left masterless, an open prey to the dragon.

But this is not inartistic. For one thing, it occupies the ‘emotional space’ between the plundering of the hoard, and the curiously vivid and perceptive lines on the dragon snuffling in baffled rage and injured greed when he discovers the theft: lines which gain greatly from the concluding words of the interjected ‘elegy’: ne byð him wihte ðý sél *2277 (‘no whit doth it profit him’ 1918)–the last word on dragonhood. Also, of course, the feeling for the treasure itself, and this sense of sad history, is just what raises the whole thing right above ‘a mere treasure story, just another dragon-tale’. The whole thing is sombre, tragic, sinister, curiously real. The ‘treasure’ is not just some lucky wealth that will enable the finder to have a good time, or marry the princess. It is laden with history, leading back into the dark heathen ages beyond the memory of song, but not beyond the reach of imagination. Not till its part in the actual plot is revealed–to draw the invincible Beowulf to his death–do we learn that it is actually enchanted, iúmonna gold galdre bewunden *3052 (‘the gold of bygone men was wound about with spells’ 2564), in which the quintessence of ‘buried treasure’ is distilled in four words, and accursed (*3069–73, 2579–84).

So this passage rivals the exordium on ship-burial (*32–52, 25–40) as that very rare thing, an actual poetic expression of feeling and imagination about ‘archaeological’ material from an archaeological or sub-archaeological period. Many such mounds existed in Scandinavia, and even in England in the eighth century, already ancient enough for their purpose and history to be shrouded in mist. Here we learn what men of the twilight time thought of them. And, of course, the writing and the elegy are good in themselves, and not misspent–since the ashes of Beowulf himself are now to be laid in a barrow with much of this same gold (though much also is to melt in the fire, *3010–15, 2530–4), and pass down into the oblivion of the ages–but for the poet, and the chance relenting of time: to spare this one poem out of so many. For this, too, almost fate decreed: þæt sceal brond fretan, æled þeccean: that shall the blazing wood devour, the fire enfold. Of the others we know not.