WIDSITH AND DEOR

9

The song was sung out

The gleeman's tale ended. Spirits soared high
Carousing reëchoed." 1

Widsith, or Far-farer, may have been the name of such a singer, whose fame is preserved in Widsith what is apparently the very oldest of Old Eng- and Deor. lish poems extant. It is preserved in the so-called Exeter Book, a priceless volume of Anglo-Saxon manuscript, presented to the Cathedral at Exeter by Bishop Leofric (1046-73), still in the possession of the cathedral. Sometimes called The Scop, or The Traveller's Song, this ancient poem catalogues the wanderings of the gleeman.

"Widsith unlocked his word-hoard; and then spake
He among men whose travel over earth

Was farthest through the tribes and through the folks:
Treasure to be remembered came to him

Often in hall.

Among the Myrgings, nobles gave him berth.
In his first journey he, with Ealhhild,

The pure peace-maker, sought the fierce king's home,
Eastward of Ongle, home of Eormanric,
The wrathful treaty-breaker." 2

Hermanric, the great king of the Goths, died before the close of the fourth century; and if Widsith told his own story, as parts of the poem indicate, we have here a composition dating from the period before the migration, although the long catalogue of kings and heroes contains some names which mark a later generation and prove the interpolation of a later hand.

He who has thus wrought himself praise shall have
A settled glory underneath the stars."1

So Widsith concludes. A companion poem, dating apparently from the same early period, presents the scop in a more melancholy mood. This is Deor's Lament, the composition of some singer who has felt more of the bitterness of life, having been superseded in the favor of his lord by some cleverer scop, and now lingers late on earth after most of his comrades and patrons have gone.

"Whilom was I Scop of the Heodenings:
Dear unto my lord! Deor was my name.
Well my service was to me many winters through;
Loving was my lord; till at last Heorrenda
Skilled in song the man! seized upon my land-right
That the guard of Earls granted erst to me.
That, one overwent; this, also may I." 2

But by far the most interesting and impressive example of early English art is found in our

Beowulf.

great Anglo-Saxon epic, three thousand lines in length, which preserves out of the distant past the mythical career of Beowulf, prince of the Geats. The form of the epic as we know it appears to have been the work of a Northumbrian poet in either the eighth or ninth century. It embodies various legends reported in earlier songs, the first of which were undoubtedly composed on the Continent, probably by poets of Angle-land. An interesting feature of this final version, which possesses the unity of the genuine epic along with the other characteristics of such compositions, is that it represents the work of a Christian writer who has sought to modify the paganism of its earlier narrative by injecting something of the religious spirit of his own time into the grim mythology of the older lay.

The title of the poem repeats the name of its hero. Beowulf is a typical champion, endowed with superhuman strength, sagacity, courage, and endurance; moreover, in common with the heroes of this type, he is foreordained to relieve the ills of those who have great need, and is always ready to respond to their necessity. The story is this :

The Tale.

Hrothgar, the Dane, far-famed for his victories, for his justice and generosity no less, grown old in years, builds for his warriors a great meadhall. There the gray-haired chieftain assembles his vassals for feasting and mirth; but an unheard-of horror comes upon Heorot, great "hall of the hart," which Hrothgar has built. Out from the fens, when night falls, stealthily creeps the bog-monster Grendel; enters the new house where the earls after carousal lie asleep on the benches. One and another and another of Hrothgar's men is attacked and devoured by the demon; night after night Grendel devastates the meadhall. No one of Hrothgar's thanes is brave enough or strong enough to cope with the monster. Heorot is deserted, and the old chief sits gloomily in his former home to mourn in silence the loss of men and of honor. Up in the Northland Hygelac's thane, Beowulf, young, bold, robust, already famous for a daring feat in swimming, and destined to be Hygelac's heir and successor, hears of Hrothgar's plight and of Grendel. Soon, with a band of chosen men, Beowulf travels southward, follows "the whale-path," " the swan-road," until his ship strikes the shore of Hrothgar's kingdom. The coastguard, first descried sitting his horse like a statue, gallops to meet the strangers and challenges their landing. Beowulf is conducted to Hrothgar and declares his purpose to kill the monster and free the land. Gladly does the Dane listen and generous welcome does he make for the Northmen. Night comes, and once more is Heorot ablaze with the light of the hearth-fire and noisy with the merriment of revel. Wassail is drunk, tales are told, bold boasts are made; but hardly have the shouts died away, and the revelers disposed themselves to sleep on the benches, when the fearful fendragon approaches: he has heard the noise of feasting from afar, and now he steals toward the hall, laughing as he thinks of his prey. The fire has died out; the hall is in darkness. One of Hrothgar's men is seized and devoured. Raging, with lust for flesh aroused, Grendel grasps another in his claws; but it is the hero whom the bog-monster has unwittingly caught, and now Beowulf, roused for vengeance, starts up to battle with Grendel. Unarmed, the hero grapples with his enemy. The hall sways with the shock of the fighting. He clutches Grendel by the wrist; never had the monster felt a grasp like that. The muscles ache, the cords of the demon's arms are snapping, the shoulder is torn from the socket; the weary marsh-dweller gropes his way blindly forth, and weakly wends toward his foul home in the swamp-land. Grendel is wounded to the death. Beowulf rests after victory, and shows the hideous claw, his war trophy, to the Danes. Great joy comes to Hrothgar with the dawn, but with the night woe returns. Grendel's mother now issues from the death-breeding marshes, and invades the hall of Heorot. Once more there is wailing among the thanes, once more sorrow sits in Hrothgar's house; but once again Beowulf girds himself for battle. With his faithful followers, the hero now invades the fatal fen-land itself; he stands upon the shore of the mist-covered inlet where the marsh-demons breed. Strange and loathsome shapes appear, half shrouded in fog; nixies and water-sprites laugh exultant, with monstrous eyes glar

ing at the hero from the cloudy waves of the mere.. Here Beowulf equips himself, puts on his best corselet, grasps the strongest brand; then he enters the dark water, presses down through the flood, beset by the sea-monsters, bruised by their shasp tusks, undaunted, down, down to the dwelling of the monsters, where the fierce she-demon waits. Meanwhile his men keep watch and ward above; gloom settles on them; doubt fills their hearts with dread. The day drags by; no sight of their hero. Still they wait, and silent stare on the sea. Now a commotion stirs the thick water; the surface boils under the mists; blood rolls up red through the foam, and Beowulf's men yield to grief and despair. But soon the grief gives way to gladness, for the hero himself emerges from the horrible flood, bringing news of the she-demon's slaughter and a new trophy, Grendel's head; this it was that sent the red blood welling up through the mere depths when Beowulf smote Grendel's dead body. Loud is the rejoicing; triumphantly do the Northmen give the Danes warning of their home-coming. Rich are the gifts bestowed by Hrothgar; great is the feasting. Then Beowulf's followers remember the home-land; the "slippery sea-rover" is launched, the warriors embark with their presents, Beowulf says farewell to Hrothgar, and steers north to Hygelac's kingdom.

Beowulf achieves another adventure. Now he is old : as Hygelac's successor, fifty winters he has ruled well and wisely; his land has prospered, but an enemy now destroys his men, and by night the land is laid waste. This time it is a fire-drake with which Beowulf must battle; and the hero goes forth, dauntless as ever, to meet the monster. But now his men prove cowards; the hero is left alone to fight with the dragon, - alone but for Wiglaf, who stands behind his lord's shield and