No More Learning

He was a Northumbrian, and was connected in a lay
capacity with the great monastery of Whitby. He was uneducated,
and not endowed in his earlier life with the gift of song. One
night, after he had fled in mortification from a feast where all were
required to improvise and sing, he received, as he slept, the divine
inspiration. The next day he made known his new gift to the
authorities of the monastery. After he had triumphantly made good
his claims, he was admitted to holy orders, and began his work of
paraphrasing into noble verse portions of the Scriptures that were
read to him. Of the body of poetry that comes down to us under
his name, we cannot be sure that any is his, unless we except the
short passage given here. It is certainly the work of different poets,
and varies in merit. The evidence seems conclusive that he was a
poet of high order, that his influence was very great, and that many
others wrote in his manner. The actors and the scenery of the
Cædmonian poetry are entirely Anglo-Saxon, only the names and the
outline of the narrative being biblical; and the spirit of battle that
breathes in some passages is the same that we find in the heathen
epic.
Cynewulf was most probably a Northumbrian, though this is
sometimes questioned.
The dates of his birth and death are un-
known. It seems established, however, that his work belongs to the
eighth century. A great deal of controversy has arisen over a num-
ber of poems that have been ascribed to him and denied to him


## p. 553 (#591) ############################################

ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
553
with equal persistency. But we stand upon sure ground in regard to
four poems, the Christ,' the Fates of the Apostles,' 'Juliana,' and
'Elene); for he has signed them in runes. If the runic enigma in
the first of the Riddles) has been correctly interpreted, then they,
or portions of them, are his also. But about this there is much
doubt. The Andreas) and the Dream of the Rood' may be men-
tioned as being of exceptional interest among the poems that are
almost certainly his. In the latter, he tells, in a personal strain, the
story of the appearance to him of the holy cross, and of his con-
version and dedication of himself to the service of Christ. The
Elene,' generally considered the finest of his poems, is the story of
the miraculous finding of the holy cross by St. Helena, the mother
of the Emperor Constantine. The poet has lent great charm to the
tradition in his treatment. The poem sounds a triumphant note
throughout, till we reach the epilogue, where the poet speaks in his
own person and in a sadder tone.
The quality of Cynewulf's poetry is unequal; but when he is at
his best, he is a great poet and a great artist. His personality
appears in direct subjective utterance more plainly than does that of
any other Anglo-Saxon poet.
While we must pass over many fine Anglo-Saxon poems without
mention, there are two that must receive some notice. Judith)
is an epic based upon the book of Judith in the Apocrypha. ' Only
about one-fourth of it has survived. The author is still unknown, in
spite of many intelligent efforts to determine to whom the honor
belongs. The dates assigned to it vary from the seventh to the
tenth century; here, too, uncertainty prevails: but we are at least
sure that it is one of the best of the Anglo-Saxon poems. It has
been said that this work shows a more definite plan and more con-
scious art than any other Anglo-Saxon poem.
Brooke finds it some-
times conventional in the form of expression, and denies it the
highest rank for that reason. But he does not seem to sustain the
charge. The two principal characters, the dauntless Judith and the
brutal Holofernes, stand out with remarkable distinctness, and a fine
dramatic quality has been noted by several critics. The epithets and
metaphors, the description of the drunken debauch, and the swift,
powerful narrative of the battle and the rout of the Assyrians, are in
the best Anglo-Saxon epic strain. The poem is distinctly Christian;
for the Hebrew heroine, with a naïve anachronism, prays thus: “God
of Creation, Spirit of Consolation, Son of the Almighty, I pray for
Thy mercy to me, greatly in need of it, Glory of the Trinity. ”
“The Battle of Maldon is a ballad, containing an account of a
fight between the Northmen and the East Saxons under the Aldor-
man, Byrhtnoth. The incident is mentioned in one MS. of the


## p. 554 (#592) ############################################

554
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
own men.
Chronicle under the date of 991; in another, under the date of 993.
The poem is exceedingly graphic. The poet seems filled with in-
tense feeling, and may have been a spectator, or may indeed have
taken part in the struggle. He tells how the brave old Aldorman
disdains to use the advantage of his position, which bade fair to
give him victory. Like a boy, he cannot take a dare, but fatuously
allows the enemy to begin the battle upon an equal footing with his
He pays for his noble folly with his life and the defeat
of his army.
The devotion of the Aldorman's hearth-companions,
who refuse to survive their lord, and with brave words meet their
death, is finely described. But not all are true; some, who have
been especially favored, ignobly flee. These are treated with the
racial contempt for cowards. The poem has survived in fragmentary
form, and the name of the poet is not known.
As distinguished from all poetical remains of such literature, the
surviving prose of the Anglo-Saxons, though extensive, and of the
greatest interest and value, is less varied in subject and manner than
their poetry.
It admits of brief treatment. The earliest known
specimens of Anglo-Saxon prose writing have been already men-
tioned. These do not constitute the beginning of a literature, yet,
with the rest of the extensive collection of Anglo-Saxon laws that
has survived, they are of the greatest importance to students. Earle
quotes Dr. Reinhold Schmid as saying, “No other Germanic nation
has bequeathed to us out of its earliest experience so rich a treasure
of original legal documents as the Anglo-Saxon nation has,” — only
another instance of the precocity of our ancestors.
To the West Saxons belongs nearly the whole of Anglo-Saxon
prose. Whatever may have existed in Northumbria perished in the
inroads of the Northmen, except such parts as may have been incor-
porated in West Saxon writings. It will be remembered, however,
that the great Northumbrian prose writers had held to the Latin as
their medium. The West Saxon prose literature may be said to
begin in Alfred's reign.
The most important production that we have to consider is the
famous Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. ' It covers with more or less com-
pleteness the period from 449 to 1154. This was supplemented by
fanciful genealogies leading back to Woden, or even to Adam. It
is not known when the practice of jotting down in the native speech
notices of contemporary events began, but probably in very early
times. It is believed, however, that no intelligent effort to collect
and present them with order and system was made until the middle
of the ninth century. In the oldest of the seven MSS. in which it
has come down to us, we have the Chronicle) to 891, as it was
written down in Alfred's time and probably under his supervision.


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ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
555
The meagreness of the earliest entries and the crudeness of the
language, together with occasional picturesque force, indicate that
many of them were drawn from current song or tradition. The style
and fullness of the entries differ greatly throughout, as might be
expected, since the Chronicle is the work of so many hands. From
mere bare notices they vary to strong, full narrative and description.
Indeed, the Chronicle contains some of the most effective prose
produced by the Anglo-Saxons; and in one instance, under the date
937, the annalist describes the battle of Brunanburh in a poem of
considerable merit. But we know the name of no single contributor.
This Chronicle is the oldest and most important work of the
kind produced outside of the classical languages in Europe. It is
meagre in places, and its entire trustworthiness has been questioned.
But it and Bede's Ecclesiastical History,' supplemented by other
Anglo-Saxon writings, constitute the basis of early English history:
and this fact alone entitles it to the highest rank in importance
among ancient documents.
A large body of Anglo-Saxon prose, nearly all of it translation or
adaptation of Latin works, has come down to us under the name of
King Alfred. A peculiar interest attaches to these works. They
belong to a period when the history of England depended more than
at any other time upon the ability and devotion of one man; and
that man, the most heroic and the greatest of English kings, was
himself the author of them.
When Alfred became king, in 871, his throne seemed tottering to
its fall. Practically all the rest of England was at the feet of the
ruthless Northmen, and soon Alfred himself was little better than a
fugitive. But by his military skill, which was successful if not brill-
iant, and by his never-wavering devotion and English persistency,
he at last freed the southern part of the island from his merciless
and treacherous enemies, and laid the firm foundation of West Saxon
supremacy. If Alfred had failed in any respect to be the great king
that he was, English history would have been changed for all time.
Although Alfred had saved his kingdom, yet it was a kingdom
almost in ruins. The hopeful advance of culture had been entirely
arrested. The great centres of learning had been utterly destroyed
in the north, and little remained intact in the south. And even
worse than this was the demoralization of all classes, and an indispo-
sition to renewed effort. There was, moreover, a great scarcity of
books.
Alfred showed himself as great in peace as in war, and at once
set to work to meet all those difficulties. To supply the books that
were so urgently needed, he found time in the midst of his perplex-
ing cares to slate from the Latin into the native speech such


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556
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
works as he thought would supply the most pressing want. This
was the more necessary from the prevailing ignorance of Latin. It
is likely that portions of the works that go under his name were pro-
duced under his supervision by carefully selected co-workers. But it
is certain that in a large part of them we may see the work of the
great Alfred's own hand.
He has used his own judgment in these translations, omitting
whatever he did not think would be immediately helpful to his peo-
ple, and making such additions as he thought might be of advantage.
Just these additions have the greatest interest for us. He translated,
for instance, Orosius's History'; a work in itself of inferior worth,
but as an attempt at a universal history from the Christian point of
view, he thought it best suited to the needs of his people. The
Anglo-Saxon version contains most interesting additions of original
matter by Alfred. They consist of accounts of the voyages of Ohtere,
a Norwegian, who was the first, so far as we know, to sail around
the North Cape and into the White Sea, and of Wulfstan, who ex-
plored parts of the coast of the Baltic. These narratives give us
our first definite information about the lands and people of these
regions, and appear to have been taken down by the king directly as
related by the explorers. Alfred added to this History) also a
description of Central Europe, which Morley calls the only authentic
record of the Germanic nations written by a contemporary so early
as the ninth century. ”
In Gregory's Pastoral Care) we have Alfred's closest translation.
It is a presentation of “the ideal Christian pastor” (Ten Brink), and
was intended for the benefit of the lax Anglo-Saxon priests. Perhaps
the work that appealed most strongly to Alfred himself was Boe-
thius's Consolations of Philosophy'; and in his full translation and
adaptation of this book we see the hand and the heart of the good
king. We shall mention one other work of Alfred's, his translation
of the already frequently mentioned Historia Ecclesiastica Anglorum'
of the Venerable Bede. This great work Alfred, with good reason,
considered to be of the greatest possible value to his people; and
the king has given it additional value for us.
Alfred was not a great scholar. The wonder is that, in the troub-
lous times of his youth, he had learned even the rudiments. The
language in his translations, however, though not infrequently affected
for the worse by the Latin idiom of the original, is in the main
free from ornament of any kind, simple and direct, and reflects in
its sincerity the noble character of the great king.
The period between the death of Alfred (901) and the end of the
tenth century was deficient in works of literary value, except an
entry here and there in the Chronicle. ' «Alfric's is the last great


## p. 557 (#595) ############################################

ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
557
name in the story of our literature before the Conquest,” says Henry
Morley. He began writing about the end of the tenth century, and
we do not know when his work and his life ended. This gentle
priest, as he appears to us through his writings, following Alfred's
example, wrote not from personal ambition, but for the betterment
of his fellow-men. His style is eminently lucid, fuent, forcible, and
of graceful finish. Earle observes of it:–«The English of these
Homilies is splendid; indeed, we may confidently say that here English
appears fully qualified to be the medium of the highest learning. ”
This is high praise, and should be well considered by those disposed
to consider the Anglo-Saxon as a rude tongue, incapable of great
development in itself, and only enabled by the Norman infusion to
give expression to a deep and broad culture.
Alfric's works in Anglo-Saxon — for he wrote also in Latin — were
very numerous, embracing two series of homilies, theological writings
of many kinds, translations of portions of the Bible, an English
(Anglo-Saxon) gſammar, adapted from a Latin work, a Latin diction-
ary, and many other things of great use in their day and of great
interest in ours.
The names of other writers and of other single works might well
be added here. But enough has been said, perhaps, to show that a
great and hopeful development of prose took place among the West
Saxons. It must be admitted that the last years of the Anglo-Saxon
nationality before the coming of the Normans show a decline in
literary productiveness of a high order. The causes of this are to be
found chiefly in the political and ecclesiastical history of the time.
Wars with the Northmen, internal dissensions, religious controversies,
the greater cultivation of Latin by the priesthood, all contributed
to it.
But hopeful signs of a new revival were not wanting. The
language had steadily developed with the enlightenment of the peo-
ple, and was fast becoming fit to meet any demands that might be
made upon it, when the great catastrophe of the Norman Conquest
came, and with it practically the end of the historical and distinctive
Anglo-Saxon literature.
Rosent therp


## p. 558 (#596) ############################################

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ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
FROM BEOWULF)
[The Spear-Danes intrust the dead body of King Scyld to the sea, in a
splendidly adorned ship. He had come to them mysteriously, alone in a ship,
when an infant. )
T
A Seyid then departed to the All-Father's keeping
War-like to wend him; away then they bare him
To the flood of the current, his fond-loving comrades,
As himself he had bidden, while the friend of the Scyld-
ings
Word-sway wielded, and the well-loved land prince
Long did rule them. The ring-stemmèd vessel,
Bark of the atheling, lay there at anchor,
Icy in glimmer and eager for sailing;
The beloved leader laid they down there,
Giver of rings, on the breast of the vessel,
The famed by the mainmast. A many of jewels,
Of fretted embossings, from far-lands brought over,
Was placed near at hand then; and heard I not ever
That a folk ever furnished a float more superbly
With weapons of warfare, weeds for the battle,
Bills and burnies; on his bosom sparkled
Many a jewel that with him must travel
On the flush of the flood afar on the current.
And favors no fewer they furnished him soothly,
Excellent folk-gems, than others had given him
Lone on the main, the merest of infants :
And a gold-fashioned standard they stretched under heaven
High o'er his head, let the holm-currents bear him,
Seaward consigned him: sad was their spirit,
Their mood very mournful. Men are not able
Soothly to tell us, they in halls who reside,
Heroes under heaven, to what haven he hied.
They guard the wolf-coverts,
Lands inaccessible, wind-beaten nesses,
Fearfullest fen-deeps, where a flood from the mountains
'Neath mists of the nesses netherward rattles,
The stream under earth: not far is it henceward
Measured by mile-lengths the mere-water standeth,
Which forests hang over, with frost-whiting covered,
A firm-rooted forest, the floods overshadow.


## p. 559 (#597) ############################################

ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
559
There ever at night one an ill-meaning portent,
A fire-flood may see; ’mong children of men
None liveth so wise that wot of the bottom;
Though harassed by hounds the heath-stepper seek for,
Fly to the forest, firm-antlered he-deer,
Spurred from afar, his spirit he yieldeth,
His life on the shore, ere in he will venture
To cover his head. Uncanny the place is:
Thence upward ascendeth the surging of waters,
Wan to the welkin, when the wind is stirring
The weather unpleasing, till the air groweth gloomy,
Then the heavens lower.
[Beowulf has plunged into the water of the mere in pursuit of Grendel's
mother, and is a whole day in reaching the bottom. He is seized by the
monster and carried to her cavern, where the combat ensues. )
The earl then discovered he was down in some cavern
Where no water whatever anywise harmed him,
And the clutch of the current could come not anear him,
Since the roofed-hall prevented; brightness a-gleaming,
Fire-light he saw, flashing resplendent.
The good one saw then the sea-bottom's monster,
The mighty mere-woman: he made a great onset
With weapon-of-battle; his hand not desisted
From striking; the war-blade struck on her head then
A battle-song greedy. The stranger perceived then
The sword would not bite, her life would not injure,
But the falchion failed the folk-prince when straitened:
Erst had it often onsets encountered,
Oft cloven the helmet, the fated one's armor;
'Twas the first time that ever the excellent jewel
Had failed of its fame. Firm-mooded after,
Not heedless of valor, but mindful of glory
Was Higelac's kinsman; the hero-chief angry
Cast then his carved-sword covered with jewels
That it lay on the earth, hard and steel-pointed;
He hoped in his strength, his hand-grapple sturdy.
So any must act whenever he thinketh
To gain him in battle glory unending,
And is reckless of living. The lord of the War-Geats
(He shrank not from battle) seized by the shoulder
The mother of Grendel; then mighty in struggle
Swung he his enemy, since his anger was kindled,
That she fell to the floor. With furious grapple


## p. 560 (#598) ############################################

560
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
She gave him requital early thereafter,
And stretched out to grab him; the strongest of warriors
Faint-mooded stumbled, till he fell in his traces,
Foot-going champion. Then she sat on the hall-guest
And wielded her war-knife wide-bladed, flashing,
For her son would take vengeance, her one only bairn.
His breast-armor woven bode on his shoulder;
It guarded his life, the entrance defended
'Gainst sword-point and edges. Ecgtheow's son there
Had fatally journeyed, champion of Geatmen,
In the arms of the ocean, had the armor not given,
Close-woven corselet, comfort and succor,
And had God Most Holy not awarded the victory,
All-knowing lord; easily did heaven's
Ruler most righteous arrange it with justice;
Uprose he erect ready for battle.
Then he saw 'mid the war-gems a weapon of victory,
An ancient giant-sword, of edges a-doughty,
Glory of warriors: of weapons 'twas choicest,
Only 'twas larger than any man else was
Able to bear to the battle-encounter,
The good and splendid work of the giants.
He grasped then the sword-hilt, knight of the Scyldings,
Bold and battle-grim, brandished his ring-sword.
Hopeless of living, hotly he smote her,
That the fiend-woman's neck firmly it grappled,
Broke through her bone-joints, the bill fully pierced her
Fate-cursed body, she fell to the ground then:
The hand-sword was bloody, the hero exulted.
(Fifty years have elapsed. The aged Beowulf has died from the injuries
received in his struggle with the Fire Drake. His body is burned, and a
barrow erected. ]
A folk of the Geatmen got him then ready
A pile on the earth strong for the burning,
Behung with helmets, hero-knight's targets,
And bright-shining burnies, as he begged they should have
them;
Then wailing war-heroes their world-famous chieftain,
Their liege-lord beloved, laid in the middle.
Soldiers began then to make on the barrow
The largest of dead fires: dark o'er the vapor
The smoke cloud ascended; the sad-roaring fire,
Mingled with weeping (the-wind-roar subsided)


## p. 561 (#599) ############################################

ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
561
.
Till the building of bone it had broken to pieces,
Hot in the heart. Heavy in spirit
They mood-sad lamented the men-leader's ruin.
The men of the Weders made accordingly
A hill on the height, high and extensive,
Of sea-going sailors to be seen from a distance,
And the brave one's beacon built where the fire was,
In ten days' space, with a wall surrounded it,
As wisest of world-folk could most worthily plan it.
They placed in the barrow rings and jewels,
All such ornaments as erst in the treasure
War-mooded men had won in possession :
The earnings of earlmen to earth they intrusted,
The gold to the dust, where yet it remaineth
As useless to mortals as in foregoing eras.
'Round the dead-mound rode then the doughty-in-battle,
Bairns of all twelve of the chiefs of the people,
More would they mourn, lament for their ruler,
Speak in measure, mention him with pleasure;
Weighed his worth, and his warlike achievements
Mightily commended, as 'tis meet one praise his
Liege lord in words and love him in spirit,
When forth from his body he fares to destruction.
So lamented mourning the men of the Geats,
Fond loving vassals, the fall of their lord,
Said he was gentlest of kings under heaven,
Mildest of men and most philanthropic,
Friendliest to folk-troops and fondest of honor.
By permission of John Leslie Hall, the Translator, and D. C. Heath & Co. ,
Publishers
DEOR'S LAMENT
W*va
AYLAND often wandered in exile,
doughty earl, ills endur'd,
had for comrades care and longing,
winter-cold wandering; woe oft found
since Nithhad brought such need upon him, –
laming wound on a lordlier man.
That pass'd over, — and this may, too!
In Beadohild's breast, her brothers' death
wrought no such ill as her own disgrace,
when she had openly understood
11-36


## p. 562 (#600) ############################################

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ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
her maidhood vanished; she might no wise
think how the case could thrive at all.
That pass'd over, — and this may, too!
We have heard enough of Hild's disgrace;
heroes of Geat were homeless made,
and sorrow stole their sleep away.
That pass'd over, — and this may, too!
Theodoric held for thirty winters
Mæring's burg, as many have known.
That pass'd over, — and this may, too!
!
We have also heard of Ermanric's
wolfish mind; wide was his sway
o'er the Gothic race, - a ruler grim.
Sat many a man in misery bound,
waited but woe, and wish'd amain
that ruin might fall on the royal house.
That pass'd over, - and this may, too!
Sitteth one sighing, sunder'd from happiness;
all's dark within him; he deems forsooth
that his share of evils shall endless be.
Let such bethink him that thro’ this world
mighty God sends many changes:
to earls a plenty honor he shows,
ease and bliss; to others, sorrow.
Now I will say of myself, and how
I was singer once to the sons of Heoden,
dear to my master, and Deor was my name.
Long were the winters my lord was kind,
happy my lot, — till Heorrenda now
by grace of singing has gained the land
which the “haven of heroes” erewhile gave me.
That pass'd over, — and this may, too!
Translation of F. B. Gummere in the Atlantic Monthly, February, 1891: by
permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company


## p. 563 (#601) ############################################

ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
563
FROM THE WANDERER)
O
FT-TIMES the Wanderer waiteth God's mercy,
Sad and disconsolate though he may be,
Far o'er the watery track must he travel,
Long must he row o'er the rime-crusted sea-
Plod his lone exile-path--- Fate is severe.
Mindful of slaughter, his kinsman friends' death,
Mindful of hardships, the wanderer saith :-
Oft must I lonely, when dawn doth appear,
Wail o'er my sorrow - since living is none
Whom I may whisper my heart's undertone.
Know I full well that in man it is noble
Fast in his bosom his sorrow to bind.
Weary at heart, yet his Fate is unyielding -
Help cometh not to his suffering mind.
Therefore do those who are thirsting for glory
Bind in their bosom each pain's biting smart.
Thus must I often, afar from my kinsmen,
Fasten in fetters my home-banished heart.
Now since the day when my dear prince departed
Wrapped in the gloom of his dark earthen grave,
I, a poor exile, have wandered in winter
Over the flood of the foam-frozen wave,
Seeking, sad-hearted, some giver of treasure,
Some one to cherish me friendless — some chief
Able to guide me with wisdom of counsel,
Willing to greet me and comfort my grief.
He who hath tried it, and he alone, knoweth
How harsh a comrade is comfortless Care
Unto the man who hath no dear protector,
Gold wrought with fingers nor treasure so fair.
Chill is his heart as he roameth in exile -
Thinketh of banquets his boyhood saw spread;
Friends and companions partook of his pleasures -
Knoweth he well that all friendless and lordless
Sorrow awaits him a long bitter while;
Yet, when the spirits of Sorrow and Slumber
Fasten with fetters the orphaned exile,
Seemeth him then that he seeth in spirit,
Meeteth and greeteth his master once more,
Layeth his head on his lord's loving bosom,
Just as he did in the dear days of yore.


## p. 564 (#602) ############################################

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ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
But he awaketh, forsaken and friendless,
Seeth before him the black billows rise,
Seabirds are bathing and spreading their feathers,
Hailsnow and hoar-frost are hiding the skies.
Then in his heart the more heavily wounded,
Longeth full sore for his loved one, his own,
Sad is the mind that remembereth kinsmen,
Greeting with gladness the days that are gone.
Seemeth him then on the waves of the ocean
Comrades are swimming, — well-nigh within reach,
Yet from the spiritless lips of the swimmers
Cometh familiar no welcoming speech.
So is his sorrow renewed and made sharper
When the sad exile so often must send
Thoughts of his suffering spirit to wander
Wide o'er the waves where the rough billows blend.
So, lest the thought of my mind should be clouded,
Close must I prison my sadness of heart,
When I remember my bold comrade-kinsmen,
How from the mede-hall I saw them depart.
Thus is the earth with its splendor departing --
Day after day it is passing away,
Nor may a mortal have much of true wisdom
Till his world-life numbers many a day.
He who is wise, then, must learn to be patient -
Not too hot-hearted, too hasty of speech,
Neither too weak nor too bold in the battle,
Fearful, nor joyous, nor greedy to reach,
Neither too ready to boast till he knoweth —
Man must abide, when he vaunted his pride,
Till strong of mind he hath surely determined
Whether his purpose can be turned aside.
Surely the wise man may see like the desert
How the whole wealth of the world lieth waste,
How through the earth the lone walls are still standing,
Blown by the wind and despoiled and defaced.
Covered with frost, the proud dwellings are ruined,
Crumbled the wine-halls the king lieth low,
Robbed of his pride - and his troop have all fallen
Proud by the wall — some, the spoil of the foe,
War took away — and some the fierce sea-fowl
Over the ocean - and some the wolf gray
Tore after death — and yet others the hero
Sad-faced has laid in earth-caverns away.


## p. 565 (#603) ############################################

ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
565
Thus at his will the eternal Creator
Famished the fields of the earth's ample fold-
Until her dwellers abandoned their feast-boards,
Void stood the work of the giants of old.
One who was viewing full wisely this wall-place,
Pondering deeply his dark, dreary life,
Spake then as follows, his past thus reviewing,
Years full of slaughter and struggle and strife:-
“Whither, alas, have my horses been carried ?
Whither, alas, are my kinspeople gone?
Where is my giver of treasure and feasting ?
Where are the joys of the hall I have known ?
Ah, the bright cup- and the corseleted warrior -
Ah, the bright joy of a king's happy lot!
How the glad time has forever departed,
Swallowed in darkness, as though it were not!
Standeth, instead of the troop of young warriors,
Stained with the bodies of dragons, a wall
The men were cut down in their pride by the spear-
points —
Blood-greedy weapons — but noble their fall.
Earth is enwrapped in the lowering tempest,
Fierce on the stone-cliff the storm rushes forth,
Cold winter-terror, the night shade is dark'ning,
Hail-storms are laden with death from the north.
All full of hardships is earthly existence
Here the decrees of the Fates have their sway-
Fleeting is treasure and fleeting is friendship-
Here man is transient, here friends pass away.
Earth's widely stretching, extensive domain,
Desolate all — empty, idle, and vain. ”
In Modern Language Notes): Translation of W. R. Sims.
THE SEAFARER
SO
Ooth the song that I of myself can sing,
Telling of my travels; how in troublous days,
Hours of hardship oft I've borne!
With a bitter breast-care I have been abiding:
Many seats of sorrow in my ship have known!
Frightful was the whirl of waves, when it was my part
Narrow watch at night to keep, on my Vessel's prow
When it rushed the rocks along. By the rigid cold


## p. 566 (#604) ############################################

566
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
Fast my feet were pinched, fettered by the frost,
By the chains of cold. Care was sighing then
Hot my heart around; hunger rent to shreds
Courage in me, me sea-wearied! This the man knows not,
He to whom it happens, happiest on earth,
How I, carked with care, in the ice-cold sea,
Overwent the winter on my wander-ways,
All forlorn of happiness, all bereft of loving kinsmen,
Hung about with icicles; flew the hail in showers.
Nothing heard I there save the howling of the sea,
And the ice-chilled billow, 'whiles the crying of the swan.
All the glee I got me was the gannet's scream,
And the swoughing of the seal, 'stead of mirth of men;
Stead of the mead-drinking, moaning of the sea-mew.
There the storms smote on the crags, there the swallow of the
sea
Answered to them, icy-plumed; and that answer oft the earn
Wet his wings were — barked aloud.
None of all my kinsmen
Could this sorrow-laden soul stir to any joy.
Little then does he believe who life's pleasure owns,
While he tarries in the towns, and but trifling ills,
Proud and insolent with wine — how out-wearied I
Often must outstay on the ocean path!
Sombre grew the shade of night, and it snowed from north-
ward,
Frost the field enchained, fell the hail on earth,
Coldest of all grains.
Wherefore now then crash together
Thoughts my soul within that I should myself adventure
The high streamings of the sea, and the sport of the salt
waves!
For a passion of the mind every moment pricks me on
All my life to set a faring; so that far from hence,
I may seek the shore of the strange outlanders.
Yes, so haughty of his heart is no hero on the earth,
Nor so good in all his giving, nor so generous in youth,
Nor so daring in his deed, nor so dear unto his lord,
That he has not always yearning unto his sea-faring,
To whatever work his Lord may have will to make for him.
For the harp he has no heart, nor for having of the rings,
Nor in woman is his weal, in the world he's no delight,
Nor in anything whatever save the tossing o'er the waves!
Oh, forever he has longing who is urged towards the sea.


## p. 567 (#605) ############################################

ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
567
Trees rebloom with blossoms, burghs are fair again,
Winsome are the wide plains, and the world is gay-
All doth only challenge the impassioned heart
Of his courage to the voyage, whosoever thus bethinks him,
O'er the ocean billows, far away to go.
Every cuckoo calls a warning, with his chant of sorrow!
Sings the summer's watchman, sorrow is he boding,
Bitter in the bosom's hoard. This the brave man wots not of,
Not the warrior rich in welfare — what the wanderer endures,
Who his paths of banishment, widest places on the sea.
For behold, my thought hovers now above my heart;
O'er the surging flood of sea now my spirit flies,
O'er the homeland of the whale – hovers then afar
O'er the foldings of the earth! Now again it flies to me
Full of yearning, greedy! Yells that lonely flier;
Whets upon the Whale-way irresistibly my heart,
O’er the storming of the seas!
Translation of Stopford Brooke
THE FORTUNES OF MEN
Ful
'Ull often it falls out, by fortune from God,
That a man and a maiden may marry in this world,
Find cheer in the child whom they cherish and care for,
Tenderly tend it, until the time comes,
Beyond the first years, when the young limbs increasing
Grown firm with life's fullness, are formed for their work.
Fond father and mother so guide it and feed it,
Give gifts to it, clothe it: God only can know
What lot to its latter days life has to bring.
To some that make music in life's morning hour
Pining days are appointed of plaint at the close.
One the wild wolf shall eat, hoary haunter of wastes:
His mother shall mourn the small strength of a man.
One shall sharp hunger slay; one shall the storm beat down;
One be destroyed by darts, one die in war.
One shall live losing the light of his eyes,
Feel blindly with fingers; and one, lame of foot,
With sinew-wound wearily wasteth away,
Musing and mourning, with death in his mind.
One, failing feathers, shall fall from the height
Of the tall forest tree: yet he trips as though flying,
Plays proudly in air till he reaches the point


## p. 568 (#606) ############################################

568
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
Where the woodgrowth is weak; life then whirls in his brain,
Bereft of his reason he sinks to the root,
Falls flat on the ground, his life fleeting away.
Afoot on the far-ways, his food in his hand,
One shall go grieving, and great be his need,
Press dew on the paths of the perilous lands
Where the stranger may strike, where live none to sustain.
All shun the desolate for being sad.
One the great gallows shall have in its grasp,
Stained in dark agony, till the soul's stay,
The bone-house, is bloodily all broken up;
When the harsh raven hacks eyes from the head,
The sallow-coated, slits the soulless man.
Nor can he shield from shame, scare with his hands,
Off from their eager feast prowlers of air.
Lost is his life to him, left is no breath,
Bleached on the gallows-beam bides he his doom;
Cold death-mists close round him called the Accursed.
One shall die by the dagger, in wrath, drenched with ale,
Wild through wine, on the mead bench, too swift with his
words;
Through the hand that brings beer, through the gay boon
companion,
His mouth has no measure, his mood no restraint;
Too lightly his life shall the wretched one lose,
Undergo the great ill, be left empty of joy.
When they speak of him slain by the sweetness of mead,
His comrades shall call him one killed by himself.
Some have good hap, and some hard days of toil;
Some glad glow of youth, and some glory in war,
Strength in the strife; some sling the stone, some shoot.
One shall handle the harp, at the feet of his hero
Sit and win wealth from the will of his Lord;
Still quickly contriving the throb of the cords,
The nail nimbly makes music, awakes a glad noise,
While the heart of the harper throbs, hurried by zeal.
Translation of Henry Morley.


## p. 569 (#607) ############################################

ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
569
FROM JUDITH
THEY
[The Assyrian officers, obeying the commands of Holofernes, come to the
carouse. ]
HEY then at the feast proceeded to sit,
The proud to the wine-drinking, all his comrades-in-ili,
Bold mailed-warriors. There were lofty beakers
Oft borne along the benches, also were cups and flagons
Full to the hall-sitters borne. The fated partook of them,
Brave warriors-with-shields, though the mighty weened not
of it,
Awful lord of earls. Then was Holofernes,
Gold-friend of men, full of wine-joy:
He laughed and clamored, shouted and dinned,
That children of men from afar might hear
How the strong-minded both stormed and yelled,
Moody and mead-drunken, often admonished
The sitters-on-benches to bear themselves well.
Thus did the hateful one during all day
His liege-men loyal keep plying with wine,
Stout-hearted giver of treasure, until they lay in a swoon.
(Holofernes has been slain by Judith. The Hebrews, encouraged by her,
surprise the drunken and sleeping Assyrians. ]
Then the band of the brave was quickly prepared,
Of the bold for battle; stepped out the valiant
Men and comrades, bore their banners,
Went forth to fight straight on their way
The heroes 'neath helmets from the holy city
At the dawn itself; shields made a din,
Loudly resounded. Thereat laughed the lank
.
Wolf in the wood, and the raven wan,
Fowl greedy for slaughter: both of them knew
That for them the warriors thought to provide
Their fill on the fated: and flew on their track
The dewy-winged eagle eager for prey,
The dusky-coated sang his war-song,
The crooked-beaked. Stepped forth the warriors,
The heroes for battle with boards protected,
With hollow shields, who awhile before
The foreign-folk's reproach endured,
The heathens' scorn; fiercely was that


## p. 570 (#608) ############################################

570
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
At the ash-spear's play to them all repaid,
All the Assyrians, after the Hebrews
Under their banners had boldly advanced
To the army-camps. They bravely then
Forthright let fly showers of arrows,
Of battle-adders, out from the horn-bows,
Of strongly-made shafts; stormed they aloud,
The cruel warriors, sent forth their spears
Among the brave; the heroes were angry,
The dwellers-in-land, with the loathèd race;
The stern-minded stepped, the stout-in-heart,
Rudely awakened their ancient foes
Weary from mead; with hands drew forth
The men from the sheaths the brightly-marked swords
Most choice in their edges, eagerly struck
Of the host of Assyrians the battle-warriors,
The hostile-minded; not one they spared
Of the army-folk, nor low nor high
Of living men, whom they might subdue.
By consent of Ginn & Co. Translation of Garnett.
THE FIGHT AT MALDON
[The Anglo-Saxons under Byrhtnoth are drawn up on one side of Panta
stream, the Northmen on the other. The herald of the Northmen demands
tribute. Byrhtnoth replies. )
T*
HEN stood on the stathe, stoutly did call,
The wikings' herald, with words he spake,
Who boastfully bore from the brine-farers
An errand to th' earl, where he stood on the shore:-
" To thee me did send the seamen snell,
Bade to thee say, thou must send to them quickly
Bracelets for safety; and 'tis better for you
That ye this spear-rush with tribute buy off
Than we in so fierce a fight engage.
We need not each spill, if ye speed to this:
We will for the pay a peace confirm.
If thou that redest, who art highest in rank,
If thou to the seamen at their own pleasure
Money for peace, and take peace from us,
We will with the treasure betake us to ship,
Fare on the flood, and peace with you confirm. ”
Byrhtnoth replied, his buckler uplifted,


## p. 571 (#609) ############################################

ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
571
Waved his slim spear, with words he spake,
Angry and firm gave answer to him:-
“Hear'st thou, seafarer, what saith this folk?
They will for tribute spear-shafts you pay,
Poisonous points and trusty swords,
Those weapons that you in battle avail not.
Herald of seamen, hark back again,
Say to thy people much sadder words:-
Here stands not unknown an earl with his band,
Who will defend this father-land,
Æthelred's home, mine own liege lord's,
His folk and field; ye're fated to fall,
Ye heathen, in battle. Too base it me seems
That ye with our scats to ship may go
Unfought against, so far ye now hither
Into our country have come within;
Ye shall not so gently treasure obtain;
Shall spear and sword sooner beseem us,
Grim battle-play, ere tribute we give. ”
(The Northmen, unable to force a passage, ask to be allowed to cross and
fight it out on an equal footing. Byrhtnoth allows this. )
«Now room is allowed you, come quickly to us,
Warriors to war; wot God alone
Who this battle-field may be able to keep. ”
Waded the war-wolves, for water they recked not,
The wikings' band west over Panta,
O'er the clear water carried their shields,
Boatmen to bank their bucklers bore.
There facing their foes ready were standing
Byrhtnoth with warriors: with shields he bade
The war-hedgel work, and the war-band hold
Fast 'gainst the foes. Then fight was nigh,
Glory in battle; the time was come
That fated men should there now fall.
Then outcry was raised, the ravens circled,
Eagle eager for prey; on earth was uproar.
Then they let from their fists the file-hardened spears,
The darts well-ground, fiercely fly forth:
The bows were busy, board point received,
Bitter the battle-rush, warriors fell down,
On either hand the youths lay dead.
By consent of Ginn & Co. Translation of Garnett.


## p. 572 (#610) ############################################

572
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
CÆDMON'S INSPIRATION
H*
E [CÆDMON] had remained in the secular life until the time
when he was of advanced age, and he had never learned
any song. For that reason oftentimes, when it was decided
at a feasting that all should sing in turn to the accompaniment of
the harp for the sake of entertainment, he would arise for shame
from the banquet when he saw the harp approaching him, and
would go home to his house. When he on a certain occasion had
done this, and had left the house of feasting, and had gone to
the stable of the cattle, which had been intrusted to his care for
that night; and when he there, after a reasonable time, had
arranged his limbs for rest, he fell asleep. And a man stood by
him in a dream, and hailed him, and greeted him, and called
him by name, and said: "Cadmon, sing something for me. ”
Then he answered and said: "I cannot sing; I went out from
the feast and came hither because I could not sing. ” Again said
the one who was speaking with him: “Nevertheless, thou canst
sing for me. ” Said Cædmon, "What shall I sing? ”
Said he,
Sing to me of creation. ”
When Cædmon received this answer, then began he soon to
sing in glorification of God the Creator, verses and words that he
had never before heard.
Then he arose from sleep and he had fast in his memory all
those things he had sung in his sleep; and to these words he soon
added many other words of song of the same measure, worthy
for God.
Then came he in the morning to the town-reeve, who was his
aldorman, and told him of the gift he had received. And the
reeve soon led him to the abbess, and made that known to her
and told her. Then bade she assemble all the very learned men,
and the learners, and bade him tell the dream in their presence,
and sing the song, so that by the judgment of them all it might
be determined what it was, and whence it had come. Then it
was seen by them all, just as it was, that the heavenly gift had
been given him by the Lord himself.
Alfred's Bede): Translation of Robert Sharp.
----


## p. 573 (#611) ############################################

ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
573
FROM THE CHRONICLE)
Selection from the entry for the year 897
T'
THEN Alfred, the King, ordered long ships built to oppose the
war-ships of the enemy. They were very nearly twice as
long as the others; some had sixty oars, some more. They
were both swifter and steadier, and also higher than the others;
they were shaped neither on the Frisian model nor on the Danish,
but as it seemed to King Alfred that they would be most useful.
Then, at a certain time in that year, came six hostile ships to:
Wight, and did much damage, both in Devon and elsewhere on
the seaboard. Then the King ordered that nine of the new ships
should proceed thither. And his ships blockaded the mouth of
the passage on the outer-sea against the enemy. Then the Danes
came out with three ships against the King's ships; but three of
the Danish ships lay above the mouth, high and dry aground;
and the men were gone off upon the shore. Then the King's.
men took two of the three ships outside, at the mouth, and slew
the crews; but one ship escaped. On this one all the men were
slain except five; these escaped because the King's ship got
aground. They were aground, moreover, very inconveniently,
since three were situated upon the same side of the channel with
the three stranded Danish ships, and all the others were upon the
other side, so that there could be no communication between the
two divisions. But when the water had ebbed many furlongs
from the ships, then went the Danes from their three ships to
the King's three ships that had been left dry upon the same side
by the ebbing of the tide, and they fought together there. Then
were slain Lucumon, the King's Reeve, Wulfheard the Frisian,
and Æbbe the Frisian, and Æthelhere the Frisian, and Æthel-
ferth the King's companion, and of all the men Frisians and Eng-
lish, sixty-two; and of the Danes, one hundred and twenty.
But the flood came to the Danish ships before the Christians
could shove theirs out, and for that reason the Danes rowed off.
They were, nevertheless, so grievously wounded that they could
not row around the land of the South Saxons, and the sea cast
up there two of the ships upon the shore. And the men from
them were led to Winchester to the King, and he commanded
them to be hanged there. But the men who were in the remain-
ing ship came to East Anglia, sorely wounded.
Translation of Robert Sharp.


## p. 574 (#612) ############################################

574
GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO
(1864-)
ITALIAN poet and novelist of early promise, who has
become a somewhat unique figure in contemporary litera-
ture, Gabriele d'Annunzio is a native of the Abruzzi, born
in the little village of Pescara, on the Adriatic coast. Its picturesque
scenery has formed the background for more than one of his stories.
At the age of fifteen, while still a student at Prato, he published his
first volume of poems, Intermezzo di Rime) (Interludes of Verse):
«grand, plastic verse, of an impeccable prosody,” as he maintained
in their defense, but so daringly erotic that their appearance created
no small scandal. Other poems followed at intervals, notably Il
Canto Nuovo' (The New Song: Rome, 1882), 'Isotteo e la Chimera'
(Isotteo and the Chimera: Rome, 1890), Poema Paradisiaco,' and
'Odi Navali' (Marine Odes: Milan, 1893), which leave no doubt of
his high rank as poet. The novel, however, is his chosen vehicle of
expression, and the one which gives fullest scope to his rich and
versatile genius. His first long story, 'Il Piacere! (Pleasure),
appeared in 1889. As the title implies, it was pervaded with a
frank, almost complacent sensuality, which its author has since been
inclined to deprecate. Nevertheless, the book received merited praise
for its subtle portrayal of character and incident, and its exuberance
of phraseology; and more than all, for the promise which it sug-
gested. With the publication of L'Innocente,' the author for the
first time showed a real seriousness of purpose. His views of life
had meanwhile essentially altered:–«As was just,” he confessed,
“I began to pay for my errors, my disorders, my excesses: I began
to suffer with the same intensity with which I had formerly enjoyed
myself; sorrow had made of me a new man. ” Accordingly his later
books, while still emphatically realistic, are chastened by an under-
lying tone of pessimism. Passion is no longer the keynote of life,
but rather, as exemplified in "Il Trionfo della Morte,' the prelude of
death. Leaving Rome, where, “like the outpouring of the sewers,
a flood of base desires invaded every square and cross-road, ever
more putrid and more swollen,” D'Annunzio retired to Francovilla-
al-Mare, a few miles from his birthplace. There he lives in seclus-
ion, esteemed by the simple-minded, honest, and somewhat fanatical
peasantry, to whose quaint and primitive manners his books owe
much of their distinctive atmosphere.
In Italy, D'Annunzio's career has been watched with growing
interest. Until recently, however, he was scarcely known to the
--


## p. 575 (#613) ############################################

GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO
575
world at large, when a few poems, translated into French, brought
his name into immediate prominence. Within a year three Paris
journals acquired rights of translation from him, and he has since
occupied the attention of such authoritative French critics as Henri
Rabusson, René Doumic, Edouard Rod, Eugène-Melchior de Vogüé,
and, most recently, Ferdinand Brunetière, all of whom seem to have
a clearer appreciation of his quality than even his critics at home.
At the same time there is a small but hostile minority among the
French novelists, whose literary feelings are voiced by Léon Daudet
in a vehement protest under the title Assez d'Étrangers' (Enough
of Foreigners).
It is too soon to pass final judgment on D'Annunzio's style, which
has been undergoing an obvious transition, not yet accomplished.
Realist and psychologist, symbolist and mystic by turns, and first
and always a poet, he has been compared successively to Bourget
and Maupassant, Tolstoi and Dostoievsky, Théophile Gautier and
Catulle Mendès, Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Baudelaire. Such com-
plexity of style is the outcome of his cosmopolitan taste in literature,
and his tendency to assimilate for future use whatever pleases him
in each successive author. Shakespeare and Goethe, Keats and Heine,
Plato and Zoroaster, figure among the names which throng his pages;
while his unacknowledged and often unconscious indebtedness to
writers of lesser magnitude, - notably the self-styled (Sar' Joseph
Peladan — has lately raised an outcry of plagiarism. Yet whatever
leaves his pen, borrowed or original, has received the unmistakable
imprint of his powerful individuality.
It is easy to trace the influences under which, successively,
D'Annunzio has come. They are essentially French. He is a French
writer in an Italian medium. His early short sketches, noteworthy
chiefly for their morbid intensity, were modeled largely on Maupas-
sant, whose frank, unblushing realism left a permanent imprint upon
the style of his admirer, and whose later analytic tendency probably
had an important share in turning his attention to the psychological
school.
'Il Piacere,' though largely inspired by Paul Bourget, contains as
large an element of Notre Cæur) and (Bel-Ami' as of 'Le Disciple
and Cæur de Femme. In this novel, Andrea Sperelli affords us
the type of D'Annunzio's heroes, who, aside from differences due to
age and environment, are all essentially the same,- somewhat weak,
yet undeniably attractive; containing, all of them, "something of a
Don Juan and a Cherubini,” with the Don Juan element preponder-
ating. The plot of 'Il Piacere is not remarkable either for depth
or for novelty, being the needlessly detailed record of Sperelli's rela-
tions with two married women, of totally opposite types.


## p. 576 (#614) ############################################

576
GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO
Giovanni Episcopo' is a brief, painful tragedy of low life, written
under the influence of Russian evangelism, and full of reminiscences
of Dostoievsky's 'Crime and Punishment. ' Giovanni is a poor clerk,
of a weak, pusillanimous nature, completely dominated by a coarse,
brutal companion, Giulio Wanzer, who makes him an abject slave,
until a detected forgery compels Wanzer to flee the country. Epis-
copo then marries Ginevra, the pretty but unprincipled waitress at his
pension, who speedily drags him down to the lowest depths of degra-
dation, making him a mere nonentity in his own household, willing
to live on the proceeds of her infamy. They have one child, a boy,
Ciro, on whom Giovanni lavishes all his suppressed tenderness. After
ten years of this martyrdom, the hated Wanzer reappears and installs
himself as husband in the Episcopo household. Giovanni submits in
helpless fury, till one day Wanzer beats Ginevra, and little Ciro inter-
venes to protect his mother. Wanzer turns on the child, and a spark
of manhood is at last kindled in Giovanni's breast. He springs upon
Wanzer, and with the pent-up rage of years stabs him.
L'Innocente,' D'Annunzio's second long novel, also bears the
stamp of Russian influence. It is a gruesome, repulsive story of
domestic infidelity, in which he has handled the theory of pardon,
the motive of numerous recent French novels, like Daudet's La
Petite Paroisse) and Paul Marguerite's "La Tourmente. '
In another extended work, (Il Trionfo della Morte (The Triumph
of Death), D'Annunzio appears as a convert to Nietzsche's philoso-
phy and to Wagnerianism. Ferdinand Brunetière has pronounced it
unsurpassed by the naturalistic schools of England, France, or Russia.
In brief, the hero, Giorgio Aurispa, a morbid sensualist, with an in-
herited tendency to suicide, is led by fate through a series of circum-
stances which keep the thought of death continually before him.
They finally goad him on to Aing himself from a cliff into the sea,
dragging with him the woman he loves.
The Vergini della Rocca' (Maidens of the Crag), his last story, is
more an idyllic poem than a novel. Claudio Cantelmo, sickened with
the corruption of Rome, retires to his old home in the Abruzzi, where
he meets the three sisters Massimilla, Anatolia, Violante: «names
expressive as faces full of light and shade, and in which I seemed
already to discover an infinity of grace, of passion, and of sorrow. ”
It is inevitable that he should chose one of the three, but which ?
And in the dénouement the solution is only half implied.
D'Annunzio is now occupied with a new romance; and coming
years will doubtless present him all the more distinctively as a writer
of Italy on whom French inflences have been seed sowed in fertile
ground. The place in contemporary Italian of such work as his is
indisputably considerable.


## p. 577 (#615) ############################################

GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO
577
THE DROWNED BOY
From "The Triumph of Death)
A“
LL of a sudden, Albadora, the septuagenarian Cybele, she who
had given life to twenty-two sons and daughters, came
toiling up the narrow lane into the court, and indicating
the neighboring shore, where it skirted the promontory on the
left, announced breathlessly :-
"Down yonder there has been a child drowned ! »
Candia made the sign of the cross. Giorgio arose and ascended
to the loggia, to observe the spot designated. Upon the sand,
below the promontory, in close vicinity to the chain of rocks
and the tunnel, he perceived a blotch of white, presumably the
sheet which hid the little body. A group of people had gathered
around it.
As Ippolita had gone to mass with Elena at the chapel of the
Port, he yielded to his curiosity and said to his entertainers:-
"I am going down to see. ”
“Why?