Between Two Worlds

Between Two Worlds:
Clashes of Culture and Indications of Social Change in Anglo-Saxon Poetry

One of the most perplexing characteristics of Anglo-Saxon poetry is the juxtaposition of apparently Pagan symbols and phrases to those which seem obviously Christian. In Deor, the poet describes the legendary maker of magical weapons, the Germanic smith Weland, yet ends on a Christian note, stating that “the wise Lord frequently causes change” (Bradley 365). In The Wanderer, the narrator speaks of “the old works of giants” that were destroyed because “The Creator of men [i.e. God] laid waste this dwelling-place” (Diamond 155). And Beowulf just begs the question: What’s a pagan dragon doing in a Christian poem?

From the modern point of view, the poets include references which, on the surface, seem to be incompatible with each other. However, during the period from the seventh to the ninth centuries, such cross-cultural and religious references are not only not unusual but, on the contrary, strongly reflect the changing, dualistic nature of the evolving Anglo-Saxon society of the time. In fact, it may be these cultural clashes, the Germanic and the Celtic, the Christian and pagan, that actually provide the dynamic driving force for the socio-political events of the period. By blending history with legend, folklore and custom with faith and personal experience, the Anglo-Saxon poets have given us a glimpse into their multi-faceted world.

The framework for the poems is one rooted in historical fact and social realities. Beowulf’s king, Hygelac was indeed a real person. Gregory of Tours records his death in 521A.D. (Chickering 247). Goffart points out that the account of Hygelac’s death in Beowulf [ll. 2354-2366, 2497-2504] contain details which coincide with events in the eight century Liber historiae Francorum (85). While Goffart proves that the details set forth in Liber and in Beowulf are probably historically inaccurate (85-87), the resemblance between the two accounts shows very clearly the poet’s attempt to construct a historical framework for the poem.

The poet’s descriptions of the funeral are historically corroborated in such archaeological finds as that of the Sutton Hoo in England. Comparing the Sutton Hoo finds to Beowulf’s account of Scyld’s funeral, Chickering notes that “the Beowulf poet seems never to exaggerate or invent in his descriptions of royal accouterments” (266). The poet was describing a type of event that clearly both he and his audience were very familiar with. In Farmer’s notes to Bede’s Ecclesiastical History, he identifies King Redwald of East Anglia as the king of the Sutton Hoo burial (367). The funeral described may very well have been based on that of Redwald himself.

There are some striking similarities between Bede’s description of the historical Redwald and his kingdom and that of Hrothgar and his as portrayed in Beowulf. Redwald was one of seven bretwaldas (high kings or “overlords” who ruled over several smaller kingdoms) mentioned by Bede[1] (111). In The Coming of Christianity to Anglo-Saxon England, author Mayr-Harting notes that the gifts given to Beowulf after the slaying of Grendel are indeed consistent with the actions and the generosity of a bretwalda who was expected to give gifts to secure the services of warriors (19). However, the text itself seems to indicate the possibility of an overlord relationship already in existence between Hrothgar and the Geats. Hrothgar comments that he knew of Beowulf through “the merchants who used to carry gifts of coins, our thanks to the Geats” (Chickering 71, ll.378-9). Hrothgar’s phrasing seems to imply the gift is for services rendered, rather than for the buying of peace that is alluded to elsewhere in Beowulf. As it is the lord who gives gifts to the warriors bound to him by oath, this gift of thanks to a distant people seems to elevate Hrothgar’s status to more than just an ordinary king.[2] Hrothgar also tells Beowulf that he knew his father, having settled a feud for him by buying peace, in return for which, Ecgtheow swore him oaths (Chickering 77 ll.459-472). Hrothgar’s generosity and possession of the discretionary wealth required to buy peace for an (apparently) total stranger are consistent with the description of a bretwalda such as Redwald.

Just as the descriptions of Hrothgar reflect the role of the bretwalda in Anglo-Saxon society, the portrait of the actions of Hrothgar’s council reflect the pagan-Christian dynamic in Anglo-Saxon political structure. While Hrothgar is portrayed as a Christian king, his council is clearly portrayed as pagan:

A Christian king and a pagan council seem to suggest two possibilities: That the council was regressing into paganism and/or that both pagan and Christian worship coexisted together in some form. In Ecclesiastical History, Bede relates the story of King Eadbald, who, after the death of his Christian father, refused to accept the Christian faith, causing others “to revert to their former uncleanness” (112). As to the question of coexistence, descriptions of Redwald are again relevant as Bede’s account indicates:

. . . Redwald had in fact long before this received Christian Baptism in Kent, but to no good purpose; for on his return home his wife and certain perverse advisers persuaded him to apostatize from the true Faith. So his last state was worse than the first: for, like the ancient Samaritans, he tried to serve both Christ and the ancient gods, and he had in the same shrine an altar for the holy Sacrifice of Christ side by side with a small altar on which victims were offered to devils.[3] (132-3)

Redwald’s behavior could hardly have been unique. Until all of Anglo-Saxon England was converted to Christianity, some sort of coexistence would have been inevitable. The story of Redwald does, however, shed some light on how Christianity was spread. Mayr-Harting is emphatic that “The problem of the conversion of the Anglo-Saxon peoples to Christianity is in the first instance the problem of converting the king and their immediate followers, and the position of the bretwaldas is here of the greatest importance” (21). Here, Redwald seems to have failed utterly.

Other kings, such as Penda, never converted at all. Henry Mayr-Harting sees a correlation in the anthropological work of Sir Raymond Firth among the South Sea island inhabitants of Tikopia, stating that “Tikopia offers us one of the few opportunities in this century to study the conversion to Christianity of pagans very like those of the Anglo-Saxons, with their polytheism, propitiatory sacrifices and ancestor cults” (7). Mayr-Harting’s hypothesis is a relevant one, and bears examining in depth:

He [Firth] showed that many of the first Tikopian chieftains to be converted were not the future looking young ones, but older men who could adopt Christianity and know that the old Gods were still being served and propitiated by a younger generation, Few Tikopian converts ceased at once to believe in the existence of the old gods and their efforts to get their own back for desertions from their cults. . . . To older men, therefore, conversion was ‘a kind of retirement from active service in the pagan cause’. The last chieftain to remain pagan, on the other hand, knew that their desertion from the pagan cults would leave the old gods totally unpropitiated. In Mercia, amidst rapid conversion to Christianity, who knew, for instance what the wargod, Woden, in his Staffordshire fortress (Wednesbury i.e. Woden’s burg) might think of that? (7)

Firth himself stressed that “ ‘In such a situation of two ideologically and to some extent politically opposed religions the conversions of persons individually or in groups had to be set against what appeared to be a continuing alternate pagan system’ ” (quoted in Mayr-Harting 7).

If Firth’s assertions indeed apply to Anglo-Saxon English society, it sheds considerable light on the descriptions of Hrothgar and his people. The Beowulf poet would be portraying a society where Christianity might be on the rise, but one that is clearly not yet totally Christianized. As Hrothgar alone of all his people is described as fully Christian, he would certainly fit the pattern Firth depicts of the older chieftain who is one of the first to embrace the faith, while his council continues the older pagan system. Interestingly, the poet makes it very clear that he does not approve of the council’s actions in worshiping the old gods. His censure implies that both he and his audience now accept Christian values as the norm. Whether the poet intends the passage to be a warning against regressing into paganism or a condemnation of the practice elsewhere in Anglo-Saxon society is unclear, but its inclusion indicates the issue was still a very relevant one for his society.

Firth’s description may also help to explain Beowulf’s actions at the poem’s end. Beowulf’s command that the dragon’s treasure be buried has always been perplexing, as it does not seem to be the action of a Christian king. Mayr-Harting points out that, in the Scandinavian pagan tradition, the treasure could not be used by the living: it was considered to have unhealthy associations because it had belonged to the dragon (233). Yet no pagan would bury the treasure, either. In the pagan tradition, the last man to leave the mound where it was buried would himself turn into a dragon (Mayr-Harting 233).

If the Beowulf poet was aware of this aspect of the legend, it suggests an interesting symbolic interpretation for the poem’s end. With Beowulf’s passing, the kingdom passes on to the totally Christian Wiglaf. With the passing of the pagan kingdom, the king can safely order the treasure’s burial, confident that no dragons will rise.

That the changing of the Anglo-Saxon world view from that of the pagan to that of Christian was not without difficulty is vividly apparent in the following passage from The Wanderer:

(85) Thus the Creator of men laid waste this dwelling-place, until the old works of giants (i.e., buildings) stood vacant, without the noise of the inhabitants. (88) He then thoughtfully (lit. wisely) reflected upon this place of ruins (lit. wall-place) and profoundly meditates upon this sad life, wise in heart, (he) often remembers many slaughters in battle far (back in time) and speaks these words: (92) Where has the horse gone? Where has the warrior gone? Where has the giver of treasure gone? Where have (lit. has) the banquet seats gone? Where are the revelries in the hall? Alas, bright cup! Alas, armored warrior! Alas, princely splendor (lit. splendor of a prince)! How that time has passed away, grown dark under cover of night, as (if) it had never been! (97) Now the wall, wondrously high, decorated with serpent designs, outlasts the beloved band of warriors. (99) The force (lit. forces) of ash-wood spears destroyed the warriors, weapons greedy for slaughter, and fate, that famed (one), and storms beat upon these stone slopes (walls?), a driving (lit. falling) snowstorm binds the earth, the howling of winter, when (it) comes, (all) dark, the shadow of night grows dark, sends from the north a fierce hailstorm, to the vexation of men. (106) All the kingdom of the earth is full of hardships, the decree of the fates changes the world under the heavens. (108) Here wealth is transitory, here friend is transitory, here man is transitory, here kinship is transitory, this whole foundation of the earth is becoming empty. (Diamond 155-7)

With an incredible poignant intensity, the poet is mourning the loss of the old pagan society, even as he is grieving for the loss of his comitatus. The Christian God, “the Creator of men,” has devastated the pagan world, here symbolized by “the old works of giants.”[4] While it is rendered in poetic terms, it nevertheless accurately portrays the replacement of the pagan structure of the society by the Christian, implying empty pagan temples where, “without the noise of the inhabitants,” voices are no longer raised to the old gods.

The poet laments the loss of all the things sacred in the pagan way of life: the horse, the warrior, the giver of treasure and even the role of the prince in society.[5] In an increasingly Christianized culture, it would be the priests and the monks whose stature would be growing, while that of the prince was waning. The hall, the banquets and the revelries would vanish with them, to be replaced in importance by the monasteries. Not only was the pagan religion disappearing, a whole way of life was disappearing with it. When the poet describes “How that time has passed away, grown dark under cover of night,” it is as though he is describing the steady rise of Christianity slowly but surely obliterating the old beliefs, until it was “as (if) they had never been.” Once again, the poet uses the image of the abandoned temple, “the wall. . . decorated with serpent designs,” which “outlasts the beloved band of warriors” to evoke the passage of the olden ways.[6]

Firth’s observation of a belief that the old gods punished deserters is interesting in light of the poet’s claim that “ash-wood spears destroyed the warriors. . . .” The ash was sacred to Odin, and in Norse mythology, the spear of Odin was a powerful weapon that insured victory (Myths 177). The words imply a punishment by the gods, a destruction that men have brought upon themselves by abandoning their gods. The chaos that follows is described using the symbols of the doom of the gods, Ragnarok—the darkening of the sun, the binding of the earth by winter. Like the gods who were fated to battle the frost giants and lose, the pagan gods have been defeated by Christianity. In the new Christian world, with its emphasis on the life hereafter, the old values were viewed as transitory: The wealth offered by the ring-giver, the importance of kinship and the bonds of friendship and comitatus. If one considers the importance of the heroic code in Anglo-Saxon culture, with its loss, it truly must have seemed as though the “whole foundation of the earth is becoming empty.”

The poems themselves give some indication that there were aspect of the heroic code were both important and yet failing in Anglo-Saxon society. Beowulf describes in detail the failure of the men of Beowulf’s comitatus to stand and fight beside him: “But not at all did the sons of nobles. . . stand round him with battle courage: they fled to the wood to save their lives” (Chickering 205, ll. 2596-2599). The price for their cowardice was high: exile for themselves and their kinsmen with the stern pronouncement that “Death is better for any warrior than a shameful life!” (Chickering 223, ll. 2882-2890). As late as the tenth century Battle of Maldon, the stigma against cowardice and the breaking of oaths is still strong—the last line of the surviving fragment shamefully singles out the name of man who fled the battle (Griffiths 64). Nor is this breaking of oaths confined to just the men under a lord—in Deor, it seems to be the lord who is breaking the oaths, giving to another “the entitlement to land which the men’s protector formerly granted me” (Bradley 365).

The failing of the code to meet the needs of the members of society is painfully apparent in The Wanderer. The narrator describes in heart-felt detail the loneliness and difficulty of his life and “how cruel is sorrow as a companion to him who has few friendly protectors for himself” (Diamond 153). The social standing of the warrior has died with his lord, and there is no substitute, no solution available within the existing framework of the society.

The precariousness of the bonds of Anglo-Saxon society is clearly shown in the portrayal of the peace-weaver, a woman given in marriage to end a blood-feud, that is found in both Beowulf and The Battle of Finnsburh. Bradley notes there is speculation that the Hengest mentioned in the Finnsburh fragment may very well have been the historical Hengist who was the leader of the Anglo-Saxon mercenaries who first saved, then conquered the British after the withdrawal of the Roman legions in the fifth century (508). While the story of Ingeld and his bride certainly must have been well-known, what is interesting is the poet’s telling of the tale as though he is predicting what is about to happen. He greets the news of the marriage with skepticism, noting that “seldom anywhere, after a slaying, will the death spear rest, even for a while, though the bride be good” (Chickering (167, ll. 2024-2031). The poet explicitly describes the festering anger over the taunts and old grudges (ll. 2032-2062) then remarks that “once deadly hate wells up in Ingeld; in that hot passion his love for the peace-weaver, his wife, will cool” (Chickering 171, ll. 2064-2066) As he tells Ingeld’s story, he is obviously describing a scenario he has seen played out in Anglo-Saxon society many times before.

This passion for revenge that marks the tale of Ingeld is one that Mayr-Harting defined as deeply ingrained in even Christian Anglo-Saxon culture, noting that “Revenge in this society was not only tolerated; it was a solemn duty. It could be regarded as essential to the preservation of social order” (228). It is perhaps noteworthy that in Deor, the poet begins his poem with a verse about Weland. In Germanic legend, Weland was a smith who was maimed by a king so he would continue to make magical weapons for him. Weland revenges himself by making the king goblets out of the skulls of his sons and raping his daughter, scenes of which have been preserved on the Frank’s Casket originally made in Northumbria (Mayr-Harting 221-2). For an Anglo-Saxon audience familiar with Weland’s story, the scop’s desire for revenge would have been quite pointed indeed.

In Deor, the concept of revenge exists side-by-side with the concepts of fate just as they did in Anglo-Saxon society. While the reference to revenge is obvious in the poem, so is the reference to fate and fortune. The poet states that “throughout this world the wise Lord frequently causes change,” a line that Bradley sees as a direct reference to Boethius’ Consolation of Philosophy with its concept of Providence (363).[7] In their essences, the Germanic concept of wyrd, “what happens,” seems to complement with the concept of providence. The poet’s refrain of “that passed away: so may this” (Bradley 364-5) speaks volumes: whether it is the action the fates as represented by the Norns or a spinning wheel of fortune acting through divine providence, the result is the same—man’s destiny is outside of his control. The author of The Wanderer makes that fact perfectly clear when he says: “the solitary dweller awaits favor for himself, the mercy of the Lord. . . .” but, ultimately, “Fate is utterly inexorable” (Diamond 151).

Surprisingly, the Anglo-Saxon view of fate did not stop the belief in a man earning his lof, or fame. While the fate’s consequences must of necessity be faced with an degree of stoicism—after all, it could not be changed—a man, could and should, strive to achieve fame. When Hrothgar offers to reward Beowulf well if he manages to slay Grendel’s mother, the hero reminds the king of the importance of doing. “Each of us must come to the end of his life. . . . “ Beowulf points out—that result for each man is the same (Chickering 129, ll.1386-7). Fate could aid a man as well, for Beowulf notes that “it often saves an undoomed man” (Chickering 83, 573-4). A man had no way of knowing when he would meet his fate, he only knew that it would come.
But what was important from Beowulf’s perspective, is to “let him who may win fame before death,” as in his view, “That is the best memorial for a man after he is gone” (Chickering 129, ll. 1387-9). The author of The Seafarer agrees, saying “that for every man the praise of those who live and speak after (he is gone) is the best fame after death” (Diamond 163).

From a twentieth century vantage point, fate seems to have dwelt the Anglo-Saxon people a mighty blow. Like the Viking burial ship that sails into the other world, the pagan gods and pagan kings have passed on into history. Like the words of The Wanderer, the Seafarer’s lament recalls a time which is no more:

(80b) The days have departed, all the pomps of the kingdom of the earth; there have not been lately (lit. now) kings nor emperors nor gold-givers such as formerly were, when they performed the greatest of famous deeds among themselves and lived in the most splendid glory. (86) All this company is fallen, the joys have departed; the inferiors live on and occupy the world, enjoy (it) through their labor. (88b) Glory is humbled, the nobility of the earth grows old and withers, as now every man (does) throughout the earth.

Yet, while their way life may have passed on, their lof, their fame still remains. The names of Deor and Ingeld are still known to us. While the scop may no longer sing in the shadowy darkness of a fire-lit hall, Beowulf’s song is still being sung. After more than a thousand years, their deeds and their stories are still being told. They have truly achieved the “best fame”—that we who live so long after them still speak of them with praise.

Bede, trans. Leo Sherley-Price. Ecclesiastical History of the English People. Intro and notes,

Chickering, Howell D., Trans with Introduction and Commentary. Beowulf: A Dual Language

Davidson, H. R. Ellis. Gods and Myths of Northern Europe. London: Penguin Books, 1990.

Diamond, Robert E. Old English Grammar and Reader. Detroit: Wayne State UP, 1970.

Goffart, Walter. “Hetware and Hugas: Datable Anachronisms in Beowulf.” The Dating of

Griffiths, Bill, trans. and ed. The Battle of Maldon. Exp. Ed. Norfolk, England:

Mayr-Harting, Henry. The Coming of Christianity to Anglo-Saxon England. 3^rd ed. University

Ross, Anne. Pagan Celtic Britain: Studies in Iconography and Tradition. Chicago: Academy

[1] The definition of a bretwalda seems to be more encompassing than that of the comitatus alone. According to Mayr-Harting it also involved the concept of nobility (descent from the Gods, i.e. Woden), prowess in battle(which included the body of companions in comitatus) and the wealth to reward men on a luxurious scale (17-19)

[2] This passage poses an question: Why would the Geats (who were Swedes) be bound to a Danish king? Goffart notes that in Gregory of Tours’ account, Hygelac was a Dane. Therefore, it would follow Beowulf and his men would also be Danes. Hrothgar’s knowledge of Beowulf, his gifts and the question of oaths sworn to him by Beowulf’s father would then make much more sense.

[3] Interestingly, Farmer notes that the Sutton Hoo materials contained “some motifs on silver bowls are Christian in character, but the overall impression is not specifically Christian. This accords well with one who first accepted, but later rejected Christian belief (Bede 367).

[4] In Norse mythology, while the giants are the enemies of the gods, they are also an integral part of the creation myth. The first being created out of the mists of chaos was the giant, Ymir. The world of men was created out of his body (Myths 27). Natural formations like mountains were believed to be giants who had been petrified by sunlight (Cotterell 187).

[5] Both Ross and Davidson cite numerous examples of how the horse and the warrior had religious significance in both Celtic and Germanic belief.

[6] The serpent is also a sacred symbol in both Germanic and Saxon belief. Among the Celts, the association with a god who Ross describes as “a leader in war, symbolic of fecundity and virility, lawgiver in times of peace, protector in times of danger,” a description strongly reminiscent of the ring-giver in Anglo-Saxon society (Ross 214). In Norse myth, serpents also figure prominently. The myth of Thor dying as a result of his battle with the World serpent at Ragnarok (Cotterell 232) is consistent in tone with the narrative of the poem.

[7] Translated by Alfred into English in the ninth century (Bradley 363).