The Secret Life of … Beowulf

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Introduction

Beowulf is an epic poem from Anglo-Saxon England: at 3,182 lines, it is the longest extant Old English poem, and – in effect – the oldest major work in the canon of English literature. It is composed in the famous Old English alliterative metre, which modern translators often imitate. It was composed a few generations prior to the Norman conquest, some time roughly around 1000 AD. It tells a story which has been dated to around five centuries previous to its date of composition, around 500 AD. Its setting is not England, but the other side of the North Sea, in the southern Baltic – that is, the ancestral homeland of the poem’s original Anglo-Saxon audience; we might picture the tenth-century English audience looking back to the story of Beowulf in rather the way that modern Americans look back across the Atlantic to tales of Robin Hood.

The basic plot is well-known. A Danish king called Hrothgar (a name still current in English, in the form Roger; it means “spear of fame”) builds a magnificent feasting hall called Heorot (“The Hart”). The hall is haunted by a nocturnal, man-eating monster, Grendel (“The Grinder”). A young warrior of a neighbouring tribe hears of the opportunity for glory. His name is Beowulf, a name which sounds like it means bee-wolf, which would be a typically roundabout Anglo-Saxon way of referring to the animal which behaves like a thief (a “wolf”) towards bees, namely by stealing their honey. So Beowulf’s name means Bear, just like the modern name Björn/Bjørn (“the brown one”), and he certainly has the bearlike characteristics of immense strength and skill at wrestling and swimming. Beowulf visits Heorot in order to confront Grendel, which he does in a late-night hand-to-hand duel. Beowulf rips Grendel’s arm off with his bare hands. Grendel crawls off, mortally wounded. But the nightly attacks on Heorot continue. Beowulf then has to face a second showdown with Grendel’s mother, in her lair at the bottom of a marshy lake. Beowulf leaves the Danish court and returns home triumphant, having killed both monsters.

Years pass. Beowulf becomes king of his own people, when his own king, Hygelac, and his successor, are both killed. (The real Hygelac’s death was touted, originally by N.F.S. Grundtvig, as the poem’s one corroborated historical fact, courtesy of Gregory of Tours – but this argument may convince you otherwise). Beowulf rules well for many years. Then, in old age, he has to face a third and final showdown, with a dragon which has been inadvertently woken up by a runaway slave. Beowulf and the dragon kill each other, and the poem ends with an account of the hero’s funeral.

Beowulf, in essence, then, is the story of three heroic fights with three monsters, and this is how the story is usually told by modern film-makers and graphic artists. But – if this needs saying – Beowulf was never as crude or simple a story as this summary might imply. The monsters are not simple fight-fodder, but complex and ambivalent entities, or symbols. Also, the three climatic fight-stories are embedded, like the prodigies of Greek tragedy, within intricate, realistic stories of war and dynastic politics, like three chunky pillars supporting the tracery of a vaulted ceiling, and, like the tales of Robin Hood, these parallel plots seem to be based loosely on real events. Beowulf’s own people, the Geats, are a relatively humble tribe, constantly looking over the shoulder towards their powerful rivals and feud-enemies, the neighbouring Swedes. And history bears out this sense of foreboding: the Geats did lose out eventually, and their territory is now part of Sweden. Meanwhile, Lejre, in modern Denmark, has been proposed as the location of the real Heorot (as a historic nucleus of the Danish kingdom). And this burial mound was even suggested as the grave of the real Beowulf, by the archaeologist Birger Nerman.

All this is well known and often discussed, and while I’m no expert on Beowulf, I have loved the poem for years. The combination of poetic form, subject matter, narrative power and the sheer flavour of the language is unique and indescribable. Whoever composed it was a genius and the master of an extraordinarily subtle and powerful form of narrative art. What is less often told is the fascinating story of how and why we know about Beowulf at all. We very nearly didn’t. This story of survival and rediscovery is exactly the kind of story which belongs on this blog.

And it is quite a story – although much about it remains a matter of conjecture. But, like its hero, the manuscript of Beowulf has had an adventurous life, physically speaking, involving war in the southern Baltic; fire and water; a late but triumphant emergence from obscurity; and other adventures. It got caught up in the upheavals of the Protestant Reformation. It fell into the hands of Elizabethan spymasters. It is still singed around the edges from a house-fire. It was one of the first great literary texts to be nationalised (so to speak), and it took an Act of Parliament to do it. A century later, the story it records was rescued from obscurity by a scholar who has been accused of being a fraud, whose notes, he claimed, were bombed to ashes by British warships; then, a century after that, it was rescued from highbrow condescension by the bestselling author of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. Despite its atavistic roots, then, Beowulf has quietly spent three centuries near the forefront of intellectual life and popular culture. The gatekeepers of highbrow art have perhaps been less enthusiastic about admitting it to their canons; but that’s hardly the sort of thing to bother us on this blog. So let’s have a closer look at the secret life of this oldest, most ambitious, and most quietly enduring and resonant of English stories.

The Mysterious Manuscript

There is only one Beowulf manuscript. It just turned up, as if out of nowhere, in the 1560s, by which point it was about five hundred years old. About these first five centuries, we can only make deductions on the basis of clues contained within the document itself, and this is hard, because the document was badly damaged in the ensuing centuries.

Beowulf is written on parchment. It is about seventy pages long, but it is part of a longer document of about a hundred pages, containing four other poems besides, of a similar date and content. As far as we know they have always been bound together in a single volume. It is not a big book physically: the pages are about 195mm x 115-130mm, roughly the same dimensions as a DVD case, or an A5 sheet of paper.  The language of the poem is a late and quite literary form of Old English, which rapidly fell out of use in élite circles following the Norman conquest. Whoever wrote it was using letter-forms which originated late in the first millennium AD and spread to England from the continent. These details are hard to fake, and conclusively suggest a date around 1000 AD. The handwriting changes halfway through (just at the point in the story when Beowulf has arrived back home from the Danish court), so the original text of Beowulf is regarded as the work of two scribes.

Where these scribes got their subject-matter from, and in what form they got it, are matters of speculation, and the speculation revolves around several stubborn riddles relating to the poem’s discernible form and subject matter.

Firstly, there is the issue of orality. The Anglo-Saxons seemingly lacked a written language entirely when they first took power in Britain, between 400 and 600 AD. By the time the Beowulf manuscript was being written, the English were a highly literate people. Beowulf is clearly oral-derived – that is, a text with some sort of root in an older oral tradition. Oral tradition and literacy – including classical literature – must all have played at least some part in the poem’s formation. There is also the question of the manuscript tradition: whether the poem we have was copied from older, lost manuscripts, and, if so, how many, and how.

Secondly, there is the issue of religion. The Anglo-Saxons were pagans in 400 AD, but they coverted to Christianity from around 600 AD, and were a Christian society from the mid-seventh century onwards. Whoever composed Beowulf was clearly a Christian poet with some Biblical knowledge, looking back to the pagan heritage of his own forebears. This is clear from the text.

Thirdly, and finally, there is the politics of the text. Beowulf heaps praise on some of its heroes, and this praise may have had contemporary political implications for the poem’s original audience – assuming this audience included powerful people who may have regarded the poem’s characters as their own illustrious forebears. Did these powerful audience-descendants exist, and, if they did, who were they? We don’t know, but there are many possible candidates. Anglo-Saxon England in its earliest form was a patchwork quilt of petty kingdoms in the control of local dynasties. The kingdom was gradually (and violently) centralised. By 1066, England was a single, unified kingdom, but a succession of English and Danish dynasts were still fighting over it.

So, in order to interpret the poem and understand its origins, one must do one’s best to place it along several sliding scales, between orality and literacy, Christianity and paganism, and so forth. In a nutshell, then, the more oral, pagan, and provincial in outlook Beowulf is, then the older it probably is – or, at least, the more conservative. Concomitantly, the more literary, Christian, and metropolitan it is, then the later its origin would seem to be. And these are matters of interpretation, so, over the years, scholars have drawn a range of conclusions. Sam Newton argued that the poem is East Anglian in its politics; J.R.R. Tolkien argued that it is Christian, but quite close to paganism in its sympathies; Francis P. Magoun thought it was old and oral, whereas Kevin Kiernan thinks it is late and literary; and so forth. It is hard for the non-specialist to follow the details of this debate, but it is very easy to sum up the state of our knowledge about the exact origins of Beowulf: nobody really knows what they are.

A Miserable State of Cremation: Beowulf in the Libraries (1)

For three centuries after the manuscript comes to light, hardly anyone knew it existed at all, apart from a few very bookish experts. Those experts gradually came to an acute awareness of the text’s significance, but they failed to protect it from some serious damage.

The hundred-page Old English manuscript which contains Beowulf was labelled the “Nowell Codex” by Kemp Malone, and the name has stuck. Codex is simply a precise technical term for what we would think of simply as a book: the document format consisting of multiple pages joined at a spine, which, in the west, mostly superseded the rolled scroll in the early Middle Ages. Nowell is the name of the book’s first known owner, Lawrence Nowell, who wrote his name on the first page where it can still be read today, spelling it Laurence Nouell, and adding a year, which is usually read as 1563.

Lawrence Nowell was a protegé of William Cecil, the leading Tudor statesman and intimate of queen Elizabeth I. Cecil was one of the queen’s senior fixers, right-hand men, spymasters, and general getter-of-things-done. Nowell was one of Cecil’s regular staffers; one of his jobs was to make pocket maps for Cecil’s daily use, and he was in the habit of drawing wistful portraits of himself with an empty purse in the corners of these maps, as a tactful reminder to his patron to pay up.

Nor is it surprising that a man like Nowell would have take an interest in Anglo-Saxon manuscripts. Nowell was one of the first people to compile a dictionary of Old English – a language which sounds (mostly) unintelligible to us, as it would have done to the Elizabethans. In the sixteenth century, there was an upsurge of interest in what people at the time called antiquities: the tangible evidence for what we would now call the early history, prehistory, and folklore of Britain. Scholars and enthusiasts, who called themselves antiquarians, made serious attempts to interpret old manuscripts, inscriptions, archaeological sites, vernacular cultural traditions, and other evidence of the distant past. This had to do with the sudden political imperative of proving that the roots of Christianity in Britain were independent of the Roman Church – something which a British Protestant would naturally want to believe.

But it also had to do with the sudden and related wealth of available evidence. Thirty years before Nowell acquired the Beowulf manuscript, queen Elizabeth’s father, king Henry VIII, broke up the monasteries of medieval Catholic England, as part of the same Protestant Reformation which piqued the interest of people like Nowell in Britain’s early history. The contents of the monastic libraries – a vast and priceless hoard of medieval manuscripts – came flooding onto the open market. It seems a fairly safe bet that the Beowulf manuscript fell into Nowell’s hands as part of this tidal wave of erudite Reformation plunder, and had spent its five previous centuries in one or more of the monastery libraries of medieval England.

Nowell seems to have left his volume, along with his other ancient manuscripts, to his own protegé, William Lambarde (1536 – 1601). Shortly thereafter, somehow, it turns up in the possession of another well-connected antiquarian, a younger contemporary of Lambarde’s called Robert Bruce Cotton (1571 – 1631). Cotton was another of the leading manuscript collectors of his day. He had dealings on his own account with William Cecil; with great antiquarians like John Dee and William Camden; with Thomas Bodley, the man who founded the Bodleian Library; and others. Once he had possession of the Nowell codex, it remained in the Cotton family, and was bequeathed, along with the rest of Cotton’s gigantic collection of manuscripts, to his grandson John.

The Cottons had the Nowell codex rebound with another early manuscript, which Kemp Malone called the “Southwick Codex” – since it has a footnote which seems to connect it to the library of Southwick Priory in Hampshire. It has been speculated that Cotton had the two codices bound together because they came from the same library. Bound together, they made a single volume of around two hundred pages. This larger volume still exists, and is still known as British Library Cotton Vitellius A XV (or A 15). This snappy title records the fact that, in the Cotton library, it was the fifteenth book on shelf A in the bookcase that had a bust of the Roman emperor Vitellius on it. That was how the Cottons catalogued their collection: if you didn’t know your Roman emperors (or Roman numerals), you didn’t have much chance of finding your way round the their library. Despite the impression which this may leave us with, the Cottons were actually more worried than most about widening access to learning, for when John Cotton died in 1701, he bequeathed the library to the nation, and the whole collection became Parliament’s responsibility – the Cottons’ house was practically next door to the Houses of Parliament, so it was conveniently placed for the purpose. The idea of publicly owned treasuries of art and culture was cutting-edge stuff, and it took a 1702 Act of Parliament to ratify the acceptance of the bequest. But, already, in 1702, Beowulf had been liberated, by one man’s generosity and foresight, from the hoards of the comfortably-ensconced monks, monarchs and plutocrats which infect English history. Beowulf already belonged to you and me.

On its initial receipt into public ownership, the collection was temporarily housed in Essex House, and then in Ashburnham House, Westminster, close to Westminster School. Ashburnham House was the residence of a Biblical scholar, called Bentley.

And there, on the night of 23rd October 1731, disaster struck. Ashburnham House burned down, with a large collection of publicly owned manuscripts still inside it, including the Cotton library – including Vitellius A XV, including the only copy of Beowulf then in existence.

The fire has been described as “the greatest bibliographical disaster of modern times in Britain.” Water-pumps were applied, as rescuers abandoned the printed books and rushed to save the irreplaceable manuscripts. Contemporary letters record the spectacle of Mr Bentley himself, rushing out of the house in wig and nightgown, a thick volume under his arm. All that night charred fragments of texts fell like snow. In the morning, the schoolboys from Westminster School picked them up off the pavements as souvenirs.

Between burning and soaking, many priceless volumes were destroyed (mostly those on the bookshelves with busts of the emperors from Tiberius to Otho). However, most of the manuscripts were moved to the School, where they were to be stored in fairly makeshift conditions in the boys’ dormitories for the next twenty years. The Cotton collection did not find a permanent home until 1753, when the British Museum was founded by a bequest from Hans Sloane, and the Cotton collection was moved to a new premises in Montagu House on Great Russell Street. The Library was moved to the new Museum building in 1827, where it remained until it was moved to the new St Pancras building in 1997, reflecting the fact that the British Museum and British Library had become separate institutions. If you walk west down Euston Road from Kings Cross Station, you pass within a stone’s throw of Beowulf‘s current home.

For the Beowulf-book – Cotton Vitellius A XV – was not destroyed in the 1731 fire. It was singed around the edges, and left very fragile, desiccated and brittle. This was ominous, and reading the story of the ensuing decades feels a bit like watching a time-lapse movie of the Beowulf-book crumbling to dust before one’s very eyes. In 1794, the Museum’s Keeper of Manuscripts, Joseph Planta, was ordered by Parliament to restore and catalogue the manuscripts – a job involving over eight hundred volumes, including 105 damaged books, including the Beowulf-book, which Planta seems to have had rebound in the 1790s. He worked on the project until 1802, but appears to have botched the job, and further damaged the book. Throughout the first half of the nineteenth century, readers and Museum staff alike had more or less unrestricted access to the manuscript, and it crumbled even further under their hands.

It is a relief to read that in 1845 a general restoration programme of the Cotton manuscripts began, under the auspices of Frederic Madden, another Keeper of Manuscripts, and the restorer Henry Gough. As part of this programme, Madden and Gough finally had the Beowulf-book inlaid – that is, mounted in an album. The album mountings consigned some letters at the edges of the crumbling pages to oblivion under layers of paper and glue, but the text was protected from further damage, and remains today in more or less the same physical condition as it was in in 1845.

Unnoticed and Untouched? Beowulf in the Libraries (2)

By this point, the text of Beowulf was receiving serious scholarly attention. The first public hint that it existed came in 1705, when the pioneering scholar Humfrey Wanley published a catalogue description of the poem, and a transcript of a few lines, in which he mistakenly described Beowulf as a Danish king – a pardonable error, based on a misreading of the poem’s opening lines. But much good came of Wanley’s mistake later in the century, for his catalogue caught the eye of Danish scholars interested in their own country’s early history. Easily the most significant of these was Grímur Jónsson Thorkelin (1752-1829), Professor of Antiquities at Copenhagen University, and Danish state archivist.

Thorkelin (who was of Icelandic extraction, and who seems to have Latinised his name from the more Icelandic Thorkelsson) received regular funding from the Danish monarchy to scour Europe for Danish antiquities, and he was abroad most of the time between 1786 and 1791. In the course of his field trips, he came to London, and, drawn by Wanley’s catalogue, he appears to have paid the Museum to make a copy Beowulf for him. This copy must have raised his eyebrows, because he returned to the Museum and made another copy himself. The Museum copy – known today as Thorkelin A, and possibly written up by a Museum employee called James Matthews – looks rather like any old written document of the time, but Thorkelin’s own transcript – known as Thorkelin B – was as close as he could get, freehand, to an exact facsimile of the original. Both are now essential reading, since they preserve bits of the original text which were destroyed in the early nineteenth century. Thorkelin’s work is so important that, ironically, some of his mistakes have misled generations of scholars.

Armed with his two transcripts, Thorkelin went home to Copenhagen, and began to prepare Beowulf for publication. He was not quite the first person to publish any text from Beowulf: that honour goes to one Sharon Turner, a pioneer historian (and – please note – a male) who translated an extract in 1805 for his History of the Anglo-Saxons, a bestseller in its day which introduced the whole swathe of Anglo-Saxon history to a reading public who hardly knew anything about it. Turner was the writer who described the poem as “untouched and unnoticed” until he worked on it. This is an exaggeration, but not much of one. Turner, incidentally, was the first person to call the poem Beowulf, which he seems to have done in 1803.

But it was Thorkelin published the first complete printed text, and the first full translation (into Latin). It took him a conspicuously long time. The story he tells is that his edition was finished by 1807; then disaster struck again. In the course of the Napoleonic Wars, despite Denmark’s neutrality, the British invaded Denmark, mainly in order to stop Napoleon from doing something similar. The British navy bombarded Copenhagen,  causing thousands of civilian deaths, and extensive damage to infrastructure. The small Danish army presented itself to be outgunned by the Duke of Wellington’s troops with the same David-versus-Goliath spirit with which they confronted the Nazis over a century later. Thorkelin claimed that his manuscript edition was lost in the bombardment, forcing him to start all over from scratch, with his two original transcripts. We only have his word for this, but it seems plausible.

Thorkelin gave Beowulf its first ever print publication, in 1815 – the year the Grimm brothers completed publication the first edition of their seminal Children’s and Household Tales. The Grimms, of course, were also pioneering scholars and linguists in their own right. But Thorkelin’s work on Beowulf was full of mistakes, and he was criticised in his own time by experts such as Grundtvig. Thorkelin has even been dismissed as a fraud. At any rate, the poem was finally available to the public, and other scholars and editors quickly began to make good the deficiencies of his work. In the following years, English scholars, including John Conybeare and a young Frederic Madden, published other versions. After that, the cat was out of the bag, and the history of Beowulf textual scholarship from the mid-nineteenth century to today is an ever more complex interweave of diplomatic editions, facsimiles, restorations and emendations. There are many more high points in this story, including Julius Zupitza’s 1882 autotype of the manuscript (available for free download as a PDF), or Friedrich Klaeber’s monumental edition of the poem, first published in 1922. But the point for us is that Beowulf was now, finally, well and truly in the public domain – at least as a text of interest to scholars.

Poetry so powerful: Beowulf in the Public Domain

I used to think that nobody at all read Beowulf for pleasure until J.R.R. Tolkien revolutionised Beowulf studies by making a killer argument for the poem’s serious artistic value in his famous lecture of 1936, later published as Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics.

People say this, but I’m not convinced it was quite that simple: one can readily imagine that Beowulf would have gone down well with a later nineteenth-century audience, with tastes attuned to Wagner and early Yeats. An intelligible Beowulf was indeed already making its presence felt in art and popular culture. Translations and accessible versions of the poem had been in publication for nearly a century. Translations began to appear within a couple of years of Thorkelin’s first printed edition; the first complete translation (apart from Thorkelin’s Latin version) was Grundtvig’s Danish Bjovulfs Drape. Famous poets such as Tennyson and Longfellow attempted versions of bits of it, but the most influential complete translation was John Kemble’s of 1837. William Morris could hardly have failed to give a poem like this a try, and he did, in 1895. But intellectual fashions changed. Early twentieth century critics tended to approach the poem purely as a historical source; as a work of art or literature, it struck them as – well, as something out of the Dark Ages. Among a general readership, the poem’s profile seems always to have been low.

In 1936, there were reasons why Tolkien would want to revolutionise Beowulf studies. Many universities had a policy of making all English undergraduates study Beowulf as a way of learning Old English – whether or not it was the sort of thing they wanted to study. Generations of English students with no affinity whatsoever for heroic Anglo-Saxon legend were forced to acquire an intimate loathing of it. This might help to explain why so many expert literary critics of 1936 were quick to dismiss this tale of monsters and dragons.

Tolkien, however, insisted that it should be taken seriously. He found Beowulf “so interesting as poetry, in places poetry so powerful, that this quite overshadows the historical content, and is largely independent even of the most important facts … that research has discovered.” More to the point, he argued that the poem was a successful work of art precisely because of the monsters and dragons which were then so intellectually unrespectable. Tolkien argued that the monsters “are essential, fundamentally allied to the underlying ideas of the poem, which give it its lofty tone and high seriousness.” Specifically, he thought they were poetic devices enabling the poet to address the problem of evil and suffering, in a sophisticated and ambivalent way which reconciled the poet’s own Christianity with his knowledge that his ancestors were pagans.

As usual, Tolkien’s contribution involved democratising the artistic works he prized, by ripping some rather snobbish-seeming blinkers off his fellow-intellectuals. In making this argument, Tolkien was, in effect, speaking up for a Beowulf which was genuinely meaningful for readers, including contemporary ones.

In time, a large general public came to agree, in their own way, that Tolkien had a point. Beowulf‘s breakout into popular culture was under way as early as the 1940s, when it appeared as a comic strip in Italy. The experts caught up eventually, and after the Second World War, highly esteemed poets such as W. H. Auden and J. L. Borges began to take Beowulf seriously, although, tellingly, the tone of Borges’ poem about Beowulf seems hesitant: it involves the poet encountering Beowulf and saying to himself, in effect, “Hang on a minute. I actually like this stuff. I’d best explain myself,” and the explanation he offers is not particularly upbeat: he comments that learning Anglo-Saxon is an appropriate undertaking for his declining faculties towards the end of life. Towards the latter end of the twentieth century, other literary heavyweights felt less need to account for their esteem for the poem at all – let alone in such apologetic, downbeat terms. This period was Beowulf‘s boom period as a story for a general and informed audience, just as the later nineteenth century had been its boom years as an academic text for specialists. The volume of Beowulf-related output spiralled exponentially from about 1990, ranging in register from the popular appeal of several fantasy-style movies, to the highbrow kitemark of Seamus Heaney’s award-winning translation of 1999 – as recited by the poet himself, here.

Today, although some of the old ambivalence still seems to cling to contemporary receptions of Beowulf, the poem’s stock is high in both scholarship and culture. The state of the art in terms of scholarship seems to be represented by Kevin Kiernan’s electronic editions of Beowulf. These are ground-breaking in several ways. Firstly, they provide high-resolution images of the whole manuscripts, using backlit photography, UV imaging and other new technologies to read letters, words and passages that have long been illegible – including those hidden under Madden’s protective mountings. Secondly, they cross-reference the text to equally high-resolution images of Thorkelin’s transcripts and other important modern versions of the text. Also, they are stuffed with user-friendly electronic dictionaries, indexes, translations and other forms of support. Finally, they make all this widely accessible in digital and online formats. Today’s students and interested readers have a level of access to the original text of which the most privileged scholars of previous generations could only have dreamed.

They also live in an intellectual and cultural climate which – on the whole – seems markedly friendlier to the study of Beowulf than it was in Tolkien’s day. Recognised expert critics and arbiters of taste are certainly less confident about dismissals of popular and vernacular culture. Representations of the magic and supernatural are also somewhat in vogue again. One critically acclaimed series of novels, Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials, seems to consist of a rather forced attempt to reclaim the realm of magic for the cause of secular rationalism – rather than dismiss it – and it is a telling sign of the times when Gradgrind comes knocking on the door disguised as Dumbledore. Another well-received (and much better) novel for young people, A Monster Calls, exactly mirrors Beowulf‘s strategy of narrating an encounter with a monster within and alongside a real, complex human tragedy. There is an impressive range of encyclopaedic Beowulf websites by scholars and enthusiasts – like this one and this one. Meanwhile, Nobel Prize-winning poets agonise word by word over their translations of the poem, and Robert Zemeckis produces a movie Beowulf in which the plot revolves around Grendel’s mother, drastically reconfigured as a seductive succubus, played by a seemingly butt-naked, digitally enhanced Angelina Jolie. Beowulf this certainly ain’t – or, at least, not in any sense that would be recognised by the poet – but such an eclectic range of register must constitute at least some evidence of major success, for a medieval poem preserved in a lone manuscript which languished in obscurity for half a millennium and nearly disappeared in a house fire a century before almost anyone even knew it existed.

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The Secret Life of … the Housemaid’s Tale

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How many times has the Devil been to Lancashire? We’ll never know. But there are certainly quite a few stories of encounters with the Old Lad and the Lancashire lads. Lately I’ve been looking at a few.

My current favourite Lancashire devil story was told around 1825 by a Anne Bentham, a “housemaid at Bury,” to the aunt of the folklorist Charlotte Burne (1850 – 1923). Burne learned it from her aunt and published it in 1909. It was reprinted in Westwood and Simpson’s The Lore of the Land, currently my take-everywhere, desert-island book.

Westwood and Simpson don’t say when Charlotte Burne learned the story from her aunt, but it was probably in her childhood. Burne’s father was severely disabled, and as a child she was often sent to aunts. From this we can hazard a guess that the middle-aged Burne was publishing a story which she had heard about fifty years previously within the extended family, around the 1850s or 60s. If so, the aunt would have been telling her niece a story which she would herself similarly have heard as a child, about thirty years previously.

The story concerns a battle of wits between Satan and “old Mr Hodgson,” the Bury schoolmaster. Some of Hodgson’s schoolboys inadvertently raised the devil before realising they didn’t know how to send him back to Hell. Mr Hodgson noticed something was wrong when his wooden trencher – a detail which prompts Westwood and Simpson to date the story to the seventeenth century or earlier – began spinning round beneath his dinner. Presumably it was an after-school prank, and Mr Hodgson had gone home to have his tea. Since the Devil in such stories is notable for the sudden violence and brute strength of his movements, perhaps we can imagine the spinning plate as an effect of a shock-wave emanating from Satan’s sudden materialisation.

Anyway, Mr Hodgson hurried to the schoolhouse, and “set about dismissing the Devil by setting him some task he could not perform: traditionally, one had only three chances to do this.” The first task was to “count the blades of grass in the Castle Croft,” and the second was to “count the grains of sand on the School Brow.” The Devil was easily able to do both. The third task was to count “the letters in the large Bible in the Parish Church.” This the Devil could not do – presumably for spiritual reasons – and he fled back to Hell through the schoolroom floor, leaving a large crack in the hearthstone to attest the truth of the story.

Three-stage battles of wit with the devil, or other powerful mortal or immortal enemy, are widely attested in the storytelling traditions of the British Isles. Westwood and Simpson list two other examples for Lancashire alone. The challenging tasks frequently involve counting impossibly large numbers. So far, so commonplace.

Westwood and Simpson say little about the places in which this story is set – Castle Croft, School Brow, the Parish Church, and the schoolroom. Charlotte Burne, their immediate source, doesn’t say much about these places either. Neither, for all I can tell, did the aunt, or the unknown “housemaid at Bury” around 1825. However, I’d hazard a guess that the housemaid – at least – appreciated a pattern in the story’s layout, which certainly isn’t obvious in Burne’s rewritten account: it might easily have been too obvious to mention for any storyteller acquainted with the school and its environs, and too obscure for anyone else to notice. So, with Google Maps only a mouse-click away, let’s have a closer look.

Bury Grammar School dates its foundation from 1727, but has roots stretching back to the 1570s. Nowadays, it has all the Hogwartian trappings of an old public school, including houses with colours, a cadet force, a crest with a Latin motto, and a quaint name for people who went there (“Old Clavians”). Their ranks, interestingly, number the comedian Victoria Wood, alongside MPs of both parties, soldiers, business and media luminaries, and professional sportspeople – and, of course, the alleged amateur Satanists of the housemaid’s story. From the first, Bury Grammar School was attached to the Anglican Parish Church of St Mary the Virgin, and was “originally housed in buildings in The Wylde (which exists today as The Blackburn Hall) behind the Parish Church.” So Blackburn Hall – or somewhere very close to it – gets my vote for the schoolroom of the housemaid’s story.

Mr Hodgson sends the Devil to count the grass ‘in the Castle Croft.’ Where, and what, is Castle Croft? Bury Castle itself did not survive the Wars of the Roses, and today its site is largely occupied by a Territorial Army centre. But it seems fairly clear that the Castle Croft was the tract of land running north from the castle along the bank of the Irwell. It was an open space beyond the western edge of the town, later sliced up by the East Lancashire Railway, and later still again by the A56 Peel Way viaduct. Today, on Google Maps, Castlecroft Road runs between an industrial estate and a patch of open parkland alongside the Irwell, about a quarter-mile north-west of the grammar school. The open ground still seems fairly grassy.

School Brow is a lane off Castlecroft Road, lying between it and the old school site. It doesn’t seem to have many grains of sand these days, but since it runs past a derelict factory into a tunnel under the A56, it may certainly have once been much sandier than it is now.

So it seems that the locations of the devil’s tasks are not arranged at random: they run in a straight(ish) line from the river at the town’s edge to the school at the town’s heart. It follows that the housemaid’s tale shows the Devil being sent from the school almost as far as the river, before making his way directly and inexorably back to the school. This certainly adds to the emotional impact and tension of the story: following the Devil’s abortive banishment to open spaces outside the town, we can now sense him getting a little bit closer with each task, like the wolf in a game of What’s the Time, Mister Wolf, before Mr Hodgson turns the tables just in time. I love the ending: the way the schoolmaster suddenly seems to get the point in the nick of time and tricks the devil; the way the trick suggests that the strongest antidote to evil lies closest to home – and is not always valued.

Also, interestingly, we’re left with a reinforced sense that the school is the home-point, the emotional centre of the story. The story does, in fact, paint quite a plausible picture of an old public school and its residents. Like today’s teenagers, the schoolboys seem prone to dabbling in the occult and getting out of their depth. The cracked hearthstone is a realistic detail and suggsts the spread of frightening rumours about hauntings around the schools as playground folklore, which certainly happens today.

I also note that the story as we have it seems to have been told by an adult to a child, who then grew up and told it to another child, who then grew up, wrote it down, and published it. So perhaps the story was not, or not only, playground folklore. Was it told to two generations of middle-class children as a typically Victorian scary bedtime story? If it was, it would have been common for the storyteller to be a family servant: domestic service was a major point of contact between the classes, and, so, a major channel of folklore from working-class culture to young middle-class ears.

Which brings us to the housemaid. Who was Anne Bentham? Did she have some connection to the school? Would that explain how she met the Burnes, an Anglican clergy family which would have found a natural habitat in schools like Bury Grammar, and who might have been flattered by a story of an Anglican schoolmaster’s victory over the devil? Who did she hear the story from? Someone else with a school connection?

The Secret Life of … Father Christmas

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The modern Father Christmas isn’t a folktale, strictly, since there are no actual stories about him and he’s always seen as being just there. So perhaps he doesn’t really belong on a folktale blog at all. On the other hand, he is a legendary figure in the sense that he’s rumoured (at least in some circles) to really exist. Also, if you go far enough back, he’s a saint about whom many stories certainly have been told. So let’s crave the indulgence due to the season and have a proper look at him.

 

As everyone knows, the secret life of Father Christmas begins with St Nicholas. There have been attempts to push his roots further back. The poet Robert Graves had him down as a mushroom-munching shaman, but the evidence, such as it is, is against this. So St Nicholas it is. Attested facts about the historical Nicholas are predictably few, but apparently he was bishop of Myra in modern Turkey in the fourth century AD. His remains – lovingly cherished during the Middle Ages, as saints’ relics tended to be – were moved from Myra to the Italian town of Bari, so among sticklers for detail in the Catholic Church he is known as St Nicholas of Bari – and in 2005 his face was reconstructed from the remains by forensic experts from Manchester University, yielding this image of the actual face of Santa Claus. His white beard is apparently accurate and his broken nose was quite likely sustained through torture in the course of the emperor Diocletian’s persecution of the early Christians. Like, wow.

The memory of the real Nicholas soon acquired a saintly aura, and he became the object of veneration around his home area within a couple of centuries of his death. He went on to become a very popular saint in medieval Europe, with a feast-day on December 6th, and an accompanying body of legend relating numerous miracles and good deeds, and attesting to his habit of secret gift-giving. He miraculously “resuscitated three little boys whom and innkeeper had murdered and salted down to make into pies,” and also “secretly threw three bags of gold through the window of a poor man’s house, as dowries for his three daughters, who would otherwise have been sold into prostitution.” Such tales were enough to establish Nicholas as the patron saint of children (among other things, including “the unjustly imprisoned, scholars, seafarers, pawnbrokers (whose symbol is his three gold balls), barrel makers, brewers, bootblacks, brides, druggists and perfumiers, among others“). Here we seem to find the deepest historical root of the Santa phenomenon, since gift-giving to children became permanently associated with his feast-day across Catholic Europe. The Dutch St Nicholas was remembered as a bishop and visualised accordingly, in a red cope; the German saint had a retinue of elf-like helpers who brought presents for good children, but also a flogging for bad ones. Such are the direct antecedents of the modern Santa, as can be gleaned from Jacqueline Simpson and Steve Roud’s indispensible Dictionary of English Folklore.

There were English traditions of Saint Nicholas running parallel to the German and Dutch ones, but they seem not to have fed so directly into the modern Santa, mainly because they fell foul of the Protestant reformation. In the Middle Ages, for example, the English kept St Nicholas’ Day as a day of licensed horseplay associated with young people. On December 6th, church institutions such as “cathedrals, abbeys, collegiate churches and schools” would elect a bogus “boy bishop,” sometimes known as a “St Nicholas,” who dressed up bishop-style and presided over a period of typically medieval misrule, involving processions and fundraising collections in the street, with the typical boy bishop’s bogus term of office lasting until December 28th. This custom fell into disuse in the 1550s, but it seems to have survived the Reformation in adapted form as a day of tolerated horseplay within schools: in the 1680s, John Aubrey was still recording that St Nicholas was “the patron of the School-boies” and describing his feast as a day when scholars enjoyed “the priviledge to break open their Masters Cellar-dore.”

The English meanwhile had also been in the habit of personifying Christmas at least since the late Middle Ages, predominantly indeed as a bearded old man, but at first St Nicholas and Father Christmas seem to have been quite distinct characters, just as their feast-days were separate events. In English, the earliest extant reference to “Sir Christemas” seems to be in the lyrics of a carol which was probably written by a mid-fifteenth century Devonshire priest, Richard Smart. In the carol, Sir Christmas is welcomed in person by revellers. “Captain Christmas,” the “Christmas Lord” and “Prince Christmas” appear in similar terms over the following century or so, and, like “St Nicholas,” the name was also used as a temporary title for real people appointed to preside over periods of licensed misrule during corporate revelry in various institutions. “Old Gregory Christmas” features in a Ben Jonson masque of 1616, and “Old Father Christmas” was put on trial in a 1658 pamphlet satirising the Commonwealth government. This seems to be the Father Christmas who appears as a kind of chorus or narrator in the folk theatre or mummers’ plays which flourished in their modern form (according to the record) mainly from the eighteenth century, and were performed in local contexts often at or around Christmas.

For the following two centuries or so, the English Christmas seems to have gone into something of a decline, but if so it was revived by the Victorians, who naturally revived the character of (Father/Captain/etcetera) Christmas along with it. However, it took time for consensus to emerge regarding this character’s name and attributes. Accordingly, Christmas appeared in the 1840s as “a reveller in Elizabethan costume grasping a tankard, a wild, holly-crowned giant pouring wine, or a lean figure striding along carrying a wassail bowl and a log.” In similar terms he appeared as a hearty, bearded, but youthful and green-robed Spirit of Christmas Present in Dickens’ Christmas Carol (1843). Red at this point was an increasingly common but not mandatory colour for his livery, and at first he seems to have had no particular relationship to children or gift-giving specifically; he was simply a symbol of the festival and the general air of merriment which went with it. Concomitantly, if Dickens’ famous story is anything to go by, the Victorian Christmas was mainly about food, bought and shared within the family, with an almost vestigial religious observance and a general, fairly secular sense of charity and good fellowship. It consisted mainly of a visit to church and a special family meal, and the exchange of presents did not bulk large in its foreground.

However, from the 1870s, quite quickly, a child-friendly, gift-giving, German-American Santa Claus quickly re-established himself in England as the standard version of Father Christmas, and he remains so to this day. German and Dutch immigrants had carried the old Catholic legends and customs of St Nicholas to America, and in America these had been re-defined in less doctrinally specific terms to reinvent Santa as a clandestine gift-giving pixie. Washington Irving – the man who invented the mistaken idea that people before Columbus thought the world was flat – is said to have been the first to put Santa in a flying sleigh. Irving’s timing was bad from the viewpoint of the reindeer, since St Nicholas wasn’t long in America before he began to put on weight as well; a watershed moment in this process was Clement Clarke Moore’s famous 1822 poem, The Visit of Saint Nicholas (also known as The Night Before Christmas), which was illustrated by Thomas Nast in the 1860s. Here we encounter the well-known “fat man dressed in fur, driving a reindeer sleigh,” wearing a “belted jacket and furry cap.” Moore’s St Nick differs from the modern Santa in at least three further respects. Firstly, he seems to be a dwarf – hence his ability to get down chimneys, a point rather obscured in later versions of the legend which feature a full-size Santa. Secondly, Moore’s Santa smokes a pipe. Thirdly, it still isn’t entirely clear that he’s dressed in red: in fact, Santa’s trousers were often shown as blue Dutch knickerbockers until the early twentieth century, in token of his Dutch/German roots. “Santa Claus,” the form preferred by Thomas Nast, is an English rendering of Sinterklaas, the saint’s title and name in colloquial Dutch.

The American Santa Claus may have first reached England in a short story, The Christmas Stocking, by Susan Warner and published in London in 1854. It’s possible, too, that he reached England directly from Europe, like the Christmas tree; or European and American traditions may have met and overlapped with English ones. However it happened, the modern English Father Christmas had emerged by around 1880. We can now take up the tale with Notes and Queries (1849 – ), a weekly magazine that functioned, in effect, as a folklore discussion group in mid-Victorian England. In 1879, a Mr Edwin Lees (who may even be the man who founded this society – one day I’ll check) wrote to inform this magazine’s readers that he had “only lately been told” of a hitherto unrecorded custom from Herefordshire, Worcestershire and Devonshire:

On Christmas Eve, when the inmates of a house in the country retire to bed, all those desirous of a present place a stocking outside the door of their bedroom, with the expectation that some mythical being called Santiclaus will fill the stocking or place something within it before morning … From what region of the earth or air this benevolent Santiclaus takes flight I have not been able to ascertain.

The stockings, says Mr Lees, were secretly filled by “the master of the house” and more fanciful talk of “Santiclaus” was the preserve of “giggling girls.” It’s fascinating to note Mr Lees’ bewilderment at what is now literally part and parcel of Christmas celebrations: clearly it’s all utterly foreign to him, and you can almost hear him muttering: What will they think of next? The strange new custom was noted in County Durham about a decade later by a William Brockie, who surmised that Santiclaus was a folk memory of ‘Santa Cruz,’ the ‘Holy Cross’. In 1883 the chimney-diving, present-bringing Santa appeared to a French visitor to England as a matter of common knowledge.

Santiclaus was here to stay, and that completes the story of his secret life – almost. For, as rumour sometimes purports, the new Santa did in fact feature prominently in a 1931 advertising campaign for Coca-Cola, in illustrations by Haddon Sundblom. Sundblom generally is a striking figure because he almost seems to have made a career out of the capitalist misappropriation of religious imagery: he also, for example, painted the jolly old Quaker trademark for Quaker Oats, a company with no actual link to the Quaker movement whatsoever, and one of his last commissions was a faintly unsettling 1972 cover for Playboy featuring a young woman falling out of a red and white Santa cloak – which seems to sum up his legacy neatly. But Coca-Cola, and Sundblom, seem to have strengthened, rather than invented, Santa’s old association with red and white livery: it seems to be the 1931 campaign which finally established Santa’s default headgear as a “drooping tasselled red cap,” rather than (say) a brown fur cap or crown of holly.

And there, finally, we have it. In England at least, Father Christmas is a hybrid. He is partly a very old lay figure personifying the Christmas festival, and partly a recently-imported European-American folk saint with roots in medieval legend, and links to a custom of giving gifts (especially) to children. He is all overlain with a veneer of secular and commercialised popular culture – and (in my view at least) not one whit the less genuinely magical for any of that.

And the reindeer names? Dasher and Donner and the others? Most of them are mentioned in Moore’s 1822 poem, but the famous Rudolf first appears in an eponymous poem written by an adman for use by department store Santas, and set to music in 1949 after it proved popular with the children. It was a hit for Gene Autry.

The Secret Life of … Thomas Stonehouse and the Hobmen

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This is Hob Garth, a farmhouse near Glaisdale on the North York Moors.

In the later 1800s, an amateur Victorian gentleman researcher called Richard Blakeborough wrote a number of books on northern English folklore. One of these was the snappily-titled “Wit, Character, Folklore & Customs of the North Riding of Yorkshire; with a Glossary of over 4,000 Words and Idioms Now in Use.” This 1898 book contains an account which Blakeborough had from a labouring man on the Mulgrave estate (near Whitby castle) who was the grandson of the tenant of Hob Garth in 1760. The grandfather’s name was Thomas Stonehouse.

Stonehouse is interesting because he seems to have transmitted one of the few surviving first-hand accounts of a meeting with an English fairy. Fairies? On the North York Moors in the late eighteenth century? Goodness. You might almost think Stonehouse was making it all up. And he certainly had the motive. Although his grandson’s account naturally takes his side, it’s clear from Blakeborough’s account that someone had certainly done some nasty stuff to a man Stonehouse didn’t like. It speaks volumes for the world Stonehouse lived in that he encouraged people to ascribe responsibility to the pixies – as opposed (say) hoodies, terrorists, travellers, asylum seekers, blacks, dogs or Irish.

Stonehouse had beef with a neighbour by the name of Bland, who lived in nearby Great Fryup. Blakeborough doesn’t record why they fell out, but Bland went through a stage of breaking down Stonehouse’s fences and scattering his sheep. It was a winter war between neighbours in rough terrain, and under such conditions lost beasts were presumably serious business: expensive to lose and difficult and dangerous to recover. Stonehouse’s own sheep were recovered and his fences mended, but Bland’s fences were then broken in turn and his cattle scattered – all by persons unknown, as his grandson tells it. Stonehouse had taken a chill recovering his own lost sheep and was allegedly in bed at the time, and it wasn’t long – so runs the story – before the neighbours started to noise it about that Stonehouse was being helped along in his dispute by the “hobs” or “hobmen.”

Blakeborough gives two fairly equivocal pieces of evidence to corroborate his grandfather’s story. One was Stonehouse’s account of a face-to-face meeting with the hob. This account is uncorroborated – almost. But when Stonehouse recovered from his chill, he went up to feed his sheep, arranging with a neighbour to give him a lift back home on his cart, but, as the neighbour with the cart drew up, he happened, as if by chance, to overhear the apparently sane and rational Stonehouse alone by the gate, in the middle of a friendly conversation with person or persons invisible. Stonehouse was to claim that he had been accosted by the helpful hob. The hob – said Stonehouse – had told him that Bland was nothing to worry about – as the forthcoming lambing season would make that clear. Stonehouse, of course, could easily have just play-acted the whole thing as the neighbour drove up in order to feed the rumours, but his grandson’s account recalls that, when lambing season came, Stonehouse’s flock was indeed unusually prolific, and he did indeed do conspicuously better than Bland.

So how did Stonehouse describe the mysterious creature which he claimed to have been chatting with? “An old man of strange appearance,” says Blakeborough, “with very long hair, and very large feet, eyes, mouth and hands. He stooped as he walked, and was using a long holly stick.”

For the rest of Blakeborough’s account, and more in like vein, see here – “Wit, Character, Folklore and Customs,” pp.207ff.

The Secret Life of … Homer

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The two Homeric poems – the Iliad and the Odyssey – are unusual in that, in the west at least, they never needed to be discovered, or rediscovered. They have enjoyed pre-eminence from the time they were first written down. Compare this with the fate of comparable oral and oral-derived epics from other times and cultures, and we can see how the west has tended to favour anything Greek over anything else. Gilgamesh (see elsewhere on this blog) was buried, quite forgotten, in lost cities under sand-dunes, for two thousand years. The Finnish Kalevala probably has prehistoric roots, but it first made it to print in the 1840s. The very existence of the west African Sundiata epic was more or less flatly denied outright by scholarly experts like Ruth Finnegan as late as the 1960s. The central Asian Manas epos is still virtually unknown in the west, despite clocking in as the biggest oral epic tradition ever, at a round million lines per poem, and enjoying a post-Soviet revival. And so forth.

The Iliad and Odyssey are both oral epics, or, more strictly, oral-derived epics: in their original form they were composed and transmitted orally. Since, as texts, both are around 12,000 lines long, oral composition is quite an achievement, and it took scholars centuries to even begin to work out how it was done.

Maybe I’ll tell that story one day, but it’s been told many times. For the moment, I’m more interested in answering the less frequently asked question of how the texts of the poems, once created, were themselves transmitted over two thousand years to the present day, in a world which (for the most part) had no printing presses, no damp-proofing, no fire-extinguishers, and little else that would increase the average manuscript’s chances of long-term survival. How have we managed to keep hold of readable texts of the poems over two millennia? How close are today’s texts to what ‘Homer’ – whoever that was – sang?

The poems deal with the Greek view of the Trojan war, which was itself a later episode in a very long, substantial, essentially legendary history, which ultimately ran straight back, through the stories of well-known Greek heroes such as Jason, Theseus, Perseus and Oedipus, and stories of the Great Flood, to mythic accounts of the creation of humanity and the world. Although these Greek traditions have oral roots, Greeks had begun to adopt the older civilisations’ pictographic writing systems, and by the mid-8th century BCE they were already using alphabetic scripts which they had borrowed from the neighbouring Phoenicians (whose Semitic language and culture connects them with the Israelites’ alphabetic Bible, emerging in the same centuries). This adapted Phoenician script is still the Greek alphabet of today.

The Greeks at this early point in their history, were a relatively marginal people, living in small, competing city-states, under conditions of political fragmentation, offset by a growing sense of unity or Panhellenism (“all-of-Greece-ism”). This developed in opposition to a great and expanding centre of civilisation to the east: the Persian empire. Nowadays, Persia is Iran. In the first millennium BC, and for several centuries afterwards until the Arab Muslims conquered it, it was the centre of a large empire and a civilisation of global standing, the major centre of settled culture between Europe and India. Greece was a backwater on the Persian margins, and Greek unity developed in resistance to the huge threat of Persian conquest.

Prominent among Panhellenic institutions was the Panathenaic festivals at Athens. Throughout this period and beyond, performing poets known as rhapsodes continued to keep Homeric tradition alive, either reciting a fixed text from memory or creating their own versions of well-known stories. Prominent among the rhapsodes were an order known as the Homeridai or “sons of Homer,” who claimed a special authority with regard to the poet’s legacy. Hard evidence is rather skimpy, but the two great poems, the Iliad and the Odyssey, are traditionally said to have been first written down, possibly by direct dictation from single performances, in an attempt to iron out discrepancies in local dialects and narrative traditions, and establish a text for recitation at these festivals which would be authoritative within the whole Greek culture area. But there is no hard evidence for written texts of the poems from this period.

As ancient Greek history proceeded along its course, these two early poems were – apparently – rewritten and copied, and orally recited in an ongoing tradition, and continued to enjoy unrivalled high standing in these forms. They inspired an enormous volume of comment and imitation, much of it now lost, over the next few centuries, as the Greeks beat the odds by seeing off an attempted Persian invasion, and used their new writing system to create and record all of what we think of as the great works of classical Greek literature, poetry and philosophy. They were then forced into political unity by one of their own marginal peoples, the northern Macedonians. The Macedonians then went on, under Alexander (probably Homer’s most famous fan), to occupy and establish a large empire including Greece, Egypt, Persia, parts of central Asia, and most of the Middle East as far as the Indus river-valley in modern Pakistan. This empire quickly fragmented, and the pieces were slowly picked off piecemeal by the Romans in the west and the revived Persians in the east. But this was not before Greek language and culture had made a more lasting mark across the whole area. It is from this late and fluid period, in the mid-3rd century BCE, that we find, at last, our earliest hard evidence for the two Homeric poems as written texts, in the surviving records of the great Greek library at Alexandria, a new Greek city in Greek-occupied Egypt, where a few of the many versions circulating at the time were edited and deposited.

We know that there were complete texts of the poems in the library at Alexandria, but none of them have survived. The oldest surviving complete text of the Iliad only surfaces in the early 10th century, in Byzantium, in the archives of the surviving eastern half of the Roman empire, which had half-collapsed under the three-pronged assault of Germanic, Turkic and Arab invaders. Named by scholars Venetus A, it now rests in the Public Library of St. Mark, in Venice, and is being scanned for free online public access, by Harvard University. It will be available here. It looks like this: heavily annotated, with scholarly apparatus stretching back to the lost editions of Alexandria. That’s Alexandria for you. When an Alexandrian librarian annotated a text, the text stayed annotated. Some Alexandrian footnotes have lasted longer than other people’s entire civilisations.

So the rest, as they say, is history. Homer continued to influence both Christian and Muslim scholars and writers through the medieval and modern periods, and copies and citations of the poems are relatively plentiful thereafter.

Throughout this complex history, numerous written and spoken versions of the two basic stories continued to circulate and affect each other. The upshot is that we cannot be sure if and how our present-day Iliad and Odyssey are really oral epics at all, in the sense of being things which one or more singers composed and performed without the help of writing. They are almost certainly hybrids: literate texts which are fairly close to the old oral epic tradition.

But we cannot know how close: Homer’s voice, of course, fell silent many centuries before the poem in Venetus A was copied down.

The Secret Life of … Gilgamesh

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If, for some reason, you wanted to pinpoint the exact starting-point of all western literature, the ancient Mesopotamian epic of Gilgamesh would have a reasonable claim to be it. It follows the legendary career of an irrepressible demi-god, king of the city-state of ancient Uruk, as he fights monsters (such as the entrail-faced demon Huwawa), engages gods and goddesses in battles of wit and will, and finds true friendship with a wild man, Enkidu, who has been tamed and brought into the city. Most famously, when Enkidu dies, the grief-stricken Gilgamesh goes on a world-spanning search for immortality – and finds it (perhaps). Short though it may be relative to some other epics, the story of Gilgamesh, written by an Assyrian scribe on twelve clay tablets in Biblical times, deals authoritatively with themes of life, death, love, grief, growing up, the nature of the world, and the place of human society in it. It is one of the most ambitious and complete works of narrative art in existence.

Gilgamesh himself is a kingly hero on the old legendary pattern, but there is an appealingly tricksterish quality to his naivety and boundless energy. The story begins with an appetising description of the magnificent city of Uruk, the kingdom of Gilgamesh, the son of the human king Lugulbanda and of the cow-goddess Ninsun. The basic problem is that Gilgamesh is so invincible that he is causing trouble around Uruk, randomly bullying all the men and seducing all the women. The chief mother-goddess Aruru (or Ninhursag) creates a wild man, Enkidu, who wanders the countryside outside Uruk, keeping company with the wild beasts, until a humble hunter spots him. Word comes to Gilgamesh, who sends Shamhat, a priestess of the goddess Ishtar, to tame the wild man by sleeping with him. Since Ishtar is one of the patron-gods of Uruk itself, her priestess, by implication, is the channel of the core values and wisdom of the civilisation, and after seven nights’ lovemaking, Enkidu has indeed acquired human wisdom, and, seemingly in consequence, the wild animals are beginning to give him a wide berth. Enkidu is far from happy, but recognising his changed state, from beastlike to fully human, he asks Shamhat to take him to Uruk. She does so, and, in fulfilment of Gilgamesh’s own prophetic dream, he and Gilgamesh meet and become the closest of friends.

Gilgamesh and Enkidu now form one of the oldest buddy double-acts in recorded world literature, and proceed to tackle and kill a series of monsters, including the forest-demon Humbaba (Huwawa in the older Sumerian). All goes well enough until Gilgamesh refuses a marriage-proposal from the goddess Ishtar, rather tactlessly pointing out the misfortune which she has always ended up inflicting on her previous lovers. Rejected and furious, Ishtar runs to her father, the sun-god Anu, who reluctantly releases one more monster, the Bull of Heaven, into her keeping. As if to prove Gilgamesh right, the vengeful Ishtar unleashes the Bull of Heaven at Gilgamesh and Enkidu, but they manage to kill it as they have killed all the other monsters. Affronted at the slaughter of the symbol of their surpreme power, the gods decide on another attempt to rein in the irrepressible Gilgamesh, and decree that either he or Enkidu must die.

At this point the tone of the epic changes. Up till now everything has gone Gilgamesh’s way, but now he is increasingly powerless, the plaything of terrible events and forces beyond his control, and the story becomes, not one of his heroic triumph over adversity, but his growing realisation of his own tragic helplessness in the face of it. Enkidu and Gilgamesh have premonitions of disaster, and Enkidu curses the priestess Shamhat, presumably for tangling him up in the fate of civilised humanity. But the gods point out the positive side of his experiences, and Enkidu resigns himself to the inevitable, blesses Shamhat, falls sick, and dies.

The suddenly terrified and grief-stricken Gilgamesh has an image made of his dead friend, but when this fails to console him, he resolves to seek out the immortal sage Ut-napishtim in order to prevent his own death. Ut-napishtim is the supremely good and wise survivor of the Great Flood, related in storytelling tradition to the Noah of the Bible, and although he has been gifted with immortality by the gods, he lives in the land of the dead. Gilgamesh sets out to find him. He meets with Siduri, the innkeeper along the road to the land of the dead, and Ur-shanabi, the ferryman who sails across the river of death, and advises him how to cross it. Finally, Gilgamesh comes to Utnapishtim, who advises him not to seek to avoid death, and tells him the story of the Flood to illustrate his point. Gilgamesh insists, and Utnapishtim tells him that to avoid death he must go seven nights without sleep. He fails. Utnapishtim gives him a second chance, telling him of a herb which confers immortality. Gilgamesh scours the cosmic ocean for this herb, and finds it. Returning jubilantly to Uruk with the herb, he stops to wash himself in a pool, and a snake eats the herb. Gilgamesh observes the snake shedding its skin as it slithers away, and realises that his quest has been in vain. He consoles himself with boasting to Urshanabi the ferryman about the strength and beauty of the walls of Uruk, and so the whole story ends where it began – with a vision of the magnificence of humanity and its achievements – but seasoned with the bittersweet hindsight which tells us that no-one, not even the invincible Gilgamesh, can cheat death.

The standard text of Gilgamesh has a very chequered prehistory. As we have seen, the real Gilgamesh was a king of Uruk (Biblical Erech – that is, Warka in modern Iraq), an important city-state, cult centre and centre of literacy around the very beginning of the oldest historical period, around 2800 – 2500 BCE. There is no contemporary written evidence for his existence. However, very early illustrations appear to show episodes from his adventures, and written evidence dating from soon after his death indicates that he was already being worshipped as a god, in the way many ancient kings were (including Egyptian pharaohs and the much later Greek and Roman emperors). He, his “father” Lugulbanda and grandfather Enmerkar are the three major figures of the later Mesopotamian king-lists and story-collections, in exactly the same way that Israelite kings such as David and Solomon came to feature in the compendious “begats” and narrative episodes of the Hebrew Bible. So there was a Gilgamesh, in all probability. Gilgamesh may have actually been Lugulbanda’s biological son, but it is possible that their relationship was one of political “adoption” designed to secure a legally robust succession to the throne of Uruk. The two men may even have been rivals.

The earliest surviving Gilgamesh stories are found across a wide area of the Middle East and are written in cuneiform script in various languages, chiefly Akkadian. They date from after 2150 BCE, by which point Akkadian was replacing Sumerian as the official language, under the increasing influence of neighbouring Akkad, with its capital Babylon, over the original centre of literate civilisation in Sumer. These tablets are mostly short single episodes or adventures, apparently existing in multiple variants in various parallel traditions, presumably rooted, at least ultimately, in orality. But by 1700 BCE there was already an early or “Old Babylonian” version of the single epic of Gilgamesh. Around 1200 BCE, various texts were collated and translated into the version we now regard as standard, and, unusually for so ancient a literary text, we may know the name of the author from later Mesopotamian tradition. He is supposed to have been called Sin-leqe-unnini. Unlike the Sumerian and Akkadian empires which ultimately spawned it, the standard version of the epic survived the turbulent Dark Age around 1000 BCE, for the surviving copy dates from around the 8th or 7th century BCE and was lodged in the library at Nineveh, the capital of a young Mesopotamian empire, that of Assyria. The default version of the Gilgamesh epic thus dates from what Europeans would call Old Testament times, by which point the Gilgamesh tradition was as old as Beowulf or the oldest Arthurian material is today.

Nineveh in turn was destroyed in 612 BCE by a new imperial regime based on the old centre of Babylon, which then fell to the Persians, then the Greeks, and there is evidence that Gilgamesh stories, or at least their basic plot elements and motifs, continued to circulate in text form as late as the Greek times and beyond. Odysseus’ encounter with Calypso, for example, seems to echo Gilgamesh’s encounter with Siduri. But ecological and political disaster had overcome the urban centres of the Middle East, and the whole area had become the desert it is today. The vast written records were lost amid the ruins and their very existence was forgotten until the nineteenth-century explosion of text-based research caught up with them. In 1844, an English traveller, Austen Henry Layard, began excavations around modern Mosul and was staggered to discover the ruins of the Biblical Nineveh, including tens of thousands of then-unreadable cunieform tablets. Within a decade, cuneiform script had been deciphered. Many of the tablets turned out to be relatively humdrum: accounts, records of payment, and the like. Then, in 1872, George Smith, a British Muesum curator, realised that the tablet he was reading contained a Flood myth similar to the one he knew from the Bible. Smith, of course, had stumbled on what we now know as the dialogue between Gilgamesh and Utnapishtim. Although he knew nothing else of the Gilgamesh story (because nobody did), Smith was immediately so overwhelmed by this discovery that he laid the tablet down on the table, stripped off, and ran, seemingly half-naked, around the room, much to the astonishment of his fellow-scholars.

By the turn of the nineteenth century the epic of Gilgamesh was available in translation to general readers, and was being hailed as a classic of world literature by heavyweights such as Rainer Maria Rilke, who described the poem as “stupendous … one of the greatest things that could happen to a person.”

And so, in one sense, it is. Check this out for some modern images which I think really capture the spirit of the story, courtesy of the wonderful Mythstories museum.

And – of course – I’ve helped do Gilgamesh as a commission for Huddersfield Literature Festival, at the kind invitation of the commissionee, my friend and collaborator Tim Ralphs. So if you want me to tell you in person how Gilgamesh and Enkidu first met, click here and go to 1:43.

The Secret Life of … Robin Hood

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Executive Summary

Robin Hood is a legendary medieval English outlaw and forester, the hero of a mostly or wholly fictional cycle of stories composed and circulated continuously from medieval to modern times. In the earliest (and best) material, Robin was originally imagined as a common outlaw in a relatively realistic setting. Following the end of the medieval period, the story-cycle degenerated into fantasy, and Robin Hood is now commonly imagined as a dispossessed aristocrat of the reign of Richard I, the lover of Marian, a social revolutionary, a Saxon rebel, and/or an icon of paganism. However, none of these elements derive from early or medieval forms of the legend; some could not possibly do so; and, most importantly, the stories are better off without them. However, while varying widely in content, tone and character, all tales of Robin Hood have always tended to agree in showing Robin as a subversive figure leading a band of fellow-outlaws, and the forest which he often haunts as a naturally beautiful haven of escape from normal social constraints. A charismatic character, usually pictured in a highly evocative setting, Robin Hood, alone among traditional English legendary heroes, enjoys continuing currency and a global profile in the modern world.

Robin Hood in the Middle Ages

The historical roots of the legend lie in the context of two specific features of medieval English law: the outlaw and the forest. An outlaw was a designated fugitive from justice, and courts passed sentence of outlawry – effectively, a death sentence – on those who failed to turn up for a hearing on any one of a range of charges. A forest was a legally protected hunting reserve, kept out of cultivation and settlement by a special and savagely punitive body of law, and forests were large tracts of managed semi-wilderness (many were indeed heavily wooded, which is how forest came to mean woodland in modern English). Forest law tied up vast tracts of fertile land into wasteful playgrounds for the wealthy, and medieval people, being mostly rent-crippled peasant farmers at permanent risk of starvation, hated it; and, since a well-wooded forest was also the least worst available hiding-place for outlaws who had nothing further to lose by trespassing there, it is not surprising to see outlaw foresters tolerated or celebrated in late medieval English vernacular culture. Robin Hood was one of several such figures.

Scholars have failed to identify the real Robin Hood, if ever there was one. There are several reasons for the uncertainty, as we will shortly see. One expert, J.C. Holt, has suggested a Robert Hod who was outlawed at York in 1225 and about whom little else is known. But between around 1250 and 1500, a figure called Robin Hood joined the ranks of the outlaws and heroes of regional and vernacular legend, such as Hereward the Wake, Eustace the Monk, Foulke Fitzwarin, and Ranulf Earl of Chester, and came to feature in rhymes (long verse narratives), plays, historical chronicles, proverbs, and even place-names, from Kent and Somerset to Northumberland, Cumberland and Scotland.

Unfortunately, the surviving record for this period is patchy, and does not include any actual Robin Hood stories. But early references are widespread and suggest that the stories were widely known, and they eventually came to inform the writing of more sober history. Many of the earliest references seem to imply that the stories were viewed simply as trivial rubbish, at least by the literate. The priest-poet William Langland, writing around Chaucer’s time in the later 1300s, makes one disapproving reference in passing to rhymes of Robin Hood as examples of the sort of thing a slothful sinner would recite instead of his prayers. The phrase Robin Hood in Sherwood stood appears in a tantalising doodle in the margin of a random document, and, oddly, the same phrase was also used in courtroom debates: if you were a fifteenth-century lawyer, and you wanted to take the mickey out of an opponent for starting to stray off-topic, you could give a contemptuous snort of “Robin Hood in Sherwood stood!” – the point being that the line, apparently a stereotypical opening for a Robin Hood story, invariably presaged a torrent of irrelevant drivel. The proverb Many speak of Robin Hood that never shot his bow existed as a rather similar retort to excessively big talk by the ill-informed. So, for some at least, the first legendary Robin Hood was essentially a dismissive by-word for claptrap: a medieval near-equivalent to the contemporary bullshit-sneeze.

However, Robin’s early reputation involved rather more than this. Holt has pointed out that, on at least one occasion, in the early 1260s, an official recorded the name of a real criminal, William son of Robert le Fevre, as William RobehodRobinhood (with similar forms in a variety of spellings) was certainly emerging as a normal surname around this period throughout the South of England, and, as such, might often have meant simply redheaded. The family surname system was still forming at this period and many surnames were still essentially personal nicknames. In this instance, Robehod appears to be a nickname specifically for an outlaw. More examples of this usage followed. As criminal and outlaw gangs became widespread in the later Middle Ages, their leaders assumed, or were allotted, numerous aliases; and many real criminals did, in fact, go around calling themselves (or being called) Robin Hood, Little John and Friar Tuck. The situation was complicated by the practice, widespread in local communities, of dressing up as these legendary characters, for plays, pageants, and church-related fundraising events known as “church ales.” These events themselves had a tendency to get quite rowdy, and at times even degenerate into riots – medieval communities were like that – so, in practice, community events sometimes segued fairly seamlessly into actual criminality and social disorder.

Finally, around the same time, serious chroniclers were including brief references to Robin Hood in factual accounts of history. Andrew of Wyntoun in the 1420s and Walter Bower in the 1440s both date Robin’s career to the later 1200s, and locate him not in Sherwood but in northern England and the Scottish border. Like the widespread Robin Hood place-names, including the West Country burial mounds named Robin Hood’s Butts, the chronicles suggest that there was not one single Robin Hood legend so much as a number of regional variants set in differing localities. If so, most of these local Robin Hoods were eventually superseded by the Sherwood-based Robin of the English Midlands, who forms the central figure of the legend we know today.

The earliest surviving Robin Hood stories date from about 1450. They are recorded, sometimes in manuscript but usually in print, as long ballad-like poems – that is, apparently, as rhymes of the kind which offended Langland. The longest, laughably titled A Lyttell Geste of Robyn Hode, is no less than 456 verses long, and tells a long, many-stranded tale in which Robin’s band rob several travellers on the highway; strike up a working partnership with a poverty-stricken knight, Sir Richard of the Lee; outwit and outfight the Sheriff of Nottingham several times; and eventually surrender amicably, to a secretly rather impressed king Edward. Robin Hood and the Monk and Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne tell shorter but rather similar tales. The outlaws include Robin, Little John, Much the Miller’s Son and Will Scarlock. Officialdom is represented by king Edward, the Sheriff of Nottingham, various abbots and wealthy churchmen and officials, and their paid hit-man, the commoner Guy of Gisborne. And Robin, like Guy, is a commoner: specifically, both are “yeomen,” a slightly ambiguous term which could mean either a reasonably well-to-do farmer or a member of a class of junior servants destined for employment on a noble estate, and in this case probably means the latter, since in these ballads Robin and John infiltrate noble households with ease and even take occasional bouts of respectable employment in them.

In these early ballads, we never find out why Robin is outlawed. He leads a band, lives in Sherwood on the proceeds of poaching and highway robbery, and spends his time goading and outwitting the Sheriff. His favourite targets, besides the Sheriff himself, are wealthy churchmen. However, he is personally devout: he risks capture to hear Mass in Nottingham; and, in an interesting example of freedom of religion, he prays to the Virgin Mary to guarantee a loan, and when he later successfully robs the monks of St Mary’s Abbey, he concludes that his prayers have been answered. This is typical of the subversive brand of rough justice which he visits on knights and kings, testing their personal mettle without seriously challenging their status. Although clearly the undisputed leader of the outlaw band, Robin is tricksterish, heedless and impulsive, and often has to rely on Little John to play Jeeves to his Wooster, talk sense into him, and save the situation. Robin is eventually deceived and killed by a rare female character, the abbess of Kirklees, in revenge for his previous murder of her lover.

We can only guess how these stories were performed or read, and who formed their typical audience. They seem to be connected to the repertoires of the professional wandering minstrels who frequented noble and other households within feudal society. Robin may appear as an idealised yeoman precisely because he would appeal as such to the yeomen who would have formed a large proportion of the typical audience in such a setting. It has also been suggested that the stories were pitched at urban audiences in the emerging towns, in which case they may have functioned as a fantasy of the wildwood, rather as Robin Hood does today. It used to be argued that the ballads express the rebellious spirit of the rural peasantry of later medieval England, but this idea has fallen out of favour. Whatever the audience, the setting of the stories is relatively realistic and specific: it is Sherwood, the large forest which occupied much of modern Nottinghamshire, and the places mentioned are all around the environs of Sherwood: either Nottingham, around the forest’s southern end, or Barnsdale (the area around Wentbridge in south Yorkshire) at its northern end.

As the rhymes of Robin Hood found their way into writing print, apparently for the first time, Robin continued to feature, and, indeed, thrive, as a character in pageants and plays, including those which tended to lead to unrest. Mayday pageants continued to be organised in villages and towns by local churchwardens or civic authorities, and often featured plays preserved orally within communities and acted out by local people on special occasions in the manner of the modern mummers’ and guisers’ folk-plays often associated with Plough Monday. The sixteenth century, especially the earlier part, was the high-point of the Robin Hood games at church ales. These displays were often centred about a local legendary hero or character, but, throughout the later middle ages, more and more of them dispensed with their local heroes, and adopted Robin Hood as their theme. The aristocracy caught the fad, and the nobility, including the young Henry VIII, went through a stage of organising their own Mayday pageants and plays featuring Robin Hood. Robin continued as a popular figure in Scotland, remaining a popular character in May games in Edinburgh. Indeed, these were banned by the Scottish parliament in 1555 as disreputable and turbulent – which led, perhaps predictably, to a series of Robin Hood Riots in Edinburgh in 1561.

I Don’t Like Munday’s: The Elizabethans Foul It Up As Usual

Robin’s dominance of games and pageants went in a slow decline from about 1600. By this point, however, he had already started to make his appearance on the Elizabethan stage, and here he began, and largely completed, his transformation into the figure we know best today.

Ben Jonson died before he could finish his Robin Hood play, The Sad Shepherd (1637). More important to the legend’s development are two plays by Shakespeare’s rival, Anthony Munday: The Downfall of Robert, Earl of Huntington, and its sequel, The Death of Robert, Earl of Huntington (both 1601). Munday more or less invented the modern Robin Hood. He was the first to date Robin’s life to the reign of Richard I, the time of the Crusades; his Robin was the first to be a dispossessed nobleman, the first to rob from the rich to give to the poor, and the first to have Maid Marian as a love interest – indeed, the first to have any love interest at all, assuming the earlier Robin’s platonic fixation with the Virgin Mary fails to qualify. Munday’s plays were a success, and it was largely to compete with them that Shakespeare wrote his own exiled-nobles-in-the-forest play, As You Like It.

In these Elizabethan plays, Robin begins to disconnect from the earthy, fairly realistic world he originally inhabited, and to become a rather polite and genteel fantasy figure. Or, to put it more plainly, compared with the Geste and Robin Hood and the Monk, Munday’s plays are appallingly twee and affected. Their enduring influence has served to ensure that, ever since the late sixteenth century to this day and for the foreseeable future, Robin Hood has been in permanent danger of appearing as high camp. And not in a good way.

A Pyle of Derring-Do: Modernity Takes Its Cue from the Elizabethans, Again As Usual

Through the 1600s and 1700s, Robin Hood continued to feature in plays and operas, and, as print culture permeated society, the print-ballad tradition of Robin Hood became massive in volume and scope. Indeed, most surviving ballads of Robin Hood date from this time. One anthology, Robin Hood’s Garland, was in print continuously from its first issue in 1663 well into the 1820s, after which the old ballad tradition at last began to decline. The medieval setting of the stories had long since ceased to be anything other than a fantasy, and the Robin Hood of this period was generally the kitschy post-Munday version.

In the revolutionary period of the years around 1800, political radicals and political conservatives both adopted Robin and put their own spin on him. The first writer to collect all the known materials on Robin Hood and publish them in a single anthology was a radical of this period, Joseph Ritson (Robin Hood, 1832). Ritson was also the first to argue that Robin was not merely an anarchic figure but a systematically revolutionary one. Romantic writers including Walter Scott (Ivanhoe, 1819) were the first to float the more conservatively rebellious idea that Robin was a Saxon patriot fighting a post-Conquest Norman occupation. This he could never have been: there were no Saxons in late thirteenth-century England.

Following this lead, later Romantic writers through the 1800s made Robin figure of high-brow literary poetry, culminating at the century’s end in the work of two Alfreds: Tennyson (The Foresters, 1892) and Noyes (Sherwood, 1913). This late nineteenth-century, high-art Robin Hood remained an exiled earl, accompanied by Marian the young noblewoman, but Munday’s tidy forest-park of nymphs and swains was finally and mercifully replaced by a darker and more haunted wildwood, partly hidden beneath Edwardian decorum. This was the English homeland romanticised for the highwatermark of empire, and in the late romantic wildwood the legend regained a hint of its medieval power to haunt.

However, from the later 1800s, as mass communication began to extend their influence, the main current of development of the legend lay in lower-brow popular literature, including, for the first time, children’s literature. This impetus was transmitted quickly and naturally to the entirely new media of cinema and television. At the same time, the US began to compete with England, and eventually effectively supplant it, as the main source of contemporary treatments of Robin Hood’s story, establishing Robin Hood for the first time as a character of international prominence. In the more adult popular novels, Robin was now firmly labelled as a resistance leader against Norman oppression. In the cheap Victorian boys’ magazines and novels, or “penny dreadfuls,” he remained a somewhat controversial figure: one children’s novel by George Emmett had its title changed from Robin Hood and the Outlaws of Sherwood Forest to the more wholesome Robin Hood and the Archers of Merrie Sherwood (1868 – 9), to avoid encouraging young readers towards a life of crime.

But the canonical US version of Robin Hood was presented to the children of the English-speaking world in Howard Pyle’s massively influential The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood (1883). Pyle knew little of the Middle Ages, but he set stories from original texts in an unrealistic pseudo-medieval world of perpetual sunshine, ye olde Englishe talkynge, merry horseplay, and male bonding, in which Maid Marian and other female figures took something of a back seat and, once again, Robin’s primary ties were to his male companions. The medieval forest, always to some extent a fantasy of escape, was thus further divorced from reality. Pyle was the single most significant children’s author in the later development of the Robin Hood legend, and his work was widely translated and reintroduced the New World Robin Hood to Europe.

He is also the direct progenitor of most Hollywood Robin Hoods, who began to follow in fairly short order. The first Robin Hood film, a short by Percy Stow, dates from 1908. Three later films define the Hollywood Robin Hood: Allan Dwan’s silent Robin Hood (1922), Michael Curtiz’ and William Keighley’s The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938), and Walt Disney’s The Story of Robin Hood and his Merrie Men (1952 – not to be confused with Disney’s animated Robin Hood of 1973). In all three, the protagonist is the exiled aristocratic hero, the lover of Maid Marian, and the loyal servant of Richard the Lionheart and enemy of Prince John. The most successful movies therefore cemented what might be called the Munday-Pyle Robin Hood as the default version of the outlaw hero – as witness Kevin Reynolds’ Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (1991).

There have, however, been attempts to imagine Robin differently on the screen. Between 1955 and 1960 Robin appeared on British television as a stiff-upper-lipped English hero of the officer class (The Adventures of Robin Hood, 1955 – 58). In Richard Lester’s Robin and Marian (1976), Robin appears as a disillusioned middle-aged crusader. In the 1980s Robin returned to TV in Richard Carpenter’s Robin of Sherwood (1984 – 6), which introduced viewers to the twentieth century’s main contribution to the way Robin Hood is imagined: neopaganism. Carpenter’s Robin Hood, steeped in reconstituted new-age Celtic and Germanic myth, is chosen as an almost priestly champion by the pagan god Herne the Hunter, and given Albion, one of the seven swords of Wayland.

Although it’s frequently a lot of fun, most post-medieval Robin Hood material creates the distinct impression that the franchise had well and truly jumped the shark by the end of the sixteenth century, and few post-medieval versions of the legend have ever really got much beyond high camp. However, virtually all the earlier Robin Hood tales, and some of the more vernacular and/or romantic post-medieval material, remain extraordinarily haunting and powerful. It’s no surprise that modern attempts to rekindle the enchantment have generally met with failure, but neither is it any surprise that the attempts were made.

Further Reading

Carpenter, Kevin (ed.). Robin Hood: The Many Faces of that Celebrated English Outlaw. BIS, Oldenburg University, 1995.

Dobson, R. B., and J. Taylor. Rymes of Robin Hood: An Introduction to the English Outlaw. Heinemann, 1976.

Holt, J. C. Robin Hood. Thames and Hudson, 1982 (1989).

Knight, Stephen, and Thomas Ohlgren (ed.) Robin Hood and Other Outlaw Tales, Medieval Institute Publications, University of Michigan, 1997.

Knight, Stephen (ed.) Robin Hood: An Anthology of Scholarship and Criticism. D.S. Brewer, 1999.