Note quotations/summarizations with line and page numbers as evidence of the following traits exemplified in Beowulf:
Comitatus is the basic idea that everyone protects the king at all costs even if it means a warrior giving up his own life. If a king is killed, the warriors must avenge the death of the king or they can no longer serve as warriors for the next king. It is an idea that coexists with the interlacing theme. You will see the comitatus theme all through Beowulf and all of the Anglo-Saxon poetry. The diction (ring-giver, hearth-companion, etc) indicates the idea as well as the behavior. Notice how there is the motif of eating, sleeping, dying all the way through the text, and all of it is done as a "team" even to the passing of the cup uniting the group of warriors. They stayed in the meadhall while the king slept in an adjoining "apartment" so they could constantly protect him. You will even see the idea in the avenging of Grendel's death by his mother. Some of the same actions on her part are the same as the actions of the warriors. Beowulf is also a good text to demonstrate how comitatus died with the Anglo-Saxon period. Notice how at the end of the text only Wiglaf follows Beowulf into the battle with the dragon. When Beowulf goes into the various battles, there is a progression of the comitatus dying with the behavior of the warriors: the warriors stand on the bank waiting, the next time they are sleeping and the third time only Wiglaf goes with him.
The comitatus idea goes hand in hand with interlacing. Interlacing is best seen in the artwork of the period and then transferred into the text. You have probably seen a picture of the chalice or the necklace or even the helmet most closely associated with Beowulf. The interlacing is difficult to see on the helmet, but it is in the ridge across the top. The design is actually that of a flying dragon-like creature. The wings go across the top of the eyes like eyebrows, the head is at the nose piece and the body, twists across the head to the back of the helmet. The reason for the ridges across the helmets was to deflect a blow from a sword. It was a great illustration of the strength found in interlacing used to protect the individual.
The Belt Buckle from the Sutton Hoo treasures shows the interlacing theme quite well with its twists and turns. Interlaced human figures, interlaced dogs, and knot pattern.
The idea of interlacing was that nothing in the Anglo-Saxon period was independent. Everything depended on everything else whether agricultural, cultural, personal, or any other way. Women were protected by older men not fighting in battle, king protected by warriors who are well rewarded for their service, etc. Modern celtic designs are "modern" renditions of this early idea.
One of the best ways to illustrate the interlacing idea is through sword making of the time. Swords were made using 4-6 rods of metal. They were first twisted/braided into 2-3 rods and then pounded flat but still allowing for the twisted design to show. Then these 2-3 rods were then twisted/braided into one rod that was pounded flat and then shaped and sharpened. In many of the ancient swords that design is still seen. The idea was that everything was stronger when "braided" together. In isolation one must only depend on himself, but when linked with everything/everyone that exists within the community, one does not fight just for himself but for the entire kingdom.
THESIS: Write a thesis statement (including ALL thesis parts: Author, title, key prompt words, theme)
The first British settlers were the Celts. The name, Britain, comes from a group within the Celts, called the Brythons (Britons). The King Arthur mythology originates from this group of people. {more on this later…}
It was the Celts who fought against Roman control from 55 BCE (Julius Caesar) to roughly 409.
It was the Celts who were somewhat Christianized when Christianity became the official religion of Rome in 313 with the Edict of Milan by Roman Emperor Constantine the Great.
It was the Celts who were pushed into Wales and Ireland when invaders from (what we know today as…) Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Germany, and the Netherlands saw an unprotected area when Rome left. These invaders were called Angles, Saxons, and Jutes.
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I am honored of men, searched for everywhere,
brought from the groves and the mountain-heights,
from the dales and the downs. Wings bear me in air,
and carry me beneath the sheltering roof.
Then men bathe me in a barrel. When I emerge,
I am a binder and a scourger. I throw old men to the earth.
Whoever foolishly wrestles me, sets his strength against mine,
will soon find himself flat on his back, groveling on the ground,
without rule of mind, feet, or hands, though strong still in his speech.
Tell me what I am called-I who fell men to earth, dizzy with my blows.
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I am lonely, hacked with steel, wounded by weapons;
the toil of battle has wearied me, swords have worn me out.
Often have I seen war, the rage of battle;
nor do I hope for rest from strife before I die.
Hammered swords have struck me; hard and sharp of edge,
the wrought swords have bitten me; and even more deadly feud I shall endure.
I can never find a leech to heal my wounds with herbs,
but only more mortal blows and deeper wounds each day and night.
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My beak is downward, I burrow below;
I grub in the ground and go as he guides,
My gray old master, foe of the forest.
Stoop-shouldered my warder walks at my back,
Fares through the field, urges and drives me,
Sows in my tracks as I sniff along.
Fetched from the wood, cunningly fitted,
Brought in a wagon, I have wondrous skill.
As I go on my way on one side is green;
On the other side plain is my dark path.
Set through my back hangs a cunning spike;
Another fixed forward is fast to my head.
What I tear with my teeth falls to one side,
If he handles me right who is my ruler.
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The earth was my mother--I was raised
From her cold, wet womb. I know in my mind
I was not woven from hair or wool
By skillful hands. I have no winding
Weft or warp, no thread to sing
Its rushing song; no whirring shuttle
Slides through me, no weaver's sley
Strikes belly or back. No silkworms spin
With inborn skill their subtle gold
For my sides, yet warriors call me
A coat of joy. I do not fear
The quiver's gift, the deadly arrow's flight.
If you are clever and quick with words,
Say what this strange coat is called.
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I saw a silvery creature scurrying
Home, as lovely and light as heaven
Itself, running with stolen treasure
Between its horns. It hoped, by deceit
And daring and art, to set an arbor
There in that soaring castle. Then,
A shining creature, known to everyone
On earth, climbed the mountains and cliffs,
Rescued his prize, and drove the wily
Impostor back to darkness. It fled
To the west, swearing revenge.
The morning Dust scattered away, dew
Fell, and the night was gone. And no one
Knew where the soft-footed thief had vanished.
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How many men are so knowing, so wise,
That their tongues can tell Who drives me into exile,
Swells me brave and strong and fierce,
Sends me roaring across the earth,
Wild and cruel, burning men’s homes,
Wrecking their palaces? Smoke leaps up,
Gray like a wolf, and all the world
Crackles with the sounds of pain and death.
When I shake forests, uproot peaceful Groves,
clouds cover me; Exalted powers hurl me far and wide.
What once protected the world, sheltered
Men, I bear on my back, bodies
And souls whirled in the mist. Where am I
Swallowed down, and what is my name?
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Our world is lovely in different ways,
Hung with beauty and works of hands.
I saw a strange machine, made
For motion, slide against the sand,
Shrieking as it went. It walked swiftly
On its only foot, this odd-shaped monster,
Traveled in an open country without
Seeing, without arms, or hands,
With many ribs, and its mouth in its middle.
Its work is useful, and welcome, for it loads
Its belly with food, and brings abundance
To men, to poor and to rich, paying
Its tribute year after year. Solve
This riddle, if you can, and unravel its name.
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Wob is my name twisted about—
I'm a strange creature shaped for battle.
When I bend and the battle-sting snakes
Through my belly, I am primed to drive off
The death-stroke. When my lord and tormentor
Releases my limbs, I am long again,
As laced with slaughter, I spit out
The death-blend I swallowed before.
What whistles from my belly does not easily pass,
And the man who seizes this sudden cup
Pays with his life for the long, last drink.
Unwound I will not obey any man;
Bound tight, I serve. Say what I am.