The Wreath of Wrong, by Julie Renee Phelan

Laurel Wreath. 3rd or 4th A.D.

 

Dear Judge;

I’m in paternal agony . . . you have imprisoned my son. He has lost his liberty, and our hearts which beat as one, now beat as two. This causes us to suffer, and makes your decision difficult.

My heart recalls when I was pleased with my son. He glowed in all virtues of character, including ardency and generosity. Granted his disposition was sprinkled with romantic eccentricity, but marked with traces of natural righteousness. I watched him rush forward in life, enamored by goodness and incredulous by evils. During his college vacation, we spoke of liberal professions that I had chosen for him, and he agreed that they were pleasant to his disposition and not disapproving to his taste. Those prospects seemed to rouse and gratify his ambition, but his flame was quickly extinguished by his destructive behavior.

In vain, I followed him through every degree of imprudence. While I beheld him in visionary hopes shining conspicuously in the galaxy of inspirations, illuminated by sparkles of his promising genius, he presided as the high priest of the libertines. He behaved without a sense of responsibility by embracing nocturnal orgies and other disreputable pursuits. His actions were more heart wounding to me than painful to him.

Due to the liquidation of my son’s debts, I am in great financial distress. Such financial strain persuades me to retreat into solitude as I struggle to free him from the chains of ironclad creditors. I hope my sacrifice will be sufficient to win your confidence. In time, your decision is as momentary as a bolt of lightning, but it will determine the destiny of my son. Will my son’s destiny be my desire, or will the bowels of darkness devour him? In exchange for the deliverance of him from prison, he promises to renounce all his transgressions, and prepare for sacrifice.

 

Dear Father;

My heart suffers. I am a reckless and wasteful derelict that is not worthy of being called your son. Abandon me . . . I beg you. I can no longer support your cruel mercy to avert this weight of justice upon my chest. Deliver me to that destiny that I have made, that pattern of errors and follies that I have woven. I am able to sustain the judgment that my own vices have drawn. Please allow me to bear this alone.

Among the catalogue of my faults, I do have contempt for my selfishness. As a result of my selfish behavior, I have deservedly become the subject of unpleasantness, and now represent someone who is undesirable. If I accept your generous offer, you may no longer adorn that polished circle in which you so nobly calculated to move amongst. Please do not think of me . . . I will not purchase my liberty at your expense.

I am etc. etc.

 

Dear Son;

Your letter was written in haste, exaggerated by your emotions and without proper thought. You have already embroidered―exiled―across your chest, which makes me weary. Your inability to coolly examine the situation convinces me that this experience has contributed little to the modification of your feelings, or the prudent regulation of your conduct. It is your emotional response and contempt for prudence that is the cause of your difficulties. The standard, the director, the regulator for all virtues is prudence.

If you would display restitution for what you seem to lament, and unite it with penitence, I will become your partner. But I plead with you to abandon that Penal Island, those misguided pursuits, those old haunts, and those wayward associations. What becomes a man is modesty and humility. You should exchange your extravagance for a more moderate form of fare nature. At this time, you must to stand firm with the scars that bind you, and follow your better spirit.

I will join you for the summer at my home on the Point. With its lush scenery and solitary shore, it may settle your impulsivity, and redirect your energies into a more desirable direction. I will contact my steward to prepare my home for your arrival.

Farewell!

 

Dear Father;

I agonize on the bed of creditors. They have seized and tied me to an iron frame, and for collateral they want to stretch me to death. I am ashamed of myself. I spent money on frivolous pursuit, and now must lean on you for financial support. I have stabbed you through the heart, a heart which still pulses with generous affection for me.

 

Mr. J.J. Ivory, Esquire;

I will give you a report of my high crimes and misdemeanors. It is true―I have an adherence to do what is right, and a propensity to do what is wrong. I have no doubt that I will suffer further . . . from the state, and from your fees.

You know me. I have committed the original sin. How many times―I do not know. Women are omnipotent . . . they may lead a man to noble pursuits, or seduce him to primal instincts. It is their spell lures and entices me. My tastes and senses have been made numb from my lecherous and lustful desires of the obscene. My passions were greater than my desire for control. I gave promises for sums which I could not satisfy, and now live with the threat of prosecution.

A letter came from my father. As usual, it was couched in terms of reprehension, and intervals of tenderness. With judicial exactitude, he noted every flaw of mine, and associated my faults with his paternal incapacity. He reflected on the sparkles of my success, my college years and innate curiosity. He recalled a conversation we had―I accused him of being biased towards his eldest son. He spoke of the excellence of Naro, but the failures of mine. I felt loose from my mooring of reason and nature. I inhabited a world of wish fulfillment or in this case, a nightmare.

He has asked me to retire for a few months at the Point. My heart wrenches for desiring to be banished to a place more interesting, like some savage place in the South Sea Islands or an Eskimo hut. My memory of the Point, the land of the drear and drizzles, consists of scenes that dampen my heart. As the stars are my witness, my thoughts are not of penitence. Oh how much―I need to get over myself, but I know not how?

Please send me some charcoals, and a reliable thermometer. It will allow me to ascertain the chill in the air. I hope this will help relieve the tedium of my days. I intend to spend my time meditating on my problems.

Regards, LeBac

 

To the Most Excellent Mother, by Julie Renee Phelan

de Vinci, Leonardo.

Renowned mother, and great Queen,
Most gracious one of succeeding offspring;
Be willing to view that, which is seldom seen,
An offspring’s writing of the most divine things:
Read it, fair Queen, though this poem maybe            
Defective, but your Excellence can grace both it and me.

You have searched Nature of her store,
And all the goddesses were birthed upon your request
Of those rich gifts which have gone before,
But now, great Queen, within you we all do our best.
Now we strive for the golden apple,
But father would rather give it to you than Helen of Troy.

From Kelly you have state and dignities;
From warlike Julie, wisdom and fortitude;
From Shannon, all her Excellencies;
From Lillian Rose, all her flowers are endowed:
How we honor those endowments that springs
From your rare beauty, which must be from the blood of kings?

Your daughters do attend, upon your throne,
With all your artistic children at your beck and call;
Who are Woodland and Satyr gods everyone,
Before your fair triumphant health did fall:
And shining Deneen with all her nymphs, who do attend
To honor you, whose honor has no end.

From your bright sphere of greatness, this is what we know,
You reflect light upon your children, who radiate from your scent,
And wait upon your throne, for all our virtues, which are not yet known
Are a reflection of you, who is luminescent.
To be like you, who doth have love to grace,
And may your darkest hour shine with stars upon your face.

The light of children comforts, beautiful creatures such as you,
And shuns the lowliest things that be;
In status and virtue none is greater than you.
I hope that your light will always shine upon me:
That you will accept these unpolished lines of mine,
For it is your grace that makes my lines seem more refined.

Look at your reflection in the mirror, and you will find,
Some of your fairest reason will appear;
Though all your virtues are hard to find,
Unless the mirror is crystal clear:
This mirror is dim, yet responds to a spotless truth,
That just a glance from your fair eyes it does sooth.

In this mirror, your sacred Majesty beholds
That mighty Christ, who reins both heaven and earth,
And all nations of the world he controls,
Yet he took our flesh in the meanest form of birth:
Whose days were spent in poverty and sorrow,
Yet it was the wealthiest kings, whose wealth of Christ they did borrow.

For God is the crown and crowner of all kings,
The hopeful haven of the meaner sort,
It’s through God that our joyful tidings brings
Of happy reign within his royal court:
It’s God that can give―
Comfort to you, who has time to live,

And since all royal virtues are in you,
The natural, the moral and divine,
I know it is true,
That you will accept even the lowliest kind―
For your rare gifts, such as you are
Have graced and exceeded even the fairest of the fair.

Behold, great Queen, fair Eve’s apology,
Upon which I write in honor of our sex,
And present unto your Majesty,
To judge if you agree with the Scriptures’ text:
And if you do, answer why poor Eve was blamed?
When it is men, who are faultier, but they are not defamed.        

And this great Eve I mire
In Eve’s richest ornaments of honor,
That you fair Queen, who all of us admire
May take delight, and look upon her:
For Eve will entertain you to a feast,
And you are a welcome guest.

I have prepared a Pascal Lamb,
The figure of a living sacrifice;
Whose death; all the infernal powers overcame,
That we through eternity might rise:
This precious Passover feed upon, O  Queen,
Let your virtues view this as I have seen.

It is your daughters, in their pattern of beauty,
The very model of your Majesty,
Who hold your rarest virtues of love and duty,
The perfect pattern of piety:
O let my poem be fair to your eyes, which are blest,
In whose purity of thought all of our innocence does rest.

From my perspective, my glass presents a glorious sky,
With a moon and sun, this at once may appear;
The sun is bright, and over stuffed with sovereign majesty,
The moon shines white and brighter than the clearest of clear:
And both reflect and comfort my spirit,
Their grace is far above my own merit.

My untuned voice with doleful notes doth sing
Of affliction from a humble strain;
Much like a bird that lost its wing,
And cannot fly, who warbles forth in pain:
Or he that is barred from the sun’s bright light,
Or wants comfort at the edge of midnight.

And you, this great mother whom I love and honor,
And from my very tender years have known,
This poetic habit I still take to her,
To remain the same, and still own:
But how do our fortunes enforce our wheel,
Yours is one of devotion and mine is one of zeal.

As we behold the stars,
Not with the eye of learning, but of sight,
To find their motions, want of knowledge bars
Although we see them in their brightest light:
I see the glory of your state,
It is you that must instruct and elevate.

And pardon me mother―I presume,
To do those which others can do better;
With learning as it is, I assume,
Or compare myself to other letters:
But as they are scholars, and by art do write,
I yield my soul to follow in this delight.

And since all arts at first from Nature came,
That goodly creature, like you, is the mother of perfection,
Whom Jove’s almighty hand at first did frame,
Taking both nature and those influences into his protection,
Why should  you not grace my Muse,
And in a woman all defects be excused.

So peerless mother humbly I desire,
That your great wisdom would be willing to omit
All my faults; and pardon my spirit if I retire,
Leaving to aim at those that my spirits cannot hit:
To write your worth, which no pen can express,
Where I have  tried to eclipse your motherhood, but have made it less.

Biography: Aemilia Lanyer or Aemilia Lanier

Lanyer or Lanier, Aemilia. 1569 to 1645.

Aemilia Basano, 1569 to 1645, was born to Margaret Johnson, a common law wife of Baptista Basano. Baptista was a court musician. He migrated from Venice to London, and died when Aemilia was seven years of age. In 1587, Margaret Johnson, her mother days dies. Aemilia is a mistress to Henry Carey, Lord Hunsdon, Queen Elizabeth’s Lord chamberlain, who is forty-five years her senior. In 1592, Aemilia becomes pregnant by Lord Hunsdon, and enters into an arranged marriage with Alphonso Lanyer, also spelled Lanier, like her father, a court musician, and Aemilia’s first cousin. Aemilia gave birth to a son, Henry. In 1597, Aemilia Lanyer consults an astrologer Simon Forman, whose diary is a predominate source of information regarding Aemilia. In 1598, her daughter is born, but dies in infancy. In 1611, Aemilia Lanyer publishes her only known volume of poems, Salve Deus Rex Judaeorum, which in Latin means― Hail, God, King of the Jews. Aemilia is the fourth woman in England to publish her own original poetry. Although her work depicts women as virtues and religious, it also addresses the mistreatment of women, and was therefore considered a radical piece of work. In 1613, Alphonso Lanyer, her husband, dies, and Aemilia begins to suffer financial difficulties, which persists until she dies. In 1617, Aemilia founds a school in St. Giles, but it quickly ends in 1619. On April 3, 1645, Aemilia dies at the age of seventy-six.

"The Finnesburh Fragment"

In "The Finnesburh Fragment," Hengest leads the first Germanic settlers to England. A Danish prince Hnæf visited his sister, Hildeburh, who was married to Finn, ruler of the Frisians. Accompanying Hnæf were sixty warriors including Hengest. They were attacked during the night by Finn’s men, and Hnæf and Hildeburh’s sons were killed. More of this story is preserved in the digression of "Beowulf." After the death of Hnæf, we learn how Hengest took over the leadership of the Danes, and served Finn throughout the winter, but in the spring, he took revenge. A fragment of the poem has been lost. However, we can imagine the situation of Hildeburh, who is caught between her husband and her brother.
 

"The Finnesburh Fragment"

. . . ‘the gables are not buring.’
Then the king, a novice in battle, said:
‘This is not dawn from the east, no dragon
Glies here, the gables of the hall are not burning,
But men are making an attack. Birds of battle screech,
The grey wolf howls, spears rattle,
shield answers shaft. The wandering moon gleams
under the clouds; evil deeds wills will now
be done, bringing grief to this people.
But rouse yourselves now, my warriors!
Grasp your shields, steel yourselves,
Fight at the front and be brave!’
Then many a thane, laden in gold, buckled his sword-belt.
Then the stout warriors, Sigeferth and Eaha,
Went to one door and unsheathed their swords;
Ordlaf and Guthlaf went to guard the other,
And Hengest himself followed in their footsteps.
When he saw this, Guthere said to Garulf
That he would be unwise to go to the hall doors
in the first rush, risking his precious life,
for fearless Sigeferth was set upon his death.
But that daring man drowned the other voices
And demanded openly who held the door.
‘I am Sigeferth, a prince of the Secgan
And a well-known warrior; I’ve braved many trials,
Tough combats. Even now it is decreed
For you what you can expect of me here.’
Then the din of battle broke out in the hall;
The hollow shield called for bold men’s hands,
Helmets burst; the hall floor boomed.
Then Garulf, the son of Guthlaf, gave his life
In the fight, first of all the warriors
Living in that land, and many heroes fell around him,
The corpses of brave men. The raven wheeled,
Dusky, dark brown. The gleaming swords so shone
It seemed as if all Finnesburh were in flames.
I have never heard of sixty warriors
Who bore themselves more bravely in the fight
And never did retainers better repay
Glowing mead than those men repaid Hnæf.
They fought five days and not one of the followers
Fell, but they held the doors firmly.
Then Guthere withdrew, a wounded man;
He said that his armour was almost useless,
His corselet broken, his helmet burst open.
The guardian of those people asked him at once
How well the warriors had survived their wounds
Of which of the young men . . .

Work Cited:
Crossly-Holland, Kevin. "Chapter 1." The Anglo-Saxon World, An Anthology. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2009. 1. Print.

"Deor"

"Deor," Old English Poem

The “Deor” poem is the only surviving Old English poem that uses stanzas, and a refrain. This poem was written by a scop, also referred to as a poet, whose name was Deor. Deor means dear, noble and excellent. A scop was a significant member of a tribe. It is the living memory of the tribe. When Heorrenda, a poet versed in song, arrived, Deor lost his position. In this poem, Deor tries to rationalize his plight to other legendary plights. He tries to convince himself that similar to those plights “that passed away,” his plight may also pass (lines 7, 13, 17, 20, 27, 42). At the heart of this poem is the poets search for his pain to pass.  Deor explains his difficulty in the last eight lines. He had a good life, and a fine position, Deor lost his position, and Heorrenda became the tribe’s scop.

Old English

Before describing his own troubles, Deor describes four other legendary events. Those events include―how King Nithhad cut the hamstrings of Weland, the master-smith. “Nithhad fettered him” (line 5). Nithhad cut Weland’s hamstring, and afterwards other men where “better” (lines 6). The poet reminds himself “that passed away” (line 7), and his trouble may also pass.  Another event includes―how Weland took revenge by killing the king’s two sons, and raping his daughter, Beadohild. The cause of Beadohild grief was not only the “brothers’ death” (line 8), but also “when she discovered she was / with child” (lines 10, 11). Again, the poet reminds himself “that passed away” (line 13), and his trouble may also pass. Another event includes―how the love of Mæthild and Geat was too great. Although nothing more is known about Maethild and Geat, in this case, that “Geat’s love / For Mæthild grew too great” (lines 14, 15), beyond human possibility, and his passion “stopped him from sleeping” (line 16).  The poet reminds himself “that passed away” (line 17), and his trouble may also pass. Another event includes―how Theodric, King of the Goths, ruled Mæthild with an iron grip for “thirty years” (line 18), but Mæthild lost control. Again, the poet reminds himself  “that passed away” (line 20), and his trouble may also pass. Another event includes―how Ermanaric, King of the Ostrogoths, who within “the realm of the Goths” (line 23), held a great deal of power. Ermanaric was cruel, and his soldiers sat in sorrow, and they wished that the “kingdom” be overcome by another leader (line 26). Again, the poet reminds himself “that passed away” (line 27), and his trouble may also pass.

Lastly, Deor tries to rationalize his situation. “If a man sits in despair,” he becomes sorrowful (line 28). To him it feels as though “there is no end” to his hardship (line 30). However, he should “remember” that the Lord grants grandeur to some, and sorrow to others (line 31). Although I was a “scop of the Heodeningas” (36), and held that office “for many years” (38), Heorrenda is now the scop. In this manner, the Lord granted me grandeur, and then granted me sorrow. Deor is trying to move past his sorrow by comparing his dilemma to others, where their sorrow “passed ” (lines 7, 13, 17, 20, 27, and 42).

“Deor”

(1)   Weland well knew about exile;
(2)   That strong man suffered much;
(3)   Sorrow and longing and wintry exile
(4)   Stood him company; often he suffered grief
(5)   After Nithhad fettered him, put supple bonds
(6)   Of sinew upon the better man.
(7)   That passed away, this also may.
 
(8)   To Beadohild, her brothers’ death
(9)   Was less cause for sorrow than her own state
(10)                       When she discovered she was
(11)                       With child; she could never think
(12)                       Anything but ill would come of it.
(13)                       That passed away, this also may.

(14)                       Many of us have learned that Geat’s love
(15)                       For Mæthild grew too great for human frame,
(16)                       His sad passion stopped him from sleeping.
(17)                       That passed away, this also may.
 
(18)                       For thirty years Theodric ruled
(19)                       That Mæthild stronghold; that was known to many.
(20)                       That passed away, this also may.

(21)                       We have heard of the wolfish mind
(22)                       Of Ermanaric; he held wide sway
(23)                       In the realm of the Goths. He was a cruel king.
(24)                       Many a warrior sat, full of sorrow,
(25)                       Waiting for trouble, often wishing
(26)                       That his kingdom might be overcome.
(27)                       That passed away, this also may.
 
(28)                       If a man sits in despair, deprived of all pleasure,
(29)                       His mind moves upon sorrow; it seems to him
(30)                       That there is no end to his share of hardship.
(31)                       Then he should remember that the wise Lord
(32)                       Often moves about his middle-earth:
(33)                       To many a man he grants glory,
(34)                       Certain fame, to others a sad lot.
(35)                       I will say this about myself,
(36)                       That once I was a scop of the Heodeningas,
(37)                       Dear to my lord. Deor was my name.
(38)                       For many years I had a fine office
(39)                       And a loyal lord, until now Heorrenda,
(40)                       A man skilled in song, has received the land
(41)                       That the guardian of men first gave to me.
(42)                       That passed away, this also may.

Work Cited: Crossly-Holland, Kevin. "Chapter 1." The Anglo-Saxon World, An Anthology. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2009. 1. Print.

 

Battle of Maldon

Statue of Byrhtnoth in Maldon 

During the fifth century, the Jutland and northern Germanic persons, also referred to as Anglo-Saxon migrants, brought their heroic poems to England. This links their origins to Continental Europe. The migrant’s tradition was by word, rather than by writings. These words were lays, short condensed poems. These poems were also known by Goths, by Vandals, and by Huns. The literary source draws on shared inheritance, and most of the poems are drawn by a historian, Tacitus, who is a Roman from the first-century. He makes observation as follows—

Infamy and shame comes from leaving the chief after he has fallen. The warrior is to defend and protect the chieftain, and put forth an act of heroism. According to the comititas, the chief fights for victory, while the soldiers fight for their allegiance for the chief.

The topic of the English poem points to the importance of loses. Lose may include the loss of a lord, the loss of a loved one, and the loss of a building. These poems are in the Exeter book, a book located in the Exeter Cathedral Library. These are the values in the Germanic heroic code, which were taken to England. The best poem is ‘The Battle of Malden’ from the tenth century, where the values of Tacitus were still part of the mantra.

The Battle of Maldon took place in 991 AD in England. Maldon refers to a place where Scandinavian raiders met the English defense force on the estuary of the Blackwater River, near Maldon in Essex. The battle itself is not a strategic or important one. However, the survival of the heroic poem means that this battle ranks as one of the best known Anglo-Saxon battles. The survival of the poem is fortunate.

Location of Battle of Maldon

This poem was part of the Cotton Library where it was nearly completely destroyed by the fire of 1731. Our knowledge of the poem is due to a copy that happed to be made by John Elphinston four year prior. The poem that remains was itself a fragment consisting of 325 lines. The beginning and end was already missing which is estimated to be 50 lines each or 100 lines in totality.

The Battle of Maldon may be described as the only heroic poem extant in Old English, and is comparable to Old Norse heroic poems. A great deal of the poem is concerned with how the faithful retainers of Byrhtnoth honor their obligations under the comitatus. The comitatus is the Germanic bond of loyalty between the retainer and his lord.

Under the comitatus, the lord promises to offer his protection to his thane which includes food and housing, and rewards for deeds. In return, the thane promises to fight for his lord, if necessary to the death to avenge the lord. It is considered a great dishonor to flee from the battle.

The poem uses a number of synonyms for lord that reflects the comitatus bond. For example the synonym ring giver, gold giver, treasure giver all reflect the obligations of the comitatus lord to reward his thanes with gifts for services rendered.

Ariel view of Battle of Maldon.

In 991, Byrhtnoth was the most active ealdorman in England. Most likely he was the leader of the defense for the East Coast of England. The Vikings established camp on the island of Northey, and the British were a crossed the estuary bridge on mainland. At low tide, Byrhtnoth allowed the Vikings to cross the bridge. The poet describes that decision as an error of “overconfidence.” It may have been considered a prideful error, or sin of hubris.

Byrhtnoth commanded his retainers to leave his horse, and drive it away. He placed his men at their stations. From the island, the Vikings request tribute to be paid, but Byrhtnoth would have no part in paying a tribute. At low tied, the Vikings’ crossed the river. Wulfstan was to hold the estuary bridge, and pierced with his sword Viking invaders crossing.

Byrhtnoth in his overconfidence gave too much ground and taunted the Vikings a crossed. Byrhtnoth ordered his men to form a war-hedge, a wall of shields. It is a common defensive formation. On both sides warriors fell. A war-hard Viking advanced towards Byrhtnoth. The Viking was a resolute churl, a common soldier. The churl with his southern-made spear pierced Byrhtnoth. Byrhtnoth was wounded, but not down. Byrhtnoth responds with a stab to the churl in the neck, and stabbed another. Byrhtnoth was wounded again by another Viking. Then the heathen Vikings slewed Byrhtnoth and both who stood by his side. The Vikings decapitated Byrhtnoth, but left his golden sword by his side.

The decapitation of Byrhtnoth has been substantiated. In 1769, James Bentham opened Byrhtnoth's tomb. The tomb was moved with a number of others from the north wall of the choir to Bishop West's chapel. In a letter read before the society of Antiquaries in 1772, it states: “I apprised those who attended on that occasion, May 18, 1769, that if my surmises were well founded no head would be found in the cell which contained the bones of Byrhtnoth, Duke of Northumberland. In the tomb, there were no remains of a head. We searched diligently, and found most, if not all his other bones. It was observed that the collar-bone had been nearly cut through, as though by a battle-axe, or two handed sword.”

In an act of shame, the Anglo-Saxon warrior Godric took Byrhtnoth’s horse, and fled. Shortly behind Godric, were his two brothers Godwine and Godwig who fled the scene as well. The other Anglo-Saxon warrior spoke words of nobility to stay and fight to the death in defense of their lord, Byrhtnoth. The hostage began to help the Anglo-Saxon warriors. Among Germanic people, hostages of high rank generally fought on the side of the warriors who held them in hostage.

An old retainer, Byrhtwold shook his ash spear and boldly he exhorted the men: “Purpose shall be the firmer, heart the keener; courage shall be the more, as our might lessens. Here lies our lord all hewn down, good man on ground. Ever may he lament who now thinks to turn from war-play. I am old of life, but from here I will not turn from my lord’s side. By the lord I loved, I intend to lie.”

Work Cited:
The Battle of Maldon, Cotton Library, text Otho A xii., 991 AD.

The Battle of Maldon, transcribed by John Elphinston, British Library, 1724 AD.

Crossly-Holland, Kevin. "Chapter 1." The Anglo-Saxon World, an Anthology. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2009. 1. Print.