Tag Archives: Middle English

The Hooting of the Divine: Free Will and Predestination in the [Owl and the Nightingale] and the [Consolation of Philosophy]

One particular poem that I have been reading slowly and carefully for my candidacy exams is the early Middle English Owl and the Nightingale. The poem, which is usually dated around the late twelfth of early thirteenth century, is a classic example of the surprisingly popular medieval genre of allegorical bird debates. In this work, there is an exchange of insults between a dour owl and a fiery nightingale, who argue about which one of them is of greater benefit to humanity. Some of their arguments fall into the realm of very low humour – the nightingale accuses owlets of “fouling … up” (96) their own nests, and the owl admonishes the nightingale for hanging around human latrines (588).

Other sections of their argument, however, are drawn into much loftier matters. After the nightingale accuses the owl of being more useful as a corpse to scare crows away than when she is alive, she takes a more spiritual turn in portraying the owl as an augury of misfortune. She says that humans are justified in hating owls for always being the harbingers of sorrow. The owl takes great exception to this, but not because it is false. She confirms that she has foreknowledge of human fortunes and that she is often blamed for them, but that it is grossly unfair that she is assigned responsibility for them. She defends herself in a speech that I have translated below:

If anyone is to fall into misfortune,
Why should he blame his sorrow on me?
Even though I saw his harm before,
It does not follow that it came from me.
If you see a blind man,
Who does not know any right way,
Whose path is heading for a ditch,
And he falls, and gets dirty,
Do you believe, if I saw it all,
That it would come about sooner because of me?
So it goes with respect to my knowledge:
When I sit on my bough,
I know and I see very clearly,
And some men come to harm right there,
Shall he, that knows nothing of this,
Blame it on me, because I know about it?
Shall he blame his mishap on me
Because I am wiser than he?
When I see that some wretch
Is near harm, I cry a great deal,
And ask greatly that he shield himself,
Because strong harm is coming toward him.
And though I cry loud and soft
It all comes to pass through God’s will.
Why do people want to complain about me,
Even though I inform them with truth?
Even if I warn them for a year,
Harm is not therefore nearer to them:
I sing to them, because I wish
That they should understand well
That something bad is close by to them,
When I send my hooting to them. (1233-1264)

[Þat eni man beo falle in odwite,
Wi schal he me his sor atwite?
Þah ich iseo his harm biuore,
Ne comeþ hit noȝt of me þaruore.
Þah þu iseo þat sum blind mon,
Þat nanne rihtne wei ne con,
To þare diche his dweole fulied,
An falleþ, and þarone sulied
Wenest þu, þah ich al iseo,
Þat hit for me þe raþere beo?
Alswo hit fareþ bi mine witte:
Hwanne ich on mine bowe sitte,
Ich wot & iseo swiþe brihte
An summe men kumed harm þarrihte,
Schal he, þat þerof no þing not,
Hit wite me, for ich hit wot?
Schal he his mishap wite me
For ich am wisure þane he?
Hwanne ich iseo þat sum wrechede
Is manne neh, inoh ich grede,
An bidde inoh þat hi heom schilde,
For toward heom is [harm vnmilde].
Ah þah ich grede lude an stille
Al hit itid þurþ Godes wille.
Hwi wulleþ men of me hi mene,
Þah ich mid soþe heo awene?
Þah ich hi warni al þat ȝer,
Nis heom þerfore harem no þe ner:
Ah ich heom singe, for ich wolde
Þat hi wel understonde schulde
Þat sum unselþe heom is ihende,
Hwan ich min huing to heom sende.]

As A.C. Cawley and others have noted, this passage echoes Book 5 of Boethius’s Consolation of Philosophy, in which the speaker is particularly worried about the relationship between Divine foreknowledge and free will. The Consolation of Philosophy is a meditation in the form of a dialogue between a central speaker, ostensibly a persona of Boethius himself, who is imprisoned and about to be executed, and a personified figure of Philosophy. He is made ill by his sorrows, and the allegorical figure of Lady Philosophy comes to him in order to offer a remedy for his despair. In the first book, she assesses the extent of his despair and the depth of his current knowledge. She concludes that all is not lost, but he still has a long way to go towards the truth of Providence and the attainment of happiness. In the second book, the two discuss the nature of Fortune, and provide the earliest literary depiction of the Wheel of Fortune. Lady Philosophy reminds Boethius that it is in the nature of Fortune to be constantly fickle, which sounds like something of an oxymoron, and that people should be grateful for what they have. She also notes that more possessions and worldly honours are fleeting, so they are not worth much anyway. Having warmed up her interlocuter with secular examples, she is ready to turn towards his Christian education.

In the third book, Lady Philosophy turns to the attainment of the ultimate Good, which she equates with God. She argues that all of the things that seem like happiness on earth end up bringing about more harm than good. The only way to achieve the highest good is to aspire to Blessedness, which is oneness with God. The communion of all things with God subsequently guarantees that all things are ruled by Providence – if God is in everything, than everything is governed by God’s will. In the fourth book, the conversation interrogates the problem of justice and evil men. They agree that evil men are ultimately to be pitied, because they will end up with a much worse fate than those who meet with misfortune on earth, and are not even worth a thought from men who are pointed towards blessedness. When it is time for the fifth and final book of the dialogue, Boethius is troubled by the problem of free will: if God knows about everything before it happens, then how do humans maintain free will? This is especially troubling in light of their recent conversation about evil men. If people have no choice but to act in a preordained manner, then where is the justice in God punishing the wicked? If God knows about bad things before they happen, then why doesn’t Providence stop them from happening?

This is the theological point that also seems to be troubling the bird debaters. Though the nightingale is surely not attributing any divinity to the owl, she is still suspicious of her supernatural foreknowledge. Just as the Boethius character feels cheated by an omniscient God that allows for evil deeds and punishes them anyway, the nightingale sees the owl’s foreknowledge of human misfortunes as a kind of betrayal. In the passage excerpted above, the owl is forced to take on the role of Lady Philosophy and explain that there is no correlation between foreknowledge of human events and the events themselves. Her example of the blind man is somewhat comical counterproductive in the first instance – a reasonable person would indeed blame a bystander who did nothing to stop a blind man from falling into a ditch. She is, however, echoing Lady Philosophy, who asks and answers a similar question: “When you see something happening in the present, your gaze doesn’t convey any necessity upon the object, does it? No.” (Book 5, Prosa 6). In other words, the observation of an event has no influence on its outcome. While twentieth-century physicists might take issue with this notion in certain contexts, it is true enough for both Lady Philosophy and the owl.

The owl rescues her example of the blind man in the second part of her argument, in which she reveals that she does her best to do something about the blind man falling into the ditch by warning humans. Unfortunately, however, they are unable to understand her “huing” (1264), a fact she does not seem to quite realize. She doesn’t know why humans never take heed of her warnings, and must go on to do her best to avert all of the misfortune she sees coming. Her misunderstood hooting also echoes Boethius, when his speaker skeptically asks how one might distinguish the mysterious Divine Plan from random chance. Lady Philosophy counters his skepticism by saying that “just because you don’t know the reasons for such arrangements, you shouldn’t doubt that everything is done rightly, since a good ruler governs the world” (130). The fact that humans do not always understand the signs, for Boethius and the Owl and the Nightingale poet, does not guarantee that God does not exist, but only the lack of human capacity for understanding.

Both the Consolation of Philosophy and the Owl and the Nightingale are cut off before they come to satisfactory endings. The bird debate comes to a stalemate, and the contestants fly off to seek out the wise judgement of a man named Nicholas of Guildford. The Consolation of Philosophy ends with a kind of peaceful acceptance, but we do not learn the fate of the unfortunate prisoner. It is not necessary, however, for any of the characters to experience the actual events that God knows about in advance. It is sufficient for them to make peace with the fact that God’s knowledge of future events does prevent them from exercising their free will to its fullest extent, and that God has their best interest at heart when these events do unfold. They must simply go forth and do their best to listen to the hooting of the Divine.

Works Cited:

Boethius. The Consolation of Philosophy. Trans. Scott Goins and Barbara H Wyman. San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2012.

Cawley, A. C. “Astrology in ‘The Owl and the Nightingale’.” Modern Language Review (1951): 161-174.

Stanley, Eric Gerald, ed. The Owl and the Nightingale. London: Thomas Nelson and Sons, 1964.

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Annals, Chronicles, and Histories, Oh My!: Hayden White’s [The Content of the Form] and Narrative History

Recently I have been reading and thinking quite a bit about medieval English chronicles, especially the Middle English Prose Brut and its predecessors. The text is translated from the Anglo-Norman Brut, which in turn drew material from sources such as Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia Regum Britanniae and Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum, but many versions eventually continue into the historical present of their recorders. The Brut texts, which give accounts of King Lear and King Arthur, as well as containing their fair share of giants and dragons, trouble the divide between history and literature. As I consider this distinction further, I have been reading Hayden White’s The Content of the Form.

In White’s first chapter, “The Value of Narrativity in the Representation of Reality,” he considers the drawbacks in the use of narrative in the discipline of history. He points out that taking historical events and weaving them into a grand narrative that fits into a modern conception of a neat story is not a very “scientific” way of doing history. For White, the narrativization of history “is intimately related to, if not a function of, the impulse to moralize reality, that is, to identify it with the social system that is the source of any morality that we can imagine” (14). In order to gain more perspective on how narrative affects the way we understand the discipline of history, White proposes to examine types of historical writing that involve less narrative, or else use narrative in a radically different way. For this, he turns to medieval historical writing, in a rare example of a contemporary theorist using medieval texts in a thoughtful and judicious way. His objects of analysis are the annal and the chronicle, which he treats

not as the imperfect histories they are conventionally conceived to be, but rather as particular products of possible conceptions of historical reality, conceptions that are alternatives to, rather than failed anticipations of, the fully realized historical discourse that modern history is supposed to embody. (6)

It is rather refreshing to see that White is not intending to affirm the supremacy of the history preferred by the privileged subject. Though he ultimately comes out in favour of narrative history, he stresses that it is only one form of historical discourse.

The most radically different form of narrative discussed by White is the annal, which he exemplifies by reproducing an excerpt from the Annals of Saint Gall. This text, which records events occurring in the eighth century in what is now France, is concise in the extreme in its list of events corresponding to the years in which they occurred. As can be seen below, the deeds of great men are recorded alongside the health of crops.

  1. Hard winter. Duke Gottfried died.
  2. Hard year and deficient in crops.


  1. Flood everywhere.


  1. Pippin, mayor of the palace, died.
  2. 716. 717.
  3. Charles devastated the Saxon with great destruction.


  1. Charles fought against the Saxons.
  2. Theudo drove the Saracens out of Aquitaine.
  3. Great crops.



  1. Saracens came for the first time.






  1. Blessed[1] Bede, the presbyter, died.
  2. Charles fought against the Saracens at Poitiers on Saturday.


734.                                                                                         (White 6-7)

White acknowledges that this record is not entirely without narrative, as it is indeed “‘referential’ and contains a representation of temporality” (6). It does, however, resist many features that we might normally attribute to a narrative history. Most importantly, it lacks any “suggestion of any necessary connection between one event and another” (6) – Saracens come and go, but there is no indication that these comings and goings have anything to do with each other, as the historian has not felt the need to posit any retrospective notion of causality. The fact that they are mentioned as coming for the first time indicates that there is retrospective knowledge of the Saracens coming more than once (8), but the annalist still declines to impose an explanation. Another feature of narrative history that the annal eschews is the assignation of relative importance of the events it records. There is no distinction made between the health of dukes and grains, or between the deaths of local government officials and far off churchmen. To be sure, it is a curated list of events that seem important to this particular annalist – just looking at the blank years is enough to convince us that there must have been events that did not capture the interest of this writer. But the lack of relative importance still gives the effect of flattening the value attached to the entries. The reader of this document is left to their own deductions about how these events might fit together, and read the events in terms of their own particular values – anyone involved in the planning and execution of the annual planting season will use this annal very differently than someone who is more politically minded.

The chronicle is a form of history that contains a few more elements of narrative, but still does not look exactly like what we might call a narrative history. This is not to say that there is a teleological connection between these different forms – the annal is not slouching towards the modern history, picking up narrative elements along the way. The chronicle is simply a form that uses narrative in a different way. It, like the annal, is organized chronologically and comprises a list of kings, queens, and events that are of interest to the chronicler, but it is comprised of the sorts of sentences and narrative progression that we are used to when reading history. It lacks other features of retrospective historical interpretation, however, partially by virtue of its lack of temporal distance – chronicles often lead right up to the chronicler’s present. It does not present a neat story with a beginning, middle, and end, because neither the author nor the audience knows the end yet. Unlike the annal, chronicles can contain explicit moralizing, and often assign historical importance to different figures by devoting a different amount of text to each one. Geoffrey of Monmouth, for example, devotes a significant portion of his text to recounting the life of King Arthur, but breezes through many of the kings before and after him. The chronicle does not, however, self-consciously attempt in many cases to propose a meaning for the events that it relates, as later narrative histories tend to do.

White argues for the value of considering these alternative forms of history as more “scientific” forms of history, as has been upheld by the Annales school of historiography. The act of envisioning a way of doing a history that makes a more sparing use of narrativization also allows the historian to think more carefully about how narrative is used in his or her own work. He does not, however, call for a return to this type of historiography in modern historical practice. Instead, he turns to Paul Ricoeur and emphasizes that while historians should always be self-conscious that the narrative they present is in no way self-evident, “it is because historical events possess a narrative structure that historians are justified in regarding stories as valid representations of such events and treating such representations as explanations of them” (171). He defends this conception of historical events as narrative objects by taking the agency of historical figures into account. Unlike a phenomenon that occurs independently of human interference and must be empirically after the fact, historians deal with data that has been enacted on purpose. Yes, historians are often interested in things that are beyond human control, but their ultimate object of study is the way humans choose to react to such things, and how they interact with one another. White contends that since humans have some awareness of the past and the future, they live their lives according to some sort of narrative, at least to some extent: “historical agents prospectively prefigure their lives as stories with plots. This is why the historian’s retrospective emplotment[2] of historical events cannot be the product of the imaginative freedom enjoyed by the writer of fictions” (173). In other words, narrative history is essentially a collaborative enterprise between the historical agent as author of his own life and the historian as its retrospective editor.

While this notion is a very comforting image of human agency, it seems a rather anthropocentric and idealistic concept. It would be nice to imagine that historical agents have such control over their lives that they might be considered the authors of history, but it may be foolish to be so confidence in the power of the historical agent. Instead, it may be better to consider a weaker version of this theory that relies on the collaborative history-making of a network of people and peoples that have been culturally saturated in narrative. Though it may be too egotistical to suggest that individual historical agents can follow through with a well-designed plan for the events of their life, the sum total of agents’ interactions with each other can be said to be guided by a collective cultural sense of narrative.

In this case, the chronicle and history itself can be said to have a chicken-and-egg[3] relationship. Do historical events create the larger (albeit imperfect) narrative that the chronicle constructs as history progresses, or does the cultural narrative posited by the chronicle influence historical actors (either individually or collectively) to produce results that fall in line with the overarching narrative?



[1] “Blessed Bede” is here a translation of “Beda Venerabilis,” an epithet that was applied to Bede about a century after his death (which actually occurred in 735). It became a common place title, rather than a value judgment.

[2] The word “emplotment” was coined by Paul Ricoeur, and refers to the practice of turning a series of historical events into a narrative, thus bestowing a “plot” on the events.

[3] My thanks to Angel Matos for this notion.

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A Vibrant, Variegated, and Vivacious Revival


I begin the official portion of my exam reading with a seminal book by a man whose name is one of the most magnificent in all of medieval studies: Thorlac Turville-Petre. His 1977 volume titled The Alliterative Revival aims to introduce the alliterative poetic movement of the fourteenth century as well as make it clear to his readers that there is one thing that this alliterative revival lacks – homogeneity. According to Turville-Petre, many readers have assumed for one reason or another that the poems of this period (including Langland’s Piers Plowman, the works of the Gawain-Poet, The Alliterative Morte Arthure, and a number of other romances, histories, and moral poetry) are stylistically uniform. He goes as far to refer to an early twentieth century theory that many of these texts were written by the same man “one of the most absurd literary hypotheses of all time” (28), which fell out of vogue when “it was pointed out that none of the proofs adduced in favour of the hypothesis had any substance and that the poems, being written in a variety of styles, with different metrical patterns and different dialects, could hardly be the work of one man” (28). While Turville-Petre rejects this theory as utterly ridiculous, he is slightly more patient, but still in disagreement, with those that assume an unbroken oral connection between that alliterative style of the Anglo-Saxon poets and the alliterative revival several centuries later. Overall, his argument depicts the poems of the alliterative revival as a movement of great creativity and diversity whose works resist any attempt to be reduced to derivatives of Anglo-Saxon poetry or one another.

One of the more intricate parts of Turville-Petre’s argument is his assertion that there is no good reason to believe that there was an unbroken line of oral alliterative tradition between the Anglo-Saxons and the alliterative poets of the fourteenth century. While there are many similarities between the poetry of the alliterative revival and Anglo-Saxon poetry, a closer examination of the English poetry of the intervening centuries, which has oft been neglected in literary studies (See Elaine Treharne’s Living Through Conquest), suggests that this sense of continuity may be misleading. Turville-Petre reasons that if such an oral tradition was in existence all along with no written trace, it would be difficult to reconcile this with the distinct and “loose” (8) style of Early Middle English alliterative works like Laȝamon’s Brut. Instead, he offers an alternative explanation for the most striking similarity between Anglo-Saxon alliterative verse and that of the fourteenth-century – the fact that the standard pattern of lines is based on the alliteration of all stressed syllables except for the last of the line. Turville-Petre argues that the reason that two different (albeit related) traditions might land upon this same practice is that the alliteration is a functional element designed to mark out the stressed syllables, and that “the last stressed syllable of the line is very seldom in an ambiguous position” (17). In addition, maintaining a difference between the last stress and other stresses allows it to “signal[…] the completion of a metrical unit” (17). While the author makes a convincing case both for the lack of evidence for an invisible oral tradition and the logical functionality of the alliterative style, the reader is still required to make a leap of faith to assume that two heterogeneous groups of poets separated by centuries might independently realize the efficiency of such a pattern. It seems more prudent to posit a more moderate view that the fourteenth century poets managed to revive some distantly version of alliterative verse, without necessarily requiring a robust oral tradition.

After establishing diachronic heterogeneity between Anglo-Saxon and fourteenth-century alliterative verse, Turville-Petre turns to celebrate the synchronic diversity of the later movement. His sentiments are echoed by Greg Delanty in the preface to the 2010 anthology of Anglo-Saxon poetry in translation titled The Word Exchange: Anglo-Saxon Poems in Translation, in which Delanty muses that “we tend to think of Anglo-Saxon poetry as issuing from the uniform voice of the great poet Anonywulf” (Delanty xv). In reality, the poetry of both traditions is full of diversity and originality, as Turville-Petre notes in prose worth quoting in its entirety:

It is the flexibility of the alliterative line that makes it so valuable to a writer of a long and diverse narrative poem full of action, description, argument, reflection and any number of topics demanding variations of pace and emphasis. In Morte Arthure and The Wars of Alexander the form proves suitable for the excitement and turmoil of the careers of those two great heroes; in Piers Plowman and Wynnere and Wastoure it can accommodate the niceties of theological discussion and political debate; in Patience and Purity[1] it can re-vivify Old Testament history. Nothing is more mistaken than the belief that alliterative style is a homogenous one. (Turville-Petre 50)

Despite the richness of the tradition extolled by Turville-Petre and several others since, many poems of the alliterative revival have not reached the ‘mainstream’ of Middle English literary studies in the same way as the work named authors such as Chaucer, Gower, Langland, and Malory. Turville-Petre ends his book by musing on the beauty and suitability of alliterative verse for a variety of topics, and ventures that “it may be time for a second alliterative revival” (128). Though it may be some time before contemporary poets take up the call to write in alliterative verse, it is certainly time for a revival of the study and teaching of this work.

[1] Purity is more commonly known today as Cleanness, the second poem in the Cotton Nero A.x manuscript. None of the poems in this manuscript have original titles, but have been given the names Pearl, Cleanness, Patience, and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight by modern editors. It was once pointed out to me by Dr. David Coley that if one retains the title of Purity, the four titles make up an alliterative line, with the first three titles alliterating and the fourth differing.

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