When the Danish gentleman made his copy of Beowulf, he found the edges of the book so charred by fire that they broke away with the slightest touch.  No one thought of mending the leaves, and as years went on they fell to pieces more and more.  But at last some one woke up to the fact that this half-burned book was a great treasure.  Then it was carefully mended, and thus kept from wasting more.

So now, after all its adventures, having been found, we shall never know where, by a gentleman in the days of Queen Elizabeth, having lain on his bookshelves unknown and unread for a hundred years and more, having been nearly destroyed by fire, having been still further destroyed by neglect, Beowulf at last came to its own, and is now carefully treasured in a glass case in the British Museum, where any one who cared about it may go to look at it.

And although it is perhaps not much to look at, it is a very great treasure.  For it is not only the oldest epic poem in the Anglo-Saxon language, it is history too.  By that I do not mean that the story is all true, but that by reading it carefully we can find out much about the daily lives of our forefathers in their homes across the seas.  And besides this, some of the people mentioned in the poem are mentioned in history too, and it is thought that Beowulf, the hero himself, really lived.

And now, having spoken about the book and its adventures, let us in the next chapter speak about the story.  As usual, I will give part of it in the words of the original, translated, of course, into modern English.  You can always tell what is from the original by the quotation marks, if by nothing else.

Chapter XI THE STORY OF BEOWULF

Hrothgar, King of the Spear Danes, was a mighty man in war, and when he had fought and conquered much, he bethought him that he would build a great and splendid hall, wherein he might feast and be glad with his people.

And so it was done.  And when the hall was built, there night by night the thanes gathered and rejoiced with their King; and there, when the feast was over, they lay them down to sleep.

Within the hall all was gladness, but without on the lone moorland there stalked a grim monster, named Grendel, whose dark heart was filled with anger and hate.  To him the sound of song and laughter was deep pain, and he was fain to end it.

“He, the Grendel, set off then after night was come to seek the lofty house, to see how the Ring Danes had ordered it after the service of beer.  He found them therein, a troup of nobles sleeping after the feast.  They knew not sorrow, the wretchedness of men, they knew not aught of misfortune.

“The grim and greedy one was soon prepared, savage and fierce, and in sleep he seized upon thirty of the thanes, and thence he again departed exulting in his prey, to go home with the carcases of the slain, to reach his own dwelling.