Myth of Arrival

I have been reading Juan Williams' new book Enough: The Phony Leaders, Dead-End Movements, and Culture of Failure That Are Undermining Black America — and What We Can Do About It (Crown Publishers, 2006) which has stirred a lot of debate. Anguish and anger are equally mixed here. Gone are the days of self-determination and individual responsibility that led a people to one of the greatest social movements in human history. As the title suggests, Williams' opinion of the state of Black America and where it is heading borders on apocalyptic. It is a culture, Williams states, with a world philosophy of "'authentically black' behavior … [that is] tied to violence, illiteracy and drug dealing" (Williams, 140). Critics of this book (and not just Juan Williams but other social commentators as well, such as the comedian Bill Cosby and scholar Orlando Patterson) claim Williams ignores and minimizes "systemic racism" that simultaneously silences and keeps down Black America as a whole. I cannot tell if Williams minimizes it, but he certainly sends out the call that people should not see themselves as victims and only through relentlessness and personal responsibility will anyone, black, white, red or yellow, be able to break from those "mind-forg'd manacles" William Blake writes about in his poem London.

I talk about Enough here not because I agree or disagree with the book's thesis but because both Williams and Cosby take rap and hip hop music to task (and and the large white industry that pays for and supports it) for the pornographic embrace of violence and vile degradation of women that it continually spews out. Williams quotes Cosby as saying, "What white man made you write a record calling black women bitches and ho's?" (Williams, 21) A question directed to the apologists of the Industry who claim such lyrics and records simply reflect what it means to be "Keeping It Real" in this day and age. For Williams (and others) this has nothing to do with "systemic racism" but rather a perversion of the concept of Black Power from within the movement itself.

However, every generation seems to have a talent for making the old new and misogyny and violence are no exception. I would argue that certain rap and hip hop lyrics follow in a long, long tradition in our literary canon. I read periodically of teachers lamenting that students in this day and age aren't interested in "the Greats" of literature. I think this is simply because students haven't been told that the same glorification of prostitution, violence, drunkenness, killing and rape that are embraced without thinking in today's music can be found throughout the poems of Western literature as well. Indeed, I see a day that someone, somewhere, will put the Romantic poets to a dance beat and we shall have a hard time telling the difference between 1815 London and 2006 America.

***

I first became interested in George Gordon, Lord Byron, when I was one of the first English instructors to teach at the Lord Byron School #20 in Gyumri, Armenia, as a Peace Corps volunteer (1995 - 97). At the time I was curious as to what made Byron great? Common belief in college (at least at Michigan State University in the early 1990s when I went there) said that Byron was hardly even a poet, "one who wrote so much and gave so little" to English literature (I forget who said that … some wag). And true, the Byronic Myth which surrounds him is hard to pierce. Still, I read Don Juan and found it … long. I read his dramas and found them brilliant. Now I turn to Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, the poem that made his reputation, the poem that lead him to say after its publication, "I awoke one morning and found myself famous." What was it that made him so immensely popular? Even after all the work of Shelley and Keats and Wordsworth, ask anyone who didn't labor under a Master's degree in English literature and they will say Byron was "mad, bad and dangerous to know" — and thus the most interesting of the lot. Why, when no one reads his work, do we still feel that way?

For the same reason Williams and Cosby lament the decline of rap and hip hop music — the misogyny, the violence and the pop cultural references he continually writes about. The hunger of the common reader has changed very little, it seems, in the last two hundred years. These are my annotations as I go along, calling shots as I come to them. It is a long poem, three books, hundreds of stanzas. I might give up in the middle if the poem becomes too dull but in the meanwhile I welcome any comments anyone might have as we go along. Enjoy.

***

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage:¹ Canto I, stanzas I — XII + Childe Harold's Good Night.²

I.
Oh, thou! in Hellas³ deem'd of heavenly birth,
Muse! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will!
Since shamed full oft by later lyres⁴ on earth,
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:
Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill:⁵
Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's⁶ long deserted shrine,
Where save that feeble fountain, all is still;
Nor mote⁷ my shell awake the weary Nine⁸
To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine.⁹

II.
Whilome¹⁰ in Albion's¹¹ isle there dwelt a youth,
Who ne¹² in Virtue's¹³ ways did take delight;
But spent his days in riot most uncouth,¹⁴
And vex'd¹⁵ with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
Ah me! in sooth¹⁶ he was a shameless wight,¹⁷
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;
Few earthly things found favour in his sight
Save concubines and carnal companie,¹⁸
And flaunting wassailers¹⁹ of high and low degree.

III.
Childe Harold was he hight:²⁰ — but whence his name
And lineage long, it suits me not to say;
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,
And had been glorious in another day:
But one sad losel²¹ soils a name for aye,²²
However mighty in the olden time;
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honeyed lies of rhyme,
Can blazon²³ evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

IV.
Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun,
Disporting there like any other fly;
Nor deem'd before his little day was done
One blast might chill him into misery.
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by,
Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
He felt the fulness of satiety:
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,
Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's²⁴ sad cell.²⁵

V.
For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,
Nor made atonement when he did amiss,
Had sigh'd to many though he loved but one,
And that loved one, alas! could n'er be his.
Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss
Had been pollution²⁶ unto aught so chaste;
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,²⁷
And spoil'd her goodly lands²⁸ to gild²⁹ his waste,
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste.

VI.
And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,
And from his fellow bacchanals³⁰ would flee;³¹
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee: ³²
Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie,
And from his native land resolved to go,
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;
With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for woe,
And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.

VII.
The Childe departed from his father's hall:
It was a vast and venerable pile;³³
So old, it seemèd only not to fall,
Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle.
Monastic dome! condemn'd to uses vile!
Where Superstition once had made her den
Now Paphian girls³⁴ were known to sing and smile;
And monks might deem their time was come agen,
If ancient tales say true,³⁵ nor wrong these holy men.

VIII.
Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow
As if the memory of some deadly feud
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below:
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;
For his was not that open, artless soul
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow,
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,
Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control.³⁶

IX.
And none did love him: though to hall and bower
He gather'd revellers from far and near,
He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour;
The heartless parasites of present cheer.³⁷
Yea! none did love him — not his lemans³⁸ dear –
But pomp and power alone are woman's care,³⁹
And where these are light Eros finds a feere;⁴⁰
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, ⁴¹
And Mammon⁴² wins his way where Seraphs⁴³ might despair.

X.
Childe Harold had a mother⁴⁴ — not forgot,
Though parting from that mother he did shun;
A sister ⁴⁵ whom he loved, but saw her not
Before his weary pilgrimage begun:
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel:
Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.

XI.
His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,
The laughing dames in whom he did delight,
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands,
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,⁴⁶
And long had fed his youthful appetite;
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine,
And all that mote to luxury invite,
Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine,
And traverse Paynim⁴⁷ shores, and pass Earth's central line.⁴⁸

XII.
The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew,
As glad to waft ⁴⁹ him from his native home;
And fast the white rocks⁵⁰ faded from his view,
And soon were lost in circumambient foam:
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam
Repented he, but in his bosom slept
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come
One word of wail, whilst other sate and wept,
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.

XIII.
But when the sun was sinking in the sea
He seized his harp, which he at times could string,⁵¹
And strike, albeit with untaught melody,
When deem'd he no strange ear was listening:
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling,
And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight.
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,
And fleeting shores receded from his sight,
Thus to the elements he pour'd out his last 'Good Night.'⁵²

1.
Adieu, adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.⁵³
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native Land - Good Night!

2.
A few short hours and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;
My dog howls at the gate.

3.
'Come hither, hither, my little page!⁵⁴
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage,
Or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
Our ship is swift and strong:
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
More merrily along.'

4.
'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind:
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,
A mother whom I love,
And have no friend, save these alone,
But thee - and one above.

5.
'My father bless'd me fervently,
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again.' -
'Enough, enough, my little lad!
Such tears become thine eye;
If I thy guileless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry.

6.
'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,⁵⁵
Why dost thou look so pale?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman?
Or shiver at the gale?' -
'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife
Will blanch a faithful cheek.

7.
'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake,
And when they on their father call,
What answer shall she make?' -
'Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay;
But I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.'

8.
For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of wife or paramour?⁵⁶
Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes
We late saw streaming o'er.
For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave
No thing that claims a tear.

9.
And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea:
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again
He'd tear me where he stands.

10.
With thee, my bark,⁵⁷ I'll swiftly go
Athwart⁵⁸ the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves!
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves!
My native Land - Good Night!

[more soon]

***

Works Cited

McConnell, Frank D. (ed.) Byron's Poetry: authoritative texts, letters and journals, criticism, images of Byron. New York: Norton. (1978)

Spenser, Edmund. The Faerie Queene. Thomas P. Roche, Jr. and C. Patrick O'Donnell (eds.) London: Preguin Classics. (1978)

Thompson, A. Hamilton. (ed.) Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Cambridge: At the University Press. (1931)

Williams, Juan. Enough: The Phony Leaders, Dead-End Movements, and Culture of Failure That Are Undermining Black America — and What We Can Do About It. New York: Crown Publishers. (2006)

1. Perhaps there is a hell for those who write in library books, we can only hope so. I must thank, however, the defacer of my copy of Byron's Poetic Works (Oxford University Press, 1946) for I found it in my local library sale at the expense of fifty cents. I am always amused and miffed in equal measures at other people's annotations. Why they feel compelled to write in pen in a book they do not own is a mystery. A greater one is what they choose to highlight. For example, someone had underscored the title and after the word "Childe" wrote, "green" and then "on a toot." Perhaps. The Norton Critical Edition (1978) makes this comment after the title as follows:

   The title "Childe" does not mean "child" in our sense but it is rather a medieval term for a squire on the point of taking his vows of knighthood. And as the use of that term and frequent other archaic locutions indicates, Byron attempts throughout the "first" Harold (cantos I and II), to write a self-consciously, and sometimes ludicrously, "literary" language … Byron insisted, in the preface to the original poem, that it was not autobiographical: "Harold is the child of imagination" But his disclaimers were not taken seriously by the reading public, and the identification of Harold with Byron was indeed largely responsible for [his] immense celebrity …. the original working title for the poem, which Byron composed during his tour of the Mediterranean and the Near East (1809 - 11) was "Childe Burun" — "Burun" being an archaic form of "Byron" (McConnell, 24, ff 1.)

   I find both annotations highly interesting. [back]

2. What I've gotten done so far this morning. [back]
3. The funky, old-fashion way of saying "Greece" without having to say "Greece." [back]
4. This could be a bad pun for "liars" or it could be what Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds sang in The Lyre Of Orpheus (2004) "Eurydice appeared brindled in blood/ and she said to Orpheus/ If you play that fucking thing down here/ I'll stick it up your orifice!" [back]
5. My Princeton dictionary calls a "rill" — "a small channel or rivulet (as one formed by soil erosion)" and as anyone who has hiked in the Greek hillsides know there are vaunted rills all over the place and if you aren't watching where you are going you might fall into one and that's just sad. However, I think "The Rivulets" would be great 1950s do-wop group as well. [back]
6. The home of Apollo, the god of the poets in ancient Greece, and the home of Apollo's anonymous oracle … who did all the hard work and got none of the credit. It seemed the custom to name-drop Greek gods in the Romantic poetry world, much as it is at Open Mic. Nights when someone will name-drop Allen Ginsberg or Up-Chuck Bukowski in their poem with the hope it will give their verse strength through association. [back]
7. Perhaps this word might mean "might" … it is rather hard to tell. Thompson adds: "notice the archaisms of the opening stanzas, adopted as in keeping with the Spenserian metre, but gradually dropped" (Thompson, 192, ff 8.) by which I suppose A. Hamilton means that Byron wrote this poem in the same style that Edmund Spenser wrote his epic poem, The Faerie Queene, which no one under the age of 47 in this country has heard of, let alone read. [back]
8. The nine Muses were the goddesses or personifications of various ancient arts and poets were suppose to call upon to get inspiration. There has been a lot written about the Muses, usually by male authors who have never met them. They are, in no particular order: Clio (history), Urania (astronomy), Calliope (poetic elegies), Melpomene (all sorts of tragedies), Erato (love and erotic poems), Tepsicore (sing-a-longs and chorus lyrics), Thalia (slap-stick comedies), Euterpe (flute playing), Polyhymnia (disco). I always wondered as the world grew in the minds of the Greeks and new arts were discovered whether new Muses were also added. Perhaps there are Muses now of all sorts of strange arts and sports … Ino Chu, the Chinese Muse of Ping Pong? Otwoto, the Muse of Underage Tattooing? the list could go on and on! [back]
9. Byron could never really pull off this whole "humility" thing. His "lowly lay" or tale ends up being three books and nearly two hundred pages. Still, he scores points for trying. [back]
10. This is a wonderful way of saying, "Once upon a time, a long time ago …" without having to say it. Again, Byron is copying the style of Spenser when the earlier poet wrote lines like, "Lo! I the man, whose Muse whilome did maske" (Spenser, 39) in the opening of his Faerie Queene. Lo! I the man! [back]
11. England's, apparently. [back]
12. Was this the word "never" before a half-off sale occurred? [back]
13. What other people call "Good Manners." [back]
14. Since every generation has a different idea what decadence might mean, I can only say that besides a sad rhyme for "youth," "riot most uncouth" probably meant back then wearing large, comical shirts with the collar open and staring moodily at gravestones. What the Romantics would make of MTV I cannot think but it is safe to hazard a guess that Childe Harold might end up as one of the drunken frat boys urging their girl friends on in a Girls Gone Wild: Cancun Spring Break video if the poem was rewritten in this day and age. All I really know is true decadence is highly under employed in Modern poetry. Make a couple of references to your sex life and they give you the Mark Twain award for extreme sarcasm … at least I assume Tony Hoagland's constant harping about what a virile creature he is is sarcasm … it would certainly be tedious if it wasn't tongue in cheek. [back]
15. You know the word "vexed," even if Byron can't spell it. Perhaps you recall the UK grime rapper Dizzee Rascal's hit, Vexed with the lines, "i dont wana get vexed and i dont wana lose my rag/ but i aint gona let that boy come round try n take me for no slag …" Hmmm, isn't "slag" British slang for a woman of loose morals? Curious. [back]
16. The New York Time's Crosswords are always claiming that poets use words like "sooth" and "err" and "hoary" because Will Shortz apparently hasn't read a poem written after 1842. No poet uses the word "sooth" in this day and age. It means, "in truth or reality" by the way. [back]
17. Princeton says a "wight" is an old term meaning "human." I won't say this is the worse rhyme in the poem but really, between Blake rhyming "eye" with "symmetry" and 91% of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, I am hard put to defend rhyming poetry when critics call it cockeyed, affected, puerile. Actually, I don't know anyone who uses the word "cockeyed" … I just like saying it in polite society. [back]
18. Hurrah for British tradition! [back]
19. The Wassailer has a long and noble custom in most colleges and campuses in America. One might observe a Wassailer throwing up in the street or setting fire to a church. Princeton defines them as, "one who enjoys riotous drinking," but we know them better as Master of Business Administration students. [back]
20. Called. [back]
21. A worthless wretch. [back]
22. According to the Yoruba "aye" means, "the visible tangible world of the living." Somehow I do not think that is what Byron had in mind. Besides being a bad rhyme of "day" I think it might mean "all" or "ever." [back]
23. A coat of arms consisting of. [back]
24. This could be a hermit, a hermitess, a hermitical recluse or reclusive homebody. [back]
25. A homebody's home [back]
26. It doesn't take a great stretch of the imagination to consider that a "poullted kiss," sexually speaking, might be a reference to a sexually transmitted disease. [back]
27. Another good name for a rock band. [back]
28. Again, if we consider that Byron is continually making sexual puns, to lose one's virginity has been referred to as being "spoiled" … or we could take it on face value as Thompson when writing, "This had happened in the case of Byron's mother, Catherine Gordon of Gicht, whose patrimony had been wasted by her husband, 'Mad Jack' Byron" (Thompson, 193, ff 44.). Either way works. [back]
29. I bet you were always curious where Keats came up with the title of his poem, How Many Bards Gild The Lapses Of Time! and now you know. He was listening to Tangerine Dream's Order of the Ginger Gild and didn't even site his sources. Shame! Shame! [back]
30. We call this in Michigan an "orgy" but for the prudes who read Byron, it harkens back to the followers of Bacchus, the Roman god of good times, wine and debauchery. [back]
31. Anyone who has enough free time to get up and leave an orgy due to moodiness has far too much free time on their hands. It reminds me of a passage in Douglas Coupland's much ballyhooed Life After God (1994) where he ends up not being able to have sex with his wife because he is agonizing about agonizing. I was in Peace Corps Armenia at the time and threw the book across the little hut I lived in. "At least your having sex!" I yelled at the book. Frankly, Coupland and all his middle-class posturing was just as flawed as all posturing can be. If you recall, Life After God was the book where he made the claim that my Generation X was somehow raised without religion. In one sense he was correct; my parents, born and bread archaeologists, raised me with only the merest concept of spirituality. But so what? While it is fine for me what I objected to in Coupland's work was the self-importance, arrogance, pomposity that ran through the stories. I got the sense that this "generation without religion" was merely a gimmick and possibly every generation — at least Byron feels so in this line — has had its cynics and doomsayers who claim anguish, ennui, joylessness as their own divine right. Modernism really isn't all that. [back]
32. Where exactly is one's ee? Near the spleen? [back]
33. McConnell writes, "Newstead Abbey, Byron's estate where he was wont to dress in friar's robes with his friends and play, 'dissolute monk'" (McConnell, 27, ff 4.) and what sort of game was that? [back]
34. Right. I think people are getting a bit coy when McConnell notes "Paphian" is a word, "from Paphos, island sacred to Aphrodite, goddess of beauty and love. Hence, 'Paphian girls' are prostitutes" (McConnell, 27, ff 5.) but what Greek prostitutes are doing in Scotland is a bit of a mystery. [back]
35. Again, Byron is using bad puns to not so subtly hint about the legends of rampant buggery and sodomy that went on behind closed walls in many monasteries. [back]
36. Perhaps Childe Harold is suffering from some sort of bipolar disorder? or manic depression? Perhaps some sort of anti-depressant drugs would help? [back]
37. My, I didn't know they had tele-evangelists back then! [back]
38. I think I read somewhere that it means a cheap sweetheart; a two cent beau or a five dollar mistress, perhaps. [back]
39. Byron is not alone in being a sexist pig, but we should really call him out on it as we go along … as we are doing now. [back]
40. Consort [back]
41. Again, I am sure the yahoos were yucking it up back in 1812 but Byron's misogyny does distract from the poem. [back]
42. Princeton defines it as, "wealth regarded as an evil influence." [back]
43. One of the many hosts of angels that run rampant in Heaven. [back]
44. And don't we all! However, since Byron loved to confuse the line between fact and fiction, Thompson writes, "The mother and sister of Childe Harold are drawn from Byron's own relations. His affections for this mother, such as it was, was checked by his resentment at the insults which she heaped upon him …" (Thompson, 193, ff 82.) [back]
45. Thompson continues, "… His sister, Augusta, daughter of John Byron by his first wife, Amelia, baroness Conyers, married colonel George Leigh, her first cousin" (ibid). This is the same Augusta of his scandalous affair. The point was hammered home to anyone too dim not to pick up on the fact Byron had the hots for his half-sister in Ken Russell's humorous movie, Gothic (1986), where a very hoary-looking Gabriel Byrne gets a half-naked chamber maid to put on a mask labeled "Augusta" so he can moan nonsense at her … belly. [back]
46. A person who has retired into seclusion for religious reasons. [back]
47. A pagan by any other name; however, in context to the rest of the poem I think Byron is referring to Muslims. [back]
48. Thompson writes, "Byron explained this 'by saying that, before Childe Harold left England, it was his full intention to traverse Persia, and return by India'" (Thompson, 193, ff 99.). [back]
49. Here is a curious word that needs to be used more. It reminds me of a terrible sonnet by Laura Sophia Temple, The Hindoo Lover's Address to the Evening Breeze: "Then waft, oh ! waft the melody of song,/ Let some sad cadence gently steal along" (Temple, 26); which is even more curious because Temple is attributed as writing, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage to the Dead Sea. Has anyone read this? [back]
50. Possibly the White Cliffs of Dover which, they say, is the last sight anyone sees of England (or the first) crossing the Channel. Matthew Arnold wrote, "The sea is calm to-night./ The tide is full, the moon lies fair/ Upon the straits" in his poem Dover Beach (1867) [back]
51. Play. [back]
52. I think what follows is some sort of song, "Good Night" meaning "Good Bye." [back]
53. A sea-mew? Is there a cat lost overboard? [back]
54. Like the Catholic Church Byron had a history with little boys. Thompson writes, "When Byron left England in July 1809, he took with him Robert Rushton, the son of one of the tenants at Newstead. 'I like him,' he wrote to his mother, 'because, like myself, he seems a friendless animal'" (Thompson, 193, ff 134.) Like I said, Byron had a hard time being humble. [back]
55. A yeoman is a bodyguard of a British monarch. Thompson clarifies this by writing, "the yeoman … was Byron's valet, William Fletcher" (ibid.) [back]
56. I wonder if any MFA graduate student has written a paper on "1815 Playa Hatas in Romanitc Poetry"? For someone who goes on and on about how no one loves him he certainly has slept around a lot. [back]
57. Boat. [back]
58. Across. [back]

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