APPENDIX.
I.
ICELANDIC STORIES AND FAIRY TALES
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH BY THE REV. OLAF PÁLSSON, DEAN AND RECTOR OF REYKJAVIK CATHEDRAL. REVISED AND EDITED BY DAVID MACKINLAY AND ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.
STORIES OF SÆMUNDUR FRODI, CALLED THE LEARNED.[[42]]
I. THE DARK SCHOOL.
Long, long ago, when Trolls and Giants lived among men, there was a famous school where curious youths were taught the mysteries of witchcraft. France and Germany both claim the honour of it, but no one knows where it really was.
It was kept in a dismal cavern, deep underground, into which no ray of sunlight ever entered. Here, the scholars had to stay no less than seven winters; for it took them all that time to complete their studies. They never saw their teacher from one year’s end to another. Every morning a grey grizzly hand, all covered with hair, pushed itself through the cavern wall and gave to each one his lesson book. These books were written all over with letters of fire, and could be read with ease, even in the dark. The lessons over, the same grizzly hand again appeared to take away the books and bring in the scholars’ dinner.
At the close of winter, the scholars who had then got through their seven years apprenticeship were dismissed. The great iron door was opened, and the master stood watching those who went out; for he had stipulated that the scholar who walked hindmost, in passing through, was to be seized by him and kept as a thrall. But who was this strange school-master? Why, Old Nick himself. No wonder, then, that each of the scholars struggled hard to be first in passing the fatal threshold.
Once on a time, there were three Icelanders at the dark school; Sæmund Frodi, afterwards parish priest at Oddi, Kalfur Arnason, and Halfdan Eldjarnsson, afterwards parish priest at Fell, in Slettuhlid. They were all dismissed at the same time. Sæmund, to the great delight of his companions, offered to walk hindmost in going out of school, so he dressed himself in a long loose cloak, which he took care to leave unbuttoned, and bidding good bye to school-fellows left behind, prepared to follow his countrymen. Just as he was putting his feet on the first step of the stair which led up from the school door, Old Nick, who was watching hard by, made a clutch at the cloak and called out,
“Sæmund Frodi, pass not the door,
Thou art my thrall for evermore.”
And now the great iron door began to turn on its hinges; but, before Old Nick had time to slam it too, Sæmund slipt his arms out of the sleeves of his cloak, and sprung forward out of the grasp of his enemy.
In doing so, the door struck him a heavy blow on the heel, which gave him a good deal of pain, when he said,
“The door hath swung too near the heel,
But better sore foot than serve the Deil.”
And so Sæmund outwitted Old Nick, and got away from the dark school along with his two friends. Since then, it has become a common saying in Iceland, when a person has had a narrow escape from danger, that “the door swung too near his heels.”[[43]]
II. SÆMUND GETS THE LIVING OF ODDI.
At the time Sæmund, Kalfur, and Halfdan came out of the dark school, there was no priest at Oddi, for the old priest had just died. All three of them would fain have the living, and so each went to the king to ask it for himself. The king knew his men; and so he sent them all away with the same answer, that whoever reached Oddi first, should be made priest of that place.
Thereupon Sæmund summoned Old Nick and said to him, “Now, I’ll make a bargain with you, if you swim with me on your back across to Iceland, and land me there without wetting my coat-tail, I’ll be your servant as long as I live.” Old Nick was highly pleased with the offer and agreed at once. So, in less than no time, he changed himself into a seal, and left Norway with Sæmund on his back.
Sæmund took care to have his prayer book with him, and read bits out of it every now and then while on the way. As soon as they got close to the shores of Iceland, which they did in less time than you would think, he closed the book and suddenly struck the seal such a heavy blow on the neck with it that the animal went down all at once into deep water. Sæmund, now left to himself, struck out for the shore and got easily to land. In this way Old Nick lost his bargain, and Sæmund got the living of Oddi.
III. THE GOBLIN AND THE COWHERD.
When Sæmund was priest of Oddi, he once had a cowherd—a good servant withal, but greatly addicted to swearing. Sæmund often reproved him for this, but all his reproofs were of no avail. At last he told him, he really ought to leave off his bad habits, for Old Nick and his servants lived upon people’s curses and wicked words. “Say you so?” said the cowherd, “if I knew for certain that Old Nick would lose his meals by it, I would never say a bad word more.” So he made up his mind to mend his ways.
“I’ll soon see whether you are in earnest or not,” said Sæmund, and so, he forthwith lodged a goblin in the cowhouse. The cowherd did not like his guest, and no wonder: for he was up to every kind of mischief, and almost worried the life out of him with his wicked pranks. The poor cowherd bore up bravely for a time, and never let slip an oath or angry word. The goblin got leaner day by day, to the intense delight of the cowherd, who hoped, bye and bye, to see an end of him.
One morning, on opening the byre door, the poor cowherd found every thing turned topsy-turvy. The milk pails and stools were broken in pieces and scattered about the floor; and the whole of the cows—and there were many of them—tied tail to tail, were straggling about without halters, and goring each other. It needed but half an eye to see who had done the mischief. So the cowherd in a rage turned round to the goblin who, shrunk and haggard, lay crouched up in a corner of a stall, the very picture of wretchedness, and poured forth such a volley of furious curses as would have overwhelmed any human being in the same plight. The goblin all at once began to revive; his skin no longer shrivelled looked smooth and plump; his eye brightened up, and the stream of life again flowed joyously through his veins.
“O, oh!” said the cowherd, as he suddenly checked himself, when he saw the wonderful effect his swearing had on the goblin, “Now I know for certain that Sæmund was right.” And from that day forward he was never known to utter an oath. As for the goblin, he soon pined away again and has long since been beyond troubling anybody. May you and I, and all who hear this story, strive to follow the good example of Sæmund’s cowherd!
IV. OLD NICK MADE HIMSELF AS LITTLE AS HE WAS ABLE.
Sæmund one day asked Old Nick how little he could make himself. “Why,” replied he, “as for that I could make myself as small as the smallest midge.” Thereupon Sæmund bored a tiny hole in the door post, and asked him to make good his boast by walking into it. This he at once did; but no sooner was he in, than Sæmund stopped the hole with a little plug of wood, and made all fast.
Old Nick cursed his folly, cried, and begged for mercy; but Sæmund would not take out the stopper till he promised to become his servant and do all that he was told. This was the reason why Sæmund always had it in his power to employ Old Nick in whatever business he liked.
V. THE FLY.
As might be expected, Old Nick always harboured a great ill will against Sæmund: for he could not help feeling how much he was in Sæmund’s power. He therefore tried to revenge himself on various occasions; but all his tricks failed, for Sæmund was too sharp for him.
Once, he put on the shape of a little fly, and hid himself—so he thought, at least—under the film that had gathered on the priest’s milk jug, hoping that Sæmund would swallow him unawares, and so lose his life. But Sæmund had all his eyes about him; so instead of swallowing the fly he wrapped it up in the film, covered the whole with a bladder, and laid the package on the altar. There, the fly was obliged to remain till after the service, when Sæmund opened the package and gave Old Nick his liberty. It is told, as a truth, that old Nick never found himself in a worse case than when lying on the altar before Sæmund.
VI. THE GOBLIN’S WHISTLE.
Sæmund had a whistle of such wonderful power, that, as often as he blew it, one or more goblins appeared before him, ready to do his bidding.[[44]] One day, on getting up, he happened to leave the whistle under his pillow, and forgot all about it till the afternoon when the housemaid was going to make his bed. He charged her, if she found anything unusual about the bed, she was on no account to touch it, or move it from its place. But he might have saved himself the trouble of speaking; for, as soon as the girl saw the whistle, she took it up in her hand, and looked at it on every side. Not satisfied with much handling it, she put it to her mouth and blew it lustily. The sound of the blast had not died away before a goblin stood before her, saying, “what will you have me to do?” The girl was not a little startled, but had the presence of mind to conceal her surprise.
It so happened that the hides of ten sheep, that had been killed that day, were lying on the ground in front of the parsonage. Recollecting this, the girl replied to the goblin, “Go and count all the hairs that are on the ten hides outside, and, if you finish your task before I get this bed made, I’ll consent to marry you.” The goblin thought that a task worth undertaking for such a prize; and hurrying out, fell to counting the hairs with all his might. The girl who did not like the idea of being the wife of a goblin, lost no time, you may be sure, in getting through with her work; and it was well she bestirred herself; for, by the time the bed was made, the goblin had almost finished his task. Only a few hairs of the last hide remained uncounted, but they were enough to make him lose his bargain. When Sæmund afterwards learned how prudently the girl had got out of her scrape, he was very well pleased.
ICELANDIC FAIRY TALES.
BIARNI SVEINSSON AND HIS SISTER SALVÖR.[[45]]
Once on a time, a worthy couple, Sveinn and his wife, occupied a farm, on the shores of the beautiful Skagafiord, in the north country. They were in easy circumstances and were blessed with two fine children, a son and daughter, who were the joy of their hearts. Biarni and his sister Salvör—for these were the names of their children—were twins and greatly attached to each other.
In the spring of the year,[[46]] about St. John’s day, when these two had reached the age of twenty, the people of Skagafiord were arranging a party to make a journey to the mountains of the interior, to gather Iceland-moss for making porridge. Sveinn promised to let his son go with the party. As soon as Salvör knew that, she felt a great desire to go too; and so she went to her parents to ask their consent. This was not so easily got, as they did not wish to part with both their children at once; and besides, they knew she was ill fitted to bear the hardships and fatigues of mountain travelling. But she fretted so much at the thought of being left behind, that, at last, they consented to let her go.
The night before the moss-gatherers were to leave, Sveinn the farmer dreamed that he had two beautiful white birds, of which he was very fond, and that all at once, to his great grief, the hen-bird disappeared and could nowhere be found. On awaking in the morning, he could not help thinking that his dream betokened no good to his darling Salvör, so he called her to him, and after telling her his dream, he said to her, “Salvör dear! I cannot bear to part with you, you must stay at home with your mother and me, for I would never forgive myself if any ill befel you by the way.” Salvör who had been in great glee at the prospect of riding, day after day, up the romantic valleys to the south of Skagafiord, and there tenting out amidst the mountains, was neither to hold nor to bind, when she found that, after all, she would have to stay at home; she wept with vexation and distressed herself so much that her father could not bear it, and again gave an unwilling consent to let her go. So she accompanied her brother and the rest of the party to the mountains.
The first day after getting there, she gathered Iceland-moss with the others, but during the night she fell suddenly ill and was unable to leave her tent on the following day. Biarni stayed with her, and did all that a brother could do to help and comfort her. For three whole days he was her companion, but, on the fourth day, he left her for a time in charge of a friend, while he himself joined the moss-gatherers. After partly filling his bag, he sat himself down by a large stone, and, resting his head on his hand, brooded over his sister’s unhappy fate; he feared she was going to die among the mountains.
By and by he heard a great tramping of horses, and, on looking about, he saw two men riding towards him at a quick pace. One of them wore red coloured clothes, and had a red horse; the other who was younger, was dressed in black, and was mounted on a black horse. On reaching the place where Biarni was sitting, they dismounted and saluted him by name.
“What ails you Biarni,” said the elder of the two strangers. For a time Biarni answered not a word, but on being pressed to do so, he opened up his heart to them and told all about his sister’s illness.
“My companions are going to return home, but I must stay to watch over Salvör; and who knows how soon she may die in my arms.”
“You are in a hard case Biarni,” said the other, “and I am sorry for you, but won’t you leave your sister with me, and I will take good care of her.”
“No, no,” said Biarni, “that I dare not do, for I know neither who you are, nor where you come from. But will you tell me where your home is?”
“That’s no business of yours,” said the other, rather gruffly, and then, taking from his pocket a silver-gilt box set with precious stones, added, “Won’t you sell me your sister for this box.”
“No,” said Biarni, “nor for a thousand like it. I would not give her to you for any money.”
“Well! well! there is no help for it, you will at all events accept this box, as a token that you have met with men among the mountains.”
Biarni took the offered gift with pleasure, and thanked the giver. The two men then bade him farewell and rode away, while he returned to the tent. Next morning his companions went away home, leaving him alone with his sister. Though she was now a little better, he dared not sleep, for he was afraid lest the strangers should come and steal her away. But, after watching a whole day and night, he felt overcome with fatigue; so he lay down, and folding his arms round her waist to protect her, fell into a sound sleep. But, when he awoke, his sister was gone, and was nowhere to be found. He spent a whole day sorrowfully wandering from spot to spot, looking and calling for her, but it was all in vain. He then turned his back on the mountains, and with a heavy heart went home, and told his parents what had happened.
“Woe is me,” said Sveinn, “what I feared most has come to pass, but God’s will be done!”
There was great grief in Skagafiord when the news spread from farm to farm; for Salvör, with all her way-wardness, was a promising girl, and was every body’s favourite. A party of young men returned to the mountains to look for her, but nowhere was the least trace of her to be found.
And now ten years had passed away. By this time Biarni was married and settled on a farm, not far from his father’s. During autumn all his sheep went amissing, and his shepherd could not discover what had become of them though he searched diligently for them three whole days. On learning this, Biarni bid his wife provide him with a week’s supply of food, and an extra pair of shoes; “for,” said he, “I shall go to the mountains myself to look for the sheep.” His parents, who were still alive, urged him to stay at home; for they feared that, if he went to the mountains, they might never see his face again.
“I must go,” said he to them, “I cannot afford to lose the sheep. But be of good heart, and do not begin to weary for me till the week is over.”
He then went away on foot, and did not leave off walking for three days. At the end of that time he came to a cavern, where he turned in and lay down to sleep. On waking, he could not see a yard before him; for a thick fog which rested on the ground. He continued his journey, but soon lost his way. Towards evening the fog cleared off, and he found himself in a spacious valley, not far from a large well built farm house. It was the hay season, so that all the people of the farm were busy in the meadow. On getting near the house, he noticed, in particular, two women and a girl who were tedding the hay. “God’s peace be with you,” said he, on reaching the spot; and then, telling them of his mishaps, he asked permission to stay all night under their roof. They gave him a hearty welcome, and the girl went with him to the house. She was of more genteel appearance than the rest—young and handsome—and, as Biarni thought, bore some resemblance to his long lost but well remembered sister. This unexpected circumstance renewed his old griefs, but he did what he could to seem cheerful before his young hostess. She led him through several apartments to a large well furnished room, where everything was neat and tidy. Here, she drew in a chair, and kindly asked him to sit down and rest, while she brought in supper. He had not long to wait; for she soon placed upon the table a plentiful supply of meat and wine.
After supper, she showed him to the little room where he was to sleep for the night; she then took away his wet clothes, wished him a kind good night, and left the room.
As Biarni lay in bed, he fell a-wondering where he was, and how the sight of the girl should have so waked up the sad memories of the past. He fell asleep thinking of these things, but was soon awakened by the sound of singing in a room over his head. It was the family at evening worship, as is the custom of the country. He heard both men and women singing, but one voice sounded clear above all others, and thrilled to his very heart, so strongly did it remind him of his sister Salvör. Thoughts of the past filled his mind and kept him awake for hours, but he fell asleep again, and slept on, till he was roused up in the morning by the girl. She brought with her a suit of fine clothes, and bade him put them on.
“To-day is Sunday,” she added, “and you must stay here till to-morrow.” She then left the room.
While Biarni was putting on his clothes, a little boy in a green coat, and very nicely dressed, came into the room and wished him good morning. “What has brought you here, so far away from home?” said the little fellow to him.
“I have come to look for some sheep that I have lost.”
“Well, I have not seen them in this valley. But I hope you won’t go to look for them to-day. Father is going to hear service in the church, and you must be there too.”
Before Biarni had time to reply, some one called the boy away, saying, “Sveinn, come here, and don’t plague the stranger with your nonsense.”
At breakfast, Biarni was waited on by the girl who had treated him so well the evening before.
Towards mid-day, people began to come from far and near, to join in the public service in the church close by. The boy came for Biarni, and led him by the hand into the church and showed him to a seat. On looking about, what was his surprise to see by his side the man in the red clothes whom he had seen, ten years before, among the mountains! But, his surprise was greater still, on discovering that the clergyman who conducted the service, was no other than the man in the black dress who had travelled with the other. The church was full of people. Most of the men were tall and strongly built, but had something forbidding about their looks. Some wore brown knitted garments of undyed wool. Biarni said nothing to his neighbour, but took out the gilt box and offered him a pinch of snuff. This he took, but without seeming to recognize Biarni.
By and by, Biarni saw, seated just in front of the pulpit, a comely well dressed woman who seemed the very picture of his sister. When their eyes met, she was overcome with emotion and began to smile and weep by turns. Biarni now felt confident that it was indeed his beloved sister Salvör whom he now saw before him.
The service decently performed to the end and the blessing pronounced, the boy again took Biarni by the hand and led him out. In passing the church door, an old ill looking man, who sat there, tripped Biarni up and made him fall. On this, the man in the red clothes came forward and chastised the offender, while Biarni went with the boy into the farm house. The two men whom Biarni had met among the mountains, shortly after came in and saluted him.
“Do you know us, Biarni!” said they to him kindly.
“Yes,” replied he. But not another word could he utter for emotion.
A moment after, the woman, he had seen in the church and taken for his sister, entered the room. She flew into his arms and pressed him to her bosom saying,
“Before we were born we lay in each other’s arms, I was taken weeping from thy embrace, and now I return laughing to thy arms, my brother.”
It was a joyful meeting.
When Biarni recovered himself, he told his sister about his parents, and also all that had happened in Skagafiord since her departure. The man in red clothes then addressed himself to Biarni, and said,
“Whilst thou wert asleep among the mountains, I took thy sister away from thee and gave her in marriage to this man in the black dress, who is my son. He is the clergyman of the valley and I am the sysselman. It was I that took away the sheep and led thee astray to this place, that brother and sister might meet again. To-night thou must stay here with thy sister. To-morrow I shall give thee back thy lost sheep and go with thee part of the way to Skagafiord.”
Biarni spent a happy evening with Salvör. In the morning he took leave of her with many tears, and departed under the guidance of her husband and of her father-in-law, who gave him back his sheep, and helped him to drive them. On reaching the inhabited part of the country, his new friends parted with him and bade him an affectionate farewell; but not before they had made him promise to leave Skagafiord and live with them.
“You must come and settle in the valley beside us,” said they to him, “we shall return next summer and lead you and your friends to your sister’s home.”
On getting to Skagafiord, Biarni told his wife and mother all that had happened to him, when away, and also the promise he had made to remove to the mountains; but charged them to say nothing to the neighbours about it. His parents were rejoiced to learn that Salvör was still alive, and promised to go with him and his wife.
In June of the next year, three men, from the mountains, rode up one night to Biarni’s house. The night following, Biarni, and his parents, and all his household went away with them and in due time reached the valley where Salvör lived. How it rejoiced Sveinn and his wife to see again their long lost daughter! They settled in the valley and died there, at a good old age.
Biarni lived there too, for many years, but he could never forget the beautiful Skagafiord; so when age came upon him, he returned to his old home, and spent his latter years among the friends of his youth.
UNA THE FAIRY.
Many many years ago, a strapping young fellow, called Geir, was settled in the farm of Randafell, on the south slope of the Eyafialla mountains, near the sea-coast. Every thing prospered with him; for he was active and industrious, and scorned to eat the bread of idleness. His wife was as industrious as himself, but unfortunately, she took ill and died, shortly after their marriage. At the hay-making season, which came on soon after, he missed his wife greatly; for the maid servants were too few to look after the house and make the hay.
One day, when they had a good deal more work before them than they were able to get through, a strange woman made her appearance in the hay field, and, without so much as saying, “by your leave,” began at once to handle the rake; and cleverly she handled it, too, for she got through more work than any two of them. She was young and handsome, but silent as the grave. Not a word could Geir, or any one else, get out of her the live long day. At night she disappeared, no one knew where; but, when morning came, there was she, first in the field, ready to take her place among the women.
Things went on in this way till the end of the harvest, when Geir went up to her, and thanked her kindly for the help she had given them.
She took what he said in good part, and no longer refused to talk with him. They had a long chat together, but Geir was not made a bit the wiser, as to where she lived, or whose daughter she was. She told him, however, that her name was Una.
“Una,” said he to her at last, “I am greatly in want of a housekeeper; I don’t know any body so likely to suit as you; will you take the situation?”
“I have no objection to do so,” she replied, “when do you want me?”
“The sooner the better.”
“Well, I shall come with my luggage to-morrow, and take up my abode with you.” She then disappeared.
Next morning, she walked into the farm house, and set down a large chest, full of clothes, which she had brought with her. This she put out of the way in the closet, and then began to bustle about the house, looking after household duties.
And now things began to prosper again with the Randafell farmer. Una was a capital manager, and soon became famous all over the country side for her good butter, and her well ordered house. Geir was delighted with his housekeeper; but one thing distressed him—he could not persuade her to go to church.
When Christmas Eve came round, Geir and all the servants went to church, to the vesper service. Geir was anxious that Una should go too. But no! she would not budge, excusing herself by saying, that she was needed at home to look after the house. It was morning before the church goers got back, for the church was a good three hours’ ride from Randafell. On returning they found Una busy preparing the Christmas feast. The ordinary work of the house was done, so that they had nothing to do but to take a few hours rest, before sitting down to enjoy themselves.
By the time the third winter came round, Geir began to think of taking a wife, and who so likely to suit him as Una! And so thought all the neighbours too. Many a talk they had about her, when gathered together in the churchyard, on the Sundays, waiting the arrival of the clergyman. After discussing her good qualities, “Isn’t it strange,” the one would say to the other, “that we can’t find out who Una is, or where she comes from?”
“Aye! that is true,” another would say, “but isn’t it stranger still, that all the time she has been at Randafell, she has never once entered the church door?”
Geir was very fond of her, but could not make up his mind to ask her to marry him, so long as she refused to bend her knee in prayer to God.
On the third Christmas Eve, Geir set out, with all his household, to the midnight service in the church. Una as usual remained at home. When they were on the road, Geir’s serving man suddenly complained of severe pain. He lay down on the spot, and said he would rest there till he got better; so Geir and the others went on without him.
As soon as they were out of sight, the man got up to his feet, mounted his horse and rode back again to the farm. His sickness was only feigned, in order to get the chance of finding out what could tempt Una always to stay at home, at a time when every true hearted Icelander made a point of joining his neighbours, in the house of God, to commemorate the anniversary of that blessed night when Christ was born in Bethlehem.
On reaching the farm, he unsaddled the horse, and slipped quietly in, taking care to hide in a dark corner where he could see all that was going on, without being himself seen. Una was busy sweeping and cleaning the house; and so cleverly did she go about her work that everything was put to rights in a very short time. After washing herself, she went to the store-closet and put on a dress which the man had never seen till now, and which was more befitting a king’s daughter than a poor farmer’s housekeeper. Never before had Una looked so handsome and beautiful.
She now took out of her chest a piece of red cloth, which she put under her arm. Shutting her chest and the closet door, she left the house and ran down the meadow, till she came to a pool of water. Here she spread out the red cloth, and placed herself upon it. At this instant the man, who had been breathlessly following her, came up, and unseen by her just succeeded in getting his foot on a corner of the cloth. And now they sunk down and down into the earth, with a feeling as if they were going through smoke. By and by they landed on a green plain, not far from a splendid farm house. Una took up the cloth, put it under her arm, and went up to the house. The man walked softly behind, taking care to keep out of her sight. A great many people came out of doors to welcome Una, who seemed rejoiced to see them, and saluted them kindly.
Great preparations were going on inside for a feast. The guest chamber was swept and garnished, and the table laid. As soon as the people took their places several dishes were brought, and abundance of good wine. The serving man, who had slipped in with the others unknown to Una, took his place among the guests. Among other things he was presented with a fine rib of smoked mutton, which he took and preserved, for he had never seen so fat a rib before. After supper the people amused themselves with games of different kinds, and were all very happy.
Just as day began to break, Una told her friends, she would have to go away, as her master, the peasant, would soon be back from church. So she took a kind leave of every one, and walked to the spot where she had alighted, on coming down.
The man followed her, and again succeeded in getting his foot on the cloth, without being seen. So they ascended together through the dark earth, till they came to the pool of water again. Una took up the cloth, and went straight to the store-room to change her dress. After that she went into the house, to await the return of the peasant, and make ready the Christmas feast.
The serving man had, meantime, taken up his place at the spot where he had been left behind the night before. When the farmer came up he asked him how he was.
“I am almost well again,” said the man, “and quite able to go home with you.”
So they all rode together to Randafell.
Una received them with a smiling face, and told them that the feast was quite ready. So they were not long in taking their places. As is usual on such occasions, the principal dish was smoked mutton. As this happened to be very fine, the farmer took up a large rib, and holding it up said,
“Have any of you ever seen such a rib as this?”
“I think I have; what think you of that,” said the serving man, as he held up before them the rib he had got the night before.
As soon as Una saw this, she changed colour, went out without saying a single word, and was never afterwards seen.
GILITRUTT.
Once on a time, a smart active young peasant occupied a farm under the Eyafialla mountains. As his pasture land was good, he kept many sheep. These yielded him no small store of wool, and yet, it was no easy matter for him to keep a coat on his back; for the wife whom he had lately married, though young and healthy, was lazy to a degree, and gave herself little concern about the affairs of the house. Her husband was greatly dissatisfied, but could not induce her to mend her ways.
At the close of summer he gave her a large bundle of wool, and told her to be sure to spin it and work it up into coarse wadmal during the winter months. “Very well,” she said, “I’ll see about it bye and bye;” but at the same time looked as if she would far rather have nothing to do with it. She let it lie in a corner untouched, spite of the hints she got every now and then, from her husband. It was mid-winter before she fully made up her mind to set to work; and then she began to perplex herself, as to how she could get so much wool worked up, before the close of winter.
Just then, an ugly old woman came to the door, begging for alms.
“Can you do any work for me in return,” asked the peasant’s wife.
“Perhaps I can,” replied the old woman.
“But what kind of work would you have me to do?”
“I want you to make some coarse cloth for me, out of this wool.”
“Very well, let me have the wool then.”
And so, the peasant’s wife handed the large bag of wool to the old woman, who, without more ado, tossed it up on her back, at the same time saying,
“You may depend on my coming back with the cloth, the first day of summer.”
“But what payment will you ask for your work when you bring the cloth,” said the peasant’s wife.
“I won’t take any payment; but you must tell me what my name is, in three guesses.”
The peasant’s wife, too lazy to spin and weave for herself, agreed to this strange condition, and so the old woman departed.
As the winter months passed on, the peasant often asked what had become of the wool.
“Give yourself no concern about it,” said the wife, “you’ll have it back, all spun and woven, by the first day of summer.”
As he never could get any other answer, he at last ceased to talk about the wool. All this time his wife was trying to find out the old woman’s name, but all her efforts were unavailing. By the time the last month of winter came round she became so anxious and uneasy that she could neither eat nor sleep. Her husband was greatly distressed at the change which had come over her, and begged her to let him know what ailed her. Unable longer to keep the matter secret, she told him the whole.
He was very much startled at what he heard, and told her how very imprudent she had been, as the old woman was, most certainly, a witch, and would take her away if she failed in her bargain.
A day or two after this conversation, he had occasion to go up the adjoining mountain. He was so bowed down with grief, at the thought of losing his wife, that he scarcely knew what he was about; and so wandered from the road, till he came to the bottom of a lofty cliff. While he was considering how he could get into the right road again, he thought he heard a sound as of a voice inside the hill. Following the sound he discovered a hole in the face of the cliff. On peeping through this hole, he saw a tall old woman sitting weaving with the loom between her knees; and, as she beat the treadles, every now and then breaking into a snatch of song,
“Ha! Ha! and Ho! Ho!
The good wife does not know
That Gilitrutt is my name.”
“Aha!” muttered the peasant to himself, “if she does not know now, she will know bye and bye;” for he felt quite sure that was the same old hag who had so imposed on his poor foolish wife.
All the way home, he kept repeating the word Gilitrutt, and, as soon as he got in doors, he wrote it down on a piece of paper, that he might not forget it. But he did not, at that time, give his wife the least inkling of what had befallen him. The poor woman grew more and more sorrowful, as the days passed on; and, when the closing day of winter came, she was so woe-begone that she had not the heart even to put on her clothes. In the course of the day, her husband enquired if she had found out her visitor’s name yet.
“Alas, no! Would to God I could find it out! for I am like to die of grief.”
“There is no occasion for that,” he replied cheerfully, “I’ve found out the name for you; so you need not be afraid to meet the old hag.” With that, he handed her the piece of paper, and at the same time told about his adventure on the mountain. She took the paper, with a trembling hand, for at first she feared that the news was too good to be true; and, though her husband’s story comforted her not a little, she could not get rid of a suspicion that the name might not be the true one.
She wanted her husband to stay indoors the next day, so as to be present when the old woman called.
“No! no!” said he, “you kept your own counsel when you gave her the wool, so, you must do without me when you take in the cloth, and pay her the wages agreed on.”
He then left the house.
And now came the first day of summer. The peasant’s wife was in the house alone, and lay a-bed, listening with a beating heart for the first sound of the old hag’s footsteps. She had not long to wait; for, before the morning passed, a trampling noise was heard, and in stalked the old woman with a bundle on her back, and a scowl on her face. As soon as she got within the room, she threw down the big bundle of cloth, and, in an angry tone, called out,
“What is my name now? What’s my name?”
The peasant’s wife, who was almost dead with fear, said “Signy!”
“That my name! That my name! guess again, good wife.”
“Asa,” said she.
“That my name! That my name! No indeed. You must guess again; but remember this is your last chance.”
“Are you not called Gilitrutt?” said the woman timorously.
This answer came like a thunderbolt on the old hag, who fell down with a great noise on the floor, and lay there for sometime. She then got up, and, without speaking a word, went her way out of the house, and was never more seen in the country-side.
As for the peasant’s wife, she was full of joy at her deliverance, and, ever after, was a changed woman. She became a pattern of industry and good management, and henceforth always worked her own wool herself.
HILDUR THE FAIRY QUEEN.
Once on a time a farmer settled in a mountainous part of the country, but the particular spot is not mentioned, nor has his name come to us; but we do know that he was a bachelor, and had a housekeeper named Hildur.
Who Hildur was, neither the farmer nor any of the neighbouring gossips could find out: but as she took good care of the household and discharged her duties faithfully, she was allowed to keep her own secret. All the servants liked her, and the farmer thought himself very fortunate in having fallen in with such a housekeeper. She was of a quiet disposition, but always kind and obliging.
The farmer’s affairs were in a flourishing state: his sheep throve and multiplied, and he had nothing to annoy him except this, that he had great difficulty in getting shepherds to enter his service. The cause of this was not that the farmer treated his shepherds badly, but that, one after another, they were found dead in bed, on Christmas morning.
In olden times, it was the custom for the Icelanders, on Christmas Eve, to meet together at midnight for public worship; and any one who absented himself from church, on that occasion, was considered as much to blame as if he were keeping away on Christmas day itself. Those living up among the mountains, and who had long weary roads to go, had often great difficulty in getting to church in time; especially those who were not able to leave home before the Pleiades could be seen in the south-eastern heavens.
In this farm, the shepherds did not usually get home from work before that time, so that they generally missed the opportunity of attending the Christmas Eve service. Hildur never went on those occasions, as she preferred staying at home to watch the house—as is customary for some one to do on Christmas Eve—and attend to the preparations for the Christmas feast. She was always busily occupied in this way till the night was far advanced, so that the church-goers were back from the services and asleep in bed, before she retired for the night.
As often as Christmas morn came round, the farmer’s shepherd, whoever he might be, was found dead in bed. This strange fatality was well known over all the country side. No wonder, then, that shepherds were afraid of entering the farmer’s service, even though offered better wages than they could get elsewhere. No mark of violence was ever seen on the body of the unfortunate shepherd, so that no blame could be attached either to the farmer, or to any one in the house. At last the farmer declared that he could not find it in his heart to engage shepherds, with the prospect of certain death before them, and that he would, for the future, leave his sheep to take care of themselves.
When things had reached this pass, there came to him, one day, an active hardy man, who offered his services as shepherd.
“I am not so much in want of your services as to be willing to take you.”
“Have you engaged a shepherd for next winter?” asked the stranger.
“No, I have not,” replied the farmer, “but surely you have heard how sad has been the end of all that have been before you.”
“Oh yes, I’ve heard all about it; but their fate will not hinder me from taking care of your sheep, if you are only willing to engage me.”
At last, the farmer complied with his entreaties, and engaged him as shepherd. He soon shewed that he was in every respect fitted for the place. He was kind and obliging; and both able and willing to lend a hand at any farm work, so that he soon became a favourite with everybody.
Till Christmas-tide, nothing extraordinary happened. On Christmas Eve, the farmer went to church as usual with his domestics. The housekeeper alone stayed at home, and the shepherd was left in charge of the sheep. Towards evening the shepherd came in from his work, and after partaking of dinner, lay down to rest in bed. He took care, however, not to drop asleep; for, though free from fear, he thought it only prudent to keep awake. When the night was advanced he heard the church-goers come in, and take some refreshment before going to bed. Up till this time, he had not remarked anything unusual; but when the others had fallen asleep, he felt languid and weary. He was afraid lest he should be overpowered with sleep, and did his best to keep awake. A little while after, some one, whom he believed to be the housekeeper Hildur, stealthily approached the bed-side. Thinking he was asleep, she began to try to put something in his mouth. He felt certain that it must be a magic-bridle, and so, pretending to be quite unconscious of what was going on, he let himself be quietly bridled.
As soon as the bridle was on, she led him out very easily; mounting on his back, she rode away at a smart pace till they reached a yawning chasm in the earth. Then she dismounted beside a stone, and letting go her hold of the bridle, disappeared into the chasm. The shepherd did not want to lose sight of her, and so tried to follow; but he soon found that that was out of his power, so long as he had on the bridle. By dint however of rubbing his head against the stone, he got rid of the bridle, and leaving it behind, he threw himself into the chasm into which Hildur had sprung.
As far as he could judge, he had not gone very deep down till he saw Hildur again. She was then landed on a fine level meadow, along which she was walking quickly. From what he saw he came to think that all was not right with Hildur, and that she was not the woman she had seemed to be in the farmer’s house. In order to keep her from seeing him as he followed her over the plain, he took out of his pocket a stone which had the wonderful property of making him invisible so long as he held it in his hand. With this stone of darkness in his left-palm, he made after her as fast as he could, and kept close behind her the rest of the way.
After walking some distance over the plain, there appeared in sight a splendid palace of great size, towards which Hildur directed her steps. A great crowd of people came out to meet her. Foremost among them was a man dressed in purple and gold, who bade her welcome, at the same time calling her his beloved wife, and embracing her very affectionately. Those who attended him saluted her as their queen, and received her with every mark of respect. By the king’s side were two children, of eight or ten years of age, who ran joyfully into Hildur’s arms, and called her mother.
On entering the palace, Hildur was very honourably received. She was dressed in a royal robe, and had rings of gold put upon her hand. The shepherd followed the crowd into the palace, and took up his place where he could see all that was going on without running the risk of being found out. The furniture was rich and gorgeous beyond conception, so that he was completely dazzled with the sight.
In the principal saloon a table was set out and a feast prepared, the splendour of which cannot be described.
Hildur then made her appearance, magnificently attired, and sat down on the throne beside the king, while the other guests took their places on each side.
At the close of the feast, the table was removed, and soon the guests began to pass the time in dancing, or other amusements. The king and queen paid no heed to what was going on, but sat alone, engaged in a close conversation which seemed to the shepherd to be at once kind and sorrowful.
While the king and queen were thus occupied, three children, younger than those before mentioned, came forward, and their mother Hildur, who received them kindly, took the youngest on her knee and fondled it. But, as the child was restless and uneasy, she set it down again. She then drew a ring from her finger, and gave it to the child as a plaything. The child amused itself for some time with it, and then dropped it on the floor. The shepherd, who was standing close by, at the time, hastily snatched it up and put it into his pocket, without being observed by any one. As soon as the ring was missed, a careful search was made for it, but, to the great astonishment of everybody but the shepherd, it was nowhere to be found.
As the night was now far advanced, the queen—Hildur—began to prepare for her departure. Those present were sorry to see this, and begged her to stay longer with them. The king also added his entreaties, but all without effect. Before this time, the shepherd had noticed an ill-looking woman, who sat all alone in a corner of the room. She was the only one that had failed to give Hildur a joyful welcome to the palace, or ask her to prolong her stay. As soon as the king saw that Hildur was bent on going, he stepped up to this old woman, and said, “Take back your words, mother! at my humble entreaty, so that my queen may no longer be bound to absent herself from home, and from those nearest and dearest to her.”
The old woman replied angrily, “All my words shall stand, I will by no means retract them.”
With a sorrowful heart, he went back to the queen, and, folding his arms around her, begged her in words of kindness not to leave him again.
“Alas,” said she, “I cannot stay here, in consequence of the spell by which your mother has bound me, and who knows if I shall ever see you more.”
She then told him she had killed so many men it could no longer be concealed, and that she would certainly be punished, even though what she had done was sore against her will.
While she was lamenting her unhappy lot, the shepherd, seeing how matters stood, made the best of his way out of the palace, and went straightway to the bottom of the chasm. He reached the top, with the greatest ease. After that, he put the stone of darkness in his pocket, and putting the bridle in his mouth again, waited patiently on Hildur. It was not long before Hildur made her appearance, looking very sorrowful. Taking a hold of the bridle, she mounted on his back and rode quickly back to the farm.
On her arrival she laid the shepherd quietly in bed, and unbridled him, and then slipped away to her own bed, where she lay down to sleep. Although the shepherd had been all this time wide awake, he feigned sleep so well that Hildur was quite deceived. After she had gone to bed, he was no longer on his guard, but fell asleep, and as might be expected slept till it was broad day. The farmer was astir early in the morning, for he was anxious to know if this Christmas, like so many that was gone, was to be a season of mourning in place of a season of rejoicing. The most of the servants got up early too, but, while they were dressing, he went quietly to the shepherd’s bed, and touching him with his hand, found that he was alive and apparently well. This rejoiced the heart of the farmer, who falling down on his knees, praised God loudly for his great goodness. The shepherd, shortly after, got up in the best of health. As soon as he was dressed, the people of the house gathered about him, to ask if anything unusual had befallen him during the night.
“Nothing,” said he, “except that I had a very wonderful dream.”
“What kind of a dream?”
The shepherd began with the tale, as it is here told; how Hildur came to his bed and bridled him; and every thing exactly, as far as he could recollect. When he had done, all were silent except Hildur, who said,
“If you tell the truth, show us some token to prove what you say.”
The shepherd, noways daunted by this demand, shewed them the ring, which he had picked up from the floor of the fairy palace during the night, and said,
“Though I am not bound to bring forward proofs, I can easily do so, for there is token sufficient that I have been with the fairies. Is not that your ring, Queen Hildur?”
“To be sure it is,” replied Hildur “and may good fortune ever attend you, for you have delivered me from the spell by which my cruel mother-in-law bound me, and through which I have been compelled to do so many bad deeds which my soul abhorred.”
Then queen Hildur told her story as follows. “I was a fairy maid of low degree, but the present fairy king fell in love with me. The marriage was so displeasing to his mother, that she became furious with rage and told him that he would have to part with me soon, and that, after that, we could enjoy each other’s society only at rare intervals and for a short time together. But me she bound with such a spell, that I was forced to become a servant in the world of woe, and, every Christmas Eve, to kill a man. I was to bridle him when asleep, and ride on his back along the same road that I took with the shepherd last night in going to meet the king. This I was to do till I was convicted of murder and put to death, unless, before that, I should fall in with a man so courageous as to dare to go with me to the world of Fairies, and then be able to show plain proofs that he had been there and seen what was done. Now, it is clear that all the other shepherds of this farmer have suffered death for my sake, but, as it was not in my power to prevent it, I hope their deaths will not be laid to my charge. This stout-hearted man is the first who dared to venture into the dark road that leads to Fairyland. I shall yet reward him for delivering me from the spell of my cruel mother-in-law. I thank you all for your kindness to me, during the years I have been among you. But I must stay here no longer, for I long for my proper home.”
After these words Queen Hildur disappeared, and since then, she has never once been seen in the world of mankind.
Of the shepherd, it is told, that he married and settled down on a farm, in the following spring. He was generously treated by the farmer, who, when they parted, stocked his farm free of all cost to him. Ere long he became noted as one of the best farmers of the neighbourhood, and was often called upon for his advice and assistance in matters of difficulty. He was beloved by all, and successful beyond all his expectations in whatever he undertook. None of his neighbours could boast of such thriving flocks and herds as his. But his wonderful good fortune did not make him proud, for, as he often said, he owed all his success to Hildur the Fairy Queen.
A CLERGYMAN’S DAUGHTER MARRIED TO A FAIRY MAN.
In a certain district of Iceland, there lived a clergyman who had a daughter in the early bloom of womanhood. One day, when the conversation turned on the subject of elves or fairies, the young woman happened to say,
“I should like to be married to a fairy man, if he were only a brave one.”
Her father was very angry at her words, and gave her a good scolding and a box on the ear besides. Shortly afterwards, a child about the parsonage saw a man ride up to the door of the house, and then dismount. Watching his opportunity, the man stepped indoors, and soon reappeared, leading the clergyman’s daughter by the hand. Before he could be prevented, he mounted on horseback and rode off with her. Her sorrowful parents searched for her throughout all the neighbouring country, but nowhere could she be found.
It is told, that three winters after this time, a shepherd who had been long in the clergyman’s service, and had loved his daughter dearly, one day lost his way and all the sheep. After wandering about for hours, he found himself at the door of a farm house he had never before seen. The farmer, a fine manly looking fellow, came out, and after listening to his story offered him a bed for the night. He accepted the offer gladly, but at the same time lamented over the loss of the sheep.
“Don’t bother yourself about them to-night,” said the farmer, “be sure they will turn up again;” and with that he led him to a room up stairs. There he saw an old man and woman, and two children who were playing on the floor. But, besides these, he saw the clergyman’s lost daughter who was now the wife of the man who had asked him in.
The shepherd was entertained with the best that was in the house; and when bed-time came, was shown to a private sleeping room. The clergyman’s daughter then went to him, and handing him a leather bag, asked him faithfully to deliver to her mother some valuables she had put in it. She also bade him tell her mother that though her husband was a fairy man, he did not hinder her from saying her prayers every night. On the shepherd asking her if ever she went to church, she said she was there just as often as himself, and that she always sat under the pulpit, with her husband, beside the altar.
“How does it come that nobody ever sees you in church?”
“Oh, the reason is,” she replied, “that we always leave the church before the blessing. But don’t tell anybody what I have now mentioned. Only deliver the leather bag to my mother; for if you blab what I’ve told you, be sure you will be an unfortunate man.”
He gave her a promise of secrecy; on that, she left the room. On getting up in the morning, he was glad to learn that his lost sheep had turned up. The farmer, who had fed them on hay during the night, delivered them up to him, and put him on the right road. He got home with the sheep in safety, and after a very short journey; but he never could tell which way he came. As for the promise of secrecy, he paid no attention to it; but on the contrary gave a full and exact account of everything he had seen and heard.
Now, the clergyman, who was anxious to find his daughter, bethought himself of a plan, and that was, to pronounce the blessing before she could have time to get out of church. So he went round among his parishioners, and told them not to be shocked if they should hear him the next Sunday pronounce the blessing at an earlier stage of the service than usual. When next Sunday came, his daughter occupied her customary seat, though not visible to any one in the church. In the middle of the service the clergyman stopped and pronounced the blessing. His daughter, thus caught unawares, was obliged to discover herself. He did what he could to induce her to stay, but all in vain.
“If you try to force me,” said she, “the consequences will be very serious; and besides, it would not be right in me to leave a husband who has always treated me so kindly.”
Of the shepherd, it is told, that he was from that day unfortunate in all that he had to do with. But one cannot be sorry for him, as he brought his troubles on his own head through his want of truthfulness.
THE CLERGYMAN’S DAUGHTER IN PRESTSBAKKI.
In Prestsbakki, in the Skaptáfells district, there once lived a clergyman, named Einar. He was well to do in the world, and had a numerous family. No one cared less about fairy tales than he did. In fact, he used to speak of fairies as if there were no such beings. In his idle moments he would tauntingly dare them to shew themselves to him; and then, as they did not choose to obey his orders, he would boast that there were no fairies to come.
Well, on one night while asleep, he dreamed that a man came to his bedside and said to him,
“You have provoked the fairies long, but now they will have their revenge. From this time forward you shall not dare to deny their existence. I will take away your eldest daughter, and you shall never see her more.”
And sure enough, in the morning, when the clergyman awoke, he found that his eldest daughter, who was twelve years of age, had disappeared. Search was made for her in all directions, but nowhere could she be found. As time passed on, she often made her appearance among her brothers and sisters, while they were playing in the meadows. Again and again, they tried to prevail on her to go home with them; but, just as she seemed willing to do so, she always became invisible. When asked as to her welfare, she always said that she was in good health, and kindly treated by her new friends. Her father frequently saw her in his dreams, and to him she told the same story, only adding that she was to be married, bye and bye, to the fairy clergyman’s son. Some time after she appeared to her father again in a dream, and invited him to come to her marriage, which was to take place on the following day. This was the last time he ever dreamed about her, and never after did she show herself among her brothers and sisters.
THE CHANGELING.
It was a common belief, in olden times, that the fairies often took away infant children who happened to be left alone, and changed them for decrepit old men or women who were made to appear as children. These changelings, however, neither grew nor spoke after the manner of children, and were very apt to become idiots. It once happened that all the people of a certain farm were working in the meadows, except the mistress of the house who was at home looking after the house and her little son, a boy three or four years old. Up to that time the boy had thriven amazingly. He could talk well, and was a clever promising child. As there was no one to assist the mother with the household work, one day, she was obliged to leave the boy by himself for a short time, while she went to wash the milk pails in a brook close by. On returning soon after, she was surprised to find the boy, at the door, weeping and howling in a strange uncouth way, very different from his wonted manner. Usually he was very quiet, gentle and obedient, but now she could not get a word out of him. Time passed on, but the child remained silent, restless, and thoroughly untractable. His body ceased to grow, and his behaviour was like that of an idiot. His mother could not account for the strange change that had come over him. In the midst of her grief, she at last bethought herself of going to take the advice of a neighbour woman who was famous for her prudence and skill. The neighbour listened attentively to all she had to say about the boy, and then said to her,
“Don’t you think, good wife, that the boy is a changeling? for, it seems to me, that the fairies must have taken away your own boy the day you left him alone, and have put another in his place.”
“How could I find out, if what you say is true?” said the surprised mother.
“Oh, very easily, just go home, and take the first opportunity of leaving the boy alone beside something that is likely to call forth his surprise. When his eye catches what you have put purposely in his way, if nobody is within sight, he is sure to make some remark about it to himself. You must listen to what he says, and if you find anything strange or suspicious about it, go in at once and flog him without mercy, till something comes out of it.”
The boy’s mother thanked her neighbour humbly for her advice, and went away home to put it into practice. The first thing she did on returning was to place the little porridge pot in the middle of the kitchen floor. She then bound a great many sticks together, so as to make a long rod, and fastened the spurtle to one of the ends. The rod was so big, that when the spurtle rested in the pot, the upper end was away up the chimney. Leaving it in this position, she went away and fetched the boy to the kitchen, and then left him all alone. On going out, she drew the door behind her; but not so closely as to prevent her from peeping in to see what was going on.
As soon as the boy thought he was alone, he began to trip round the pot, wondering greatly what could be the meaning of the long spurtle. At last he said, “Well, old as I am, and I am no chicken now, as my grey beard and my eighteen children in Fairyland can testify, I never, in all my born days, did see such a long spurtle for such a little porridge pot.”
This was enough for the mother, who was not long of making her appearance in the kitchen with a good sized stick in her hand. Seizing hold of the changeling, she flogged him unmercifully for a long while, spite of his heart-rending cries.
Bye and bye a strange old woman walked in, holding on her arms a little boy whom she fondled kindly. Addressing the farmer’s wife, she said, “Why should you treat my husband so cruelly. Your conduct is a sorry recompense for the care I have bestowed on this little boy of yours.” So saying, she laid the little boy at his mother’s feet, and took her husband away with her.
The fairy man and woman were never more seen again. The now recovered boy remained with his parents, and grew up a fine manly youth, the joy of his mother’s heart.[[47]]
II.
SPECIMENS OF ICELANDIC POEMS.
FROM THE “VÖLUSPÁ”
In the “Völuspá,”[[48]] from the older Edda, we have a sublime description of chaos; of creation; an account of a period of strife, crime, and suffering; dire conflicts between the powers of good and evil; of the destruction of the world of Odin and the dissolution and conflagration of the universe; of the Regnarök or twilight of the Gods; of the renovated world, the descent of Baldur the Good, the punishment of the wicked, and the happiness of the good in Gimlé or Heaven. From this poem—the most remarkable in the whole range of Scandinavian mytho-cosmogony—the following verses are extracted:
“It was time’s morning
When Ymer lived.
There was no sand, no sea;
No cooling billows;
Earth there was none,
No lofty heaven;
Only the Gulph of Ginunga,
But no grass.
· · · ·
The sun knew not
Where was his dwelling;
The stars knew not
That they had a firmament;
The moon knew not
What powers she possessed.
· · · ·
The tree Yggdrasil
Bears a sorer burden
Than men know of.
Above the stags bite it;
On its sides age rots it;
· · · ·
There saw she wade
In the heavy streams
Men—foul perjurers,
And murderers.
· · · ·
Brothers slay brothers:
Sisters’ children
Shed each other’s blood.
Hard is the world;
Sensual sin grows huge.
There are sword-ages, axe-ages,
Earth-cleaving cold;
Storm-ages, murder-ages,
Till the world falls dead,
And men no longer spare
Or pity one another.
· · · ·
Mimer’s sons play,
But the world is kindled
By the ancient
Loud blows Heimdall,
His sound is in the air:
Odin talks
With the head of Mimer.
Quivers then Yggdrasil,
The strong-rooted ash:
Rustles the old tree
When Jötun gives way.
All things tremble
In the realms of Hel,
Till Surtur’s son
Swallows up Odin.
Garmer he shouts
By the Gnipa-hall
The band must burst
And the wolf fly.
Hrymer drives eastward,
Bears his shield before him;
Jormungand welters
In giant fierceness.
The waves thunder;
The eagles scream;
Death rends the corpses
And Nagelfar gives way.
Köl hies eastward;
Come must Muspel’s
Folk to the sea.
Loke rows afar;
All the children of madness
Follow the wolf,
Bileist’s brother
Journeyeth with them.
Surtur fares southward.
With flickering flames
From his sword
God’s sun flashes.
Break the stone mountains;
The weird women flee,
Men throng Hel’s dread roads,
And Heaven is rent.”
Then Surtur flings fire over the world.
“The sun grows dark.
Earth sinks in the sea.
From heaven vanish
The lustrous stars.
High from the flames
Rolls the reek;
High play the fires
’Gainst heaven itself.
· · · ·
Up, sees she come
Yet once more,
The earth from the sea,
Gloriously green.
· · · ·
Then comes the Mighty One
To the great Judgment—
The great above all—
He who guides all things.
Judgments he utters;
Strifes he appeaseth;
Laws He ordaineth
To flourish for ever.
· · · ·
In Gimlé the lofty
There shall the hosts
Of the virtuous dwell,
And through all ages
Taste of deep gladness.”
FROM THE “SÓLAR LJÓD”
The “Sólar Ljód”—“Sol” or “Sun-song”—was composed by Sæmund himself, the collector of the Edda, and a Christian priest, ages before the time of Dante.
“By the Nornors’ seat
Nine days I sate,
Then to horse was lifted.
The sun of the giant race
Gleamed sadly
Out of heaven’s weeping clouds.
Without and within
Seemed I to journey
Through the seven worlds
Above and below.
Better path I sought
Than there was to find.
And now to be told is
What first I beheld
In the home of torture.
Scorched birds were flying—
Wretched souls in myriads,
Thick as mosquito legions.
Flying saw I
Hope’s dragons
And fall in drear waste places.
They shook their wings
Till to me seemed that
Heaven and earth were rent.
The stag of the sun
Southward saw I journey.
His feet stood
On earth, but his huge antlers
Traversed the heavens above him.
Northward saw I ride
The sons of the races;
Seven they were together.
From the full horn they drank
The purest mead
From wells of heavenly strength.
The winds stood still,
The waters ceased to flow.
Then heard I a dread cry.
There for their husbands
False vengeful women
Ground earth for food.
Bloody stones
Those women dark
Dragged sorrowfully,
Their gory hearts
Hung from their breasts
Weighed with heavy weights.
Many men
Along the burning ways
Sore wounded saw I go.
Their visages
Seemed deeply dyed
With blood in murder shed.
Many men
Saw I amongst the dead
Without one hope of grace.
Pagan stars there stood
Over their heads
All scored with cruel runes.
Men saw I too
Who enviously had scowled
Upon the good of others.
Bloody runes
Were on their breasts
Ploughed out by hands of men.
Men saw I there
All full of woe,
All mazed in wondering.
This do they win
Who to eternal loss
Love this world only.
Men saw I too
Who sought always to snatch
From others their possessions.
In throngs they were,
And to the miser’s hell
Bore groaning loads of lead.
Men saw I next
Who many had bereaved
Of life and goods,
And through the hearts of these
For ever fiercely ran
Strong venom snakes.
Men too I saw
Who never would observe
Sabbaths and holy days.
Their unblessed hands
Fast rivetted together
With ever burning stones.
Men too I saw
Who with huge brag and boast
On earth did vaunt themselves.
Here their clothes
Were vilely squalid
And with fire enwrapt.
Men saw I too
Who with their slanderous breath
Had blasted others.
Hel’s ravens
Remorselessly their eyes
Tore from their heads.
But all the horrors
Thou canst not know
Which Hel’s condemned endure.
Sweet sins
There bitterly are punished,
False pleasures reap true pain.
· · · ·
Men did I see
Who the Lord’s laws
Had followed stanchly.
Purest light
For ever growing clearer
Passed brightly o’er their heads.
Men did I see
Who with unwearied zeal
Did seek the good of others.
Angels read
The holy books
Upon their radiant heads.
Men did I see
Who with sharp fasts
Their bodies had subdued;
God’s holy hosts
Before them all bow’d down
And paid them highest homage.
Men did I see
Who had their mothers
Piously cherished,
And their place of rest
Amid heaven’s beams
Shone gloriously.
Holy maids there were
Who their pure souls
Had kept unsoiled by sin,
And souls of those
Who their rebellious flesh
Did ever sternly quail.
Lofty chariots saw I
Travel through heaven
Having access to God;
And they were filled with those
Who causelessly
Had on the earth been slain.
Father Almighty!
Illustrious Son!
And Holy Spirit of Heaven.
Thee do I implore,
Who didst make all things,
To keep us from all sin!”
Sæmund concludes this remarkable poem with these strophes:
“This song
Which I have taught thee
Thou shalt sing unto the living.
The Sun’s song,
Which in its solemn theme
Hath little that is feigned.
Here do we part,
But part again to meet
On the Great Day of men.
Oh, my Lord!
Give the dead rest,
Comfort to those who live!
Wonderful wisdom,
To thee in dream is sung,
’Tis truth which thou hast seen!
And no man is so wise
Of all who are created
As, ere this, to have heard
FROM THE POEMS RELATING TO SIGURD & BRYNHILD.
From the heroic poems relating to Sigurd and Brynhild—the originals from which the German “Niebelungen-lied” is taken—the following passage is extracted. In it Gudrun, in conversation with Thjodreck, describes her youth before the murder of Sigurd: “A maid was I amongst maidens; my mother reared me lovely in bower. Well loved I my brothers, till me Gjuké apportioned with gold, with gold apportioned and gave me to Sigurd. So raised himself, Sigurd, over the sons of Gjuké, as the green lily above the grass grows; or the high-antlered stag, above other beasts; or the fire-red gold above the silver grey. My brothers were incensed that I should have a husband more illustrious than any. Sleep they could not, nor decide on anything, before they Sigurd had caused to perish. Grangé (Sigurd’s steed) galloped to the Ting (assembly of the people), wild was his neighing, but Sigurd himself was not there. All the horses were covered with sweat, and with blood of the contenders.
“Weeping I went to speak to Grané, the blood sprinkled; of his master I asked him; then hung down Grané mournfully his head, for the creature knew that his lord was not living. Long did I wander, long was I confused in mind before of the Prince I could ask after my King.”
The “Hávamál”—“Odin’s High Song”—displays a shrewd insight into human nature, and contains many maxims, both of a moral and social kind, which one would scarcely expect to find embodied in the heathen ethics of an ancient Scandinavian Scald. The whole poem is here presented to the reader.
HÁVAMÁL.
I.
“In every corner
Carefully look thou
Ere forth thou goest;
For insecure
Is the house when an enemy
Sitteth therein.
II.
Hail him who giveth!
Enters a guest.
Where shall he be seated?
Yet, ill shall fare he
Who seeks his welfare
In other men’s houses.
III.
Fire will be needful
For him who enters
With his knees frozen.
Of meat and clothing
Stands he in need
Who journeys o’er mountains.
IV.
Water is needful,
A towel and kindness
For this guest’s welcome;
Kind inclinations
Let him experience;
Answer his questions.
V.
Good sense is needful
To the far traveller;
Each place seems home to him.
He is a laughing-stock
Who, knowing nothing,
Sits mid the wise.
VI.
With the deep thinker
Speak thou but little;
But guard well thy temper;
When the noble and silent
Come to thy dwelling,
Least errs the cautious.
VII.
Good sense is needful
To the far traveller;
Least errs the cautious;
For a friend trustier
Than good understanding
Findeth man never.
VIII.
A cautious guest
When he comes to his hostel
Speaketh but little;
With his ears he listeneth;
With his eyes he looketh;
Thus the wise learneth.
IX.
Happy is he
Who for himself winneth
Honour and friends.
All is uncertain,
Which a man holdeth
In the heart of another.
X.
Happy is he
Who prudent guidance
From himself winneth;
For evil counsel
Man oft receiveth
From the breast of another.
XI.
No better burden
Bears a man on his journey
Than mickle wisdom.
Better is she than gold
Where he is a stranger;
In need she is a helper.
XII.
No better burden
Bears a man on his journey
Than mickle wisdom.
No worse provision
Takes a man on his journey
Than frequent drunkenness.
XIII.
Ale is not so good
As people have boasted
For the children of men.
For less and still less,
As more he drinketh,
Knows man himself.
XIV.
The hern of forgetfulness
Sits on the drunkard,
And steals the man’s senses.
By the bird’s pinions,
Fettered I lay,
In Gunlada’s dwelling.
XV.
Drunken I lay,
Lay thoroughly drunken,
With Fjalar the wise.
This is the best of drink,
That every one afterwards
Comes to his senses.
XVI.
Be silent and diligent,
Son of a Prince,
And daring in combat;
Cheerful and generous,
Let every man be,
Till death approaches.
XVII.
A foolish man fancies
He shall live for ever
If he shuns combat.
But old age will give
To him no quarter,
Although the spear may.
XVIII.
The fool stares about
When he goes on a visit,
Talks nonsense or slumbers.
All goes well
When he can drink,
For then the man speaks his mind.
XIX.
He, he only
Who has far travelled,
Has far and wide travelled,
Knoweth every
Temper of man,
If he himself is wise.
XX.
If cups thou lackest
Yet drink thou by measure:
Speak what is seemly or be still.
No one will charge thee
With evil, if early
Thou goest to slumber.
XXI.
The gluttonous man,
Though he may not know it,
Eats his life’s sorrow:
Lust of drink, often
Makes the fool, foolish
When he comes mid the prudent.
XXII.
The flocks they have knowledge
When to turn homeward
And leave the green pastures;
But he who is foolish
Knoweth no measure,
No bounds to his craving.
XXIII.
An evil man
And a carping temper
Jeer at all things.
He knows not;
He ought to know,
That himself is not faultless.
XXIV.
A foolish man
Lies awake the night through
And resolves on many things.
Thus is he weary
When the day cometh;
The old care remaineth.
XXV.
A foolish man
Thinks all are friendly
Who meet him with smiles;
But few he findeth
Who will aid his cause,
When to the Ting he cometh.
XXVI.
A foolish man
Thinks all are friendly
Who meet him with smiles.
Nor knows he the difference
Though they laugh him to scorn
When he sits ’mong the knowing ones.
XXVII.
A foolish man
Thinks he knows everything
While he needs not the knowledge.
But he knows not
How to make answer
When he is questioned.
XXVIII.
A foolish man,
When he comes into company
Had better keep silence.
No one remarketh
How little he knows
Till he begins talking.
XXIX.
He appears wise
Who can ask questions
And give replies.
Ever conceal then
The failings of others,
The children of men.
XXX.
Who cannot keep silence
Uttereth many
A word without purport.
The tongue of the garrulous,
Which keepeth back nothing,
Talks its own mischief.
XXXI.
Hold in derision
No one, although he
Come as a stranger.
Many a one, when he has had
Rest and dry clothing,
Thou mayest find to be wise.
XXXII.
He seemeth wise
Who in speech triumphs
O’er mocking guests.
The talkative man
Knows not at the table
If he talks with his enemies.
XXXIII.
Many are friendly
One to another;
Yet storm ariseth.
Strife will arise
For ever, if one guest
Affronteth another.
XXXIV.
Thou mayst dine early
Unless thou art going
Unto the banquet.
Sits he and flatters;
Hungry he seemeth,
Yet few things he learneth.
XXXV.
Long is the journey
To a deceitful friend
Though he dwell near thee.
But, direct lies the path
To a friend faithful,
Though he dwelleth afar off.
XXXVI.
Do not too frequently
Unto the same place
Go as a guest.
Sweet becomes sour
When a man often sits
At other men’s tables.
XXXVII.
One good house is there
Though it be humble:
Each man is master at home.
Though a man own but
’Tis better than begging.
XXXVIII.
One good house is there
Though it be humble:
Each man is master at home.
The man’s heart bleedeth
At every mealtime
Who his food beggeth.
XXXIX.
Without his weapon
Goes no man
A-foot in the field.
For it is unsafe
Out on the by-paths
When weapons are needful.
XL.
Never found I so generous,
So hospitable a man
As to be above taking gifts.
Nor one of his money
So little regardful
But that it vexed him to lend.
XLI.
He who has laid up
Treasures of wealth
Finds want hard to bear.
Adversity often uses
What was meant for prosperity,
For many things are contrary to expectation.
XLII.
With weapons and garments,
As best may be fitting
Give thou thy friends pleasure.
By gifts interchanged
Is friendship made surest;
If the heart proffers them.
XLIII.
Let a man towards his friend,
Ever be friendly,
And with gifts make return for gifts.
With thy cheerful friend
Be thou cheerful;
With thy guileful friend on thy guard.
XLIV.
Let a man towards his friend
Ever be friendly;
Towards him and his friend.
But with an enemy’s friend
Can no man
Be friendly.
XLV.
If thou hast a friend
Whom thou canst confide in
And wouldst have joy of his friendship,
Then, mingle thy thoughts with his,
Give gifts freely,
And often be with him.
XLVI.
If thou hast another,
Whom thou hast no faith in
Yet wouldst have joy of his friendship,
Thou must speak smoothly;
Thou must think warily,
And with cunning pay back his guile.
XLVII.
Yet one word
About him thou mistrusteth
And in whom thou hast no reliance.
Thou must speak mildly,
More so than thou meanest;
Paying back like with like.
XLVIII.
Young was I formerly;
Then alone went I,
Taking wrong ways.
Rich seemed I to myself
When I found a companion;
For man is man’s pleasure.
XLIX.
The noble, the gentle
Live happiest,
And seldom meet sorrow.
But the foolish man,
He is suspicious,
And a niggard grieves to give.
L.
I hung my garments
On the two wooden men
Who stand on the wall.
Heroes they seemed to be
When they were clothed!
The unclad are despised.
LI.
The tree withereth
Which stands in the court-yard
Without shelter of bark or of leaf.
So is a man
Destitute of friends.
Why should he still live on?
LII.
Even as fire,
Burns peace between enemies,
For the space of five days.
But on the seventh
It is extinguished,
And the less is their friendship.
LIII.
Only a little
Will a man give;
He often gets praise for a little.
With half a loaf
And a full bottle
I won a companion.
LIV.
Small are the sand-grains,
Small are the water-drops:
Small human thoughts:
Yet are not these
Each of them equal.
Every century bears but one man.
LV.
Good understanding
Ought all to possess,—
But not too much wisdom.
Those human beings
Whose lives are the brightest,
Know much and know it well.
LVI.
Good understanding
Ought all to possess,
But not too much knowledge.
For the heart of a wise man
Seldom is gladdened
By knowledge of all things.
LVII.
Good understanding
Ought all to possess,
But not too much knowledge.
Let no one beforehand
Inquire his own fortune.
The gladdest heart knoweth it not.
LVIII.
Brand with brand burneth
Till it is burned out:
Fire is kindled by fire.
A man among men
Is known by his speech;
A fool by his arrogance.
LIX.
Betimes must he rise
Who another man’s life
And goods will obtain.
The sleeping wolf
Seldom gets bones.
No sluggard wins battle.
LX.
Betimes must he rise
And look after his people
Who has but few workmen.
Much he neglecteth
Who sleeps in the morning.
On the master’s presence depends half the profit.
LXI.
Like to dried faggots,
And hoarded up birch bark,
Are the thoughts of a man,
The substance of firewood
May last, it is true,
A year and a day.
LXII.
Cleanly and decent,
Ride men to the Ting
Although unadorned.
For his shoes and apparel
Nobody blushes,
Nor yet for his horse, though none of the best.
LXIII.
Question and answer
Is a clever thing,
And so it is reckoned.
To one person trust thyself,
Not to a second.
The world knows what is known unto three.
LXIV.
Bewilderedly gazes
On the wild sea, the eagle,
When he reaches the strand.
So is it with the man
Who in a crowd standeth
When he has but few friends there.
LXV.
Every wise man
And prudent, his power will use
With moderation.
For he will find
When he comes ’mong the brave
That none can do all things.
LXVI.
Let every man
Be prudent and circumspect
And cautious in friendship.
Often that word
Which we trust to another
Very dear costs us.
LXVII.
Greatly too early
Came I to some places;
Too late to others.
Here the feast was over;
There unprepared.
Seldom opportunely comes an unwelcome guest.
LXVIII.
Here and everywhere
Have I been bidden
If I fell short of a dinner.
But the fragments are easily
Left for his faithful friend
When a man has eaten.
LXIX.
Fire is pleasant
To the children of men.
And the light of the sun,
If they enjoy
Health uninterrupted,
LXX.
Perfectly wretched
Is no man, though he may be unhappy:
One is blessed in his sons;
One in his friends;
By competence one;
By good works another.
LXXI.
Better are they
Who live than they who are dead.
The living man may gain a cow.
I saw the fire blazing
In the hall of the rich man,
But death stood at the threshold.
LXXII.
The lame may ride;
The deaf fight bravely;
The one-handed tend the flocks,
Better be blind
Than entombed:
The dead win nothing.
LXXIII.
It is good to have a son
Although he be born
After his father’s death.
Seldom are the cairn-stones
Raised by the way-side
Save by the son to his father.
LXXIV.
There are two adversaries;
The heaviness of the brain,
And death by the bedside.
He who has gold for his journey
Rejoices at night
When he grows weary.
LXXV.
Short are the boat-oars;
· · · ·
Unstable autumnal nights.
The weather changes
Much in five days;
Still more in a month.
LXXVI.
Little enough knows he
Who nothing knows:
Many a man is fooled by another.
One man is rich,
Another man is poor;
But that proves not which has most wisdom.
LXXVII.
Thy flocks may die;
Thy friends may die;
So also mayest thou, thyself;
But never will die
The fame of him
Who wins for himself good renown.
LXXVIII.
Thy flocks may die;
Thy friends may die;
So also mayst thou thyself.
But one thing I know
Which never dies,
The doom which is passed on the dead.
LXXIX.
I saw the well-filled barns
Of the child of wealth;
Now leans he on the staff of the beggar.
Thus are riches,
As the glance of an eye,
They are an inconstant friend.
LXXX.
A foolish man,
If he gain wealth
Or the favour of woman,
Grows in self-esteem,
Though he understands nothing:
Forth goes he in arrogance.
LXXXI.
Know thou, that when
Thou enquirest of the runes,
Known to the world,
What the holy Gods did,
What the great Scalds have written,
It is best for thee to be still.
LXXXII.
Praise the day at eventide;
The wife when she is dead;
The sword when thou hast proved it;
The maid when she is married;
Ice when thou hast crossed it;
Ale when thou hast drunken it.
LXXXIII.
In wind sail the ocean;
In darkness woo a maiden,
For many eyes has daylight.
In a ship man voyages;
The shield it defends him;
The sword is for slaughter,
But the maid to be courted.
LXXXIV.
Drink ale by firelight;
On the ice drive the sledge;
Sell thou the lean horse
And the sword that is rusty;
Feed the horse at home;
Bed the dog in the court-yard.
LXXXV.
The word of a maiden
No one can trust;
Nor what a woman speaketh;
For on a turning wheel
Was the heart of woman formed,
And guile was laid in her breast.
LXXXVI.
A breaking bow;
A burning flame;
A hungry wolf;
A chattering crow;
The grunting swine;
The rootless tree;
The heaving billows;
The boiling kettle;
LXXXVII.
The flying spear;
Sinking waters;
One night’s ice;
The coiled-up snake;
The bride’s fond talk;
Or the broken sword;
A bear’s play;
Or a king’s son;
LXXXVIII.
A sick calf;
A freed bondsman;
A false fortune-teller;
The newly-slain on the field;
A bright sky;
A smiling master;
The cry of a dog;
A harlot’s sorrow;
LXXXIX.
An early sown field
Let no one trust,
Neither his son too soon;
The field depends on the weather;
The youth on his sense,
And both are uncertain.
XC.
A brother’s death,
Though it be half-way here;
A half-burned house;
A steed very lively,
(For a horse has no value,
If one foot stumble),
Are not so sure
That a man may trust to them.
XCI.
Thus is peace among women;
Like a fleeting thought;
Like a journey over slippery ice,
On a two-years-old horse
With unroughed shoes,
And ill broken in;
Or in wild tempests
Tossed in a helmless ship;
Or trying to capture
Deer mid the thawing snow of the hills.
Now speak I truly,
For I know what I speak of,
Deceitful to woman is the promise of love:
When we speak fairest,
Then mean we foulest;
The purest heart may be beguiled.
XCIII.
He speaketh smoothly
Who would win the maiden;
He offers property,
And praises the beauty
Of the fair maiden;
He wins who is in earnest.
XCIV.
The love of another
Let no man
Find fault with.
Beautiful colours
Oft charm the wise,
While they snare not the fool.
XCV.
For that failing
Which is common to many
No man is blamed.
From the wise man to the fool,
’Mong all children of men,
Goes he, Love, the mighty one.
XCVI.
Thought alone knoweth
What the heart cherisheth,
It alone knows the mind.
No disease is worse
For the wise man
Than joy in nothing.
XCVII.
This I experienced
When I sate mid the rushes
Awaiting my love.
The good maiden
Was to me life and heart;
Mine is she no longer.
XCVIII.
The maid of Billing
White as snow found I,
In her bed sleeping.
Princely glory
Was to me nothing
If I lived not with her!
XCIX.
“To the court, Odin,
Come towards the eventide
If thou wilt woo me
All will be ruined
If we do not in private
Know how to manage.”
C.
Thither I sped again;
Happy I thought myself,
More so than I knew of,
For I believed
I had half won her favour
And the whole of her thoughts.
CI.
So again came I,
When the quarrelsome people
All were awake.
With candles burning
And piled-up firewood
Received she my visit.
CII.
A few morrows after,
When again I went thither,
All the house-folk were sleeping.
There found I a dog,
Of the fair maiden’s
Bound on the bed.
CIII.
Few are so noble
But that their fancy
May undergo change.
Many a good girl
When she is well known
Is deceitful towards men.
CIV.
That I experienced
When the quick-witted maiden
I decoyed into danger.
She heaped reproach on me,
The merry maiden,
And I won her never.
CV.
Gay at home
And liberal, must
Be the man of wisdom.
Full of talk and pleasant memories
Will he be ofttimes,
With much cheerful converse.
CVI.
He is called Fimbulfambi
Who but few things can utter;
’Tis the way of the simple.
I was with the old giants,
Now am I returned;
There was I not silent,
With affluence of speech
I strove to do my best
In the hall of Suttung.
CVII.
Gunlöd gave me,
On a golden chair seated,
A draught of mead delicious;
But the return was evil
Which she from me experienced,
With all her faithfulness,
With all her deep love.
CVIII.
I let words of anger
By me be spoken,
And knawed the rock.
Above and below me
Went the paths of the giants;
Thus ventured I life.
CIX.
Dear-bought song
Have I much rejoiced in;
All succeeds to the will;
Because the Odrejrer
Now have ascended
To the old, holy earth.
CX.
Uncertain seems it
If I had escaped
From the courts of the giants
Had I not been blessed by
The dear love of Gunlöd,
She, whom I embraced.
CXI.
On the day following
Went the Rimthursar
To ask the gods council,
In the halls lofty;
Ask whether Bölverk were
Come mid the mighty gods,
Or if Suttung had slain him.
CXII.
A holy ring-oath
I mind me, gave Odin.
Now who can trust him.
Suttung is cheated;
His mead has been stolen
And Gunlöd is weeping.”[[49]]
III.
POEMS ON NORTHERN SUBJECTS.
LAY OF THE VIKINGS.
BY MRS. ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.[[50]]
In an unceasing, ebbless flow, around
The peaceful homes of Thulé, her best safety
Roll Arctic billows, rearing giant crests
In proud defiance—bulwarks impassable
Against the intruder’s steps. Fiercely and bold,
Even as a lioness doth guard her ’fenceless young,
Do they, the unconquerable surges, foam and champ,
And keep unslumbering vigils round the graves—
The restless, storm-rocked graves—of the Vikings
Their sons—those tameless spirits of the past—
Whose dirge their sighing parent hourly waileth
As erst they rode exultant on his bosom.
Boldest and noblest of earth’s kind were ye—
Conquerors of nations—fathers of a race
Of giant princes—ah! how fallen now!
Meet were it that your honoured dust should slumber
In this your polar cradle; rocked by northern gales,
Lulled by the sighing surges whose strong hands
Have hung a cloudy curtain o’er your rest.
Meet were it that the springtide rain should weep
O’er the degeneracy of your race—
The scattered glory of your Fatherland!
Fitting were it that the dark thunder-cloud
Should be the swift-winged chariot upon which
Your spirits love to ride—your path meanwhile
Lit by the fitful rays of yonder cold
Mysterious, flickering night-lamp, Borealis.
Nought less sublime, less wildly grand than these
Would be in harmony with your proud spirits.
Would ye not laugh to scorn the spicy breezes
Of India’s drowsy clime, or soft Italia’s
Radiant skies?—and ah! methinks ye whisper,
Were but the ocean charmed, that he should cease
His mournful lullaby around your pillow;
Or did old Winter’s gales less rudely blow,
Ye then would rise in vapoury clouds, and leave
A land unworthy even to be your tomb.
VÍKÍNGA BRAGUR.[[51]]
Óðfluga hraðar
Öldur streyma
Og öflugust vígi
Byggja um kyrrar
Byggðir Thúlu.
Hamramar æ
Þær hreykja kollum,
Mót árásarmönnum
Búa, þær aldrei
Bila kunna.
Sem vakir ljónsinna
Varnarlausum
Ungum yfir
Með afarmóði,
Freyða svo öldur
Ósigrandi
Halda þær vörð
Um Víkinga leiði;
Því blunda í klettum
Brimi skelfdum
Harðúðgir niðjar
Frá horfnum dögum;
Fékk þeim ei hugur
Harmar því móðer
Og hryggðar saungva
Aldrei fær slitið,
Er hún minnist
Þeirra, er áður
Ungir léku
Meginglaðir
Leit ei nokkur
Af niðjum jarðar
Aðra tignari
Eður knárri
Yður, sem þjóðir
Unnuð sverðum,
Feður jötna,
Er fólki styrðu.
En heiðraðar moldir
Náðu hvíld hæfri
Und norðurheimsskauti;
Vindar stríðir;
Vögguljóð kveða
Veinandi unnir,
Þær er með mundum
Meginstyrkvum
Lögðu skýblæur
Er varandi unnir
Yðar æ gráta
Ættar hnignun,
Og frama horfinn
Fósturjarðar.
Það og vel hæfði,
Er þrumuskýin,
Vagnar þau urðu
Vængjum búnir,
Yðar sem aka
Andar glaðir;
En lýsa á vegi
Ljósgeislar kaldir
Leiptrandi Norður—
Ljósa skærra.
Sízt fær lægra neitt
Eður svipminna
Yðar samboðið
Anda háum.
Munduð þér kýma
Megnum hlátri
Að ilmandi vindum,
Um er þjóta
Ofurdrúnga lopt
Indíafoldar,
Eður geislandi
Uppheims boga,
Yfir er breiðist
Yður hvísla:
Ægir ef fengi,
Umvafinn fjötrum,
Sorgleg ei lengur
Súngið kvæði
Þau um hægindi
Heyrast yðar,
Ei ólma léti
Geysa svo vinda,
Sem gjörir hann nú;
Hefja látast
Frá hauðri burtn,
Yðra óhæfu
Gröf að geyma.
THE VIKING’S RAVEN.[[52]]
BY MRS. ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.
Beside a weird-like Norway bay,
Where wild and angry billows play,
And seldom meet the night and day,
A Raven sat.
He was the last of all his race
That lingered in that lonely place;
Age, grief, were stamped upon his face,
Sad, desolate.
Yet to that darkling norland sky
He raised an undimmed, fearless eye,
As though he proudly would defy
And battle fate.
His mate long dead, his nestlings flown,
The moss had o’er his eyry grown;
And all the scenes his youth had known
Were changed and old.
For he had heard the vikings all
Responding to the mystic call,
That summoned to great Odin’s hall
Those heroes bold.
He oft had skimmed the Polar seas;
And Harold’s sail aye wooed the breeze,
To follow where the Raven flees
On tireless wing.
But victory ceased on them to smile.—
On Hialtland’s rugged, rock-bound isle
He saw them raise the funeral pile
Of the Sea-King.
· · · ·
Once his unerring pinions led
To where the shafts of battle sped;
But, when the conquered Northmen fled,
He scorned to flee;
But watched where brave young Ingolf lies,
With drooping heart and fading eyes,
Pining for his native skies,
A captive he.
A maiden of the sunny South
There loved and would have freed the youth,
But he was wed to Gulda Brûth.
His norland bride.
And she, across the stormy main,
Had turned her weary eyes in vain;—
Her hero ne’er returned again:
And so she died.
No Saga tells where rests the brave,
No mourner weeps by Ingolf’s grave;
The Raven’s sable pinions wave
There all alone.
And then he spread his pinions wide
Upon the free north wind to ride,
With mien erect, and eye of pride;
His task well done.
And nought around, howe’er so bright,
Could win his stay, or stop his flight
From where he saw the pole-star’s light
Shine o’er the north.
When, hark! a wild exulting cry
Falls on his ear; his piercing eye
A burning vessel can descry
That flashes forth,
Like to the fitful spirit-gleam
Of the Aurora’s restless beam;
But ah! he knows it is no dream,
And droops his wing.
Beside the blazing spectral pyre—
A spark from Baldur’s sacred fire
Lighteth to death a Norseman sire,—
Brave old Thorsteing.
His arms are folded o’er his breast,
And on his noble brow doth rest
The shadow from his warrior crest
That waves on high.
His glances on the ocean fell;
Fondly he marked its rising swell—
That ocean he had loved so well—
Then raised his eye.
And when he saw the faithful bird,
The soul of song within him stirred.
Hast thou once more returned,
Thou trusty friend, to me?
What news hast thou of Ingolf,
My son, the brave and free?
Hath he in battle fallen,
His good sword by his side?
Or, captive, is he sighing
To see once more his bride?
Ah! no, his soul would scorn
In captive chain to lie;
I know he hath been borne
To Valhalla’s halls on high,
And I’ll meet him in the sky
E’re the morn.
Alas! with us will perish
The Vikings’ race and name,
That long made foemen tremble
When Scalds rehearsed our fame.
And thou, dark bird of omen,
Back to our country hie,
And tell her recreant children
How Norsemen ought to die.
But to guard my mountain home
My spirit yet will soar,
And on old ocean roam
As in the days of yore.
Oft to visit yon loved shore
I will come.
The song hath ceased, and Thorsteing brave
Is sleeping now in Odin’s cave.
Athwart the sky the lightnings flash,
While down the Fiords the thunders crash,
And sullen waves in fury lash
The fretted shore.
Where is that Raven, grim and lone?—
Uprooted is the old grey stone.
Where late he sat, and he is gone
To come no more.
DEATH OF THE OLD NORSE KING.
BY A.J.S.
Haste, clothe me, jarls, in my royal robe;
My keen biting sword gird ye.
Haste! for I go to the Fatherland,
Both king of earth and sea.
My blade so true, with a spirit-gleam—
Death lurks in its skinkling fire—
I grasp thee now as of olden time
In conflict hot and dire.
I’ve trampled foes; from their blanchéd sculls
Now drain off the dark-red wine;
Fall bravely all in the battle field,
Be crowned with wreaths divine!
My eyes wax dim, and my once jet locks
Now wave with a silvery white;
Feeble, my arm cannot wield the blade
I dote on with delight.
Grim Hela breathes a chilling shade,
I hear the Valkyrii sing;
Now to the halls of the brave I’ll rise,
As fits an old Norse King.
Heimdallar’s ship, with the incense wood,
Prepare as a pyre for me;
Blazing, I’ll rise to the Odin halls,
At once in the air and sea!
They’ve lit slow fire in the incense ship;
The sun has just sunk in the wave;
Set are the sails, he is launched away,
This hero-king so brave!
The death chaunt floats in the deep blue skies,
All wild, in the darkling night;
Fearful there glares from the blazing ship
A wild red lurid light.
It shimmering gleams o’er the lone blue sea,
The flickers shoot wild and high—
Odin hath welcomed the brave old king
To his palace in the sky!
The bale-flames die, and a silence deep
Now floats on the darkness cold,
Where so fearless and free, on the deep blue sea,
Had died this Norse king bold!
1845.
Dauði gamals Norðmanna-konungs.[[53]]
1.
Skrúðklœðum, beztu
Skarti jöfurs,
Og meginbitrum
Mœki girðið;
Því heim vil eg halda
Lávarður kjörinn.
Tryggvan, gljáandi
Tek eg mœki—
Af honum leiptrar
Hann vil eg nú
Sem áður í grimmum
Oddaleikum.
2.
Hefi eg fjendur
Myrkrauðar drekka
Megið nú veigar
Skýgðum af hausa—
Skeljum þeirra.
Hnígið sem hetjur
Örlög þá kalla,
Æðstum heiðri
Krýndir af goðum
Þeim á Gimli búa.
Daprast mér sjón
Leika silfurlit
Lokkar á höfði;
Armur aflvana
Ei fær valdið
Mestum veldur
3.
Hefur upp myrkva
Að berst eyrum
Hefur mig hugur
Til hetjusala;
Svo ber Norðmanna
Nýtum jöfri
Aldurhnignum
Æfi Gúka.
Heimdalls þer snekkju
Hraðir búið,
Og ylmandi látið
Eldskíð loga;
Vil eg þar nar
En hugur mig ber
Til upphimins jafnt
Og Unnar sala.
4.
Brennur skíðeldur
Mær hverfur sól
Undin eru segl,
Ytt frá landi
Siglir þar hetjan,
Hilmir frægur.
Nötra ná hljód
Bregður á býsnum
Leiptra geigvænir
Logar frá snekkju,
Og dökkrauðri miðla
Dauðaskýmu.
5.
Brunnar einskipa
Um bláan Ægi
Umvafin skeið
Aldinn sjóla
Til himinsala
Hefir leiddan,
Dvína burt logar
Og djúpri lystur
Megin þögn yfir
Myrkva kaldan;
Mararskauti;
Hilmir Norðmanna,
Hetjan frægust,
Hugprúður, frjáls,
Réd Sielju gista.
IV.
INFORMATION FOR INTENDING TOURISTS:
A LETTER RECEIVED FROM THE REV. OLAF PÁLSSON IN ANSWER TO
QUERIES ABOUT TRAVELLING IN ICELAND.
Reykjavik, 20th Nov. 1861.
My Dear Friend,
According to your wish in your kind note of 15th August this year, I will now try to give some answers to the queries you have there put to me, about several matters which it may be useful for strangers who travel in Iceland to know.
I have since conferred with Zöga, who is assuredly the very best guide in this place, and well versed in these matters. The hints that I am able to give are as follows, and correspond to the order of the queries put.
1st. I have not such an extensive acquaintance with the coasts of Iceland as to be able to describe all places of shelter that might be found around the island; for doubtless they are many. But I am sure, that it will not be advisable for any foreign vessel to approach the south coast; for, from Cape Reykjanes to Berufiord, there is no shelter at all along the whole south side of Iceland, except in the Westmanna Islands, which lie some ten miles from the shore.
As a general rule, every merchant place, marked on the map, will be found tolerably safe.
2d. For the Englishman who arrives at Reykjavik, or for any traveller who has some knowledge of English, it is not absolutely necessary to know other languages; for guides who know that language can be had there, and these make tolerably good interpreters in the country.
This, however, will scarcely be the case in any other merchant place in Iceland.
3d. As to expenses of travelling; I can only remark that a guide is paid about 2 rix dollars[[54]] a day (4/6).
Every gentleman will be obliged to have two ponies each at 64 skillings per day (1/5). A jack horse is to be got at 48 skillings per day, and will not comfortably carry more than 100 to 120 lbs. weight. If this horse is provided with pack saddle and chests for preserving goods in, it will cost 64 skillings. If the travellers should wish to be away for a longer time from human habitations, it will be necessary for them to bring with them a tent, a sufficient quantity of victuals, &c. Thus it will be found that two gentlemen travelling cannot easily do with less than five pack horses, and then they will require to have two guides, one to take care of the horses and baggage, and the other to attend upon themselves when they wish to travel faster, or to visit places where the train of baggage horses cannot easily go with them.
From this I hope an idea can be formed of the average cost of such travelling for a week or so. For a more protracted journey through the island, it will certainly be preferable to buy the horses, and dispose of them again by auction on returning to Reykjavik. The average price of a pack horse will be 24 rix dollars, and for a riding pony 30 to 40 rix dollars. They will again sell at a half, or at least a third of the money, according to the length of the journey, their condition, and the season of the year. This calculation is made for a journey begun from Reykjavik, which in most respects will be found the most convenient place to start from.
4th. An india-rubber boat will very probably be serviceable, but it will seldom be needed; for on almost every one of the larger rivers there are plenty of ferries.
5th. The very best month for travelling in Iceland undoubtedly is July, and next to it August. A journey can be begun in the middle of June. At an earlier time there will not be sufficient grass for the horses. The journey can usually, without the risk of getting bad weather, be prolonged to the middle of September.
These, my dear sir, are all the hints I am able to give you. I am sure there are many other things which might be taken into consideration, but I have written this to my best ability, although in great haste, which may excuse the many faults I am sure will be found with my English. With my best wishes &c.
Yours very truly,
O. Pálsson.
Note.—The screw steamer Arcturus makes six trips during the season, carrying the mails from Copenhagen to Iceland, and calling at Grangemouth and the Faröe Islands. The first sailing north is generally about the beginning of March, and the last towards the end of October. Fares—First cabin £5; second do. £3 10s. Return—only available for the same voyage—first cabin £9; second do. £6. Further information may be obtained by applying to Mr. P. L. Henderson, 20 Dixon Street, Glasgow; Messrs. David Robertson & Co., Grangemouth; or Messrs. Koch & Henderson, Copenhagen.
V.
GLOSSARY.
The following Explanatory List of Geographical Terms will assist the memory, aid the pronunciation, and, it is believed, prove of interest and practical utility.[[55]]
- á or aa, river.
- bakki, hill.
- beru, bare.
- beru-fjördr, bare frith.
- blá, blue.
- bœr, farm.
- bol, or bol-stadr, main farm, or steading (bu or boo, in Orkney).
- brekka, brink of a precipice.
- brú, bridge.
- dalr, valley.
- eingi, or hagi, meadow, or field.
- ey (eyjar, genitive singular; eyja, genitive plural), an island
- eyri, sand, sand-bank or bar (ere, in north of England)
- fell, same as fjall.
- ferjur, ferries.
- fjall, (plural fjöll), fell, or height; as Blá-fjall, blue fell, or, in English, Scawfell, &c.
- fjördr, frith.
- fljót, a river (fleet)
- fors, force, or waterfall.
- hals, ridge, or col.
- hædir, heights.
- heidi, heath.
- hof, or hofdi, head, or headland.
- holl, hill.
- holt, wood.
- hraun, lava.
- hreppr, a rape (whence divisions of land, and “rapes” of Sussex).
- hvamm, a combe, or recess surrounded by hills; as Ilfra-combe.
- hvit, white (hence hvit-á, white river.)
- jökull, ice mountain.
- jökuls-á, is the name given to many rivers, and means only ice river; but it is usually associated with another name, such as Axa-firdi Jökuls-á, or ice river of the Axa frith.
- kirk, church.
- kverk, chin (hence Kverk-fjöll, Chinfell).
- lid, lithe, provincial for a sloping bank (whence Reykja-lid, the smoking bank).
- lœkr, brook, stream.
- muli, mull, or cliff; thing-muli, the heights, or cliffs, under which an assembly was held.
- myri, morass.
- ness, headland.
- nupr, bluff, or inland cliff.
- orœfi, wastes.
- rafn, raven.
- reyk, smoke.
- sandr, sands.
- skard, pass, defile.
- skógr, underwood.
- stadr, stede, stead, or sted; as Hampstead.
- strönd, strand.
- sysla, or syssel, district.
- thing, meeting.
- vatn (plural, vötn), lake.
- vellir, plain.
- vik, vikr, bay; Grunda-vik, green bay; Greenwich = Green-vik.
VI.
OUR SCANDINAVIAN ANCESTORS.[[56]]
Few subjects possess greater interest for the British race than the Scandinavian North, with its iron-bound rampart of wave-lashed rocks, its deeply indented fiords, bold cliffs, rocky promontories, abrupt headlands, wild skerries, crags, rock-ledges, and caves, all alive with gulls, puffins and kittiwakes; and in short, the general and striking picturesqueness of its scenery, to say nothing of the higher human interest of its stirring history, and the rich treasures of its grand old literature.
The British race has been called Anglo-Saxon; made up however, as it is, of many elements—Ancient Briton, Roman, Anglo-Saxon, Dane, Norman, and Scandinavian—the latter predominates so largely over the others as to prove by evidence, external and internal, and not to be gainsaid, that the Scandinavians are our true progenitors.
The Germans are a separate branch of the same great Gothic family, industrious, but very unlike us in many respects. The degree of resemblance and affinity may be settled by styling them honest but unenterprising inland friends, whose ancestors and ours were first cousins upwards of a thousand years ago.
To the old Northmen—hailing from the sea-board of Norway, Sweden, and Denmark—may be traced the germs of all that is most characteristic of the modern Briton, whether personal, social, or national. The configuration of the land, and the numerous arms of the sea with which the north-west of Europe is indented, necessitated boats and seamanship. From these coasts, the Northmen—whether bent on piratical plundering expeditions, or peacefully seeking refuge from tyrannical oppression at home—sallied forth in their frail barks or skiffs, which could live in the wildest sea, visiting and settling in many lands. We here mention, in geographical order, Normandy, England, Scotland, Orkney, Shetland, Faröe, and Iceland. Wherever they have been, they have left indelible traces behind them, these ever getting more numerous and distinct as we go northwards.
Anglen, from which the word England is derived, still forms part of Holstein a province in Denmark; and the preponderance of the direct Scandinavian element in the language itself has been shewn by Dean Trench, who states, that of a hundred English words, sixty come from the Scandinavian, thirty from the Latin, five from the Greek, and five from other sources.
In Scotland many more Norse words, which sound quite foreign to an English ear, yet linger amongst the common people; while, as in England, the original Celtic inhabitants were driven to the west before the Northmen, who landed for the most part on the east. In certain districts of the Orkneys a corrupt dialect of Norse was spoken till recently, and the Scandinavian type of features is there often to be met with.
The Norse language is still understood and frequently spoken in Shetland, where the stalwart, manly forms of the fishermen, the characteristic prevalence of blue eyes and light flaxen hair, the universal observance of the Norse Yule, and many other old-world customs, together with the oriental and almost affecting regard paid to the sacred rites of hospitality, on the part of the islanders, all plainly tell their origin.
The language of the Faröe islanders is a dialect of the Norse, approaching Danish, and peculiar to themselves. It is called Faröese. The peaceful inhabitants not only resemble, but are Northmen.
In Iceland we have pure Norse, as imported from Norway in the ninth century, the lone northern sea having guarded it, and many other interesting features, from those modifications to which the Norwegian, Danish, and Swedish have been subjected by neighbouring Teutonic or German influences. This language, the parent, or at least the oldest and purest form of the various Scandinavian dialects with which we are acquainted, has been at different times named Dönsk-tunga, Norræna, or Norse, but latterly it has been simply called Icelandic, because peculiar to that island.
The language, history, and literature of our ancestors having been thus preserved in the north, we are thereby enabled to revisit the past, read it in the light of the present, and make both subservient for good in the future.
Herodotus mentions that tin was procured from Britain. Strabo informs us that the Phœnicians traded to our island, receiving tin and skins in exchange for earthenware, salt, and vessels of brass; but our first authentic particulars regarding the ancient Britons are derived from Julius Cæsar, whose landing on the southern portion of our island, and hard-won battles, were but transient and doubtful successes. The original inhabitants were Celts from France and Spain; but, as we learn from him, these had long before been driven into the interior and western portion of the island by Belgians, who crossed the sea, made good their footing, settled on the east and south-eastern shores of England, and were now known as Britons. With these Cæsar had to do. The intrepid bravery of the well-trained and regularly disciplined British warriors commanded respect, and left his soldiers but little to boast of. The Roman legions never felt safe unless within their entrenchments, and, even there, were sometimes surprised. Strange to realise such dire conflicts raging at the foot of the Surrey hills, probably in the neighbourhood of Penge, Sydenham, and Norwood, where the Crystal Palace now peacefully stands. Even in these dark Druid days, the Britons, although clothed in skins, wearing long hair, and stained blue with woad, were no mere painted savages as they have sometimes been represented, but were in possession of regularly-constituted forms of government. They had naval, military, agricultural and commercial resources to depend upon, and were acquainted with many of the important arts of life. The Briton was simple in his manners, frugal in his habits, and loved freedom above all things. Had the brave Caswallon headed the men of Kent, in their attack upon the Roman maritime camp, Cæsar and his hosts would never, in all likelihood, have succeeded in reaching their ships, but would have found graves on our shores. His admirable commentaries would not have seen the light of day, and the whole current of Roman, nay, of the world’s history might have been changed.
Our British institutions and national characteristics were not adopted from any quarter, completely moulded and finished, as it were, but everywhere exhibit the vitality of growth and progress, slow but sure. Each new element or useful suggestion, from whatever source derived, has been tested and modified before being allowed to take root and form part of the constitution. The germs have been developed in our own soil.
Thus, to the Romans, we can trace our municipal institutions—subjection to a central authority controlling the rights of individuals. To the Scandinavians, we can as distinctly trace that principle of personal liberty which resists absolute control, and sets limits—such as Magna Charta—to the undue exercise of authority in governors.
These two opposite tendencies, when united, like the centripedal and centrifugal forces, keep society revolving peacefully and securely in its orbit around the sun of truth. When severed, tyranny, on the one hand, or democratic license, on the other—both alike removed from freedom—must result, sooner or later, in instability, confusion, and anarchy. France affords us an example of the one, and America of the other. London is not Britain in the sense that Paris is France; while Washington has degenerated into a mere cockpit for North and South.
From the feudal system of the Normans, notwithstanding its abuses, we have derived the safe tenure and transmission of land, with protection and security for all kinds of property. British law has been the growth of a thousand years, and has been held in so much respect that even our revolutions have been legally conducted, and presided over by the staid majesty of justice. Were more evidences wanting to show that the Scandinavian element is actually the backbone of the British race—contributing its superiority, physical and moral, its indomitable strength and energy of character—we would simply mention a few traits of resemblance which incontestably prove that the “child is father to the man.”
The old Scandinavian possessed an innate love of truth; much earnestness; respect and honour for woman; love of personal freedom; reverence, up to the light that was in him, for sacred things; great self-reliance, combined with energy of will to dare and do; perseverance in overcoming obstacles, whether by sea or land; much self-denial, and great powers of endurance under given circumstances. These qualities, however, existed along with a pagan thirst for war and contempt of death, which was courted on the battle-field that the warrior might rise thence to Valhalla.
To illustrate the love of freedom, even in thought, which characterises the race, it can be shewn that, while the Celtic nations fell an easy prey to the degrading yoke of Romish superstition, spreading its deadly miasma from the south, the Scandinavian nations, even when for a time acknowledging its sway, were never bound hand and foot by it, but had minds of their own, and sooner or later broke their fetters. In the truth-loving Scandinavian, Jesuitical Rome has naturally ever met with its most determined antagonist; for
“True and tender is the North.”
In the dark days of the Stuarts, witness the noble struggles of the Covenanters and the Puritans for civil and religious liberty.
Notwithstanding mixtures and amalgamations of blood, as a general rule the distinctive tendencies of race survive, and, good or bad, as the case may be, reappear in new and unexpected forms. Even habit becomes a second nature, the traces of which, centuries with their changes cannot altogether obliterate.
On the other side of the Atlantic, the Puritan Fathers, their descendants, and men like them, have been the salt of the north; while many of the planters of the south, tainted with cavalier blood, continue to foster slavery—“that sum of all villanies”—and glory in being man-stealers, man-sellers, and murderers, although cursed of God, and execrated by all right thinking men. John Brown of Harper’s Ferry, who was the other day judicially murdered, we would select as an honoured type of the noble, manly, brave, truth-loving, God-fearing Scandinavian—The Times and Athenæum notwithstanding.[[57]] His heroism in behalf of the poor despised slave had true moral grandeur in it—it was sublime. America cannot match it. Washington was great—John Brown was greater. Washington resisted the imposition of unjust taxes on himself and his equals, but was a slave-holder; John Brown unselfishly devoted his energies—nay, life itself—to obtain freedom for the oppressed, and to save his country from just impending judgments. The one was a patriot; the other was a patriot and philanthropist. The patriotism of Washington was limited by colour; that of Brown was thorough, and recognised the sacred rights of man. He was hanged for trying to accomplish that which his murderers ought to have done—nay, deserved to be hanged for not doing—hanged for that which they shall yet do, if not first overtaken and whelmed in just and condign vengeance; for the cry of blood ascends. He was no less a martyr to the cause of freedom than John Brown of Priesthill, who was ruthlessly shot by the bloody Claverhouse. These two noble martyrs, in virtue alike of their name and cause, shall stand together on the page of future history, when their cruel murderers and the abettors of them have long gone to their own place. For such deeds there shall yet be tears of blood. The wrongs of Italy are not to be named in comparison with those of the slave. Let those who boast of a single drop of Scandinavian blood in their veins no longer withhold just rights from the oppressed—rights which, if not yielded at this the eleventh hour, shall be righteously, though fearfully, wrested from the oppressors, when the hour of retribution comes.[[58]]
Perhaps the two most striking outward resemblances between Britons and Scandinavians may be found in their maritime skill, and in their powers of planting colonies, and governing themselves by free institutions, representative parliaments, and trial by jury.
The Norse rover—bred to the sea, matchless in skill, daring, loving adventure and discovery, and with any amount of pluck—is the true type of the British tar. In light crafts, the Northmen could run into shallow creeks, cross the North Sea, or boldly push off to face the storms of the open Atlantic. These old Vikings were seasoned “salts” from their very childhood—“creatures native and imbued unto the element;” neither in peace nor war, on land nor sea, did they fear anything but fear.
“Tameless spirits of the past!
Boldest and noblest of earth’s kind were ye—
Conquerors of nations—fathers of a race
Of giant princes.”[[59]]
In them we see the forerunners of the buccaneers, and the ancestors of those naval heroes, voyagers, and discoverers—those Drakes and Dampiers, Nelsons and Dundonalds, Cooks and Franklins, who have won for Britain the proud title of sovereign of the seas—a title which she is still ready to uphold against all comers.
In Shetland, we still find the same skilled seamanship, and the same light open boat, like a Norwegian yawl; indeed, planks for building skiffs are generally imported from Norway, all prepared and ready to put together. There the peace-loving fishermen, in pursuit of their perilous calling, sometimes venture sixty miles off to sea, losing sight of all land, except perhaps the highest peak of their island-homes left dimly peering just above the horizon-line. Sometimes they are actually driven, by stress of weather, within sight of the coast of Norway, and yet the loss of a skiff in the open sea, however high the waves run, is a thing quite unknown to the skilled Shetlander. The buoyancy of the skiff (from this word we have ship and skipper) is something wonderful. Its high bow and stern enables it to ride and rise over the waves like a sea-duck, although its chance of living seems almost as little, and as perilous, as that of the dancing shallop or mussel-shell we see whelmed in the ripple. Its preservation, to the onlooker from the deck of a large vessel, often seems miraculous. It is the practice, in encountering the stormy blasts of the North Sea, to lower the lug-sail on the approach of every billow, so as to ride its crest with bare mast, and to raise it again as the skiff descends into the more sheltered trough of the wave. By such constant manœuvering, safety is secured and progress made. When boats are lost—and such tragedies frequently occur, sometimes leaving poor lonely widows bereft, at one fell swoop, of husband, father, and brothers, for the crews are too often made up of relatives—it is generally when they are caught and mastered by strong currents running between the islands, which neither oar nor sail can stem. Such losses are always on the coasts—never at sea.
Of the Scandinavian powers of colonising:—There is ample evidence of their having settled in Shetland, Orkney, and on our coasts, long before those great outgoings of which we have authentic historical records. To several of these latter we shall briefly advert, viz., the English, Russian, Icelandic, American, and Norman.
We may first mention that, in remote ages, this race swept across Europe from the neighbourhood of the region now called Circassia, lying between the Black Sea and the Caspian, to the shores of the Baltic, settling on the north-west coast of Europe. Their traditions, and numerous eastern customs—allied to the Persians and the inhabitants of the plains of Asia Minor in old Homeric days—which they brought along with them, all go to confirm their eastern origin. Nor did they rest here, but, thirsting for adventure in these grim warrior ages, sailed forth as pirates or settlers, sometimes both, and, as can be shewn, made their power and influence felt in every country of Europe, from Lapland to the Mediterranean.
They invaded England in A.D. 429, and founded the kingdoms of South, West, and East Seaxe, East Anglia, Mercia, Deira, and Bernicea; thus overrunning and fixing themselves in the land, from Devonshire to North of the Humber. From the mixture of these Angles, or Saxons, as they were termed by the Britons, with the previous Belgian settlers and original inhabitants, we have the Anglo-Saxon race. The Jutes who settled in Kent were from Jutland. In A.D. 787, the Danes ravaged the coast, beginning with Dorsetshire; and, continuing to swarm across the sea, soon spread themselves over the whole country. They had nearly mastered it all, when Alfred ascended the throne in 871. At length, in A.D. 1017, Canute, after much hard fighting, did master it, and England had Danish kings from that period till the Saxon line was restored in 1042.
In the year A.D. 862, the Scandinavian Northmen established the Russian empire, and played a very important part in the management of its affairs, even after the subsequent infusion of the Sclavonic element. In the “Mémoires de la Société Royale des Antiquaries du Nord,” published at Copenhagen, we find that, of the fifty names of those composing Ingor’s embassy to the Greek Emperor at Constantinople in the year A.D. 994, only three were Sclavic, and the rest Northmen—names that occur in the Sagas, such as Ivar, Vigfast, Eylif, Grim, Ulf, Frode, Asbrand, &c. The Greeks called them Russians, but Frankish writers simply Northmen.
In the year A.D. 863, Naddodr, a Norwegian, discovered Iceland,[[60]] which, however, had been previously visited and resided in at intervals for at least upwards of seventy years before that time, by fishermen, ecclesiastics, and hermits, called Westmen, from Ireland, Iona and other islands of the Hebrides. Of these visits Naddodr found numerous traces.
In A.D. 874, Ingolf with followers, many of whom were related to the first families in Norway, fleeing from the tyranny of Harold Harfagra, began the colonisation of Iceland, which was completed during a space of sixty years. They established a flourishing republic, appointed magistrates, and held their Althing, or national assembly, at Thingvalla.
Many of the Northmen who at various times had settled on our shores, accompanied by their acquired relatives, also set sail and joined their brethren; thus making use of Britain as a stepping stone between Scandinavia and Iceland. Many traces of these early links yet remain. We heard of a family in the island that can trace its descent, in a direct line, from a royal ancestor of Queen Victoria.
Thus, in this distant volcanic island of the Northern Sea, the old Danish language was preserved unchanged for centuries; while, in the various Eddas, were embodied those folk-songs and folk-myths, and, in the sagas, those historical tales and legends of an age at once heroic and romantic, together with that folk-lore which still forms the staple of all our old favourite nursery tales, as brought with them from Europe and the East by the first settlers.[[61]] All these, as well as the productions of the Icelanders themselves, are of great historical and literary value. They have been carefully edited and published, at Copenhagen, by eminent Icelandic, Danish, and other antiquarians. We would refer to the writings of Müller, Magnusen, Rafn, Rask, Eyricksson, Torfæus, and others. Laing has translated “The Heimskringla,” the great historical Saga of Snorro Sturleson, into English.[[62]] Various other translations and accounts of these singularly interesting Eddas, sagas, and ballads, handed down by the scalds and Sagamen, are to be met with; but by far the best analysis, with translated specimens, is that contained in Howitt’s “Literature and Romance of Northern Europe.”[[63]] We would call attention, in passing, to that Edda, consisting of the original series of tragic poems from which the German “Niebelungen-lied” has been derived. Considered as a series of fragments, it is a marvellous production, and, to our thinking, absolutely unparalleled in ancient or modern literature, for power, simplicity, and heroic grandeur.
Christianity was established in Iceland in the year 1000. Fifty-seven years later, Isleif, Bishop of Skálholt, first introduced the art of writing the Roman alphabet, thus enabling them to fix oral lessons of history and song; for, the Runic characters previously in use were chiefly employed for monuments and memorial inscriptions, and were carved on wood staves, on stone or metal. On analysis, these rude letters will be found to be crude forms and abridgments of the Greek or Roman alphabet. We have identified them all, with the exception of a few letters, and are quite satisfied on this point, so simple and obvious is it, although we have not previously had our attention directed to the fact.
Snorro Sturleson was perhaps one of the most learned and remarkable men that Iceland has produced.
In 1264, through fear and fraud, the island submitted to the rule of Haco, king of Norway:—he who died at Kirkwall, after his forces were routed by the Scots at the battle of Largs. In 1387, along with Norway, it became subject to Denmark. In 1529, a printing press was established; and in 1550 the Lutheran reformation was introduced into the island—which form of worship is still retained.
True to the instinct of race, the early settlers in Iceland did not remain inactive, but looked westward, and found scope for their hereditary maritime skill in the discovery and colonising of Greenland. They also discovered Helluland (Newfoundland), Markland (Nova Scotia), and Vineland (New England). They were also acquainted with American land, which they called Hvitramannaland, (the land of the white men), thought to have been North and South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida. We have read authentic records of these various voyages, extending from A.D. 877 to A.D. 1347. The names of the principal navigators are Gunnbiorn, Eric the Red, Biarni, Leif, Thorwald, &c. But the most distinguished of these American discoverers is Thorfinn Karlsefne, an Icelander, “whose genealogy,” says Rafn, “is carried back, in the old northern annals, to Danish, Swedish, Norwegian, Scottish, and Irish ancestors, some of them of royal blood.” With singular interest we also read that, “in A.D. 1266, some priests at Gardar, in Greenland, set on foot a voyage of discovery to the arctic regions of America. An astronomical observation proves that this took place through Lancaster Sound and Barrow’s Strait to the latitude of Wellington’s Channel.”
When Columbus visited Iceland in A.D. 1467, he may have obtained confirmation of his theories as to the existence of a great continent in the west; for, these authentic records prove the discovery and colonisation of America, by the Northmen from Iceland, upwards of five hundred years before he re-discovered it.
The Norman outgoing is the last to which we shall here allude. In A.D. 876 the Northmen, under Rollo, wrested Normandy from the Franks; and from thence, in A.D. 1065, William, sprung from the same stock, landed at Hastings, vanquished Harold, and to this day is known as the Conqueror of England. It was a contest of Northmen with Northmen, where diamond cut diamond.
Instead of a chapter, this subject, we feel, would require a volume. At the outset we asserted that northern subjects possessed singular interest for the British race. In a very cursory manner we have endeavoured to prove it, by shewing that to Scandinavia, as its cradle, we must look for the germs of that spirit of enterprise which has peopled America, raised an Indian empire, and colonised Australia, and which has bound together, as one, dominions on which the sun never sets; all, too, either speaking, or fast acquiring, a noble language, which bids fair one day to become universal.
The various germs, tendencies, and traits of Scandinavian character, knit together and amalgamated in the British race, go to form the essential elements of greatness and success, and, where sanctified and directed into right channels, are noble materials to work upon.
It is Britain’s pride to be at once the mistress of the seas, the home of freedom, and the sanctuary of the oppressed. May it also be her high honour, by wisely improving outward privileges, and yet further developing her inborn capabilities, pre-eminently to become the torch-bearer of pure Christianity—with its ever-accompanying freedom and civilisation—to the whole world!