PART I.
THE RAVEN.
—Hell is empty,
And all the Devils are here.Shakspeare.
Somewhere about the year 112, in winter or summer—we are not exactly prepared to say which—died Olave the Second, one of the early kings of Denmark; he was a “fellow of no reckoning,” for he took no account of any thing that occurred during his reign, except the making of strong drink, and the number of butts in his cellar. His majesty, it must be avowed, was in the presumptuous habit of forestalling the joys of heaven, (we mean Odin’s,) that is to say, he impiously got drunk every day of his life, before the regular allowance of fighting, the customary number of enemies’ broken heads, and his own orderly death upon the field of battle, bore testimony that he was properly qualified for such supreme enjoyment. Olave in his life was a happy fellow; for, never having been sober during one hour of it, he had not the misfortune to hear all the ill-natured things that his courtiers and subjects said of his enormities, behind his back, or when he was asleep. It must, however, be acknowledged that, even among the unscrupulous Danes, who were not at that period remarkable for their practice of sobriety, Olave was a filthy fellow: to this hour he is held up as a monument of brutality and stupidity, and the memory of Jeroboam, the son of Nebat, who made Israel to sin, was not more devoted to execration among the Jews, than that of king Olave the Second among the Danes. On his death-bed, however, when he could no longer swallow his usual enlivening potations, blue devils beset his nights, and conscience twitted him with his ill-spent days. He had never broken a head in his life, except by proxy; and how could he make his appearance in Valhalla without a skull to drink out of?—to knock at the gates of Valasciolf without a goblet in his hand?—The thing was impossible; it was clear he would be kicked through Asgard, and sent to fret in Nifthiem, where the burning claws of Lok would set fire to the good liquor incorporated with his being, and reduce him to the condition of an eternal, thinking cinder!—Miserable anticipations! he tried to weep; but water, which he had hitherto scorned, now scorned him, and absolutely refused to come at his desire: he shed tears of mead, which he caught in his mouth as fast as they fell, partly from fear lest Odin should remark them, and partly because he could not endure to see good liquor wasted.
But all things have an end—in this world at least—and so it was with the life and repentance of king Olave the Second; he died without the drinking-cup he had regretted so deeply, and before he had time to frame a decent apology to Odin for venturing into Valhalla without one. There was a world of business now to be done at the palace of Sandaal: a dead king to be buried, and two living kings to be crowned; for such was the will of the lamented Olave, that both his sons should succeed him. They were princes of very different characters, yet their father, it should seem, loved them equally, as he divided his dominions very fairly between them, to the no small disgust of the elder prince, Frotho, who, like the imperial Octavius, some years before, could not bear a divided throne. This worthy in character resembled, in no slight degree, his excellent father, of dozy memory, for he loved to drink much and fight little,—more especially as his younger brother Harold had a decided vocation for the latter employment, and none at all for the former: to him, therefore, he left the charge of the glory of the Danish crown, while he, for the present, contented himself with drinking to his successes. This good understanding, however, between the princes could not last for ever. Frotho was, after all, only half a drunkard, and therefore extremely sulky in his cups—more especially when his queen Helga seated herself at his elbow to twit his courage with the heroic deeds of his brother. Queen consorts should not meddle with politics, they never do any thing but mischief—and so it proved in this instance; for Frotho grew absolutely delirious, kept himself entirely sober for three whole days, buckled on his wooden target, put himself at the head of his troops, and, swearing to be revenged upon his brother, marched on an expedition to Jutland. The expedition neither answered his intentions nor expectations; the men of Jutland were too many for king Frotho, for, headed by Feggo, (the murderous uncle of the philosophic Hamlet, whose father was prince only of this part of Denmark,) they drove Frotho “home without boots, and in foul weather too,” as Glendwr did, long afterwards, king Harry Bolingbroke. Frotho could not stomach this affront—the beating was hard of digestion: his subjects made mouths at him too, and mimicked a race whenever he appeared in public. So he sent his brother, king Harold, who was a fighter to the back-bone, to chastise the Jutlanders, which when he had done most effectually, Frotho grew more angry still; he detested his brother, dreaded his popularity, feared his wisdom, and quivered at his anger,—so he began to consider seriously how he might cleverly and quietly put him out of the way.
King Frotho had two counsellors, neither of whom ever agreed with the other in the advice they gave his majesty: the reason was tolerably obvious, for the one was an honest man, the other a rogue, and, like the Topaz and Ebene of Voltaire, they bewildered the unhappy monarch with the diversity of their opinions and advice. On this occasion, however, king Frotho troubled only the rogue for his, which he was pretty certain beforehand would not differ very widely from his own. Eric Swen was an unprincipled ragamuffin, who hated Harold, because he had discovered that Harold hated his vices; and, as that prince had two sons who were rising into manhood, he shuddered at the prospect of two or three strict warrior reigns, which would certainly bring virtue into fashion: the prince had refused him, too, the hand of his sister, which, to make the refusal more bitter, he had bestowed upon his rival in the council and camp, Frotho’s general, Haquin. All these offences were carefully summoned up, to inflame his ire against Harold, by the devil, in the shape of Frotho, who promised him—Heaven knows what—both on earth and in Valhalla, if he would only push king Harold from his share of the stool, and leave both halves of it to Frotho.
Notwithstanding all the provocations on both sides, the confederates were two or three whole years before they could “screw their courage to the sticking place,” that is, to the pitch necessary for the murder of king Harold. They had sent fifty inconsiderable nobles, whom they had found troublesome, to Asgard, without ceremony; but Harold was a king and a warrior, and required a good deal. “If we could but pour poison into his ear,” said Eric; “Or into his cup,” replied Frotho; “Or stab him in his sleep,” said Eric; “Or coax him out hunting with us,” replied the brother, “and give it to him quietly in the forest.” But none of these safe plans would answer;—so Frotho, accompanied by his sole and trusty counsellor, rode off for the forest, to find the cave where, tradition said, had resided, from the days of the “Avater” of Odin, his enemy Biorno, the descendant of Lok, grand nephew of Surter, and first cousin to the Wolf Fenris and Serpent Midgard. Frotho, however well disposed to beg the aid and advice of the sorcerer, by no means felt quite at ease when he considered the family to which he belonged: the wolf and the eternal earth-circling snake were known to bear no very great partiality to the race of Odin,—and Frotho, they knew, if they knew any thing, was a true son of their enemy. Still the Danish monarch trotted on with his squire till they reached the centre of the forest.
“After all, Eric,” said his majesty, as they trotted on cosily together; “after all”—but, as an historian, I must make one observation here: you are aware, dear reader, that the Scandinavians of the year 112, and some time after, did not use the same simple, plain, common-place sort of style which they have adopted to express their meaning now-a-days. If we may believe their own writers, they were always in alt, gave their commands in a kind of heroic prose, and carried on dialogues in a sort of rambling blank verse. It must therefore be obvious to you, dear reader, that I spare you their language, and only give you their sentiments, which, to the best of my humble ability, I will translate for you into decent colloquial English, the better to carry your patience through the long-winded history which I am preparing as a trial for it. But to return to Frotho the Fifth of Denmark. “After all, Eric,” said he, “I have perhaps no great reason to fear these ugly immortals: as I am going to consult their kinsman, and am withal very well disposed to put an end to the race of Odin, (that part of it at least most devoted to him,) I think they may be civil to me. My own son Sevald is the only member of the family I wish to preserve, and I may soon mould him to my own opinions. If the sorcerer will only dispose of Harold for me, or tell me how I may safely dispose of him, I shall not haggle on the terms of assistance; I will do any thing to serve him or his, which may not interfere with my own safety, or rob me of the diadem I am so anxious to wear alone.” Eric was about to reply to his magnanimous master, but paused, half afraid, as he discovered they were really in the sorcerer’s neighbourhood, for the yawning mouth of the cave was actually staring them in the face. Frotho, as became him, now took the lead, and marched dauntlessly forward, though not without a glance backward now and then to see if Eric was close behind him, and as any sound struck upon his ear that bore any resemblance to a hiss or a howl. At length, after many turnings and windings, he found himself in a cavern of large dimensions, broadly lighted by a huge iron lamp, suspended from the upper part of it. He turned round to make some remark to his patient tail-piece, but was petrified to observe that he had fallen to the earth stiff and insensible to every thing around him. The Danish monarch’s cheeks waxed pale, and his knees began to smite each other; nevertheless he grasped the hilt of his falchion, as a slight noise on the opposite side withdrew his attention from the insensible Eric Swen; there stood an old man of reverend aspect, mildly but steadily gazing upon the king: “Art thou he whom I have been so long taught to expect?” said the sorcerer; “art thou the king of the race of Odin, alone chosen by his invincible foe to render a service to the son of Lok, and deserve the everlasting gratitude of his children? [242] If indeed thou art the appointed, I bid thee highest welcome, for the task decreed to thee hath been denied to the immortals, above whom the grateful Lok will raise thee.”
Frotho recovered his spirits at this address; half his business was already done, for his wishes were anticipated. He had been so little accustomed to receive compliments from his subjects, that his opinion of his own endowments had not been particularly high; but now he began to think he had mistaken himself, and was really a much greater man than he had suspected. He readily promised obedience to the sorcerer, upon certain terms, and assured him of his assistance when and wherever it might be demanded. The magician then proceeded to inform him that he was himself a descendant of Lok, and an ally of the spirits of fire, those daring beings who had for so many thousand years waged war with various success against Odin and his warriors, and which warfare would not cease till the end of the world; when, during a night which was to last a year, there would be a general battle, in which Earth, Niftheim, and Asgard, would go to wreck, and the conquering party be elevated to a newer and more beautiful heaven in Gimle,—while Nastrande, a still gloomier hell, would be made out of the fragments of the old one, for the accommodation of the party conquered. “Balder!” exclaimed Frotho, starting at this part of the story,—for he never liked to hear any thing of the old hell, which he thought quite bad enough without the spirits troubling themselves about the creation of another; “but I thought, sir sorcerer, that the wicked alone would be punished in Nastrande, after the long night and battle of the gods; I thought”—“Exactly so, my son,” interrupted the sorcerer; “the wicked certainly; for the conquered will be the wicked—that is beyond dispute; but who will conquer is not so certain; perhaps Lok, perhaps Odin—each, as far as I see, have an equal chance; take part then with us, and share our danger and glories in the next world, and our certain assistance in this.” To this world, then, (as king Frotho had at present more business in it,) he limited his wishes, and gave Biorno his steady attention as he proceeded in his narrative, “Odin,” the magician continued to observe, “though utterly unable to chain entirely the powers of Lok, had just now decidedly the advantage; for he had a few hundred years before seized upon his eldest son, the unwary Surter, whom he had caught out of his own territories, and wedged him, in the shape of a raven, into an iron cage, there to remain till one of his own race, a kingly son of his blood, should release him:”—a condition from Odin probably implying an eternal punishment,—as that divinity, who does not appear to have been as omniscient as he ought, never imagined any member of his house would have been found silly enough to fulfil it. “Now then,” continued the magician, “I have consulted the eternal powers, and find that thou, Frotho of Denmark, art the king destined to this wondrous deed, and its following union with the immortals.” Frotho gave his assent to all and any thing proposed; and the sorcerer immediately began his operations; he raised his ebon wand above his head, with many magical flourishes—turned himself rapidly round—then more slowly, pausing at each of the cardinal points, and calling north, south, east, and west, upon the tremendous name of Lok. At that sound, so terrible even to the ears of spirits, the thunder began to rumble and the fires of Niftheim flash through the gloomy cavern; something like music was heard, and, though the concert was hardly better than those performed by king Frotho’s own band during his drinking orgies, yet as the voices (and they were many) solely employed their powers in singing his praises, and the approaching deliverance of the god by his means, his majesty was pleased to think nothing in heaven could be half so fine. Presently the earth shook, and the sides of the cavern rocked; Biorno pointed to the bottom of the cave,—and Frotho beheld it, after a few violent convulsions, suddenly open, and disclose to his view an enormous raven, in a gigantic iron cage. “Behold,” said the magician to him, “the prison of the immortal prince of fire!—in that shape he must remain a hundred thousand years, unless a kingly hand of the line of Odin shall restore him (by breaking the bars of his iron cage) to power and to liberty. Monarch of Denmark! go,—and success attend thee.” Frotho obeyed immediately; he made a desperate attack upon the iron cage, but failed in his intention of rending away its bars; he made many earnest efforts, but all in vain,—the bars remained unbroken. The Dane paused in vexation—he was frightened and mortified—and, by the howls and groans which resounded on all sides of the cavern, it was evident the anxious spirits of Niftheim sympathised in his distress: Biorno too, afflicted beyond measure at the ill success of the enterprise, threw himself upon the earth, tore off his magical cap, plucked up his hair by the roots, and howled as loudly as the noisiest of them. This dismal sight drove Frotho desperate; he collected all his energies for one mighty pull, rushed upon the cage, grappled with the bars, and, in an instant, threw them at the sorcerer’s feet, who sprung up like an elk to receive them. Frotho stood majestically silent, while an uproar, such as no human ear has ever heard since, began its diversions in the cavern; a thick black mist quickly filled its whole space, so that Frotho could but indistinctly distinguish the figures who made up the ball; millions of shadows were flitting about, and millions of voices were laughing, singing, shouting, groaning, and cursing. Midgard raised his glittering snaky head above the darkness and the shadows, and greeted the monarch with a cordial and complimentary hiss; wolf Fenris tried hard for a good-natured howl; and the grim Hela, their sister, the queen of death, tortured her ghastly face into a smile, as she capered nimbly backwards and forwards in the festival, animated by the thought of the many meals Frotho would furnish for her famished maw. But, at length, the immortals grew weary of their own noises—the infernal jollification came to an end—the mist cleared off—the fires went out—the uproar died away,—and Frotho’s courage returned to its half-bewildered master, who took heart once again to look about him. He was alone (to his great joy) with Biorno, except that, in place of the raven and his cage, there sat, reposing upon a light cloud, his beautiful brow diademed with his native element, the triumphant prince of fire, in all the pride of beauty and victory. “Frotho, son of Olave,” said the sweet voice of the spirit; “bravest among the brave, and wisest of the sons of Odin,—what is thy will with me? Tax my gratitude, preserver; ask, and obtain thy wishes.” Frotho waited for no further encouragement, but directly stated his wishes to reign alone in Denmark, and sweep off all the collaterals of his house, who were such bars to his glory. “Thy brother’s life I give thee,” said the spirit; “destroy him when thou wilt, but be cautious to keep it secret: his elder son shall in vain endeavour to oppose thee—I will baffle his claim, and proclaim thee sole monarch in Denmark; but touch not the life of Haldane; he has offended Lok, and the god demands the victim, whom he will receive from no mortal hand: for Harold the younger, do with him as thou wilt, but, if thou spare his life, he shall have no power to harm thee; go—reign—prosper;—nothing shall do thee wrong till thyself shall fulfil a decree which is gone forth respecting thee; thou shall prosper till thy hand shall unite thy own blood to that of thy deadliest foe: beware of this, and triumph.” “Prince of the powers of Niftheim,” said Frotho, “surely Harold, my brother, is my deadliest foe, and he has no daughter to whom I can give my son; but I will be mindful of thy words, and remember thy warning.” The spirit then desired him, should any event disturb his tranquillity, to come to the cavern and strike thrice upon the side where stood the iron cage: “Biorno shall meet thee,” continued he, “and yield thee, in my name, such help as thou mayest require;” then, slowly and silently encircling himself in the clouds which surrounded him, he gradually disappeared from the sight of Frotho, leaving the cavern illuminated only by the light of the iron lamp which hung from its centre. Biorno, too, had vanished, leaving him alone with Eric Swen, who, now easily awakened from his trance, prepared to follow his master home, who simply informed his confidant that he had consulted the magician, who had advised the murder of Harold, and promised him success in its performance. This was readily undertaken by the profligate Eric, who, watching, with a lynx-like assiduity, his opportunity, plunged his sword in the heart of the unhappy Harold with such right good will and judgment, that the prince died before he knew he was wounded: nor was Frotho behind his confederate in the good management of a difficult affair, and skill in getting out of a dilemma; and this was especially proved, when the body of Eric Swen, transfixed by a well-aimed javelin, was found stark and stiff by the side of king Harold, and Frotho ordered every body to believe that these enemies had fallen in single combat with each other.
There was one Dane in the court of king Frotho who took the liberty of believing contrarily to the royal orders; this was the brave Haquin, the brother-in-law of the two kings, and their favourite general and minister: he knew Frotho, and he suspected foul play. He secured the persons of his murdered master’s two sons, and, giving out that Haldane should challenge his father’s crown against Frotho, in an assembly of the states, retired from the court to his own towers, till the nobles should be pleased to appoint a day for hearing the claim of his ward. In the mean time, Haldane himself had not been idle; he employed a good number of his vacant hours in making tender love to his beautiful cousin, the young Ildegarda, and laying at her feet the crown which he was to have, and which Ildegarda accepted, as a thing of course; for she already considered herself the queen of Denmark. Haldane was tenderly beloved, and they each looked forward to the day on which he was to claim his father’s crown from the ambitious Frotho, as that which was to seal their love and their happiness.
That day at length arrived; the states, the nobles, the warriors, and a great part of the troops, were assembled in an open plain, where Frotho, on his throne, awaited the arrival of his kinsman. His majesty had arrayed himself with peculiar splendour for this solemn occasion; his long hair, now slightly tinged with grey, floated down his back, while all his face was clean shaven, except his upper lip, which exhibited a most magnanimous mustache; his breast, arms, and legs were painted in the brightest blue, and the most fashionable pattern in Denmark; a short petticoat of lynx skin, fastened round his waist by the paws of the animal, descended to his knees; and from his shoulders to his heels, secured round his neck by claws of gold, fell the robe of royal magnificence, the mantle made of the skins of many ermines; his feet were defended by shoes of the sable of the black fox; his neck was ornamented by a chain of gold, and the regal circle of the same precious metal shone through his locks around his temples; on his left arm was a target of leather, studded with brass nails of unusual brightness and immense value; in his right hand he held the sceptre; he sat upon a throne covered with the hides of wolves, and over his head floated, in proud sublimity, the standard of Denmark, the raven.