Odin's Runes are a significant feature of him. Runes, and the miracles of "magic" he worked by them, make a great feature in tradition. Runes are the Scandinavian alphabet; suppose Odin to have been the inventor of letters as well as "magic" among that people. It is the greatest invention man has ever made, this of marking down the unseen thought that is in him by written characters. It is a kind of second speech, almost as miraculous as the first.
You remember the astonishment and incredulity of Atahaulpa the Peruvian king; how he made the Spanish soldier, who was guarding him, scratch Dios on his thumb nail, that he might try the next soldier with it, to ascertain whether such a miracle was possible. If Odin brought letters among his people, he might work magic enough! Writing by Runes has some air of being original among the Norsemen; not a Phœnician alphabet, but a Scandinavian one.
Snorro tells us farther that Odin invented poetry; the music of human speech, as well as that miraculous runic marking of it.
Transport yourself into the early childhood of nations; the first beautiful morning light of our Europe, when all yet lay in fresh young radiance, as of a great sunrise, and our Europe was first beginning to think,—to be!
This Odin, in his rude semi-articulate way, had a word to speak. A great heart laid open to take in this great universe, and man's life here, and utter a great word about it. And now, if we still admire such a man beyond all others, what must these wild Norse souls, first awakened with thinking, have made of him! The rough words he articulated, are they not the rudimental roots of those English words we still use? He worked so, in that obscure element. But he was as a light kindled in it, a light of intellect, rude nobleness of heart, the only kind of lights we have yet: he had to shine there, and make his obscure element a little lighter, as is still the task of us all.
We will fancy him to be the type Norseman; the finest Teuton whom that race had yet produced. He is as a root of many great things; the fruit of him is found growing, from deep thousands of years, over the whole field of Teutonic life. Our own Wednesday, is it not still Odin's day? Wednesbury, Wansborough, Wanstead, Wandsworth: Odin grew into England too, these are still the leaves from that root. He was the chief god to all the Teutonic peoples; their pattern Norsemen.
The essence of the Scandinavian, as indeed of all Pagan mythologies, we found to be recognition of the divineness of nature; sincere communion of man with the mysterious invisible powers, visibly seen at work in the world around him.
Sincerity is the great characteristic of it. Amid all that fantastic congeries of associations and traditions in their musical mythologies, the main practical belief a man could have was of an inflexible destiny, of the valkyrs and the hall of Odin, and that the one thing needful for a man was to be brave. The Valkyrs are choosers of the slain, who lead the brave to a heavenly hall of Odin: only the base and slavish being thrust elsewhere, into the realms of Hela, the Death goddess. This was the soul of the whole Norse Belief. Valour is still valour. The first duty of a man is still that of subduing Fear. Snorro tells us they thought it a shame and misery not to die in battle; and if a natural death seemed to be coming on, they would cut wounds in their flesh that Odin might receive them as warriors slain. Old kings about to die had their body laid into a ship, the ship sent forth with sail set and slow fire burning in it; that once out at sea, it might blaze up into flame, and in such a manner bury worthily the old hero, at once in the sky and in the ocean."
THE DESCENT OF ODIN.
(From the Norse Tongue.)
By Thomas Gray.
Up rose the king of men with speed,
And saddled straight his coal black steed.
Down the yawning steep he rode
That leads to Hela's drear abode.
Him the Dog of Darkness spied;
His shaggy throat he opened wide,
While from his jaws with carnage fill'd,
Foam and human gore distill'd;
Hoarse he bays with hideous din,
Eyes that glow and fangs that grin,
And long pursues with fruitless yell
The father of the powerful spell.
Onward still his way he takes,
(The groaning earth beneath him shakes)
Till full before his fearless eyes
The portals nine of Hell arise.
Right against the eastern gate
By the moss grown pile he sate,
Where long of yore to sleep was laid
The dust of the prophetic maid,
Facing to the northern clime,
Thrice he traced the Runic rhyme,
Thrice pronounced in accents dread,
The thrilling verse that wakes the dead.
Till from out the hollow ground
Slowly breathed a sullen sound.
What call unknown, what charms presume
To break the quiet of the tomb?
Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite
And drags me from the realms of night?
Long on these mouldering bones have beat
The winter's snow, the summer's heat.
The drenching dews, and driving rain,
Let me, let me sleep again.
Who is he with voice unbless'd
That calls me from the bed of rest?
Odin: A traveller to the unknown Is he that calls; a warrior's son,
Thou the deeds of light shall know;
Tell me what is done below.
For whom yon glittering board is spread,
Dress'd for whom yon golden bed?
Proph: Mantling in the goblet see The pure beverage of the bee,
O'er it hangs the shield of gold:
'Tis the drink of Balder bold:
Balder's head to death is given:
Pain can reach the sons of heaven!
Unwilling I my lips unclose:
Leave me, leave me to repose.
Odin: Once again my call obey; Prophetess! arise and say
What dangers Odin's child await,
Who the author of his fate?
Proph: In Hoder's hand the hero's doom; His brother sends him to the tomb,
Now my weary lips I close,
Leave me, leave me to repose.
Odin: Prophetess! my spell obey; Once again arise and say
Who th' avenger of his guilt,
By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt?
Proph: In the caverns of the west, By Odin's fierce embrace compress'd,
A wondrous boy shall rind a bear,
Who ne'er shall comb his raven hair,
Nor wash his visage in the stream,
Nor see the sun's departing beam,
Till he on Hoder's corpse shall smile,
Flaming on the funeral pile.
Now my weary lips I close,
Leave me, leave me to repose.
Odin: Yet awhile my call obey; Prophetess awake and say
What virgins these in speechless wo,
That bent to earth their solemn brow,
That their flaxen tresses tear,
And snowy veils that float in air?
Tell me whence their sorrows rose,
Then I leave thee to repose.
Proph: Ha! no traveller art thou: King of Men I know thee now:
Mightiest of a mighty line.
Odin: No boding maid of skill divine, Art thou, no prophetess of good,
But mother of a giant brood!
Proph: Hie thee hence, and boast at home, That never shall enquirer come
To break my iron sleep again,
Till Lok his horse his tenfold chain,
Never till substantial Night,
Has re-assumed her ancient right,
Till wrapped in fumes, in ruin hurl'd,
Sinks the fabric of the world.