Читать книгу The History of Denmark, Sweden and Norway - S. A. Dunham - Страница 6

“We have, here, the early history of the Scandinavians traced in a few lines; but these are strongly marked, and confirmed by all the traditions of the ancient north, respecting the different races of men by which the country was successively occupied.^[37] The first Gothic emigrants subdued the Celto-Finnish tribes, who were the primitive inhabitants of the country, and reduced them to servitude, or drove them, first, to the mountains, and then to the desert wilds and fastnesses of Norrland, Lapland, and Finland. Here the Jötnar, as they were called by their Gothic invaders, continued to adhere to the grovelling superstition of their fathers, which was that form of polytheism which has been called Fetichism, or the adoration of beasts and birds, of stocks and stones, all the animate and inanimate works of creation. The antipathy between these two races, so continually alluded to in the songs and sagas of the mythic and heroic age, is significantly expressed in the legend of Njördr, who dwelt by the sea-side, and Skade, a mountain-nymph of the rival race of the Jötnar, whom he had espoused. She very naturally prefers her native abode on the Alpine heights, whilst he insists on dwelling where he can hear the roar of the ocean billows. At last, they compromise this matrimonial dissension by agreeing to pass nine nights alternately among the mountains, and three on the sea-shore. But Njördr soon tires of this compact, and vents his dissatisfaction in a lay to this effect:—‘How do I hate the mountain wilds! I have only passed nine nights there; but how long and tedious did they seem! There one hears nothing but the howling of wolves, instead of the sweet notes of the swan.’ To which Skade extemporises this response:—‘How can I rest on the sandy sea-shore, where my slumbers are every morning broken by the hideous screaming of the sea-gulls?’ The result is, that she deserts her husband, and returns to the mountains, where her father dwells: there, snatching up her bow, and fastening on her snow-skates, she bounds over the hills in pursuit of the wild beasts.”^[38]

“The Sviar, who migrated with the historic Odin, achieved no forcible conquest over their national brethren of the Gothic tribe, by whom they had been preceded. The ascendancy of Odin and his followers over their predecessors was acquired and maintained by superstition, and their supposed superiority in magic and the other arts which win the confidence or influence the fears of a barbarous nation. The older worship of the primitive inhabitants, and of their conquerors, was modified by this new prophet, who, taking advantage of the pre-existing belief in the doctrine of the transmigration of souls, and the incarnation of divine spirits, so widely diffused among the ancient people of the earth, pretended to be the former Odin, who had again descended among his faithful Goths.^[39] His worship thus soon supplanted that of the more ancient Odin, and the attributes and actions of both were gradually confounded together in the apprehension of the Scandinavians. But it did not supplant that of Thor, whom the primitive people of the north regarded as the elder and most beneficent of the deities. In him they worshipped the goodly elements of nature—the light, the heat, and especially the thunder, shaking and purifying the atmosphere. This deity was principally revered in Norway; and, after its discovery and settlement, in Iceland: but he maintained his recognised equality with the other superior gods even in the great temple of Upsal, the principal seat of the northern superstition. His votaries formed a distinct sect, who were often engaged in deadly strife with the peculiar worshippers of Odin. The next deity in the Scandinavian hierarchy was Freyer, who represented the prolific powers of Nature, and, with his sister Freya, the Venus of this mythology, was principally revered in Sweden, Norway, and Iceland; whilst Odin and his son, Balder, were adored both at Upsal and Ledra as the peculiar national deities of the Gothic Danes and Sviar. The religion of the north, as it was at last modified by this new dispensation, in the conjoint adoration of Thor, Odin, and Freyer, bore a strong family likeness to the three principles of Schamanism, or the faith professed by the votaries of the Dalai Lama in central Asia. This correspondence points most significantly to its origin; and the filiation of religious creeds and forms of worship thus combines with that of language to trace the present people of the north to the remotest regions of the East.”^[40]

The temporal government established by Odin was perpetuated through his sons. Thus Heimdall was placed over Scania, the original seat of the Danes. Semming had Norway. From another son sprung the Ynglings, who reigned for many centuries in Sweden and Norway. Skiold, a fourth son, led a colony into Zealand, which became the seat of a different kingdom; hence the Skioldungs, or the regal family of Denmark. And as to Balder, he was the king of the Angles, if any faith is to be placed in the “Saxon Chronicle.” Thus, according to tradition, as embodied in the Icelandic and Norwegian sagas, and in other monuments of antiquity, Odin was the progenitor of all the great dynasties of the north. But in regard to some parts of Norway, we must not forget the family of Nor—the mythologic, or rather mythic, Nor, whose fame was so widely spread, and from whom the whole country derived its name. Doubtless the native chiefs, those who descended from ancestors long antecedent to Odin’s arrival, were proud enough of their descent, and too much attached to their ancient religion—more ancient than Odin’s—to care for either the Asiatic conqueror or his attendant drottnar. But the kings of the Asser, or divine race, whose chief deity was this very Odin, boasted of a spiritual pre-eminence, superior, by far, to their temporal.^[41]

But, reverting to the narrative of Saxo, and the alleged succession of the Danish kings, Hoder, whom (as we have before observed) Gewar, a king in Norway, had educated, won the heart of Nanna, the daughter of his benefactor. She had, however, the misfortune to influence a divine lover, Balder, the son of Odin, who, like David, had seen her in the bath. As he knew of her attachment to Hoder, he resolved to remove that person by violence; but the latter had friends powerful as those of his enemy. One day, while hunting in the mountains, Hoder entered a cloud, and suddenly beheld a number of virgins, who, though bearing some resemblance to the maids of Norway, were in reality the fatal sisters. They accosted him by name, told him that his beloved Nanna had smitten the heart of Balder, but warned him not to attempt the life of the demi-god. They informed him that they were present, unseen, in all battles—that they were the arbiters of good and evil—and that they often assisted their mortal friends when assistance was most required. Saying this, they disappeared so quickly, that his eye could not follow them. On his return, he related to Gewar what he had seen, and besought the hand of Nanna. The old king had no objection to the match; but he dreaded the wrath of Balder, on whose charmed body mortal weapon could have no effect. He added, however—for he was a great magician—that there was a sword kept by Mimring, a satyr of the woods, with virtue enough to slay the demi-god. The same being had bracelets, of efficacy so wonderful, as greatly to increase the bodily strength of the possessor. But how obtain these miraculous gifts? The abode of the satyr was amidst rocks and snows, and almost inaccessible to man. Hoder was, however, to take his sledge and rein-deer; to reach the alpine solitudes; to pitch his tent, so that the shadow of the satyr’s grove might fall upon it; and to watch day and night, with untiring patience, for the appearance of the mysterious occupant. The prince did as he was commanded; he fasted and watched, until one night, feigning to be asleep, he perceived the satyr attentively observing his tent. In a moment, he struck the monster, bound it with fetters, and threatened to kill it if it did not surrender the sword and bracelets. His life was dearer than those treasures. Hoder gained his object, and returned in triumph to the court of Gewar. The value of the treasure, indeed, was too great not to raise up rivals for its possession; and one king (Gelder, who has left his name to a well-known Dutch province), sailed with a powerful armament against him; but if it excited envy, it also aided its owner, and Hoder was victorious.^[42]

In the mean time, Balder, terrible in arms, entered the dominions to obtain the fair Nanna by force, should entreaties be ineffectual. But she was deaf to the most honied flattery. Without betraying her attachment for Hoder, which would only place him in greater jeopardy, she represented in strong colours the inequality of the proposed marriage. “The chain which bound a god to a mortal,” she observed, “could not be a lasting chain. When the fervour of passion had subsided, the superior being, despising his ill-assorted choice, would at once dissolve it.” Balder had recourse to arms; and he was joined by the army of the gods, at the head of which were Odin and Thor. Here were fearful odds; but Hoder was not discouraged. His magic bracelets rendered him impenetrable to steel; and though the hammer of Thor crushed everything on which it fell, he had the courage to meet the Scandinavian thunderer. With his wonderful sword he cut off the handle of the all-destructive weapon, so as to render it useless; and the gods, deprived of their great support, took refuge in flight. The victory was complete; the allies of the gods were destroyed; their bodies cast by the waves on the shores; and the victor performed the last rites to their manes. “Strange,” concludes Saxo, “that gods could be thus routed by mortals!” But he accounts for the circumstance by gravely observing that they were deities in human estimation only, and not in reality. He evidently regards them merely as magicians and priests; wise, indeed, far beyond human wisdom, but still mortal. His religion, his profession, compelled him thus to regard them; and often, when he employs the term god, he adds the saving clause which we have just noticed.—To proceed: as the reward of this victory, Hoder obtained the hand of Nanna, with the throne of one part of Sweden; but he was shortly afterwards vanquished by Balder, and he lost the crown of Denmark. He and Balder were dreadful rivals. Through his love for Nanna, the latter wasted gradually away. To procure a greater share of the divine favour, he offered human sacrifices to Fro, and the fatal precedent was but too well imitated by succeeding ages. In the next battle, he was again the victor, and his rival compelled to seek an asylum in an obscure village of Jutland. Here, unattended and discouraged, Hoder felt the more deeply the contrast of situations. From Jutland, he passed into Sweden, privately assembled his staunch adherents, and represented to them the hopelessness of his prospects—that he was alike weary of empire and life. Compelled, indeed, to consult his safety by wandering from forest to forest, from one cavern to another, he exhibited a remarkable example of the instability of fortune, in a region where such vicissitudes were more frequent than in any other part of the world. In this emergency, while sojourning amidst woods never trod by man, he one day entered a cave, in which he found the weird sisters. Being asked what had brought him to their solitudes, he replied, “Misfortune in war.” He bewailed his hard fate, and asserted that their predictions had not been verified, but had been contradicted by the event. They contended, however, that if he had been twice put to flight, he had inflicted as great an injury on the enemy as the enemy had inflicted on him. But Balder was on the throne of Denmark; what consolation, therefore, could he receive? He was, indeed, told, that if he could only discover and appropriate to himself a certain species of food, which was every day served to his rival, and which increased that rival’s strength in a prodigious manner, he should become the victor. How discover it? But, whatever his fate, it could not be more disastrous than the present; and he again sought Balder in arms. The first day’s fight was indecisive. At night, he lay in his tent; but sleep refusing to visit him, he arose and went towards the enemy’s camp. There he saw three virgins (the purveyors of Balder’s table) leave that prince’s tent. He accosted them; and being asked who he was, replied, “A harper,”—a character always sacred in the north. As he was really expert in the use of the instrument, he was readily believed, and he was allowed to see what the mysterious substance was which had such miraculous effect on the body of his rival: it was the venom of three snakes which the virgins daily or nightly extracted from the mouths of the reptiles, and which they mixed with the more solid food of Balder. One of the maidens wished to give some of the food to Hoder, but the eldest forbade her. All, however, were so pleased with his minstrelsy, that they presented him with a belt, which would ensure him the victory over all his enemies. The prophecy was soon fulfilled. Possessed of this belt, in addition to his other magical treasures, he met his enemy and gave him a mortal wound. Like a true northern hero, Balder being resolved to die on the field of battle, was carried in a litter into the heart of Hoder’s army; but he soon breathed his last sigh. Over his body a huge mound was erected by his troops. That treasures of inestimable value were buried with him, was the unanimous opinion of posterity. In the time of Saxo, some youths one night hastened to the spot, and endeavoured to open it; but their ears being assailed by terrific noises, they desisted, and fled. All this, says the historian, was unreal; it was merely the illusion of magic.^[43]

Respecting the death and interment of Balder, we have in the latter Edda many details wholly omitted by Saxo, and more which are entirely dissimilar from his. One night, this Balder had a dream, which was thought to be portentous of his fate. With the consent of the gods his mother, Freya or Frigga, called on fire, water, earth, stones, iron and other metals, trees, animals, birds, reptiles, poison, and all diseases, to renounce all power over him; and they took an oath to that effect. To try the efficacy of the engagement, some of the gods threw darts and stones at him, while some assailed him with other weapons: in vain; no one could injure him. Seeing this, Loke, the genius of evil, assumed the disguise of an old woman, went to the palace of Frigga, and informed her what the gods were doing. “Let them try as long as they please,” was the reply; “all living things have promised to respect my son.” “What!” rejoined Loke, whose purpose is evident enough, “have all substances, without exception, thus promised?” “All,” was the reply, “except one insignificant plant, called mistletoe, which grows on the western side of Valhalla, and from which, such is its feebleness, I exacted no oath.” This was enough for Loke: he went to the place where the mistletoe grew, plucked it up by the roots, and returned to the assembly of the gods, who were still occupied in the same diversion. According to this account, Hoder was present; but he was not a deity, he was merely a blind old man. “Why dost thou not join in the exercise?” demanded Loke. “Because I am blind.” “Take this trifling reed, and throw it; I will guide thine hand; meet it is for us all to honour Balder!” The missile flew, and the hero fell to rise no more. The gods were in sad consternation at this event; the more so as the evil was irreparable. All that the afflicted father could now do was, to pay due honours to his remains. His body was borne to the sea coast; it was placed in the famous ship of the deceased, which was one of the largest in the world; but neither Odin nor all the gods assembled could move the vessel into the waters. In this emergency, they had recourse to a famous sorceress of the giant, namely, of the Jutish race, and she obeyed the call. She arrived on the back of a wild beast, having serpents for reins. So dreadful was this animal, that it required four giants to hold it after she had dismounted. At one push, Gyges sent the ship into the sea; and so great was its velocity, that the earth trembled. The funeral pile was then erected by command of Odin, and the body of Balder’s wife, whom grief brought to the grave, laid on it, close by his. Who was she? The Edda expressly calls her Nanna, but assigns her another father than Gewar. There can, however, be no doubt that the beautiful confusion so prevalent in everything connected with Scandinavian characters and events, is doubly apparent in this case—that the wife of Hoder and Balder is one and the same Nanna, however the tradition in regard to her may have been distorted. Yet, there is no greater confusion respecting this lady than there is respecting Hoder himself in the different relations of Saxo and Snorro, the compiler of the prose Edda. In the one case, as we have seen, he was a vigorous young prince; in the other, a blind, feeble, and apparently old one. This diversity of narrative arises from the diversity of sources consulted by the two historians—the one confining himself to the national songs of Denmark, the other consulting the old Norwegian, or rather Icelandic traditions, which the Scalds had transmitted to posterity. During the middle ages, especially anterior to the fourteenth century, there was a vast body of legendary lore respecting Odin, his family, and his sacerdotal companions—lore from which different Scalds took what they judged most interesting to their hearers. But reverting to the funeral of Balder, Thor furnished the consecrated fire: the horse of the deceased hero was placed on the pyre; and Odin added his golden ring, which had the miraculous virtue of producing eight other rings every ninth night. Thus, in the presence of all the gods, satyrs, nymphs, and cyclops, was the conflagration effected.^[44]

According to the same venerable authority, namely, the Edda of Snorro, an attempt was made to recover the soul of Balder from the empire of Hela, or death. Who would undertake the perilous mission? It was Hermod, another son of Odin, that, at the entreaty of his mother, saddled Sleipner, the famous black steed, mounted him, and plunged into the subterraneous paths which led to the abodes of the dead. This Sleipner has a reputation never before enjoyed by quadruped. During the frequent contests between the gods and the giants—that is, between the Goths and the Jutes—the former were not always victorious; nor were they always sure of impunity within their fortress, well guarded as it was. One day an architect appeared before them and proposed to build them such a city that all the power of Jotunheim should fail against it. For this service, however, he must have his reward; and a splendid one it was, the goddess Freya to wife, with the sun and moon as her dowry. They agreed to his terms, provided he did what no doubt they believed impossible, viz., execute the work himself, within the space of a single winter; and they were liberal enough to allow him the use of his horse. In a short time the gods had reason to be alarmed; for the horse not only drew stones of vast magnitude, but did more of the architectural work than the master. Within three days of the completion of winter nothing remained but the hanging of the gates. In great consternation the gods assembled to consult by what means the ruin impending might be averted. As the covenant between them and the architect had been advised by Loke, they menaced him with death unless he discovered some expedient to save them. Loke, who has sometimes been called the Scandinavian devil, was fond of mischief; but he was fonder still of his life: and that very night he caused a mare to issue from a forest and neigh amorously. Sleipner, hearing the sound, left the work to pursue the mare, while the architect followed to recover his horse. Thus the whole night was lost. The architect now perceived that he must trust to himself. He resumed his natural size, and there he stood, a veritable giant—the everlasting enemy of the gods! They did not allow him to finish the work; but, regardless of their oaths, which in their opinion were not binding when made to a giant, they called on Thor to dash out his brains with the awful mallet. In the mean time the mysterious horse remained with the mare, and the issue of the connection was Sleipner with eight feet—the most excellent of all the animals ever possessed by gods or men.^[45]

Such was the animal on which Hermod descended to the regions of Hela. The description of his journey is highly poetical. During nine days and as many nights, he travelled down the precipitous way—often abrupt—along the sides of yawning gulfs—through rugged valleys; and everything was involved in so great a darkness that he was obliged to grope, or trust to the instinct of his wondrous beast. At length he reached a river, the bridge of which was kept by a virgin called Modguder. She inquired his name, his race, his family; and expressed her surprise at his weight. “But yesterday,” she observed, “and three legions of dead rode over this bridge; yet all together did not shake it as much as thou alone. But thou hast not the look of one dead. What brings thee here?” He replied, “I am in search of my brother Balder; hast thou seen him pass?”—“I have: he rode over the bridge: the path to Hecate’s dark abode is still downwards, towards the north!” On he rode until he came to the gates of hell, which were closed to all but the dead. But he was not discouraged; plunging his spurs into his wondrous horse, he cleared the gate, and proceeded into a hall of vast extent. Here he perceived his brother, who filled the most honourable place. But far less honourable was it than the meanest in Valhalla, which Balder could not enter because it had not been his good fortune to die in battle. It is, however, some consolation for us, poor mortals, to perceive that hospitality is not forgotten in the gloomy regions below. Hermod remained the whole night; and the next morning he acquainted Hela with the anxiety of the gods, of men, of all nature, for the return of Balder, and besought her to permit it. She seemed to doubt whether the mourning for the hero was so universal as he had represented; but, to place the matter beyond dispute, she replied, that if all objects, inanimate no less than animate, would weep for him, the request of the gods should be granted. Hermod accordingly rose to depart. By Nanna he was intrusted with several presents for Frigga, his mother: from Balder he was the bearer of a ring (no doubt the one which had been placed in the funeral pile!) to their father Odin. He was then escorted to the outer gate as if he had been a favoured guest just leaving the palace of an earthly sovereign. On reaching Asgard, where Odin then was, he acquainted the gods with the message of Hela. By their advice agents were sent through all creation, praying everything to weep for Balder. By everything was the mandate obeyed, except by one old sorceress, who refused to weep, and said that Hela must keep her prey.^[46]

But in the elder or poetical Edda—that of Sæmund the Wise, which in compilation is antecedent a full century to Snorro’s—the journey to the shades is attributed to Odin himself. When it was undertaken, Balder was yet alive, but dreams and portents afflicted him; and, after consulting the fates, Odin mounted his steed, Sleipner, and descended in darkness towards the abode of Hela, where a celebrated prophetess had been long interred. He met the terrible dog which the Greeks preserved in their mythology, and which, with bloody jaws, barked loudly as he passed along. Downwards he went, the earth trembling beneath his steed, until he reached the lofty hall of Hela. From the eastern gate he proceeded to the spot where he knew the tomb of the prophetess was to be found. Turning himself towards the north, he then commenced the fatal incantation, and placed in order the mystic rhymes. Many were the words of might which he uttered, until he forced the unwilling prophetess to raise her head, and to speak in the language of men. “What unknown mortal is he who has thus disturbed my repose? Bleached by the snow, beaten by the winds, drenched by the rains, have I long remained—long here I have been in the arms of death!”—“Vegtam is my name, the son of Valtam.^[47] Tell me the secrets of hell, and I will tell thee what passes on earth. For whom are these costly benches, for whom these golden couches prepared?”—“This tempered mead, this liquid nectar awaits the arrival of Balder. Sorrowful are the sons of heaven. Unwillingly have I spoken; now my lips shall be closed.”—“Listen, prophetess, for I must know the whole. Whose hand shall deprive Odin’s son of life?”—“That of Hoder: he the bruiser shall be of Odin’s son, the spoiler of Balder’s life! Unwillingly have I spoken; now my lips shall be closed.”—“Listen, prophetess, for I must know the whole. Who shall revenge on Hoder the death of the hero? who shall bear the smiter of Balder to the funeral pyre?”—“Rinda, a virgin of the west, shall bear a son by Odin; he, when only one night old, shall slay the murderer. His hands he shall not wash, nor his head shall he comb, until he bears to the funeral pyre the enemy of Balder. Unwillingly have I spoken; now my lips shall be closed.”—“Listen, prophetess, for I must know the whole. Who are these damsels that weep at pleasure and raise their covered heads on high?^[48] Say this only, and thou mayest sleep.”—“Ah! no wandering spoiler art thou, as I have hitherto believed: well do I know thee for Odin, the preserver of nations!”—“And thou art not Vala; no prophetess art thou; but the mother of the three infernal furies!”—“Odin, ride back to thine house, and there command! Never again will I be consulted by the living until Loke shall break loose from his fetters, and the dreaded twilight of the gods arrive!”^[49] Such is the dark poetical legend which the genius of our poet^[50]

Gray has immortalised. It is among the most imaginative efforts of the Scandinavian muse.^[51]

According to Saxo, it was not the mystic Vala, but Rostiof, king of the Finns, who foretold that Odin’s son, by Rinda, should avenge the death of Balder. That Odin, who was esteemed chief of the gods, should be less prescient than a Finnish king, may appear strange; but this term god frequently means no more than Goth, and the chief of the gods means only the head of the pontifical college established, first in Asia, and next in Sweden. And we must remember that the Finns were expressly declared to be unrivalled in magic, at least in that dark magic which sought the injury of mankind. Yet Odin was equally malignant. He could not rest until he had discovered the maiden whose offspring was thus predestined to accomplish his purpose. This Rinda was a princess, and, consequently, demanded more attention than one of humbler birth. The disguises which he successively assumed at her father’s court; his frequent repulses by her; his numerous stratagems, and his ultimate triumph under the character of a physician; are gravely related by the venerable historian of Denmark. His conduct on these occasions was so unworthy of a god, that his colleagues at Byzantium (or we should rather suppose Asgard) removed him for a time from their society, deprived him of his supernatural powers, degraded him to the level of mortals, and sentenced him to exile—a doom which he, therefore, suffered a second time, though on the former occasion it had been self-imposed.^[52] All this, in plain English, means that he was expelled from the college of priests. This natural explanation is confirmed by the statement, that in ten years, the gods, pitying his sufferings, or, perhaps, bribed by flattery and costly gifts, restored him to all his former privileges. Lest the public worship should sustain any injury, his place had been supplied by one Oller, a priest so expert in magic that he could cross the seas on a bone; but this usurper was slain by the Swedes, just as Mitothin had been slain. In the mean time Bo, the issue of Odin’s connection with Rinda, grew up, and was intrusted by the father with the sacred task of revenge. Accordingly he advanced against the Danish king. Hoder foresaw his doom; and, in an assembly of chiefs, he prevailed on them to elect his son, Runi, for his successor. In the battle which followed destiny was fulfilled: he fell by the hand of Bo; but the victor also received a mortal wound and died the following day.^[53]

All that we have farther to say respecting Odin, in the present Introduction, may be despatched in a few words. Perceiving his end approach, he marked his body with a sword, probably to denote the advantage of dying by that weapon; and declared that he was going to Godheim or paradise, where he should joyfully receive his people. The Swedes were persuaded that he was returned to Asgard to enjoy eternal life; and in this belief his worship was renewed and enlarged. In time of war, and before great battles, he often appeared to them, promising victory to some, inviting others to his hall—in both respects the harbinger of good. After death he was placed on the funeral pyre, and burnt with exceeding pomp. His followers believed the higher the smoke ascended the higher would be his place among the gods; and that the more abundant the riches consumed with him the richer he would be in the other world.^[54]

From the concurrent testimony of Snorro, Saxo Grammaticus, and the two Eddas, little doubt can be entertained in regard to the true character of Odin. He was evidently a conqueror, a king, a priest, a lawgiver, and an adept in the superstitious practices of his age. Endued with commanding talents and an unmeasured ambition, he was enabled to take advantage of circumstances in a degree seldom attained by mortals. Perceiving the success which attended his views, and the veneration in which his wisdom was held, he did not hesitate to ascribe both to the peculiar favour of the gods, from whom, like most of the Scythian princes, he boasted of his descent. As he was of divine race, why should he not participate in the privileges of divinity? Short, indeed, is the transition from veneration to actual worship; and there can be little doubt that, even in his lifetime, this artful pontiff king had altars smoking in his honour. But it is worthy of remark that he was often regarded as a mortal, not merely in his own age, but in subsequent ages; that the words giants and gods are to be understood of the Jutes and Goths—the former, the original possessors of the soil, the latter, the victorious strangers from Asia—the dominant caste which arrogated to itself the sacerdotal and regal functions, and thus preserved its empire over the barbarous, enslaved population. It was some time after his death before his worship was general in the north; and never would it have been general had he not been esteemed the god of war, the deity above all others dear to the ferocious Northmen. Even as it is, he did not hold the highest rank in the worship of all the Scandinavian nations. The Norwegians held him inferior to Thor. Still he is by far the most remarkable person that ever took advantage of human credulity. Over a considerable portion of Europe his worship was extended; and it was not a transitory worship; for it prevailed, in Germany, far into the ninth century; in Denmark and Sweden, a century later; and in some parts of Norway it was not extinct in the twelfth. Of the religion, however, which he founded, or which he incorporated with the superstition already subsisting on his arrival in the north, we shall speak in a future chapter.

On the death of Hoder, the sceptre of Denmark, or rather of a portion of Denmark, passed into the hands of his son Ruric. The name of this prince is interesting to an Englishman, from the fact that the alleged events on which the tragedy of Hamlet is founded happened in his reign. According to Saxo, Hamlet was not the son of a Danish king. His father was Horwendil, governor of Jutland, a famous pirate and vassal of Ruric; but the authority was not undivided: it was shared by Fengo, brother of Horwendil. Fengo did nothing to merit the favour of Ruric; but Horwendil was so valiant and able, that he was honoured with the hand of Gertrude, daughter of the Danish king. From this marriage sprung Hamlet, whose history is so famous in the traditions of Denmark. Fengo could not, without envy, behold the good fortune of his brother: envy led to hatred, and hatred to fratricide. After this deed he married the widowed Gertrude, and succeeded to the whole government of Jutland. Hamlet was no inattentive observer of these events. As a pagan, his first duty was to revenge his father’s death: a duty, to the force of which his uncle was fully alive, and watchful to frustrate it. Spies being set on all his actions, he feigned madness; he painted his face, put on a strange garb, and uttered the most ridiculous things. Frequently was he to be seen on the hearth, seated among the ashes, and making wooden hooks, which he hardened by the heat. His madness, however, had method in it; and some of his replies, ridiculous as they seemed, made the experienced doubt whether he should be classed among the wisest or the most foolish of mankind. “For what purpose are these hooks?” was one day demanded of him. “For the revenge of my father!” was the answer. As nobody could see how they could effect that purpose, he was ridiculed by all but the discerning, who supposed that beneath this ostentatious display of insanity, a profound object was concealed. Among these, was jarl Fengo, who, wishing to prove whether the suspicions were well or ill-founded, had recourse to an expedient. The disposition of the prince was exceedingly amatory; and it was thought that, if a young handsome female were sent to him, he would betray himself. The meeting was to be effected in a wood, and spies were to be placed near him. On the day appointed, he was commanded to ride into a forest. As usual, he mounted with his face to the tail, which he held in lieu of a bridle. There he found the woman; and would have immediately betrayed himself, had not his foster-brother obscurely hinted that he should beware. The way in which this intimation was communicated, like many other parts of Saxo’s narrative, is too gross for translation. Enough to know, that Hamlet was made to understand the danger of his situation. Among his virtues, chastity was not to be reckoned; and though the instances of its violation cannot be recorded in these times, we may observe that, even on the occasion before us, he indulged his propensity, and was cunning enough to conceal it. Fengo, therefore, was disappointed; but by the advice of a friend, he had recourse to another expedient. Under the pretext of a long absence on affairs of moment, he left the palace, and provided that Hamlet should be brought into the mother’s presence, while a spy, unknown to both, should be near them, to hear every word that he should utter. If he had any reason left, it was not doubted he would be communicative with one whom he loved, and who he knew would never betray him. At the time appointed, the courtier hastened to the apartment, where mother and son were to meet, and hid himself under a heap of straw that accidentally lay there—a curious illustration of domestic economy in that age. Immediately afterwards, Hamlet and Gertrude arrived; but the former was too much aware of the dangers which involved him to indulge in rational conversation with his mother, until he had examined the locality. Imitating the crowing of a cock—an imitation in which he was singularly successful—and waving his arms as if they were wings, he leaped on the straw, and was immediately sensible that something lay beneath. With his sword he despatched the intruder. After this act, while his mother was bewailing his supposed insanity, he fiercely upbraided her for her incestuous marriage with the murderer of her first husband. This double crime he did not assail exactly in the manner represented in the drama, but in one more conformable with the barbarism of the age, that is, in one of exceeding coarseness.^[55] His remonstrances are said to have kindled the sparks of virtue in her heart; but the sequel ill corresponded with this moral intention, or with the refined character which the dramatist has given him. The man whom he had killed he cut in pieces, boiled the members, and threw them into the sewer to be eaten by the swine. When Fengo returned, great was his surprise to find that his courtier had disappeared—that not the slightest trace of him could be discovered. One day Hamlet, who was regarded as no more than a motley fool, and to whom questions were put for amusement only, being asked what had become of his uncle’s friend, replied, “He fell into the common sewer, and being unable to extricate himself, was found, and eaten by the swine!” His reply furnished some amusement to the hearers, who regarded it as a good motley invention. They did not know that on all occasions, whether grave or trivial, Hamlet spoke the truth.^[56]

But if the multitude were thus deluded, Fengo was not. For his own safety he felt that the youth must be removed; but to effect this some management was required. He would not exasperate his wife, still less the sovereign of Denmark, by openly executing the prince. The deed must be secret, and done by other than native hands, namely, by those of the English king, who, we are gravely assured, was a tributary of Denmark. Before Hamlet’s departure, he privately desired his mother, in one year from that time, to celebrate his funeral obsequies; assuring her, however, that he would in one year return. Two creatures of Fengo were his companions. One night, while they were buried in sleep, he examined their baggage, and found, carved on wood, the mandate to the English king. With his usual cunning, he erased a portion of the characters; and so altered the rest, that the foreign king was to put his two companions to death, but to show every possible kindness towards himself, and even to give him the hand of an English princess. On their arrival in England, they presented their wooden mandate, which they were unable to read; and were invited, with much parade of hospitality, to the royal table. But while the two messengers were thus deluded, Hamlet was received with much respect. The more curious reader may consult the venerable authority before us for an account of what passed at the English court—an account as minute as it is romantic. To be brief: the two messengers were executed; and Hamlet, whose wisdom was so much admired, obtained the hand of the monarch’s daughter. He pretended, however, to be much affected by the death of his companions; and to pacify him, the king gave him a considerable quantity of gold, which he melted and inclosed in the hollow of two walking sticks. At the expiration of the year, he obtained leave to revisit his native country; but, of all his riches, he took only the staves which contained the gold. On reaching Jutland, he assumed his own motley garb, and reached the house of his uncle at the very time his funeral rites were performed. At first, his sudden appearance terrified the domestics and guests; but terror yielded to mirth when they saw him resume his motley character. “Where are your two companions?” demanded they. “Here they are!” was his reply, as he produced his two sticks. Soon he joined the cup-bearers; and as his long flowing garments interfered with his activity, he girt his sword round him, but it had no scabbard; and to impress all the guests with a stronger notion of his insanity, he frequently grasped the blade until the blood flowed from his fingers. Little did they suspect his object in thus descending to the meanest occupation: it was to make all of them beastly drunk, and then to exact his revenge. So well did he succeed in the first intention, that most of them, being unable to stagger from the apartment, were compelled to remain all night in the hall of entertainment. At length, all being buried in sleep, he cut off the cords which supported a huge curtain that occupied the whole room: as it fell on the drunken sleepers, by his wooden hooks he fastened it in many places to the ground; and drawing the cords over the curtain, so bound them by knots and hooks as to bid defiance to the efforts of drunken men. Startled by the weight no less than by the sudden difficulty of breathing, they strove to raise the curtain, but in vain; it was too well secured to be moved. In this state they were soon enveloped in flames, which consumed them and the palace. Fengo retired to his bedroom, and fell asleep: he was awakened by Hamlet, who, after upbraiding him for his various crimes, put him to death. He then flew to a safe retreat to watch the progress of events. Great was the surprise of the Jutes at this disaster; but, as Fengo was a tyrant, the majority were not displeased. Hamlet, therefore, reappeared; surrounded himself with those whom he knew to be attached to the interests of his family; sought the public assembly; and, by his eloquence, so wrought on the people, that they unanimously declared him the successor of Fengo.^[57]

Into the remaining adventures of Hamlet—all equally wonderful with the preceding—we cannot enter. Whoever may wish to read his subsequent visit to Britain; his marriage with a second wife, the queen of Scotland; his quarrel with the British king, the father of his first wife; his domestic life with both in his hereditary government of Jutland; his war with Wiglet, king of Denmark, the successor of his grandfather, Ruric; his death in battle; and the facility with which the idol of his heart, his second wife, passed into the arms of the victor, must consult the venerable Saxo.^[58]

We have no wish to pursue farther the list of Danish kings, who, according to Saxo, reigned prior to our Saviour’s birth. Some of them, probably, never reigned at all. Others, certainly, reigned after that event. Others, again, ruled at the same time, over different provinces of the kingdom. The reigns of many whom Saxo places before the Christian era are identical with those which the best Danish writers regard as posterior; and the actions attributed to both are substantially the same. All writers admit that Denmark had no monarch before Skiold, the son of Odin; indeed, it had none for some generations afterwards: for there is room to believe that even his authority was more of a sacerdotal than of a temporal character. In virtue of this character he might, and probably did, claim a twofold sovereignty over the peninsula and islands; but that sovereignty was never virtually exercised—it was one merely nominal. Several of the islands had their separate governors, whom Saxo calls kings; and Jutland, as we have seen in the sketch of Hamlet’s life, had them also. The men whom personal qualities elevated above the rest, became chiefs; and when one chief had others subject to him, he assumed the regal title. There were kings of various kinds. We read of petty kings (sma-konungur, or fylke-konungur); of sea kings, island kings, and cape kings. The name of the last may require an explanation. They were neither more nor less than the pirate chiefs, who lived in caverns or in huts near the promontories, ready, at any moment, to sally forth and seize the unsuspecting mariner. Thus there were kings enough scattered over the seas, the forests, the mountains, the maritime coasts of the north. Probably all those in the Danish islands might yield a nominal homage, at least, to the one that reigned in Scania in Zealand. But no dependence whatever can be placed on the list of Danish kings prior to what we now call the historic times; that is, to about the eighth century of our era. It is astonishing to see how little judgment has been exercised by the historians of this country in regard to the old northern kings. Thus, the authors of the “Universal History,” not satisfied with giving the names of the sovereigns from Dan to Frode III., have been so far misled by the Latin historians of Denmark, as to fix the precise year before Christ when each began his reign.^[59]

But later writers have made sad work with this list. They contend that some of the names are altogether fabulous; that Skiold reigned only forty years before Christ; Frode I., thirty-five years after Christ; Wermund, one hundred and fifty; Roe and Helge, in the fifth century of our era. The truth, however, is, that while no dependence is to be placed on the genealogical series of the former, very little is due to the latter. The whole, prior to the eighth century, is one mass of confusion. If the names of many princes are to be found, not merely in the earliest writers of the north, but on Runic inscriptions, no power of criticism can fix the period in which they reigned. All is pure conjecture; and one system is preferable to another, only so far as it is more reconcilable to common sense. Yet, while we thus reject some of the ancient sovereigns whom Saxo and the elder chroniclers have handed down to us, we are not so sceptical as to reject the majority. If, prior to Odin’s arrival, the north had no monarchs, it had kings, or, if the reader pleases, chiefs, whose office was sometimes hereditary, sometimes elective. It would, perhaps, be more accurate to say that, while they succeeded by hereditary right to the domains of their predecessors, as generals and judges, they were elected by the free-born warriors. Of these some were, beyond all doubt, elevated into monarchs by tradition; from tradition they passed into the songs of the Scalds; and from these songs their memory was perpetuated by the old chroniclers. For this reason we have not consigned them to total oblivion. Nothing is more easy than scepticism; but if scepticism be, as it assuredly is, allowable in regard to many details, it is no less blameable than credulity, when it rejects the whole substance of history. On the whole, the safest conclusion is, that, while some of Saxo’s kings are imaginary—while many which he places before, doubtless reigned after, our Saviour—while he has confounded the whole order of succession, so as hopelessly to perplex the reader—a few, probably, lived and reigned before the establishment of the Gothic dynasty.^[60]