Читать книгу The History of Denmark, Sweden and Norway - S. A. Dunham - Страница 8

Table of Contents

B.C. 40—A. D. 1014.

ANCIENT KINGS OF DENMARK.—THEY WERE NUMEROUS.—FRODE I.—LEGEND OF SWAFURLAMI AND THE SWORD TYRFING.—INCANTATION OF HERVOR.—THE BERSERKS.—STERKODDER, THE HERCULES OF THE NORTH.—HIS ROMANTIC ADVENTURES.—WONDERFUL VOYAGE OF GORM I.—ONE EQUALLY WONDERFUL OF THORKIL.—KINGS OF DENMARK, CONTINUED: GUDRIC AND GODFREY.—RAGNAR LODBROG.—SIGURD RING.—HEMMING.—GORM THE OLD.—HARALD BLAATAND.—SWEYN.—INVASION OF ENGLAND.

If, in regard to the kings who reigned prior to the Christian era, we have witnessed so much confusion, we shall not witness less in the series which followed that event. No two chroniclers, unless the one be immediately derived from the other, agree in this respect. Strange to say, this discrepancy as to names and dates is observable in regard to comparatively recent kings; to those, for instance, of the eighth and ninth centuries—Snorro, Saxo, Sweyn, Aggesen, Torfœus, Suhm—all differ, not only as to the order of succession, but as to the names themselves.^[61] Whence this difference? Doubtless from a variety of causes. In the first place, the title of Rex Danorum, or king of the Danes, was applied to the governors of Jutland, no less than to those whose seat was in Zealand and Scania. As either became the more powerful, he claimed a place among the descendants, or, at least, the successors, of Skiold. In the second place, it frequently happened that Jutland, or Zealand, or Scania was subdued by the neighbouring kings of Norway and Sweden, and they were, without hesitation, admitted as kings of Denmark. Add the number of revolutions inseparable from such a lawless state of society—where king after king was driven into exile, or put to death, or forced to bend, for a while, before the torrent of invasion—and we can scarcely be surprised at the difference, extreme as it is, between the lists of Scandinavian kings. Where, however, accuracy is not to be attained, or even an approximation to it, conjecture is useless. The personages whose names and presumed dates are to be found in the note below^[62], and who are received by modern historians, certainly ruled over some part of Denmark; but whether they were all that ruled in that country—whether some of them did not reign in the more northern provinces—whether they reigned in the order assigned to them—may well be doubted.^[63] It would be easy to construct a new list, as probable, at least, as any of those which we have transcribed in the notes; but where Torfœus, and Suhm, and other recent writers have failed, there would be something like presumption in the attempt. We are bound to declare that little dependence is to be placed on any one that northern erudition has yet formed; nearly as little on Suhm’s as on any that preceded it. For this reason we have inserted the three most common lists, leaving the reader to admit or reject whatever names he pleases. Again, however, we must caution him not to reject any merely on the ground of their having been omitted by more recent writers. Denmark had, sometimes—indeed, we might say frequently—three or four sovereigns at the same time; and when their power was nearly balanced, nothing could be more difficult than to say which of them was the legitimate Rex Danorum. Nor can this confusion, at the present day, be surprising, when we find Adam of Bremen complaining of it. “Tanti autem reges, immo tyranni Danorum, utrum simul aliqui regnaverunt, an alter post alterum brevi tempore vixit, incertum est.”^[64]

Of these kings, down to the ninth century, very little is known. The truth is, most of them were petty feudal chiefs, inconsiderable as those of the Scottish Highlands, during the middle ages. It is acknowledged by the most critical of the Danes themselves, that even the islands which now constitute so small a portion of the monarchy were not united under one sceptre until the middle of the fourth century. This honour is ascribed to Dan, surnamed Mykillati, or the Magnanimous, the sixth in descent from Skiold. There can, however, be no doubt that both a too early period has been assigned to this event, and that a dismemberment of these islands was frequently effected. Certainly we read of independent principalities in them as late as the eighth century. Jutland, which forms so considerable a portion of the monarchy, had its separate governors, or kings, who, though sometimes dependent on the kings of Zealand, were often at war with them, and rulers over them. Doubtless the peninsula and islands were frequently under the same sceptre; but the union was a violent one, and was preserved only as long as the victor had the necessary means to reward obedience. If we read of such unions as early as the fifth century, or even the fourth, we also read of separate kings in Jutland as late as the ninth. The truth is, when the author of the forced union paid the debt of nature, the monarchy was immediately dismembered, and its separate parts received their local rulers. Where, from time immemorial, island has been at war with island, district with district, nothing is so difficult as to effect a cordial union between them. Ages are required to destroy the hostility which ages have confirmed. Those isolated governments preserved no record of their transactions; the memory of them was perpetuated by tradition alone, or by the metrical songs to which that tradition gave rise. Both create in a degree much greater than they perpetuate—a fact illustrated by the whole course of northern history prior to the ninth century. Hence the confusion, the contradictions, the darkness which rest upon it, and the impossibility of yielding much credence to the relations of ancient or modern writers on the subject. As, however, all these relations have some foundation in truth, it would be unwise, and even unjust, to bury in utter oblivion the names and alleged deeds of the kings antecedent to the historic times.^[65]

|B.C. 4. to A.C. 35.|

Of Skiold, the reputed founder of the monarchy, who was probably king of Zealand only, though he might have a nominal superiority over the rest, we have little even in the way of fable. To his great bodily strength and indomitable courage, which are communicated by Saxo, we have before alluded^[66]; and in the same manner we have alluded to the deeds, real or fabulous, of his more immediate successors. Frode I., whom Saxo calls Frode III., was no less valiant than Skiold, since he conquered from Hungary to Iceland, and from Sweden to the south of Germany. The truth probably is, that he joined some one of the warlike confederations, then so common, against the power of Rome; and that the expedition into Germany, being undertaken rather for plunder than for glory, was successful. But this prince deserves greater praise, from the zeal with which he destroyed the numerous banditti, humbled the tyrannical nobles, protected the poor, and reformed the tribunals of his kingdom. Some of his edicts were severe. He who suffered a thief to escape should himself suffer the punishment of one. He who fled in battle should be accounted a public enemy. If one Dane robbed another, he was to return twofold, and at the same time suffer public chastisement. If a man gave refuge to a thief, with the stolen property about him, he was to be whipped in a public assembly of the people, and regarded as criminis particeps. If any one banished for his crimes fought against his native country, he forfeited both property and life. In some of his other regulations there was more humanity. To females he gave the power of marrying whomsoever they wished, provided they chose a mate in an equal condition of life; for the free woman who married or sinned with a slave, became a slave herself. If a man forced a woman, he was compelled to marry her. In other respects the laws which he promulgated, or rather confirmed, were nearly identical with those of the Germanic tribes, that, in a former publication, occupied so much of our attention.^[67] If there be any truth in history, they were eminently successful; for it is recorded of Frode I., as of a few other sovereigns, that when articles of value were left on the highway, no man presumed to touch them. He was the great patron of valour: slaves were not, as in other Germanic tribes, forbidden the use of arms; nor were they deprived of the hope of liberty, since a single act of valour would elevate them in the social grade. The real actions, however, of this prince are so mingled with fable—fable at once grotesque and imaginative—that we know not what to believe respecting him. That he once lived; that he was a great warrior; that he was generally victorious; that his internal administration was vigorous; that he was an unrivalled pirate—his fleets committing depredations on all the coasts of the Baltic—cannot be disputed with much reason. His was the heroic age. The north swarmed with kings. On one occasion, alone, thirty were assembled in the Baltic. Did they recognise a superior authority? Probably they did; for Frode was frequently accompanied by these tributaries. The truth seems to be, that when any sovereign of Jutland, or Scania, or Sigtun, or any other place in Denmark, Sweden, or Norway, obtained much celebrity as a warrior, the local chiefs—who always assumed the regal title—were always ready to seek his protection, and to serve under his banner. Though this obedience was temporary, a preference was usually given to such of the more powerful kings as were of the divine race—the race of Odin; but amidst the vicissitudes inseparable from such a state of society, a fortunate adventurer often dispossessed the legitimate claimant; and on ascending a throne illustrated by glorious recollections, his own personal qualities gave him an immediate ascendancy over most of his royal neighbours.^[68]

The reign of Frode should not be dismissed without adverting to the hero who shed the most lustre on it, the renowned Arngrim, and to his magic sword, Tyrfing, the destroyer of men. According to Saxo, he was a Swedish champion, who, having triumphed over another hero, had the boldness to demand from Frode the hand of Osura, daughter of that monarch. Finding the royal Dane too proud to listen to him, he was advised by Eric of Sweden to achieve something more splendid than he had yet attempted, and then to renew his suit. Without loss of time he led his small but valiant band of warriors against two petty kings—the one of Biarmia, the other of Finland—who had despised the Danish power. “The Finns,” says the historian, “are the last people towards the north, and their region is so barren as scarcely to be habitable. They are good marksmen: no people surpass them in throwing missiles. They fight with long and broad arrows, are skilful in magical incantations, and delight in hunting. Their abode is variable. They wander about and encamp wherever they can find wild beasts. Borne on sledges, they traverse with safety the snowy peaks of the mountains.” Of their skill in magic, Arngrim had immediate proof. He defeated them, indeed; but then they cast three stones behind them, which, though very small stones, seemed to their pursuers huge as mountains. The trick succeeded; for Arngrim, discouraged by the abrupt eminences and steep rocks before him, recalled his men. The next day, through the same power of song, a vast river seemed to interpose between the invaders and the natives, and the former again returned. The third day, however, the Swedes were not to be deluded; the Finns were defeated, and compelled to pay tribute. The king of Biarmia shared the same fate, and Arngrim, on his return, became the son-in-law of Frode. By the princess, Osura, he had, subsequently, twelve sons, all of whom became hardy pirates, the most honourable profession then known in the north. But their end was tragical. Landing one day in the isle of Samsoe, they destroyed the crews of two boats—all pirates like themselves. But their joy was short. By the two chiefs, who had penetrated into the interior, they were suddenly assailed, and destroyed to the last of the number, one of the victors, Hialmar, dying of the wounds which he had received.^[69]

This relation by the Danish historian, which, with the exception of the magical incidents, is probably true, is too simple for the Scalds, who have reared on this basis a long and most ingenious narrative—one that may aspire to the dignity of an epic. We dwell upon it, however, not for the fancy that created it, but for the light which it throws upon the manners of the period. In ancient times there reigned a king called Swafurlam, whose grandfather had received the dominion from the awful hands of Odin himself. He was no less valiant than his ancestor. He had no sooner succeeded to the inheritance than he was called to revenge his father’s death on a famous giant, the terror of the north. He killed the monster, and took to wife Frida, the beautiful daughter of the slain. Such adventures are of perpetual occurrence in the histories of the north. The life of no chief was secure; at any moment he might be surprised and slain, or defied to mortal combat, by one his superior in strength or skill. In the event of his fall, his wife, his children, all he had, became the property of the victor. In general, the Norwegian maiden—if she had no prior attachment—passed without much reluctance into the arms of her father’s murderer. That father she could not by her tears recall to life; and she might be happy with one who had acted in conformity with the manners of the age, and who certainly might be able to protect her, in a state of society in which women stood most in need of protection. Frida was satisfied with her lot; so far, at least, as Swafurlam was concerned. She had, indeed, reason to lament that a daughter was the only issue of their union; that no Herculean boys were rising before her to protect both herself and her husband, when age should have bent his sinewy frame. That period she knew must come, though Time might do his work more slowly with him than with less vigorous men. But it was not his lot to fall into “the sear and yellow leaf.” Before his strength had time to leave him, there arrived in those parts a champion, whose object was to defy and vanquish every hero of note. This was Arngrim, who had never yet fled before mortal man; who in every duel had been victorious. Swafurlam did not much relish the approaching struggle. Still less did Frida, who could not avoid remembering the death of her father, or fearing that her husband might share the same fate. Eyvor, too, their beautiful daughter, was apprehensive of the result; for this Arngrim, who was young and vigorous, while her father was past life’s meridian, was a berserk, that is, shirtless—one that wore no defensive armour—that trusted only to his own strength, which, during certain fits of madness, was increased in a prodigious measure. When these fits were on him he despised steel, water, fire, as much as if they were harmless; nor did he care whether the foe he had to oppose were one or one thousand. He, therefore, was not likely to prove an invincible husband—to atone for the loss of a father. To conceal his uneasiness, or rather to divert that ominous feeling which men sometimes experience on the eve of a great crisis, Swafurlam went into the mountains to hunt.^[70] A beautiful white stag soon appeared in sight, and was as soon pursued; but nothing could equal the creature’s provoking coolness. It was not frightened; it was not hurried; it ran, then turned round as if waiting for its pursuers, and just when they believed they were on the point of seizing it, it bounded forward to delude them a second time. Never was the king so ardent in the sport. Night descended; still he rode on; and the beams of the full unclouded moon enabled him to see everything nearly as well as in the broad daylight. Midnight came; still the hunters were following the stag. But it suddenly disappeared through an opening in the rocks, leaving Swafurlam in a terrible rage at the loss of his prey. Two dwarfs—so the Icelanders call the fairies—issued from the opening, and these he drew his sword to destroy, when, remembering that the whole race were skilful in the manufacture of enchanted weapons, he promised to spare their lives on the condition that, within three days, they would make him one that should never miss its blow—that should never rust—that should cut the hardest steel as easily as leather—that should always bring victory to the owner. The covenant was made; and, at the end of three days, Swafurlam returned for the weapon. It was ready for him, and on one side of the blade was written—

Draw me not, unless in fray;

Drawn, I pierce; and piercing, slay.

And he was at the same time cautioned, though in terms somewhat oracular, to beware of the weapon. On his return home he found that Arngrim had reached it. The latter was treated with the utmost hospitality. For him the sable hams were soaked and boiled, the wild fowl were placed on the spit, vegetables boiled, new bread made, the ale cask tapped, the table spread with the abundant feast, and the minstrel’s song made to enliven an entertainment which the fine hands of mother and daughter had prepared, and which both honoured with their presence. This was, truly, more than Homeric: the most magnanimous of Grecian dames would not have thus welcomed the man who was about to engage in mortal conflict with husband or brother. The feelings of the wife, indeed, on beholding the sinewy frame of the guest, must have been painful: her heart failed her; and she was glad when the increasing power of the cup authorised her and her daughter to retire. The following day her worst fears were verified. Though Swafurlam, at the first onset, cleft in two the shield of his adversary, the very force of his blow was fatal to him: he struck his magic sword into the ground, and, before he could withdraw it, his right hand was amputated by the berserk, who snatched the weapon from the lifeless member and gave the king a mortal wound in the head. Eyvor became the wife of the victor, who bore her, no less than the spoils of her father’s palace, to his Norwegian home.^[71]

It was now Eyvor’s turn to be anxious. Might not a warrior, still more valiant than her husband, arrive, and render her, like her mother, a forsaken widow? Might not the weapon which had cost her father his life prove equally fatal to one dearer? Often did she request him to bury it under ground; but he was in no humour to part with his most valued treasure, especially as it enabled him to return invincible from all his expeditions. Her fears, however, for him were vain: they should have been excited for her twelve sons, whom she bore in twelve years after her marriage, and who were all warriors—all berserks—all doomed to an early grave. One of them vowed to the god Braga that he would have to wife the princess Ingburga, or perish in the attempt. As all were brothers in arms no less than brothers in blood, all bound to assist each individual of the number, to make the cause of each a common cause, they took the same view. Arngrim, now waxen in years, took his leave of them with a heavy heart; he felt that he must see them no more; and his only consolation was, that when the Nornies, or fatal sisters, call, they will be obeyed. They had to fight on the desert isle of Samsoe with two heroes, Hialmar and Oddur, each at the head of a hundred Swedes, and each renowned for prowess throughout the north. The former, too, was the accepted lover of Ingburga, accepted by her father no less than by herself. On their way to the island, the eldest of Arngrim’s twelve sons, Angantyr, took to wife Swafa, the daughter of a celebrated jarl, and their course was much delayed by the festivities demanded on the occasion. This jarl had the same dark forebodings as their own father. Fain would he have persuaded them to remain with them; but their honour would not allow of this, and away they sailed. On their landing at the place appointed, their accustomed fit seized them, and they destroyed the 200 followers of Hialmar and Oddur, who were then absent in the interior of the island. Mighty was the destruction, by Tyrfing, which was wielded by the powerful Angantyr, and which, on this occasion, might truly be called the death of men. Hialmar and Oddur soon returned to find their companions drenched in gore; but, fortunately for the two heroes, the strength of the berserks was now greatly diminished—in other words, the fit was over, and they were become like other men. Still the magic sword and the superiority of numbers compensated to the sons of Arngrim for their somewhat exhausted spirits. They would have more than compensated had not Oddur worn a quilted coat, which magic rendered impenetrable to the keenest weapon. The conflict soon engaged. On the one hand, Hialmar was opposed to Angantyr with the magic sword; on the other, Oddur, with the magic quilt, encountered, one by one in succession, the eleven brothers of Angantyr. After a terrible struggle of some length, Hialmar fell, pierced by the dreaded Tyrfing, but Angantyr also received a mortal wound, and Oddur slew all his eleven antagonists. The dead were buried by the only survivor, the fatal sword being buried along with Angantyr, according to the last request of that hero.^[72]

The widow of Angantyr bemoaned the death of her valiant husband. For a time she refused consolation; but finding herself pregnant, she began to hope that her issue would avenge the death of father and uncles. Though she gave birth to a female child, still hope did not forsake her. From infancy, indeed, Hervor delighted in masculine pursuits. Her stature was equal to that of the other sex; and her spirit was in no respect inferior. No sooner did she approach woman’s estate than she exhibited all her natural ferocity. She put on armour; did no little mischief; and when upbraided for her excess, fled to the woods, to rob and murder passengers. In vain did her guardians endeavour to rescue her from such pursuits; in vain did they try to conceal from her the circumstances which preceded her birth, and even her parentage, pretending that she was the daughter of a mere shepherd, and the offspring of an incestuous connection. But she had seen or dreamt far other things; and, despising her present inaction, she resumed her masculine attire, and joined a band of pirates, of whom, in a short time, she became the chief. Her fame, under the name of Herward, was widely spread. Many were the coasts which she visted and laid waste. At length, coming to the isle of Samsoe, where she heard her father and kindred were buried, she announced to her followers her resolution to go on shore for the purpose of despoiling the tombs of the hidden treasure. They assured her that the whole island was infested by malignant genii—that it was the most dangerous of all places. But nothing could deter her from her purpose. A shepherd, whom she met, wondered at her temerity; told her that she must be ignorant, indeed, of the terrors of the place, since no one could be there after sunset without extreme peril; and invited her to accept of such hospitality as his humble cottage afforded. After that time, he added, the tombs, and the very ground, emitted such flames that no one who remained could be safe. She could not be moved; asserted that if the whole island was on fire, she would not fear; and insisted on knowing the exact spot where the tombs might be found. Amazed at her audacity, and supposing her to be a fool, the shepherd ran home before the departure of the sun should permit the demons to injure him; while she penetrated into the island. She soon reached the dreadful scene. Fires issued from the sepulchres, the inmates of which wandered about; fires issued from the path itself, before, behind, around her. Still she proceeded, with spirit undaunted, until she came to the greatest of the tombs, that which contained the ashes of her father, Angantyr. There she commenced her incantation, which is abridged below.^[73] The subsequent adventures of Hervor and this wondrous sword must be briefly related. On her return to the sea-shore, she found that her companions, terrified by the unusual fires and the sudden thunder, had fled. At length, however, a ship bore her to the court of Godmund, an aged king, with whom she remained a short time only, owing to the fatal Tyrfing. As she was one day watching the king and his son at play, she perceived a domestic of the palace draw the weapon which she had left on her seat. Knowing that the prophecy must be fulfilled by the death of some one present, she ran to the domestic, took the weapon from him, killed him, left the palace, and again betook herself to the piratical life. Her fame, both for valour and beauty, was so great, that Hafod, the son of Godmund, solicited and obtained her hand. Of this marriage the issue were Angantyr and Heidrek—the former noted for his excellent, the latter for his mischievous qualities, both far surpassing the rest of mankind in stature and valour. Heidrek was the favourite of Hervor; Angantyr, of her husband; but such were the ill qualities of the younger prince, that by Hafod he was not allowed to remain at court, but was sent away to be educated by one of the heroes of the time. On reaching his eighteenth year, he visited the palace without the consent of his father; but his disposition leading him to embroil the guests in a fatal affray, he was exiled by Hafod, who had succeeded to the throne of Godmund. Hervor, being permitted to bid him adieu, presented him with the magic sword—the best gift in the power of a fond mother to bestow. The prophecy of her father, Angantyr, when she so rashly took it from the tomb, was immediately fulfilled. Heidrek drew it, brandished it, and, whether intentionally or otherwise, slew his brother Angantyr. To escape his father’s anger, which doomed him to death, he fled into the woods, living on the produce of the chase, and pursued by remorse. By his sword he freed king Harald of Sweden from the oppressive sway of two great chiefs. In return, he received the hand of the monarch’s daughter, and by her had a son, whom he called, after his own brother, Angantyr. But the sword Tyrfing was doomed to make sad havock among his connections. In his hands it was soon fatal to Harald, his father-in-law; and this event led his royal bride to hang herself. Some years afterwards he undertook the education of a Norwegian prince, whom he loved. One day, while hunting in the forest, his spear broke, and he immediately drew the formidable Tyrfing. As it could not be returned to the scabbard until it had tasted some blood, and as the prince, only, was with him, the beloved innocent fell beneath the weapon. But it was, at length, fatal to himself. One night, while he was asleep in his tent, his slaves rose, drew Tyrfing, and slew him. His son Angantyr pursued them, slew them by night, and thus recovered the weapon. In the hands of the new possessor it still vindicated its fated character. With it, in open battle, he slew his brother, whom a Swedish princess had born to Heidrek. At length, however, it seems to have been again buried in the tomb of its victim; and, fortunately for the north, no Hervor subsequently arose to charm it from the ghastly hand which held it.^[74]

Angantyr, like all his race, was a hero by profession, a champion who fought as much for reputation as for plunder. This institution is one of the most singular features in northern history. Sometimes a champion fought alone, wandering, like the knight errants of a later age, from country to country, not, however, to relieve distressed captives, or to perform any other act of humanity, but to triumph, by strength or dexterity, over the most renowned warriors of the time. Generally, however, these men were members of some fraternity, the guards of some king, whose first duty was to defend his person, on land or sea; their second to humble his enemies, or assist his allies. “The sagas,” observes a modern writer, who has devoted much of his time to northern antiquities, “are filled with duels, or single combats, between these champions and their adversaries, and the scene was generally some little island near the coast. These combats, in which one champion sometimes vanquished and slew many enemies, and which took place also between sea or land kings and champions, were so frequent, that he who was just entering on the career of arms, or who desired to obtain a wider reputation, betook himself to this medium, and without the least motive of hatred or resentment, provoked other champions, other pirates, to fight him. These heroes entered into associations, or fraternities, which they sealed with their blood, and which death only could dissolve. Sometimes they were furnished by the kings or chiefs whom they served with statutes, fixing their number, their privileges, and duties.” In general, the statutes excluded all warriors under eighteen or beyond sixty years of age. The number in each fraternity varied from half a dozen to fifty. Rolf, a prince of Norway, had a famous society of this kind. No man unable to lift a stone, or rather rock, which lay in the court-yard of the prince, and which twelve ordinary men could not raise, was admitted into the body. Lest they should become luxurious, they were forbidden to sleep under a roof; with the same view, they were to shun female society; to inspire them with contempt for pain and danger, they were not to have their wounds dressed before the end of the battle, or to seek a shelter during a storm at sea. But all fraternities were not thus rigorously excluded from intercourse with the fair sex. To most heroes, indeed, the opportunities which the profession afforded of capturing handsome women and rendering them their companions by sea and land, was the chief inducement to embrace it. In such an age, no handsome woman—at least, if high-born—could be safe. By night or day her dwelling might be assailed, her guardians slain, and herself borne to the swift vessel waiting for her. What, indeed, could resist a chief surrounded by so many champions, especially if they happened to be berserks? If there be any truth in history, the strength of these men when the fit came upon them was supernatural.^[76] The mischief, however, was, that if they had no enemy before them, they assailed inanimate objects, or even one another. On one occasion, twelve heroes (the sons of Arngrim) fell upon the masts and deck of two ships, which they rent into splinters; and when these were destroyed, they turned their rage against the trees and rocks. On another, a celebrated sea king put to death six out of the twelve champions who accompanied him. Sometimes, too, it happened that the berserks, when under the dominion of their strange frenzy, did not spare themselves. Thus the five sons of Siwald, king of Sweden, were seen to throw themselves into the fire, and to swallow burning pieces of wood.^[77]

When these warriors, whether berserks or simple champions, fought for their chief and country, their services were useful. But sometimes it happened that they were as fond of turning their arms against their fellow-subjects as against their hereditary enemies. Others, again, openly embraced the career of bandits; and though pursued with great zeal by the neighbouring chiefs, were frequently able, from their mountain fastnesses, to defy all hostility. Such a band Fridleif II. resolved to destroy; and he succeeded in his object, but more through stratagem than force. He was, however, a valiant chief. Like many other northern kings, he had to fight for his wife. Seeing that he could not obtain Frogerth, daughter of Asmund, a king of Norway, by the ordinary way of embassy, he invaded the country, subdued and slew the father, and seized upon the princess. But he was not faithful to her. By a concubine—or, perhaps, another wife, for these old pagans did not exactly understand the difference between the two—he had a son, whom he named Olaf. Probably he loved this son more than prince Frode, whom Frogerth bore to him: so, at least, we should infer from the anxiety with which he consulted the fates in reference to the child’s fortunes. Having performed the usual rites, and said the usual prayers, he entered the temple of the Nornies. Each of the three sisters occupied her seat. Two were favourable to the child, whom they endowed with noble gifts; but the third lessened their value by associating them with avarice. This custom, Saxo assures us, prevailed among the ancients. Of Olaf, however, we read no more: the sceptre was not inherited by him, but by Frode II., if Saxo be right, and by Havar, if any faith is to be placed on the Icelandic chroniclers. But as, for the reasons we have already detailed, there is little certainty in the royal lists of either, we gladly leave their disputed order of succession to be settled by the native historians of Denmark.^[78]

The reigns of Frode and of Ingel, his son, have little interest beyond what they derive from their association with the name of Sterkodder, the Hercules of the north, whose exploits were in the mouths of all men, even in Saxo’s time. The gigantic limbs, the indomitable spirit of this hero, were regarded as supernatural—as the gifts of the gods to answer a certain purpose. According to some, it was Thor who knit together the sinews of his frame; others gave the honour to Odin. This deity, say the legends, being anxious to destroy Wikar, a king of Norway, yet unwilling to do so openly, destined Sterkodder to this service, from his cradle. Hence his enormous size and force of mind: hence, also, his skill in poetry, which was to assist him in the great enterprise before him. Grateful for their gifts, and for the protracted existence which had been decreed him, he soon devised the means of pleasing the god. He offered his services as a champion to Wikar, who, being justly proud of such a companion in arms, was inseparable from him. After some maritime expeditions, undertaken for the sole object of plunder, he found an opportunity of effecting Wikar’s destruction. A tempest of unusual fury was still more unusual from its duration. The gods were evidently offended, and must be appeased by human blood. Lots were cast into the urn, and the king’s name was drawn as the victim. The crew, indeed, were horrified at the thought of sacrificing a king—and they wished him to be executed in appearance only; but Sterkodder, preferring the reality, strangled Wikar, then opened his body and examined his entrails, as gravely as any aruspex of ancient Rome. He then betook himself to a piratical life, and obtained even more celebrity for his admirable continence than for his exploits, superhuman as they were. He never partook, even slightly, of intoxicating liquors: he never indulged in the remotest species of luxury. His services to different kings (for he was truly a wandering champion, a knight errant of those barbarous times) are the constant theme of admiration. Throughout the whole of northern Europe, from Russia and Hungary to Iceland, his fame was spread. Probably there were several heroes of this name, and the exploits of all ascribed to one. Frode was one of his favourite masters, and one whose bravery he admired. But on the accession of Ingel, the son of Frode, whose luxury and intemperance contrasted strongly with the sobriety of the late king, and still more with his own, he would no longer remain at the court of Denmark. Yet he always bore an affectionate regard for the offspring of Frode. Thus, when he heard that Helga, the sister of Ingel, had so forgotten her royal dignity as to receive, without indignation, the addresses of a low mechanic (auri apifex obscuræ stinpis), full of zeal for the honour of her house, he hastened to her residence, killed the mechanic, and sharply upbraided her for the baseness of her inclinations. On another occasion, however, he gratified as much as he had now offended her. Her hand being sought by Helge, a king of Norway, Ingel replied that he should have it on the condition of his fighting with certain champions. He accepted the condition; but when he heard that his opponents, whom he was to fight all at once, were Angantyr and eight brothers, sons of a Zealand chief^[79], he was alarmed for the result. He consulted Helga, who seems to have had little difficulty in transferring her affections from a dead to a living suitor, what he should do; and she advised, to implore the aid of Sterkodder, then in Sweden. He hastened to the veteran warrior, who readily promised to serve the daughter of Frode. This promise he fulfilled by hastening to the court of Ingel, and killing all the nine champions. But the wounds of the victor were many and severe, being seventeen in number, and his bowels protruding from some of them. In this state he dragged himself to the banks of a river, to quench his thirst; but the water being corrupted by the blood of the combatants, he refused to drink of it; and with great difficulty he crept to a rock near at hand, and sat upon it. So huge was his bulk, that it left a deep impression on the stone. (Saxo, indeed, believes that this impression was made by human hands, and not by the body of Sterkodder.) While in this position, in the utmost need of help, the proud soul of the warrior refused to receive it from base hands. A herald, or rather spy, passed by, and offered aid. It was refused, and the man cursed for his presumption. Another passed, and being asked his condition, replied that, though he was free, he had married a slave, and to procure her enfranchisement, he laboured for her master. The hero upbraided him for his base inclination;—why did he not take a free woman to his bed?—and bade him begone. A female now approached, and being asked her condition, replied that she was a slave, and the mother of an infant child; he bade her go home and give suck to her brat, for he would have none of her help. Next passed a free-born peasant, whose good offices he received, and whose honourable calling he praised. After the lapse of some time, he repaired to the palace of Ingel, whom he resolved to upbraid for two things;—for unbecoming dissipation, and for neglecting the most important filial duties—the revenge of Frode’s death. In a mean disguise he entered the hall of feasting, and seated himself in an honourable place. He was immediately commanded, by the queen, to remove to one more becoming his fortunes. He arose, went to the other end of the hall, and seated himself on the bench with such force as to shake the building, and threaten the fall of the roof. At this moment king Ingel returned from the chase, recognised the veteran warrior, upbraided the queen for her neglect of so illustrious a guest, and endeavoured, by the best attentions, to dissipate his anger. But when he perceived at the royal table the sons of Swerting, the murderers of Frode, and the ostentatious luxury of the feast, he grew still darker. To appease him, the queen drew a coronet from her brow, and presented it to him; yet he not only rejected it, but threw it in her face. To charm him, the lute was played: he sat like a statue, scorning alike the host, the guests, the costly viands. A trumpet next sounded: he threw a bone which he was picking at the head of the musician. But his chief wrath was turned against the king, whom he apostrophised in no measured terms. At length Ingel was affected by his reproaches; he drew his sword; Sterkodder did the same; and the floor was soon covered with the blood of the murderers. After this exploit, the champion, in great joy, took leave of the king, whom he saw no more. One of his remaining actions was little worthy of his fame. By twelve conspirators of Zealand, who detested the yoke of Olo, their king, he was bribed to murder that sovereign, and he did so in the bath. The reward which he received for this inglorious deed—one hundred and twenty pounds of gold—afforded him no pleasure: remorse took possession of his soul; he sighed whenever the name of Olo was mentioned; and his days were miserable. In addition to this calamity, age and blindness visited him; and he became so weary of life, that he resolved to leave it. To die in the ordinary course of nature was not fitting a champion, still less one that aspired to the banquets of Odin.^[80] Supporting himself on two crutches, with two swords at his side, he placed himself by the highway, having round his neck the gold which he had received for the murder of Olo, and which was to be the reward of the man who should do the same friendly office for him. But he scorned to die by an ignoble hand; and when a rustic, thinking two swords were too many for an old man, asked him for one, he bade the rustic approach for it, and killed him on the spot. Two companions of a prince whose father Sterkodder had killed, one day advanced against him; but he killed both with his crutches. The prince, struck with equal admiration and fear, approached, and a conversation of some length, in which the hero boasted of his past deeds, followed between them. At the conclusion, Sterkodder, aware of the youth’s noble birth, and convinced that he could not die by a better hand, begged Hother to kill him, and held out his sword for the purpose. The prince hesitated; but being told that the act would be a pious duty towards the manes of his father, and being still more influenced by the view of the gold, he separated the head from the gigantic body of the hero.^[81]

Whatever portion of the marvellous may exist in such stories as the preceding, no doubt can be entertained of their being founded in truth. But if they were not, they could not be wholly omitted, unless we were resolved to shut our eyes to the national manners. Of such manners—the best part of history—they are the best, we may add, the only, mirrors. Nor is the state of human opinion, as modified by education, climate, and habits, a less interesting object of contemplation. For this reason, and because of the dearth of genuine events during this ante-historic period, we have drawn, and for some pages must continue to draw, more largely on the traditionary lore of Scandinavia than we should do were those events more abundant and better established. Now for another legend, wilder than any of the preceding. Gorm I., king of Denmark, a prince not mentioned in the list of Suhm, yet who undoubtedly reigned in Jutland, was exceedingly fond of exploring the secrets of nature, of visiting everything wonderful, of enlarging his knowledge. From the inhabitants of Thule he had heard of the wondrous seat of Geruth, one of the gigantic magicians who, in ancient times, had been opposed to the gods of Asheim; but the place was considered as all but inaccessible to mortals, as surrounded with dangers which would make the boldest quail. But dangers were just the things which most excited the enterprise of Gorm, and he resolved to sail in quest of the mysterious place. He was to follow the course of the mighty ocean, which, like a circle, surrounded the earth^[82]; to leave the sun and the stars behind; to penetrate into ancient chaos—into regions deprived of light, and beset with terrors of every kind. Three hundred men, in three vessels, agreed to accompany their king; and all were to be under the guidance of Thorkil, who had already performed the voyage. Thorkil lost no time in giving additional strength to the vessels, in covering them with thick hides of leather, so as to prevent the ingress of the waters, and in filling them with suitable provisions. The expedition, and after many, many days, arrived off the coast of Halogia^[83], or the country of the Lapps; on they then sailed, until their provisions began to fail, the storm to rage, the sea to dash its deafening billows against the rocks. A nimble youth was commanded to ascend the mast, and see whether land was nigh; he shouted out that an island, of abrupt, precipitous access, lay within sight. The delighted crew steered for the place, moored their vessels, and ascended the cliffs. Thorkil warned them not to seize, from the numerous herds of cattle now visible, more than was sufficient to satisfy their present hunger; if they did, the avenging deities of the place would prevent their return home. But when the famishing men perceived how easily the unsuspecting beasts were taken, they forgot the warning, and killed enough to load their ships. The night following, as they lay in their beds on board they were terrified with strange noises, and still more with the appearance of monstrous forms running along the shore. One of these, more gigantic than the rest, walked on the sea, with a huge club in his hand, and cried aloud that they could not sail until they had expiated the injury done to the sacred herd, by delivering one man from each vessel. Thorkil, perceiving that there was no escape, and preferring the safety of the many to that of the few, commanded the lots to be drawn, and the victims to be delivered. The wind now became favourable, and the vessels proceeded to the farther Biarmia. This was a region of eternal cold, covered with deep snows, and with pathless forests, destitute of fertility, and abounding with strange beasts; here were many rivers, pouring along their waters with ceaseless noise, owing to the rocky impediments in their course. To this coast Thorkil directed the prows of the vessels, assuring his companions that they were now come to the place which immediately led to the abode of Geruth. He warned them not to speak with the inhabitants, but to leave that office to him, who was acquainted with the customs of the place. Towards twilight, a mighty giant approached, and saluted the sailors by name; this was Guthmund, the brother of Geruth, the protector of strangers. They gazed, admired, and were silent. When asked by the giant the reason of their silence, Thorkil replied that they were unacquainted with his speech. Guthmund received them into his chariots, and proceeded with them towards his palace. A golden bridge lay within sight, and some were inclined to pass over it. “If you do,” said Thorkil, “you will repent: this river, so full of monstrous beings, separates the human from other natures, and beyond it is no footing for man.” They soon came to the house of their host, and here it was doubly necessary for Thorkil to repeat his warnings: he assured them, they were literally surrounded by destruction. They must not eat of the food placed before them, but eat what they had brought with them, and seat themselves at a distance from the natives. They must equally shun the embraces of the women; for Guthmund had twelve lovely daughters, all ministers of the table, and all frail enough. If they yielded to any of these temptations, they would instantly lose the remembrance of the past, and would pass the remainder of their days with herds of monstrous beasts. The terrified strangers observed his directions; but Guthmund was offended with them for despising his hospitality: he was particularly so with king Gorm. But Thorkil had a ready excuse. Strange food, the latter observed, did not agree with many persons, and was frequently the cause of disease; it was so with the king, who was obliged to live on certain kinds of food, which he could only be sure of finding in his own kitchen: hence the host should not be offended with that which implied no want of respect to himself, but a prudent attention to one’s own health. This temptation having failed, the giant offered his daughters to the king; and to the rest, other maidens of his household. This was indeed a temptation. Thorkil, in a low voice, repeated his warning; but four of the number yielded, and were immediately deprived of memory, and, in a great degree, of reason. Now for a third temptation. Guthmund had a delightful garden, the fruits of which were unequalled: Thorkil prevailed on his men to refuse the offer, and accompanied the refusal with much feigned politeness. Seeing that he could have no more than the four victims, the giant transported them over the river.^[84]

Beyond this stream the adventurers perceived, at no great distance, a dark, unfrequented city, resembling a cloud of smoke. On high poles, grinned mortal heads, dissevered from their bodies; and below the entrance, which could only be reached by ladders, yelled hideous dogs, ready to devour the travellers. The entrails of a beast, cast before them by Thorkil, satisfied their howls, and the whole party ascended to the gate. Within, the whole town was possessed by dark larvæ, whose horrid noise, as they hovered about, were ended by the frightfulness of their shapes: all within was putrid, intolerable to the eye, and still more so to the breath. Onward the adventurers went, and entered a stony cavern which, according to tradition, had been the palace of Geruth. The horrible gloom within made them pause on the threshold, but Thorkil encouraged them to proceed; at the same time, he warned them to beware of taking or touching anything, however inviting to the eye; to restrain their minds from avarice as from fear; to desire nothing, to dread nothing; for if they laid a covetous hand on any desirable object, that hand would instantly become immoveable, and the whole body as if it were inextricably fettered. Their guide then directed them to enter in fours: Broder and Buchi led the way; Thorkil and the king followed; the rest, in the same order, formed the main body. The interior of the palace was old and unfrequented; a dark cloud filled it; and it abounded with everything offensive to the senses. The pillars were encrusted with ancient mould; the walls teemed with loathsome slime; the roof was formed of spears; the floor was covered with serpents, and filth of every kind; so that the strangers were not a little terrified. Above all, their noses were offended with the fœtid smell. Farther on were iron seats, filled with lifeless images of monstrous forms; and these were in the recesses of the hall, separated from it by leaden grates; and at the entrances were horrid porters, some howling, and shaking their maces; some, with their goat-like bodies, exhibiting an unseemly sport. Before the adventurers proceeded farther into the interior, Thorkil was careful to repeat his warning—not to stretch forth their hands to the treasures they would see. Passing by a huge fragment of a rock, they perceived an aged man reclining, with wounded body, on the sharp rocky peaks above them. Beside him were three females, their bodies covered with tumors, and, as if unable to sit, reclined on the same couch. Who and what were these? Thorkil, who was well versed in such matters, informed his companions that the god Thor, offended by the insolence of Geruth, had driven his bolt through the heart of the giant; that the awful instrument had penetrated into and riven the mountain; that the females had been touched by it; and though their bodies were unbroken, they were suffering the punishment due to those who insulted the god. Proceeding forward, they perceived seven large vessels, surrounded with golden hoops, and filled with precious liquor. Near them was a tooth of an unknown sea monster, the extremities adorned with gold. Close by it was a large horn inlaid with shining gems, and of exquisite workmanship. Near this was a golden bracelet of great weight. The temptation to seize these valuable treasures was too great to be resisted. One man, ignorant that the shining metal concealed destruction beneath it, stretched out his hand to the bracelet. Another, influenced, also, by avarice, laid his eager hands on the horn. A third, emboldened by their example, placed the huge tooth on his shoulders. They soon found how fatally they had been deluded. One of these treasures was immediately transformed into a serpent, which, with venomous tooth, fell upon the robber. The horn became a dragon, which, also, destroyed the spoiler. The tooth became a sword, which found its way to the heart of the bearer. Terrified at this spectacle, even the innocent began to fear that they should suffer with the guilty. Proceeding onwards, a door opened to a smaller recess, but rich in treasures. Here were weapons, too large indeed for the human body, but of inestimable value. Among them was a royal mantle or cloak, with a cap, and a belt of admirable workmanship. At the sight, Thorkil, who had so often advised others, forgot himself. He took the garment in his hand, and the rest, influenced by his example, seized the things which they most coveted. Suddenly the cavern, from its lowest foundations, shook; every thing began to reel; and the women cried aloud that these wicked robbers must no longer be spared. Lifeless as they had appeared, and more like statues than women, they suddenly found a voice, and, rising from their couch, advanced against the strangers. The rest of the monstrous shapes began to howl in a most hideous manner. Broder and Buchi were not unmindful of their former pursuits: with their lances, they resisted the advancing genii; from their bows and their slings they sent the sharp missiles into the dense ranks of the monsters, and dispersed or overthrew them. Yet twenty only of the royal party survived; the rest were torn to pieces by the monsters. In great consternation the survivors issued from the cavern, returned to the river, were ferried over by Guthmund, and entertained in the same manner as before. On this occasion all abstained from the viands and the ladies save Buchi, he who had hitherto been an example of moderation, and to whose valour in the caverned palace so many were indebted for their lives. Having taken one of the ladies to his bed, he was seized with a sudden dizziness, and lost the memory of the past. He did not, however, forget his human feeling; for, anxious to show attention to the guests—now strangers to him—he followed them in one of the chariots of Guthmund, and was for ever engulfed in the waters of the river. The king, pitying the infatuation of his subjects, embarked and returned towards Halogia. But the voyage was again a troubled one: the men were exhausted by the fury of the tempests and by hunger; and Gorm resolved on sacrificing to the gods. While some of his crew called on this, some on that divinity, he invoked the awful Ugarthiloc, by whose favour he obtained a prosperous navigation homewards.^[85]

On the return of Thorkil, great as had been his services to his companions in the enterprise, he could not escape the malice of evil tongues. They said that he had offended Ugarthiloc, whose vengeance must be averted by supplication, and that Thorkil should, for this purpose, be sent to the distant, mysterious shrine of that deity. He insisted that his accusers should be the companions of his voyage; and his request was granted by the king. The vessels were prepared as before, and the expedition sailed. At length they reached a region where there was no sun, no moon, no stars, where eternal night spread her sceptre over this unknown deep. Fuel was the first thing of which they felt the want, and they were compelled to subsist on raw meat. Some of them caught the plague from food so indigestible; the disease began in the stomach, and soon descended to the vitals. To abstain was just as fatal as to eat; and languor crept on those whom sickness spared. At this moment, when despair had seized on all, a light was seen at a distance. This inspired all with hope, with new strength. They soon anchored; and before going on shore, Thorkil placed a shining carbuncle on the summit of the mast to direct them on their return to the vessels. A cavern, with a low narrow entrance, was before them. Leaving his companions outside, Thorkil went in, and perceived two gigantic eagles (or giants under the form of eagles^[86]), with hard hooked beaks, placing wood on the fire. The rugged entrance, the stinking threshold, the black wall, the filthy roof, the floor covered with serpents, were not more offensive to the eye than to the mind. One of the giants, saluting him, told him that he had ventured on a bold and most difficult undertaking—that of visiting the abode of a divinity little worshipped, and of exploring regions beyond the sphere of the world. “But,” added the giant, “I am acquainted with the course which you will have to follow, and if you will give me three good proverbs in as many sentences, I will indicate it to you.” Thorkil did so to the satisfaction of the giant. “You have yet a four days’ sail before you,” said the latter, “with hard rowing, before you can reach the place you seek; there you may find Ugarthiloc in his foul and gloomy cave.” Thorkil was staggered at the labour before him; but he had gone too far to recede, and he advanced to the fire to take some of the flaming brands. He was compelled, before he could obtain them, to deliver three more proverbs.^[87] With his companions he then returned to the ships; and a favourable breeze arising, they reached the destined port on the fourth day. Here they landed, and by means of a lurid twilight, were enabled to have some glimpse of the objects around them. Before them was a huge rock. With their flints they struck a light, and made a fire at the entrance of the cave—a safeguard against the power of demons. Then, with lighted torches borne before them, Thorkil and some of his companions entered the narrow opening, and perceived a great number of iron seats surrounded by serpents. Onward was a stream which gently flowed over a sandy bottom: this being crossed, the path declined a little, when a dark and obscure cave was before them. There sat Ugarthiloc, his hands and feet laden with a vast weight of fetters: and the hairs of his head and beard were long and hard as so many lances. That there might be some evidence of the wonders he had seen, Thorkil, with the assistance of his companions, plucked one hair from the chin of the divinity; when such a stench issued from the part, that had they not speedily applied their mantles to their noses, they would have been unable to breathe. As they issued from this awful cave, the snakes, flying about them, spued venom upon them. With great difficulty five only reached the ship, the rest falling victims to the venom; and of these five, who were pursued by the serpents, one lost his head, another his eye-sight, a third his hand, through a fatal curiosity to inspect these vengeful creatures. All would have perished had not the hatches been closed by the thick ox-skins, which bade defiance to the power of the venom. Seeing how vain the attempt to propitiate these divinities, Thorkil addressed his prayers to the God of all, by whose favour a prosperous navigation brought him to his own country.^[88]

Legends like the foregoing, which illustrate the opinions of mankind, are not to be rejected as childish. Wild as they are, they had once their believers—and believers, for anything we know, they may have at this day, among the remote Lapps and Finns. Whether the inventors, who were probably priests of Thor or Odin, took this method of unfolding to their disciples some physical theory, we shall not inquire. The darkness which, as all men knew, overhung the polar sea during half the year, favoured the diffusion of such stories. But what will most have struck the reader, in the first of these legends, is, the similarity of some of its passages with those of the Odyssey and other classical productions. Many of the adventures in the second legend are to be found in the Edda, but ascribed to another individual. As Saxo could not borrow from the compilation of either Saemund or Snorro, all three must have drawn from some common source, and that source was tradition. But we have dwelt long enough on these fabulous times, and we must hasten to the historical.^[89]

If any faith can be placed in Saxo’s relation, which we see no reason to doubt, Gorm must have been contemporary with the first of the Carlovingian kings; for the historian expressly assures us that in this reign Denmark was christianised. And in that of Godric his son, who is also called Godfrey, we are told that Charlemagne was subduing the Saxons. On referring, indeed, to the list which we have given at the beginning of this chapter, and which the best Danish critics regard as approximating nearer to the truth than any other yet constructed^[90], the reader will perceive that there is no mention of Gorm or Godric. But here we must repeat what we have already frequently observed, that both might have reigned in Jutland, while Sigurd Ring and Ragnar Lodbrok and Sigurd Snogoje reigned in Zealand. And even if this were not so, we are by no means sure that the Icelandic authorities, which alone have weight with the modern historians of Denmark, ought to be followed to the utter exclusion of Saxo, who lived as near to the period as any of the former, and whose means of information must have been of easier access. Strange that in the eighth century—nay, even in the ninth—we should find so much darkness, so much contradiction in the history of a country which was now beginning to occupy the attention of the Frank historians! Yet such is the fact. “C’est un vrai labyrinthe,” says Mallet, “où l’on se perd dans les contradictions et les ténèbres.” The conjecture, however, which we have made, viz., that Godric or Godfrey might reign in one part of Denmark, while Sigurd Ring and Ragnar reigned in another, acquires some confirmation from the fact that the former, as rex Danorum in 803, is expressly mentioned by Ado of Vienne. And in the Saga of Olaf Trygveson, king of Norway, we read that this very Godfrey reigned in Jutland during the time of Charlemagne. Was he, the Jutish king, or Sigurd and Ragnar, who appear to have reigned in Zealand, the true sovereign of the Danes? Was one subject to the other, or were both independent? This question no man can answer. The passage, however, of Ado, confirmed as it is by that in Olaf Trygveson’s Saga, explains the confusion which we find at every step in the Danish history prior to the latter part of the tenth century. We may add that, according to the same authority, Godfrey being slain by his own subjects on his return from a successful expedition to Frisia, Hemming, his brother or nephew, succeeded. Now these facts are confirmed by Saxo; and where both Icelandic and Danish authorities concur, and are confirmed by the Frank historians (and Hemming’s accession, no less than Godfrey’s death, is mentioned by several), we see no ground for scepticism. These princes, then, must be admitted; and for the reasons already given they may be admitted, without excluding Sigurd Ring, or Ragnar Lodbrog, or Sigurd Snogoje.^[91]

The age of Ragnar ought to be an historic age; but his reign is so pervaded by fable, that we can make nothing of it. Many have been the attempts to reconcile his chronology, at least as found in northern writers, with that of the Frankish and Anglo-Saxon historians; but neither it, nor the actions recorded of him by both, can possibly be reconciled. Critics, therefore, have been driven to the inference that there were two Ragnars—one of the eighth, the other of the ninth century; and, probably, this conjecture is the true one. In the latter century, indeed, we read of a Jutland chief named Ragenfred, or Regnier, who, being exiled by the reigning king of Denmark, became a pirate, and committed dreadful depredations on the coasts of Britain and Ireland. Very probably the actions of both—and both, no doubt, were extraordinary men—have been confounded together, and enabled Saxo to incorporate, into one relation, the romantic incidents which tradition had preserved of both. As we have indulged so largely in the romantic, we will not, on this occasion, translate that venerable authority. And it is scarcely necessary to allude to this hero’s death, which, as everybody knows, happened in Northumberland. Defeated by Ella, the Saxon king of the province, and thrown into a dungeon full of serpents, he expired, insensible of his torments. It is said, indeed, that he composed a lay enumerating his former exploits, and his conviction that his sons would revenge his death; but the story, and the ode itself, are so improbable, that they must be consigned to the domain of poetic invention, and no longer be allowed to grow in that of history. Whether there be much truth in the subsequent part of this story, viz., that the sons of Ragnar did hasten to revenge him, that they disembarked on the Northumbrian coast, defeated the Anglo-Saxons near York, and transformed the province from a Saxon into a Danish state, we are unable to decide with anything approaching to confidence. The probability, however, is, that, notwithstanding the silence of the Saxon Chronicle on this subject, there is some foundation for the account. So constantly do the ancient writers—writers, too, at no great distance from the period—speak of Danish viceroys, often with the regal title, being sent to Northumbria, that we are unwilling to consider the narrative as the pure invention of the Scalds.^[92]

|794 to 935.|

On the death of Ragnar, the sceptre of at least a portion of Denmark—perhaps Scania and the isles—passed into the hands of Sigurd II. (or Siward^[93]), surnamed Snogoje, or Snake-eyed. At the same time, Jutland was possessed by other kings, whether as tributaries, or independent, there would be rashness in deciding. We read, indeed, that Hemming was contemporary with him; that Harald succeeded Hemming in some part of Jutland; that this latter prince was exiled through an insurrection of the sons of Godric, or Godfrey, who fought for the inheritance of their father; that this Harald became a Christian, and sought the protection of Louis le Debonnaire; that the Carlovingian monarch assisted him to return triumphant; but that, about the year 828, being again deprived of his throne, he passed his days in religious contemplation. His name will always be memorable for his solemn baptism at Ingleheim, in presence of the emperor’s court; and for his efforts to introduce Christianity into Jutland. Under his auspices St. Anscar, the apostle of Scandinavia, penetrated into Jutland; and though the labours of this pious missionary, owing to the troubles of the country, were attended with little success, the merit of this first Christian prince of Denmark is not the less. It was, indeed, his attachment to the new religion which, more than any other cause, led to his failure. Sigurd, the other Danish king, had no wish to imitate the example of Harald; but he is celebrated as a peaceful, good, and enlightened ruler. For this reason, his reign affords no materials for history. On his death, in 803, he was succeeded, say the Icelandic chroniclers, by Harda Canute, his son; but, according to Saxo, by his son Eric I. How shall we decide? We can only conjecture that both princes reigned, at the same time, over different parts of the monarchy; but that Eric died early, while Harda Canute survived to the middle of the ninth century. By the same hypothesis only can we reconcile the names of the kings who succeeded Eric and Harda Canute. By referring to the list at the head of this chapter^[94], the reader will perceive that it allows of only two sovereigns between Eric I. and Harold Blaatand—king Eric II. and Gorm the Old; while Saxo admits five, viz., Canute the Little, Frode VI., Gorm Anglicus (so called from his birthplace), Harold V., and Gorm the Old; thus rejecting Eric II., and adding four others. To us, the mode of reconciliation appears simple. While Eric II. and Gorm ruled over the islands and Scania, the other princes mentioned by Saxo reigned in another part of Jutland. This hypothesis is confirmed by one important fact—that the life of Gorm was unusually protracted; and that, by conquest or negotiation, by open force or cunning, he obtained the government of all the states now comprising the Danish monarchy. Seeing the conduct of the Jutland princes, their civil wars, their consequent weakness and unpopularity, he fell on them, and put an end to their stormy independence. Over the reign of Gorm, indeed, there hangs much obscurity, which the researches of northern critics have by no means dissipated. That he performed many great actions; that, in a few years, he conquered Jutland; that he humbled the Saxons, and made some temporary accessions to his states on the side of Mecklenburg and Pomerania; appear to be undoubted facts. The Frankish writers, however, affirm that he was defeated by Henry the Fowler, his newly incorporated monarchy conquered as far as Sleswic, a margrave established in that place, and he himself compelled to admit the missionaries of Christianity into his states. Against this statement, which principally depends on the authority of Adam of Bremen, the native historians of Denmark make a stand; they will not allow that their country, or any portion of it, was ever thus subdued. But what counter authority can they oppose to this? Where are their native writers, if not contemporary, at least as near to the period as Adam, to contradict this relation? They have no such writers; they have nothing in the shape of authority before the close of the twelfth century: for the materials of their history, they must recur to the very writers whom they would thus undervalue. The statement of Adam, a canon of Bremen, who during so long a period collected materials for his ecclesiastical history, is too minute, too reasonable, too well confirmed by allusions, however incidental, in other writers (especially in the biographers of a few saints), to leave room for scepticism on the subject. Nor does this detract, in the least degree, from the merit of Gorm. By incorporating into one compact monarchy insignificant states, which had so often refused even a nominal obedience to the kings of Ledra, or Jutland, and by destroying so many piratical chiefs, whose arms were turned now against one another, now against their royal superiors, he effected more good than any preceding king of Denmark. This is his true glory. In another respect, he is less deserving of our praise;—he was hostile to the diffusion of Christianity. Yet he had married a Christian lady, whose beauty and virtues were the theme of admiration, and who certainly had considerable influence over him. While persecuting the missionaries in the rest of his states, he appears to have allowed her the exercise of her religion—her chapel and priests. Some writers assert that, though he did not like, he never seriously opposed, the preaching of Christianity in any part of his states; and, in confirmation of this statement, they assert that he allowed his sons, Canute and Harald, to be baptized, and Jutland, at least, to make daily progress in the new faith. Yet Saxo assures us that he demolished the churches which had been erected in the preceding reign; that he restored the pagan temples; that he put to death, or exiled, the teachers of Christianity. This testimony is too positive to be evaded. But, though always a bigoted pagan, he might have been more intolerant at one period of life than another: probably he was a fierce persecutor until his marriage, and the virtues of his queen had mitigated his hatred of Christianity, and, by degrees, induced him to tolerate it. Though he might have allowed his sons to be baptized, he took care that their habits should be pagan. They were the most noted pirates of the age, and he rejoiced in their success. One of them, however, was killed near Dublin, and the blow is said to have proved fatal to him. He died, says Adam of Bremen, in 935; probably, however, he resigned his power in that year, and survived six years longer.^[95]