CHAPTER I

CAPITALS OF THE NORTHLANDS

[Illustration: THREE DEGREES FROM THE ARCTIC CIRCLE TRONDHJEM CATHEDRAL]

[_Frontispiece_

CAPITALS OF

THE NORTHLANDS

TALES OF TEN CITIES

BY

IAN C. HANNAH, M.A.

AUTHOR OF "EASTERN ASIA: A HISTORY," "THE SUSSEX COAST,"

"THE BERWICK AND LOTHIAN COASTS," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY EDITH BRAND HANNAH

[Illustration]

HEATH CRANTON & OUSELEY, LTD.

FLEET LANE, LONDON, E.C.

TO

THE LOVED MEMORY

OF THE BEST OF MOTHERS

WITH WHOM I ONCE MADE A PILGRIMAGE

TO THE SHRINE OF ST. OLAF

PREFACE

Many excellent things have been written about the cities of the South,

but little, comparatively speaking, about the cities of the North.

True, indeed, they have not moulded kingdoms and shaped the culture

of a continent, but England, like Scandinavia, is not a country

city-built; she was formed by the dwellers on the land. Yet the less

prominent part that they have played does not make our cities less

noteworthy than those of the South.

Few and peculiarly interesting are the cities of the North. And, with

the exception, perhaps, of St. Petersburg, those spoken of in this book

have all the charm that comes because they were built by country-loving

folk, to whom deep woods and open fields were lovelier than monumental

streets and squares.

I shall not have written in vain if the perusal of this small book

leads any one to study larger works on the Northlands, and particularly

the matchless sagas, many of them so skilfully Englished by the joint

labour of an Englishman and an Icelander, William Morris and Eirîkr

Magnússon. In them we may read of all these ten towns, save that

Copenhagen and St. Petersburg have risen in Saga Lands after the sagas

were penned.

After accuracy I have striven hard, but if any reader should detect any

error I should be grateful to have it pointed out for correction in a

later edition.

I. C. H.

FERNROYD,

FOREST ROW.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. THORSHAVN, CAPITAL OF THE FAROE

ISLANDS 11

II. REYKJAVIK, CAPITAL OF ICELAND 28

III. TRONDHJEM, OLD CAPITAL OF NORWAY 66

IV. CHRISTIANIA, CAPITAL OF NORWAY 93

V. ROSKILDE, OLD CAPITAL OF DENMARK 111

VI. COPENHAGEN, CAPITAL OF DENMARK 127

VII. VISBY, CAPITAL OF GOTHLAND 150

VIII. UPSALA, OLD CAPITAL OF SWEDEN 176

IX. STOCKHOLM, CAPITAL OF SWEDEN 199

X. ST. PETERSBURG, CAPITAL OF RUSSIA 226

INDEX 261

ILLUSTRATIONS

GOL STAVEKIRKE _Title Page_

TRONDHJEM CATHEDRAL (EXTERIOR) _Frontispiece_

PAGE

THORSHAVN 11

REYKJAVIK HARBOUR 28

BOATS AT TRONDHJEM 66

STABBUR AT BYGDÖ, CHRISTIANIA 93

MARKET PLACE AT ROSKILDE 111

CANAL AT COPENHAGEN 127

EAST WELLS AT VISBY 150

CASTLE AND CATHEDRAL, UPSALA 176

HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT, STOCKHOLM 199

CATHEDRAL OF ST. ISAAC, ST. PETERSBURG 226

FACE PAGE

THORSHAVN FISHERMEN 22

HOT SPRINGS NEAR REYKJAVIK 60

CORONA OF TRONDHJEM CATHEDRAL (INTERIOR) 86

GAMLA UPSALA, CHURCH AND RUNIC STONE

(PLAN) 99

GREENSTED CHURCH 108

ROSKILDE CATHEDRAL (PLAN) 118

ROSKILDE CATHEDRAL 122

HOJBROPLADS, COPENHAGEN 134

TOWN OF VISBY, WITH DRAWING OF A SADDLE

TOWER (PLAN) 158

INTERIOR OF ST. LARS, VISBY 166

CHURCHES OF VISBY (PLAN) 172

GAMLA UPSALA 180

GENERAL VIEW OF STOCKHOLM 206

TRONDHJEM CATHEDRAL (PLAN) 246

ST. ISAAC'S CATHEDRAL, ST. PETERSBURG (PLAN) 246

CHURCH OF THE RESURRECTION, ST. PETERSBURG 254

[Illustration]

CHAPTER I

THORSHAVN

Loud in Harfur's echoing bay,

Heard ye the din of battle bray,

'Twixt Kiotvi rich, and Harald bold?

Eastward sail the ships of war;

The graven bucklers gleam afar,

And dragon heads adorn the prows of gold.

Glittering shields of purest white,

And swords, and Celtic falchions bright,

And Western chiefs the vessels bring:

Loudly roar the wolfish rout,

And maddening Champions wildly shout,

And long and loud the twisted hauberks ring.

Firm in fight they proudly vie

With him whose might will make them fly,

Of Eastmen kings the warlike head.

Forth his gallant fleet he drew,

Soon as the hope of battle grew,

But many a buckler brake ere Long-chin bled.

Fled the lusty Kiotvi then

Before the Shock-head king of men,

And bade the islands shield his flight.

Warriors wounded in the fray,

Beneath the thwarts all gasping lay,

Where head-long cast they mourned the loss of light.

So does an Icelandic skald describe the most important battle in the

annals of the Norse.[1] Harald Shock-head had exalted himself, and

said "I will be king" over the whole of Norway. He desired to wed the

daughter of the kinglet of Hordaland. She was a maiden exceeding fair

and withal somewhat high-minded.

To Harald's messengers she answered in this wise: "I will not waste my

maidenhood for the taking to husband of a king who has no more realm to

rule over than a few folks. Marvellous it seems to me that there is no

king minded to make Norway his own, and be sole lord thereof in such

wise as Gorm of Denmark or Eric of Upsala have done."

The messengers came back in wrath and told the king that Gyda (for so

the maiden was called) was witless and overbold, but Harald answered

that the maid had spoken nought of ill, and done nought worthy of

evil reward. Rather he bade her much thank for her word; "For she has

brought to my mind that matter which it now seems to me wondrous I

have not had in my mind heretofore."

And, moreover, he said: "This oath I make fast, and swear before that

god who made me and rules over all things, that never more will I cut

my hair nor comb it, till I have gotten to me all Norway, with the

scat thereof and the dues, and all rule thereover, or else will I die

rather."

And so for ten winters his hair was neither cut nor combed, but during

all those days the kinglets were being warred down, and at last, in

872, as monarch of all Norway, Harald took a bath and let his hair be

combed. Jarl Rognvald sheared his locks and called him Harald Fairhair;

the name by which he is known in history to-day.[2]

Thus he wedded the fair Gyda, but unhappily he also took to wife more

other maidens than one may count with ease. Their very numerous sons

were soon waxen riotous men in the land and were not at one among

themselves. The good work of their father they came near to undoing.

For good work to Norway it very truly was: national unity is a

priceless thing. One king was better than a score of kinglets from the

nation's point of view. But otherwise thought the jarls (or earls)

and the stoutest opponents of Harald embarked on their ships and

sailed away. Some turned their prows to the northward and settled in

the Faroes or Iceland, or on the more distant American shore. These

were, perhaps, the more peaceably disposed; they found lands waiting

for settlement that became at once their own. Their descendants are

Norsemen to-day, and among the most cultured of mankind. Others fared

to the British Isles or the Continent of Europe or to the more distant

Mediterranean Sea. These found lands that were richer, but to be gained

only at the point of the sword. These set up powerful kingdoms, but

none of them are Norse to-day.

The classic sagas of Iceland have disappointingly little to tell us

about the Faroe Islands. There are plenty of references to them indeed,

but they are exiguous and dull. The _Faereyinga Saga_ is distinctly

less vigorous and vivid than the elder sagas of heroic days. It was

compiled in Iceland not long after the beginning of the thirteenth

century, but older materials were used.

It commences with a somewhat scrappy description of the first

settlement of the islands. "There was a man named Grim Camban. He first

settled the Faroes in the days of Harald Fairhair. For before the

king's overbearing many men fled in those days. Some settled in the

Faroes and began to dwell there, and some sought to other waste lands."

Gladly would we have more details of the first settler in the islands

with his Irish-sounding name, but they are lost in the abyss of years.

With great probability, however, Professor York Powell, who Englished

the _Faereyinga Saga_, supposes that the first place occupied was

the present capital, the Harbour of Thor. There at any rate was the

chief seat of the Thing or Moot for the Islands, certainly till the

thirteenth century.

At Thorshavn, too, was played the first half of the delightfully simple

2-Act drama which changed the faith of the archipelago. The renowned

King Olaf Tryggvison of Norway (p. 72) had treated Sigmund with high

regard and caused him to trow in the faith of the White Christ.

"When the spring was coming in, the king fell on a day to talk with

Sigmund, and said that he was minded to send him out to the Faroes to

christen the folk that dwelt there. Sigmund said that he would rather

not do that errand, but at last said he would do the king's will. Then

the king made him lord over all the islands, and gave him wise men to

baptize the folk and teach them the needful lore. Sigmund sailed when

he was bound, and sped well on his way. When he came to the Faroes he

summoned the franklins to a Thing in Stromo,[3] and much folk came. And

when the Thing was set, Sigmund stood up and set forth his business

at length, telling all that had happened since he had gone eastward to

Norway to see King Olaf Tryggvison. Moreover, he said that the king

had laid all the island under his lordship, and most of the franklins

took this very well. Then Sigmund said on, 'I would likewise have you

know that I have taken another faith, and am become a Christian man. I

have also this errand and bidding from the king, to turn all folk in

the island to the true faith.' Thrond answered this speech and said

that it was right the franklins should talk over this hard matter among

themselves. The franklins said this was well spoken. Then they went to

the other side of the Thing-field, and Thrond told the franklins that

the right thing clearly was to refuse to fulfil this command, and he

brought things so far by his fair speeches that they were all of one

mind thereon. But when Sigmund saw that all the folk had crowded over

to Thrond's side, so that there was none stood by him save his own

men who were christened, he said, 'Too much might have I given Thrond

to-day.' And now men began to crowd back to where Sigmund was sitting;

they bore their weapons aloft and carried themselves in no peaceful

wise. Sigmund and his men sprang up to meet them. Then spake Thrond,

'Let men sit down and carry themselves more quietly. Now I have this to

tell thee, kinsman Sigmund; we franklins are all of one mind on this

errand thou hast done, namely that we will by no means change our

faith, and we will set on here in the Thing and slay thee, unless thou

give it up and bind thyself fast never more to carry this bidding to

the islands.' And when Sigmund saw that he could not then bring this

matter of the faith about, and was not strong enough to deal with all

the folk that was come together there by the strong hand, it ended in

his bidding himself to what they wished with witnesses and hand-plight.

And with that the Thing broke up.

"Sigmund sat at home that winter, and was right ill-pleased that the

franklins had cowed him, although he did not let his mind be known."

"One day in the spring, what time the races ran faster and men thought

no ship could live on the main or between the islands, Sigmund set

out from home with thirty men and two ships, saying that he would run

the risk and carry out the king's errand or else die. They ran for

Ostero and made the island; they got there at nightfall without being

seen, made a ring round the homestead at Gate, drove a trunk of wood

at the door of the house where Thrond slept, and broke it down, then

laid hands on Thrond and led him out. Then said Sigmund, 'It happens

now, as it often does, Thrond, that things go by turns. Thou didst cow

me last harvest-tide, and gave me two hard things to choose between;

and now I will give thee two very unlike things to choose between:

the one is good--that thou take the true faith and let thyself be

baptized, or else thou shalt be slain here on the spot; and that is a

bad choice for thee to make, for thereby thou shalt swiftly lose thy

wealth and earthly bliss in this world, and get instead woe and the

everlasting torments of hell in the other world.' But Thrond said, 'I

will not fail my old friends.' Then Sigmund sent a man to kill Thrond,

and put a great axe in his hand; but as he went up to Thrond with his

axe on high, Thrond looked at him and said, 'Strike me not so quickly.

I have something to say first. Where is thy kinsman Sigmund?' 'Here am

I,' said he. 'Thou alone shalt settle between me and thee, and I will

take thy faith as thou wilt.' Then said Thore, 'Hew at him, man.' But

Sigmund said, 'He shall not be cut down this time.' 'It will be thy

bane and thy friends' as well if Thrond get off to-day,' said Thore.

But Sigmund said that he would risk that. Then Thrond was baptized

of the priest and all his household. Sigmund made Thrond come with

him when he was baptized. And then he went through all the Faroes and

stayed not till the whole people was christened."[4]

King Olaf, called the Thick in life and the Holy in death--with whom

we shall be much concerned later on--also sought to make his influence

felt in the Faroe Islands. Thither he sent to look after the royal

interests Karl o' Mere, who had been a viking and the greatest of

lifters, but "was a man of great kin, a man of mickle stir, a man of

prowess and doughty in many matters." Him King Olaf took "into his

peace, and thereafter into his good love, and let array his journey in

the best wise. Nigh twenty men they were on board the ship. The king

made word to his friends in the Faroes, and sent Karl for trust and

troth to Leif, son of Ozur, and Gilli the Speaker-at-law, and to that

end he sent his tokens. Karl fared forthwith when he was ready, and

a fair wind they had, and came to Faroe, and hove into Thorshavn in

Stream-isle. Then a Thing was summoned there, and folk came thronging

thereto. Thither came Thrand o' Gate with a mickle flock, and thereto

came Leif and Gilli, and had with them a multitude of people. Now when

they set up their tilts and dight them their booths there, they went to

see Karl o' Mere, and the greetings there were good."

It need hardly be said that one object the king had at heart was to

collect his scat (or taxes) from the islands, and when the subject was

mentioned to Thrand he amiably replied that "it was due and welcome

that he should give that much furtherance to the king's errand."

When the time came round for the next Thing, Thrand duly fared to

Thorshavn and, because he had pains in the eyes and other ailments

besides, he let hang the inner part of his tent with black cloth so

that the daylight might be less dazzling. Here the purse containing

the scat was duly delivered to Leif, who "bore it further out into the

booth, where it was light, and poured the silver down upon his shield,

and stirred it about with his hand, and said that Karl should look at

the silver.

"They looked on it for awhile, and Karl asked Leif how the silver

seemed to him. He answered: 'Methinks that every bad penny to be found

in the North isles is here come together.' Thrand heard this and said:

'Seemeth the silver nought well to thee, Leif?' 'Even so,' says he.

Said Thrand: 'Forsooth, those my kinsmen are no middling dastards,

whereas one may trust them in nought. I sent them in the spring north

into the islands to gather up the scat, because last spring I was good

for nothing myself; but they will have taken bribes of the bonders

to take this false coin which is not deemed fit to pass. Thou hadst

better, Leif, look at this silver wherewith my rents have been paid.'

"So Leif took back to him that silver, and took from him another purse,

and bore it to Karl, and they ransacked it, and Karl asked what Leif

thought of this money. He said he deemed it bad, but not so bad as that

it might not be taken in payment for debts carelessly bespoken,'but on

behalf of the king I will have nought of this money.'"

At last Thrand "bade Leif hand him that silver back: 'And take thou

here this purse which my tenants have fetched me home last spring, and

dim of sight though I be, still, 'Self hand the safest hand.'"

"Leif took the purse and once more bore it to Karl, and they looked at

the money, and Leif spoke: 'No need to look long at this silver; every

penny here is better than the other, and this money will we have.'"

The payment of taxes has seldom proved the most soothing thing for

doubtful tempers. While the money was being weighed there appeared on

the scene a man "with a cudgel in his hand and a slouch-hat on his

head, and a green cloak; barefoot, in linen breeches strait-laced to

the bone." There followed a scrimmage, in the course of which Karl

got an axe-hammer in his brain, nor was his the only death. "But it

came never to pass that King Olaf might avenge this on Thrand or his

kinsmen, because of the unpeace which now befell in Norway.... And

hereby leaves the tale to tell of the tidings which sprung out of King

Olaf's claiming scat of the Faroes. Yet later on strifes arose in the

Faroes out of the slaying of Karl o'Mere, and the kinsmen of Thrand o'

Gate and Leif, the son of Ozur, had to do herein, and great tales are

told thereof."[5]

The haven of Thor is a little rocky bay; a small island, called Nolsö,

protects its broad mouth. Streams trickle into it over the volcanic

rocks, intersecting the town and justifying the name of the island

upon whose shore it stands. One stream is fairly large, the rest are

very small. The well-kept gardens are bright with flowers and stocked

with currant bushes; a few are shaded by plane trees of the most

diminutive size. The wooden houses, mostly Stockholm-tarred, some

painted different shades, rest on rude foundations of boulders; some

buildings are wholly of rough stone. Most of the roofs are covered with

grass--amidst which wild flowers grow--so green that they are not to be

distinguished from the hill-sides just behind, and the first impression

is almost that of a ruined, roofless town.

A few houses are creeper-covered: almost all have fish hanging out to

dry and the passer-by is more conscious of their presence than of that

of the flowers. Through the grassy roofs rise chimneys which in many

cases are of wood. The main streets are wide and breezy, the byways are

but three feet broad; the pavement for the most part is living rock.

A mere fishing village indeed is Thorshavn, but there is much of the

character of the capital of a little state. The culture of Scandinavia

is displayed in the existence of a library, well used.

[Illustration: THORSHAVN] _Face page 22_

The Amtmand, or Governor, dwells in a quite imposing house of stone;

school, church and Lagthinghuus are merely framed of wood. Of the

Mother of Parliaments Cowper once wrote, and some are making much the

same remark to-day,

Where flails of oratory thresh the floor,

That yields them chaff and dust and nothing more.

But of the legislature that meets in the Lagthinghuus no man can say

anything so rude. However barren of other results the deliberations of

the assembly may be, the community is at least benefited by the value

of the hay that grows upon the roof. It may be the sluggard that lets

the grass grow under his feet, but no stigma can attach to the man who

lets it grow over his head. Besides possessing this venerable local

Thing, the islanders send their own representatives to the Rigsdag, or

Diet, at Copenhagen, for which qualified voters must have reached their

thirtieth year. The Danish dominions have not yet followed Norway and

Sweden in granting votes to women, but this will shortly come to pass.

The mediæval bishop for the Faroes had his stool at Kirkebö, on the

same island as Thorshavn but a few miles further south. There was a

house of Benedictine monks, the ruins of which still remain. In the

haven named from Thor the church[6] of the White Christ is conspicuous,

though modern of date and unbeautiful of form. An ancient coffin-slab,

however, is incised with an ornate and flowery cross, that shows a

mediæval structure occupied the site. The tower vane bears the date

1788, pierced in the Scandinavian way. The effect within is rather

quaint. On the altar two great candles stand; hanging from the roof

are a large ship-model and some chandeliers of brass, one dated 1682,

adorned with metal flowers; on the walls a picture of the Last Supper

that was painted on wood in 1647, and several monuments in timber and

stone to the dead who passed from earth two hundred years ago.

On a promontory overlooking the town and the rocks covered with shells

and pink and dark green sea-weed, there frowns a picturesque old fort;

more interesting to the antiquary than formidable to the soldier.

What higher praise than that could any place of strength deserve? The

two lines of defence are each formed of boulders and earth. Though

Thorshavn in the past has known unpeace, many an empire has risen to

high power or crumbled to decay since these grass-grown ramparts were

stained with human gore.

The stony country round the town is partly enclosed by strange frail

transparent dykes, which, though as in Scotland mortarless, display

surprisingly wide openings between the stones. Hay grown on the rocky

soil is much the commonest crop; ragged robin, white clover, and, in

swampy parts, marsh marigolds, diversify the grass. Men capped and

stockinged, women shawled, also tend the tiniest patches of oats and

potatoes: here and there peat is cut. The older cottages are frequently

half floored above, half open to the ridge, and most conspicuous still

are the sooty rafters of which the sagas so often tell. Some faint

breath from the atmosphere that filled such dwellings long ago is

wafted to us by the complaint of Cetil to his son in the _Vatzdaela

Saga_, that, when he was a boy, men yearned to do some daring deed,

"But now young men have become stay-at-homes, sitting over the baking

fires, and stuffing their bellies with mead and ale, and all manhood

and hardihood is waning away." Gone to museums are the ancient looms

weighted with stones from the beach, but old carved chests and solid

furniture of wood worked in the northern way are still by no means rare.

Men of great mark, by no means few, have had the Faroe Isles for

home. In this remote and quiet capital there was born in 1860 Dr. N.

R. Finsen, one of the great benefactors of mankind, widely known in

medical circles from his study of the laws of light-rays, and the

foundation of the Medical Light Institute at Copenhagen. A monument

in the streets of the Danish metropolis bears his name, and it is

possible that to the next generation he may be as well known as he

would have been to his own, had he only invented some potent engine of

destruction, instead of mere antidotes to wasting disease.

A little like the Scottish highlands here and there, with mountain tarn

and trickling stream and rock hill-side and distant sea, a little,

yet not very like, for the most striking feature of this delightful

group of islands is its lack of resemblance to any other part of

earth. Vast mountains rising from the very sea, and never destitute of

whitest clouds, fold upon fold of country devoid of trees and yet so

fertile and kept so moist by shower and mist that the grass grows over

house-top as well as ground, the close proximity of fjord and hay-field

and fish and flowers, give a combined impression so individual that the

widest wanderer will but faintly be reminded of any other part of the

world.

The surpassing stateliness of much of the coast declines to be

expressed in ink or paint. Even the Naerofjord of Norway, most justly

famed throughout the earth, is distanced in wild and rugged grandeur

by some of the lonely channels among the north isles of the group,

restricted in extent though they be. The largest steamer seems like a

little toy between the towering mountains that rise on either side,

carved into cliffs here and there, worn into caves now and then. The

mountain sides are marked by waterfalls, like little silver threads.

Wherever there is grass on the steep volcanic rocks, appearing like

insects, there climb about white sheep and black; such gave the

archipelago its name--far, the Norse word for sheep.[7] Everywhere hang

white mists, clinging to the summits of the hills or streaming away

like pennons in sharpest contrast with the coal-black sea of the sagas.

[Illustration]