his wife Nanna, until a night when his sleep was assailed by horrible
dreams of evil omen. In the morning he told the gods that he had
dreamed that Death, a thing till then unknown in Asgard, had come and
cruelly taken his life away. Solemnly the gods debated how this ill
happening might be averted, and Freya, his mother, fear for her best
beloved hanging heavy over her heart, took upon herself the task of
laying under oath fire and water, iron and all other metals, trees and
shrubs, birds, beasts and creeping things, to do no harm to Baldur.
With eager haste she went from place to place, nor did she fail to
exact the oath from anything in all nature, animate or inanimate, save
one only.
"A twig of mistletoe, tender and fair, grew high above the field," and
such a little thing it was, with its dainty green leaves and waxen
white berries, nestling for protection under the strong arm of a great
oak, that the goddess passed it by. Assuredly no scathe could come to
Baldur the Beautiful from a creature so insignificant, and Freya
returned to Asgard well pleased with her quest.
Then indeed was there joy and laughter amongst the gods, for each one
tried how he might slay Baldur, but neither sword nor stone, hammer
nor battle-axe could work him any ill.
Odin alone remained unsatisfied. Mounted on his eight-footed grey
steed, Sleipnir, he galloped off in haste to consult the giant
prophetess Angrbotha, who was dead and had to be followed to Niflheim,
the chilly underworld that lies far north from the world of men, and
where the sun never comes. Hel, the daughter of Loki and of Angrbotha,
was queen of this dark domain.
"There, in a bitterly cold place, she received the souls
of all who died of sickness or old age; care was her
bed, hunger her dish, starvation her knife. Her walls
were high and strong, and her bolts and bars huge; 'Half
blue was her skin, and half the colour of human flesh. A
goddess easy to know, and in all things very stern and
grim.'"
Dasent.
In her kingdom no soul that passed away in glorious battle was
received, nor any that fought out the last of life in a fierce combat
with the angry waves of the sea. Only those who died ingloriously were
her guests.
When he had reached the realm of Hel, Odin found that a feast was
being prepared, and the couches were spread, as for an honoured guest,
with rich tapestry and with gold. For many a year had Angrbotha rested
there in peace, and it was only by chanting a magic spell and tracing
those runes which have power to raise the dead that Odin awoke her.
When she raised herself, terrible and angry from her tomb, he did not
tell her that he was the mighty father of gods and men. He only asked
her for whom the great feast was prepared, and why Hel was spreading
her couches so gorgeously. And to the father of Baldur she revealed
the secret of the future, that Baldur was the expected guest, and that
by his blind brother Hodur his soul was to be hastened to the Shades.
"Who, then, would avenge him?" asked the father, great wrath in his
heart. And the prophetess replied that his death should be avenged by
Vali, his youngest brother, who should not wash his hands nor comb his
hair until he had brought the slayer of Baldur to the funeral pyre.
But yet another question Odin would fain have answered.
"_Who_," he asked, "_would refuse to weep at Baldur's death?_"
Thereat the prophetess, knowing that her questioner could be none
other than Odin, for to no mortal man could be known so much of the
future, refused for evermore to speak, and returned to the silence of
her tomb. And Odin was forced to mount his steed and to return to his
own land of warmth and pleasure.
On his return he found that all was well with Baldur. Thus he tried to
still his anxious heart and to forget the feast in the chill regions
of Niflheim, spread for the son who was to him the dearest, and to
laugh with those who tried in vain to bring scathe to Baldur.
Only one among those who looked at those sports and grew merry, as he
whom they loved stood like a great cliff against which the devouring
waves of the fierce North Sea beat and foam and crash in vain, had
malice in his heart as he beheld the wonder. In the evil heart of Loki
there came a desire to overthrow the god who was beloved by all gods
and by all men. He hated him because he was pure, and the mind of Loki
was as a stream into which all the filth of the world is discharged.
He hated him because Baldur was truth and loyalty, and he, Loki, was
treachery and dishonour. He hated him because to Loki there came never
a thought that was not full of meanness and greed and cruelty and
vice, and Baldur was indeed one _sans peur et sans reproche_.
Thus Loki, taking upon himself the form of a woman, went to Fensalir,
the palace, all silver and gold, where dwelt Freya, the mother of
Baldur.
The goddess sat, in happy majesty, spinning the clouds, and when Loki,
apparently a gentle old woman, passed by where she sat, and then
paused and asked, as if amazed, what were the shouts of merriment that
she heard, the smiling goddess replied:
"All things on earth have sworn to me never to injure Baldur, and all
the gods use their weapons against him in vain. Baldur is safe for
evermore."
"All things?" queried Loki.
And Freya answered, "All things but the mistletoe. No harm can come to
him from a thing so weak that it only lives by the lives of others."
Then the vicious heart of Loki grew joyous. Quickly he went to where
the mistletoe grew, cut a slender green branch, shaped it into a
point, and sought the blind god Hodur.
Hodur stood aside, while the other gods merrily pursued their sport.
"Why dost thou not take aim at Baldur with a weapon that fails and so
join in the laughter?" asked Loki.
And Hodur sadly made answer:
"Well dost thou know that darkness is my lot, nor have I ought to
cast at my brother."
Then Loki placed in his hand the shaft of mistletoe and guided his
aim, and well and surely Hodur cast the dart. He waited, then, for the
merry laughter that followed ever on the onslaught of those against
him whom none could do harm. But a great and terrible cry smote his
ears. "_Baldur the Beautiful is dead! is dead!_"
On the ground lay Baldur, a white flower cut down by the scythe of the
mower. And all through the realm of the gods, and all through the land
of the Northmen there arose a cry of bitter lamentation.
"That was the greatest woe that ever befell gods and men," says the
story.
The sound of terrible mourning in place of laughter brought Freya to
where
"on the floor lay Baldur dead; and round lay thickly
strewn swords, axes, darts, and spears, which all the
gods in sport had lightly thrown at Baldur, whom no
weapon pierced or clove; but in his breast stood fixed
the fatal bough of mistletoe."
Matthew Arnold.
When she saw what had befallen him, Freya's grief was a grief that
refused to be comforted, but when the gods, overwhelmed with sorrow,
knew not what course to take, she quickly commanded that one should
ride to Niflheim and offer Hel a ransom if she would permit Baldur to
return to Asgard.
Hermoder the Nimble, another of the sons of Odin, undertook the
mission, and, mounted on his father's eight-footed steed, he speedily
reached the ice-cold domain of Hel.
There he found Baldur, sitting on the noblest seat of those who
feasted, ruling among the people of the Underworld. With burning words
Hermoder pled with Hel that she would permit Baldur to return to the
world of gods and the world of men, by both of whom he was so dearly
beloved. Said Hel:
"Come then! if Baldur was so dear beloved,
And this is true, and such a loss is Heaven's--
Hear, how to Heaven may Baldur be restored.
Show me through all the world the signs of grief!
Fails but one thing to grieve, here Baldur stops!
Let all that lives and moves upon the earth
Weep him, and all that is without life weep;
Let Gods, men, brutes, beweep him; plants and stones,
So shall I know the loss was dear indeed,
And bend my heart, and give him back to Heaven."
Matthew Arnold.
Gladly Hermoder made answer:
"All things shall weep for Baldur!"
Swiftly he made his perilous return journey, and at once, when the
gods heard what Hel had said, messengers were despatched all over the
earth to beg all things, living and dead, to weep for Baldur, and so
dear to all nature was the beautiful god, that the messengers
everywhere left behind them a track of the tears that they caused to
be shed.
Meantime, in Asgard, preparations were made for Baldur's pyre. The
longest of the pines in the forest were cut down by the gods, and
piled up in a mighty pyre on the deck of his great ship _Ringhorn_,
the largest in the world.
[Illustration: "BALDUR THE BEAUTIFUL IS DEAD"]
"Seventy ells and four extended
On the grass the vessel's keel;
High above it, gilt and splendid,
Rose the figure-head ferocious
With its crest of steel."
Longfellow.
Down to the seashore they bore the body, and laid it on the pyre with
rich gifts all round it, and the pine trunks of the Northern forests
that formed the pyre, they covered with gorgeous tapestries and
fragrant flowers. And when they had laid him there, with all love and
gentleness, and his fair young wife, Nanna, looked on his beautiful
still face, sorrow smote her heart so that it was broken, and she fell
down dead. Tenderly they laid her beside him, and by him, too, they
laid the bodies of his horse and his hounds, which they slew to bear
their master company in the land whither his soul had fled; and around
the pyre they twined thorns, the emblem of sleep.
Yet even then they looked for his speedy return, radiant and glad to
come home to a sunlit land of happiness. And when the messengers who
were to have brought tidings of his freedom were seen drawing near,
eagerly they crowded to hear the glad words, "_All creatures weep, and
Baldur shall return!_"
But with them they brought not hope, but despair. All things, living
and dead, had wept, save one only. A giantess who sat in a dark cave
had laughed them to scorn. With devilish merriment she mocked:
"Neither in life, nor yet in death,
Gave he me gladness.
Let Hel keep her prey."
Then all knew that yet a second time had Baldur been betrayed, and
that the giantess was none other than Loki, and Loki, realising the
fierce wrath of Odin and of the other gods, fled before them, yet
could not escape his doom. And grief unspeakable was that of gods and
of men when they knew that in the chill realm of the inglorious dead
Baldur must remain until the twilight of the gods had come, until old
things had passed away, and all things had become new.
Not only the gods, but the giants of the storm and frost, and the
frost elves came to behold the last of him whom they loved. Then the
pyre was set alight, and the great vessel was launched, and glided out
to sea with its sails of flame.
"They launched the burning ship!
It floated far away
Over the misty sea,
Till like the sun it seemed,
Sinking beneath the waves,
Baldur returned no more!"
Yet, ere he parted from his dead son, Odin stooped over him and
whispered a word in his ear. And there are those who say that as the
gods in infinite sorrow stood on the beach staring out to sea,
darkness fell, and only a fiery track on the waves showed whither he
had gone whose passing had robbed Asgard and the Earth of their most
beautiful thing, heavy as the weight of chill Death's remorseless hand
would have been their hearts, but for the knowledge of that word. They
knew that with the death of Baldur the twilight of the gods had begun,
and that by much strife and infinite suffering down through the ages
the work of their purification and hallowing must be wrought. But when
all were fit to receive him, and peace and happiness reigned again on
earth and in heaven, Baldur would come back. For the word was
_Resurrection_.
"So perish the old Gods!
But out of the sea of time
Rises a new land of song,
Fairer than the old."
Longfellow.
"Heartily know,
When half-gods go,
The gods arrive."
Emerson.
BEOWULF
"He was of mankind
In might the strongest."
Longfellow's Translation.
Whether those who read it be scholars who would argue about the origin
and date of the poem, ingenious theorists who would fain use all the
fragmentary tales and rhymes of the nursery as parts of a vast jig-saw
puzzle of nature myths, or merely simple folk who read a tale for a
tale's sake, every reader of the poem of Beowulf must own that it is
one of the finest stories ever written.
It is "the most ancient heroic poem in the Germanic language," and was
brought to Britain by the "Winged Hats" who sailed across the grey
North Sea to conquer and to help to weld that great amalgam of peoples
into what is now the British Race.
But once it had arrived in England, the legend was put into a dress
that the British-born could more readily appreciate. In all
probability the scene of the story was a corner of that island of
Saeland upon which Copenhagen now stands, but he who wrote down the
poem for his countrymen and who wrote it in the pure literary
Anglo-Saxon of Wessex, painted the scenery from the places that he and
his readers knew best. And if you should walk along the breezy,
magnificent, rugged Yorkshire coast for twelve miles, from Whitby
northward to the top of Bowlby Cliff, you would find it quite easy to
believe that it was there amongst the high sea-cliffs that Beowulf
and his hearth-sharers once lived, and there, on the highest ness of
our eastern coast, under a great barrow, that Beowulf was buried.
_Beowulfesby_--_Bowlby_ seems a quite easy transition. But the people
of our island race have undoubtedly a gift for seizing the imports of
other lands and hall-marking them as their own, and, in all
probability, the Beowulf of the heroic poem was one who lived and died
in the land of Scandinavia.
In Denmark, so goes the story, when the people were longing for a
king, to their shores there drifted, on a day when the white birds
were screaming over the sea-tangle and wreckage that a stormy sea, now
sinking to rest, was sweeping up on the shore, a little boat in which,
on a sheaf of ripe wheat and surrounded by priceless weapons and
jewels, there lay a most beautiful babe, who smiled in his sleep. That
he was the son of Odin they had no doubt, and they made him their
king, and served him faithfully and loyally for the rest of his life.
A worthy and a noble king was King Scyld Scefing, a ruler on land and
on the sea, of which even as an infant he had had no fear. But when
many years had come and gone, and when Scyld Scefing felt that death
drew near, he called his nobles to him and told them in what manner he
fain would pass. So they did as he said, and in a ship they built a
funeral pyre, and round it placed much gold and jewels, and on it laid
a sheaf of wheat. Then with very great pain and labour, for he was old
and Death's hand lay heavy upon him, the king climbed into the ship
and stretched out his limbs on the pyre, and said farewell to all his
faithful people. And the ship drifted out with the tide, and the
hearts of the watchers were heavy as they saw the sails of the vessel
that bore him vanish into the grey, and knew that their king had gone
back to the place from whence he came, and that they should look on
his face no more.
Behind him Scyld left descendants, and one after the other reigned
over Denmark. It was in the reign of his great-grandson, Hrothgar,
that there took place those things that are told in the story of
Beowulf.
A mighty king and warrior was Hrothgar, and far across the northern
seas his fame spread wide, so that all the warriors of the land that
he ruled were proud to serve under him in peace, and in war to die for
him. During his long life he and his men never went forth in their
black-prowed ships without returning with the joyous shouts of the
victor, with for cargo the rich spoil they had won from their enemies.
As he grew old, Hrothgar determined to raise for himself a mighty
monument to the magnificence of his reign, and so there was builded
for him a vast hall with majestic towers and lofty pinnacles--the
finest banqueting-hall that his skilled artificers could dream of. And
when at length the hall was completed, Hrothgar gave a feast to all
his thanes, and for days and for nights on end the great rafters of
Heorot--as his palace was named--echoed the shouts and laughter of the
mighty warriors, and the music of the minstrels and the songs that
they sang. A proud man was Hrothgar on the night that the banquet was
ended amidst the acclamations of his people, and a proud and happy man
he lay down to rest, while his bodyguard of mighty warriors stretched
themselves on the rush-strewn floor of the great room where they had
feasted, and deeply slumbered there.
Now, in the dark fens of that land there dwelt a monster--fierce,
noisome, and cruel, a thing that loved evil and hated all that was
joyous and good. To its ears came the ring of the laughter and the
shouts of King Hrothgar's revellers, and the sweet song of the gleemen
and the melody of harps filled it with fierce hatred. From its wallow
in the marshes, where the pestilent grey fog hung round its dwelling,
the monster, known to all men as the Grendel, came forth, to kill and
to devour. Through the dark night, across the lonely moorland, it made
its way, and the birds of the moor flew screaming in terror before it,
and the wild creatures of the desolate country over which it padded
clapped down in their coverts and trembled as it passed. It came at
length to the great hall where
"A fair troop of warrior thanes guarding it found he;
Heedlessly sleeping, they recked not of sorrow."
Never a thought did they give to the Grendel,--
"A haunter of marshes, a holder of moors,
... Secret
The land he inhabits; dark, wolf-haunted ways
Of the windy hillside, by the treacherous tarn;
Or where, covered up in its mist, the hill stream
Downward flows."
Soundly slept Hrothgar, nor opened eye until, in the bright light of
the morning, he was roused by terrified servants, forgetful of his
august royalty, impelled by terror, crying aloud their terrible tale.
They had come, they said, to lay on the floor of the banqueting-hall,
sweet, fresh rushes from the meadows, and to clear away all trace of
the feasting overnight. But the two-and-thirty knights who, in full
armour, had lain down to sleep were all gone, and on the floor was
the spoor of something foul and noisome, and on the walls and on the
trampled rushes were great and terrible smears of human blood.
They tracked the Grendel back to the marsh from whence he had come,
and shuddered at the sight of bestial footprints that left
blood-stains behind.
Terrible indeed was the grief of Hrothgar, but still more terrible was
his anger. He offered a royal reward to any man who would slay the
Grendel, and full gladly ten of his warriors pledged themselves to
sleep that night in the great hall and to slay the Grendel ere morning
came.
But dawn showed once more a piteous sight. Again there were only
trampled and blood-stained rushes, with the loathsome smell of unclean
flesh. Again the foul tracks of the monster were found where it had
padded softly back to its noisome fens.
There were many brave men in the kingdom of Hrothgar the Dane, and yet
again did they strive to maintain the dignity of the great hall,
Heorot, and to uphold the honour of their king. But through twelve
dismal years the Grendel took its toll of the bravest in the realm,
and to sleep in the place that Hrothgar had built as monument to his
magnificent supremacy, ever meant, for the sleeper, shameful death.
Well content was the Grendel, that grew fat and lusty amongst the grey
mists of the black marshes, unknowing that in the land of the Goths
there was growing to manhood one whose feet already should be echoing
along that path from which Death was to come.
In the realm of the Goths, Hygelac was king, and no greater hero
lived in his kingdom than Beowulf, his own sister's son. From the age
of seven Beowulf was brought up at the court of his uncle.
A great, fair, blue-eyed lad was Beowulf, lazy, and very slow to
wrath. When he had at last become a yellow-haired giant, of wondrous
good-temper, and leisurely in movement, the other young warriors of
Gothland had mocked at him as at one who was only a very huge, very
amiable child. But, like others of the same descent, Beowulf's anger,
if slow to kindle, was a terrible fire once it began to flame. A few
of those flares-up had shown the folk of his uncle's kingdom that no
mean nor evil deed might lightly be done, nor evil word spoken in the
presence of Beowulf. In battle against the Swedes, no sword had hewn
down more men than the sword of Beowulf. And when the champion swimmer
of the land of the Goths challenged the young giant Beowulf to swim a
match with him, for five whole days they swam together. A tempest
driving down from the twilight land of the ice and snow parted them
then, and he who had been champion was driven ashore and thankfully
struggled on to the beach of his own dear country once again. But the
foaming seas cast Beowulf on some jagged cliffs, and would fain have
battered his body into broken fragments against them, and as he fought
and struggled to resist their raging cruelty, mermaids and nixies and
many monsters of the deep joined forces with the waves and strove to
wrest his life from him. And while with one hand he held on to a sharp
rock, with the other he dealt with his sword stark blows on those
children of the deep who would fain have devoured him. Their bodies,
deep-gashed and dead, floated down to the coast of Gothland, and the
king and all those who looked for the corpse of Beowulf saw them,
amazed. Then at length came Beowulf himself, and with great gladness
was he welcomed, and the king, his uncle, gave him his treasured
sword, Naegeling, in token of his valour.
In the court of Hrothgar, the number of brave warriors ever grew
smaller. One man only had witnessed the terrible slaughter of one of
those black nights and yet had kept his life. He was a bard--a
scald--and from the land where he had seen such grim horror, he fled
to the land of the Goths, and there, in the court of the king, he sang
the gloomy tale of the never-ending slaughter of noble warriors by the
foul Grendel of the fens and moors.
Beowulf listened, enthralled, to his song. But those who knew him saw
his eyes gleam as the good steel blade of a sword gleams when it is
drawn for battle, and when he asked his uncle to allow him to go to
the land of the Danes and slay this filthy thing, his uncle smiled,
with no surprise, and was very well content.
So it came to pass that Beowulf, in his black-prowed ship, with
fourteen trusty followers, set sail from Gothland for the kingdom of
Hrothgar.
The warden of the Danish coast was riding his rounds one morning when
he beheld from the white cliffs a strange war-vessel making for the
shore. Skilfully the men on board her ran her through the surf, and
beached her in a little creek between the cliffs, and made her fast to
a rock by stout cables. Only for a little time the valiant warden
watched them from afar, and then, one man against fifteen, he rode
quickly down and challenged the warriors.
"What are ye warlike men wielding bright weapons,
Wearing grey corselets and boar-adorned helmets,
Who o'er the water-paths come with your foaming keel
Ploughing the ocean surge? I was appointed
Warden of Denmark's shores; watch hold I by the wave
That on this Danish coast no deadly enemy
Leading troops over sea should land to injure.
None have here landed yet more frankly coming
Than this fair company: and yet ye answer not
The password of warriors, and customs of kinsmen.
Ne'er have mine eyes beheld a mightier warrior,
An earl more lordly than is he the chief of you;
He is no common man; if looks belie him not,
He is a hero bold, worthily weaponed.
Anon must I know of you kindred and country,
Lest ye of spies should go free on our Danish soil.
Now ye men from afar, sailing the surging sea,
Have heard my earnest thought: best is a quick reply,
That I may swiftly know whence ye have hither come."
Then Beowulf, with fearless eyes, gazed in the face of the warden and
told him simply and unboastfully who he was, from whence he came, and
what was his errand. He had come as the nation's deliverer, to slay
the thing that
"Cometh in dark of night, sateth his secret hate,
Worketh through fearsome awe, slaughter and shame."
With joy the warden heard his noble words.