CHAPTER I.

DENMARK.

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]

[Sidenote: 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]

[Sidenote: 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]

[Sidenote: 935 to 964.]

HARALD II. surnamed _Blaatand_, or Blue-tooth, seems, during the last

six years of his father’s life, to have been either associated in the

government with that king, or to have ruled as his deputy. In 941,

however, on the death of Gorm, he was the undisputed heir of the

monarchy. The early part of his reign was most brilliant; the latter

disastrous. Soon after his accession, his aid was implored by his

countrymen in Normandy. Most readers are aware that, in the latter half

of the preceding century, Rollo, assisted by perpetual reinforcements

from the north, had wrested that province from the kings of France, and,

in 912, on his baptism, had been declared the lawful duke of his new

conquest. In 927, the veteran warrior, exhausted by age and fatigue, had

resigned the dignity to his son William Longsword. In 943, this duke was

assassinated, and his son Richard, a child, was left exposed to the

hostilities of Louis d’Outremer, who naturally wished to recover that

fine province, and confide the government to a French, not to a Norman,

vassal. Louis led an army into Normandy, defeated the troops which the

regency opposed to him, and obtained possession of the young duke’s

person. In this emergency the Normans applied for aid to Harald, whose

warlike actions were well known to them. In 944, that is, in a year

after duke William’s assassination, the Danish king appeared off

Cherburg, with a considerable armament. Alarmed at the danger, Louis had

recourse to negotiation; and at the personal interview which followed,

the dispute would, in all probability, have been amicably arranged, had

not some chiefs of both armies begun to quarrel. This quarrel led to a

general engagement, in which Louis was vanquished, and made prisoner. To

obtain his liberty, he was compelled to release the young duke, whose

right to the fief he also recognised. This was a proud day for Harald,

who returned to Denmark with a reputation unrivalled in the north. His

next exploit was similar—to place on the throne of Norway (now a

monarchy) the sons of Eric, whom Hako, the reigning king, had driven

into exile. His arms were successful; and he restored to Harald Grafeld

the sceptre of the father. Twelve years afterwards, this prince being

assassinated (an event of very usual occurrence in the history of the

north), the Danish king went a second time into Norway, subdued the

country, and divided it into three kingdoms. One portion he confided,

under the ordinary feudal obligations, to Harald Grenshi, a prince of

the family; a second, subject to the same homage and service, was

bestowed on jarl Hako; the third, which was the lion’s share, was

reserved to the Danish crown; and from all a large annual tribute was

exacted. This policy was injurious enough to Norway, however useful it

might be to Denmark. And it was scarcely less hurtful to England, since

it augmented the power of the Danish kings, so as to render them

formidable enemies to this island. In his next expedition, which was

against no less a personage than the emperor Otho I., he was less happy.

Embracing the cause of a rebel whom Otho had placed under the ban of the

empire, and learning that the monarch was absent in Italy, he made a

fierce irruption into Saxony, and, we are told, put to death the

ambassadors of Otho. He had little difficulty in driving the imperial

garrison from Sleswic, and in destroying that important fortress. On the

return of Otho, however, who lost no time in avenging the indignity

offered to the empire, Holstein was speedily overrun, and he driven into

the north of Jutland. He was compelled to treat with the victor; and his

states were left him on the condition of his baptism, and that of his

son Sweyn, and of helping, instead of impeding, the progress of

Christianity in his dominions. That on this occasion he did homage for

them to the emperor, is asserted by the German, and denied by most

native, historians. The subject may occupy our attention for a few

moments.[96]

[Sidenote: 964.]

That Harald did homage to Otho for the whole of Denmark,—that country

being subdued and rendered tributary by the latter,—is expressly

asserted by Sweyn Aggesen, a Danish writer of the twelfth century.[97]

It is equally affirmed by Adam of Bremen, who wrote within half a

century of Harald’s death, and who is better acquainted with the

transactions of Holstein and Jutland than all the writers of his

age.[98] And it is inferred, from a privilege granted by Otho to the

church of Hamburg, exempting the lands of three bishoprics just created

in Denmark—Aarhuus, Sleswic, Rypen—from all contributions to the state,

from all dependence on the secular government; and extending the same

privilege to all the lands which those churches might hereafter possess

throughout Denmark. To weaken the effect of these testimonies has been

the object of native writers. But what are their reasons? Too feeble to

have any weight out of Denmark. They insist that Sweyn was misled by the

authority of Adam of Bremen; that Adam, himself, was an ignorant

ecclesiastic, who readily assented to whatever Otho assumed; and that

the privilege in question, of which the authenticity cannot be denied,

is of no weight,—a pure formula of the imperial chancellor, dictated,

indeed, by an ambitious, all-grasping court, but founded on no real

conquest, much less vassalage. To answer such objections would be an

insult to the reader’s understanding. There can be no doubt of the

emperor’s feudal supremacy over Denmark, any more than over Bohemia, or

Poland, or Lombardy. It has, indeed, been contended that if Otho had a

spiritual, he had no temporal jurisdiction; that he might be the

protector, the superintendent, the head of the rising church, without

having the least authority over the state. But this allegation is at

variance with all reason and with all history. Would a sovereign have

the insane effrontery to say what lands shall, and what shall not, pay

taxes, unless he had some authority over them? Would he exempt them from

contributing towards the support of the crown, unless that crown were in

some degree dependent on him? And where is there any example of such

unlicensed interference? But we all know that vassalitic obligations

were of various kinds, some oppressive enough, others little more than

nominal; and we may admit that though Harald was compelled to do homage,

and even to pay a yearly tribute, he remained independent so far as his

internal administration was concerned. It was the policy of Otho to

christianise the kingdom—to transform restless barbarians into civilised

creatures—to humanise the fiercest of pagans by the influence of a mild

and powerful religion. Without such a change, he saw no security for his

northern frontier. But in striving to attain this object, great

moderation was necessary: he did not wish to exasperate, where his

interest was so obviously to induce the most friendly relations; still

less would he, by severe exactions,—exactions, however, which his

position as conqueror might have enabled him to enforce,—indispose the

minds of a high-spirited prince and a warlike people, against the faith

which he wished them to embrace.[99]

[Sidenote: 964.]

But miracles were no longer wrought in the time of the Othos. If Harald

and some of his people outwardly conformed to the religion of Christ,

they were still influenced by that of Odin. Besides, to both the

national independence was dear; and we cannot be surprised at the

hostile feeling with which the Danes regarded the Germans. During the

life of the first Otho, indeed, there was outward harmony; but in about

a year after the accession of the second (974), he joined the party of

Henry duke of Bavaria, then a rebel, and made several irruptions into

Saxony. On the defeat of that powerful vassal, Otho penetrated into

Jutland, and advanced as far as the Sound which bears his name. With the

result of this war we are not acquainted; but probably Harald submitted.

The events, however, of both wars, which have been frequently confounded

into one, are very doubtful. A more certain fact is, that the good

fortune of Harald now forsook him. He failed in an expedition against

Norway, which had thrown off its vassalage. Nor was this the worst: his

son Sweyn, who had been baptized with him, rebelled against him. The

motives which led the prince in this undutiful conduct are unknown.

Probably the chief was the desire of power; and as his nature was

ferocious, he scrupled not to bear arms against his father. There is

also some reason to believe that he was the instrument of a great

party,—the old pagans, who could not behold with much pleasure the

gradual progress of the new faith, and the consequent decline of their

own. _His_ conversion was not, like his father’s, very sincere; or,

perhaps, he cared not for either religion, so that his ambition was

gratified. As the pagans were still the more numerous subjects of the

state, he became at once their patron and their tool. The war was short,

and Harald was compelled to flee. He sought a refuge in Normandy, and by

duke Richard, we are told, was restored to at least a portion of his

dominions. How far this relation is true, we cannot, in the absence of

contemporary authority, decide. A more certain fact is, that, in 991, he

was assassinated by the procurement of his own son. He was walking on

the skirts of a wood, when an arrow from the bow of a Jomsberg pirate

belonging to a band in the pay of Sweyn, laid him in the dust.[100]

Such was the fate of a monarch whose memory was dear to the early

Christians of Denmark. He was the first monarch that openly professed

the new religion; and the constancy with which he adhered to it affords

indisputable proof of his sincerity. From Ledra, the ancient seat of the

Odinic superstition, he removed his court to Roskild, where he erected a

cathedral to the most holy Trinity. This was a politic step; connected

with the new capital were no ancient recollections to remind the

idolater of the faith of his fathers. The foundation of three other

bishoprics attested his zeal. The reverence in which this monarch was

held in the centuries immediately following his death, and a passage, of

which the application was mistaken, in the History of Adam of Bremen,

nearly led to his canonisation.[101]

[Sidenote: 991.]

On the tragical death of Harald, the sceptre devolved to the unnatural

_Sweyn_. As the majority of the people were still pagans, the accession

of this prince was beheld with satisfaction; for though, perhaps, he did

not openly apostatise, he encouraged the old religion, and rebuilt many

of the temples which had been destroyed. And he was the ally of the

Jomsburg pirates, the leader of whom shot the arrow which had proved

fatal to Harald. Yet Harald was the founder of that city,—one of the

most famous in the annals of the world. It was situated near the great

lake of Pomerania, on the site of the modern Wollin. It was avowedly

built for a piratical fortress; yet the founders could not anticipate

the greatness which it afterwards retained. Its first governor, who was

also its legislator, was a pirate chief, Palnatoko, whose skill as an

archer was never equalled in the north. He decreed that no man who had

ever shown the slightest fear, even in the greatest dangers, should be a

member of the new community. No Christian was admitted, because

Christianity was supposed to enfeeble the mind; but people of all other

religions and of all countries were received; and each of the great

European nations had a street of its own. It was the last place of the

north which was humanised by the religion of Christ; and probably it

would longer have defied the general influence of that faith, had not

its riches enervated the vigour of its inhabitants, and intestine

dissensions still further weakened it, so as to render it a prey to its

enemies. Palnatoko, the assassin of Harald, had been long resident at

the Danish court, and had been the tutor of Sweyn; and to that barbarous

deed he was, we are told, excited by a personal injury. His skill in

archery was the quality on which he most prided himself, and he was

accustomed to boast that he could hit an apple, however small, on the

top of a pole. This boast, which was regarded as an arrogant display,

made him some enemies. It reached Harald, who insisted that the archer’s

own child should supply the place of the pole; and threatened, that if

the first arrow missed its aim, his own head should bear the penalty. As

there was no hope of changing the royal determination, Palnatoko warned

his child to be steady—not to flinch hand or foot—not to move a muscle

of his body, when the arrow approached. On the day appointed, the

dreaded experiment was tried; and the apple was cloven, while the child

remained uninjured. But the archer had three arrows, and being asked

what he had intended to do with the remaining two, he replied, that had

he been the death of innocence, the guilty contriver of the experiment

should not have escaped.—Such is the story which Saxo has preserved.

That it has given rise to the fabulous one of William Tell, must be

apparent to the reader; for the Danish historian wrote a full century

before the Swiss patriot flourished. Nor do we think that Saxo’s account

is the original one: the circumstance probably took place centuries

before the reign of Harald Blaatand, and became a portion of the

“legendary lore” the origin of which is so mysterious. Whether this

incident be true or false in regard to Harald and this archer, the

latter joined Sweyn, and, as we have already related, caused the death

of the former.[102]

[Sidenote: 991.]

In the early part of this monarch’s reign we meet with much obscurity,

much contradiction. We are told that in return for his rebellion against

his father, and for his restoration of paganism, he was doomed to great

bitterness of suffering; that he was thrice a prisoner among the

pirates, and thrice redeemed by his people. For the last act of

redemption he is said to have been indebted to Danish ladies, who,

seeing that the money of the state was wholly exhausted by the preceding

ransoms, contributed their choicest ornaments for that purpose. For this

generosity, adds Saxo, the grateful Sweyn passed a law, that, in future,

females should, like males, succeed, by inheritance, to a portion of

their father’s property. Such a law certainly existed, and it may

possibly be referred to Sweyn; but in regard to the circumstances which

gave rise to it, there is room for scepticism. That a powerful

monarch—for such Sweyn always was—should be _thrice_ captured by

pirates,—the pirates, too, of Jomsberg,—is surely unparalleled in the

history of the world. Yet the relation alike of Saxo and Sweyn Aggesen

must have had some foundation in truth. The probability is, that the

king, _prior to his accession_, was _once_ a captive, and that the

monastic writers of the following age mistook the time and multiplied

the circumstances.[103] Those venerable fathers, struck with horror at

the filial no less than the religious impiety of this king, were ready

to adopt, without examination, the most unfavourable reports concerning

him. Another statement, that Sweyn was expelled from his kingdom by Eric

of Sweden, and that he remained almost fifteen years in exile, fourteen

of which he spent in Scotland, is entitled to just the same credit. His

father, we are told, died in 991; yet in 994 he was powerful enough to

begin the conquest of England; and from that year to the period of his

death, in 1014, he was always in this country, or in Denmark. Where,

then, are these sixteen years to be inserted? Assuredly no chasm can be

found for them between 991 and 1014. Other circumstances demonstrate the

falsehood of the relation,—a relation, however, adopted by the most

recent historians. On his expulsion, we are told, he applied for the

common rights of hospitality to Olaf Trygveson of Norway, but was

spurned by that prince. This conduct of Olaf, says Saxo, was the less

justifiable, as Sweyn had assisted him to regain the throne of Norway.

Let us for a moment attend to dates. Sweyn’s restoration to his country,

after his fifteen years of exile, is placed in the year 994; and as Olaf

was the first monarch to whom he applied, this application must have

been made about 979. But Olaf did not return to Norway before 996. How

much earlier than this year must he have been assisted by Sweyn? Yet for

this, as for the preceding relation, there was probably some basis. If

Sweyn ever was in exile,—and there is some reason to infer that he was,

during his hostility with his father,—that exile was before the death of

Harald, and consequently before his accession to the monarchy. It may

possibly be that he was at one time prior to that event king of some

portion of the monarchy,—perhaps of Scania; and this conjecture would at

once account for the facility with which Eric expelled him. However this

be, there can be no doubt that if this banishment be a fact, it must be

referred to a period long prior to 991. What confirms this conjecture

is, the statement of Saxo, that the monarch to whom Sweyn next applied

was Edward king of England. This was evidently Edward the Martyr, who

ascended the throne in 975, and was assassinated in 978,—a period which

will exactly agree with the duration assigned to his exile.[104]

[Sidenote: 991 to 993.]

All writers allow that Sweyn, soon after his accession, sent or led an

armament against Hako, the usurper of Norway. Snorro assures us that

this expedition was planned by the Jomsberg pirates, who were invited to

celebrate the funeral solemnities of Harald (that is, to get drunk) at

the court of Sweyn; and he adds that the same vow was taken in regard to

England. The vows of drunken men are not usually remembered; but these

pirates remembered theirs but too well. With sixty vessels, filled by

the bravest heroes of the republic, they hastened to the Norwegian

coast; there they separated, and were separately assailed by jarl Hako,

his son, and other chiefs of the kingdom. But, desperate as was the

valour of the pirates, their numbers were too few, in comparison with

those of the enemy, to fulfil their oath of taking Harald alive, or

expelling him from Norway. They were signally defeated, though not until

prodigies of valour had been effected by them. The contempt in which

they beheld death is horribly illustrated by Snorro. Thirty of them

being captured, their feet were tied by a rope, and they were carried on

shore. They were placed on benches, in a right line, each near to the

other, awaiting their death. Thorkil, a Norwegian jarl, advanced with a

huge sword, and anticipated much pleasure from the exercise of killing

them in detail. Accosting the chief of them, he said, “So, Vagne, thou

madest a vow to put me to death; but it seems more likely that I shall

have the honour of sending thee with my apology.” The pirate looked at

him with much contempt. Beginning at the end of the line, he struck off

the heads of many in succession, who faithfully observed the condition

of their order,—never to exhibit the shadow of a fear. One desired the

jarl to strike him in the forehead, and to look whether he should so

much as blink his eyes. The next victim held in his hand the backbone of

a fish. “I will wager thee,” he said to Thorkil, “that, after my head is

off, I shall be able to plunge this bone into the ground!” But the boast

was vain: when his head left his body, the bone fell from his hand.

“Injure not my hair!”[105] cried another, as he stretched out his neck

to receive the blow. An attendant held the long tresses with both hands,

while the executioner struck; but, at the moment, the pirate threw back

his head, and the sword amputated the two hands of the courtier, without

injuring the pirate. Great was the triumph of the latter; and Eric, the

son of Hako, admiring his intrepidity, procured his pardon. Another,

Vagne, one of the chiefs, was pushed against the executioner by his next

fellow; Thorkil fell, and, in so doing, his sword cut the rope which

bound the pirate, who, seizing the weapon, beheaded the Norwegian jarl.

Eric, too, procured _his_ pardon. Eighteen being in this manner slain,

the visitors began to feel some admiration for the rest. “Wilt thou

accept the offer of thy life?” was demanded of the next. “That,” replied

the man, who would not receive even life from an ignoble hand, “depends

on the dignity of the giver!” Jarl Eric, the son of Hako, was named, and

the offer was accepted. “Wilt thou?” was addressed to another. “Not

unless my companions are spared also!” was the reply; and they were

spared.[106]

[Sidenote: 991 to 1001.]

If the expedition against Norway thus failed, very different was the

issue of that directed against England. During the greater part of a

century, this island had been unmolested by the pirates. Alfred, towards

the close of his reign, had humbled them; Edward the elder had signally

triumphed over them; and the name of Athelstane had been dreaded by all

the rovers of the sea. There had been battles, indeed, with the Danish

state of Northumberland, which, prior to Athelstane’s reign, had formed

no part of the Saxon confederation; but the coasts of central and

northern England had been undisturbed. On the accession of Ethelred,

however, the scourge was resumed. In 991, a large force appeared before

Ipswich, and marched to Malden, laying waste the country on every side.

On this occasion Brithnoth, the Saxon governor of Essex, was slain; and

his fate has been related in a poem, from which copious extracts may be

found in a volume connected with the present.[107] These formidable

invaders, as every child knows, were bribed to leave England; and, as

every child knows, they soon returned in greater numbers than before.

Even when steel, instead of gold, was to be the tribute, a cowardly and

treacherous commander, Alfric of Mercia, was intrusted with the defence

of England. In the following years, every province was desolated. In

994, Sweyn himself appeared in the Thames with a formidable fleet. He

had an ally, Olaf, the son of Trygve, who, since infancy, had never been

in Norway, and whose piratical exploits had been celebrated from Russia

to Ireland.[108] His attack on London was repelled; but Essex, Kent,

Sussex, and Hampshire suffered dreadfully from his depredations, and

those of his ally. As before, though the number of pirates did not

exceed 10,000, money was offered by the despicable Ethelred. Olaf, on

receiving it, visited the court of the Saxon king, received the rite of

confirmation (he had previously been baptized in one of the Scilly

islands), and promised never again to molest the English coast. We hear

no more of his depredations: but whether his forbearance was owing to

his promise, or to his departure for Norway, the throne of which he

ascended in little more than a year from this period, may well be

doubted.[109] But Sweyn had no such moderation. In about three years

from the payment of the 16,000_l._, he appeared in the south-west

counties, advanced into Sussex and Hampshire, laying waste everything in

his passage, and wintered as securely as if he had been naturalised: no

opposition was made to his progress. Kent was next ravaged; and the

whole of England would, no doubt, have become Danish, had not Sweyn been

recalled to contend with a more formidable enemy, Olaf of Norway. One

year after the death of that monarch[110], that is, in 1001, the Danes

returned to a country where they had found no enemies, but abundance of

prey. Another heavy ransom, and extensive estates in different parts of

the kingdom, procured a temporary cessation of hostilities.[111]

[Sidenote: 1001 to 1003.]

If Ethelred could not oppose the enemy in the field, and if his coffers

were exhausted, he had still one resource left,—that of a general

massacre. The day before the festival of St. Brice, the authorities of

every city and town received secret letters from the court, commanding

them and the people everywhere to rise at a certain hour, to fall on the

unarmed, unsuspicious Danes, and not to spare one of them. The order was

too well obeyed, and the English nation made itself equally guilty with

its king. Many of the victims were naturalised; many had English

husbands or wives; more were on terms of intimacy with the natives, and,

at the moment this bloody mandate was executed, were sharing the

hospitality of their huts. Nobody was spared: decrepit age and helpless

infancy, youth and beauty, pleaded in vain. Even Gunhilda, sister of

Sweyn, a convert to Christianity and the wife of an English earl,

suffered with the rest; but not until she had seen her husband and son

beheaded in her presence. This was not the mere act of the crown, nor

that of a few courtiers, nor that of the municipal authorities: it was

that of the English nation. Retribution, as Gunhilda had prophesied, was

at hand; and every reader will rejoice that it was so. Sweyn no sooner

heard of the massacre, than he swore never to rest until he had

inflicted a terrible vengeance on the people. He no longer wished for

booty, merely: he would also destroy. With a fleet of three hundred

sail, he steered to the west of the island, landed in Cornwall,

commenced his devastating career, reached Exeter, which he took by

assault, set it on fire, and massacred the inhabitants. From thence he

proceeded into Wiltshire, where fire and sword did their work, and

passed by way of Salisbury to the sea coast, laden with plunder. No

attempt was made to arrest his destructive progress: a Saxon force under

Alfric had, indeed, assembled; but it would not fight, and it retired

covered with the derision of the invaders.[112]

[Sidenote: 1003 to 1009.]

The winter of 1003 Sweyn passed in Denmark; in the following year he was

again in England. His destructive career now commenced in the eastern

counties; but this year they terminated sooner than could have been

foreseen. A famine—the result of preceding depredations—afflicted the

land; and as provisions in sufficient abundance could not be found, the

pirates returned home for a season. The deplorable cowardice of the

troops, the imbecility of the governors, from Ethelred down to the

meanest thane, was never equalled in any other country. This condition

is well described by Turketul in a letter to Sweyn:—“A country

illustrious and powerful; a king asleep, caring only for women and wine,

trembling at the very mention of war, hated by his own people, despised

by foreigners; generals envious of one another; governors who fly at the

first shout of battle.” This weak and vicious king had the felicity to

convert his friends into enemies at the very time he most needed their

assistance. In 1002 he married the princess Emma of Normandy; but his

behaviour to her was so grossly offensive, so brutal, that her father,

duke Richard I., joined in making him still more contemptible by

imprisoning or killing his subjects who happened to pass through

Normandy. The pirates of Sweyn soon returned to consummate their work.

In 1006 a heavy sum was paid them; the following year they demanded an

equal sum, and declared that, in future, it must be annually paid by way

of tribute. Some feeble efforts were made to defend the country; but the

leaders of the fleet which had been raised turned their arms against one

another. Thus fell the hopes of the nation, which prepared its neck for

the most galling yoke that had ever afflicted it.[113]

[Sidenote: 1010.]