clergyman, named Einar. He was well to do in the world, and had a
numerous family. No one cared less about fairy tales than he did. In
fact, he used to speak of fairies as if there were no such beings. In
his idle moments he would tauntingly dare them to shew themselves to
him; and then, as they did not choose to obey his orders, he would boast
that there were no fairies to come.
Well, on one night while asleep, he dreamed that a man came to his
bedside and said to him,
“You have provoked the fairies long, but now they will have their
revenge. From this time forward you shall not dare to deny their
existence. I will take away your eldest daughter, and you shall never
see her more.”
And sure enough, in the morning, when the clergyman awoke, he found that
his eldest daughter, who was twelve years of age, had disappeared.
Search was made for her in all directions, but nowhere could she be
found. As time passed on, she often made her appearance among her
brothers and sisters, while they were playing in the meadows. Again and
again, they tried to prevail on her to go home with them; but, just as
she seemed willing to do so, she always became invisible. When asked as
to her welfare, she always said that she was in good health, and kindly
treated by her new friends. Her father frequently saw her in his dreams,
and to him she told the same story, only adding that she was to be
married, bye and bye, to the fairy clergyman’s son. Some time after she
appeared to her father again in a dream, and invited him to come to her
marriage, which was to take place on the following day. This was the
last time he ever dreamed about her, and never after did she show
herself among her brothers and sisters.
THE CHANGELING.
It was a common belief, in olden times, that the fairies often took away
infant children who happened to be left alone, and changed them for
decrepit old men or women who were made to appear as children. These
changelings, however, neither grew nor spoke after the manner of
children, and were very apt to become idiots. It once happened that all
the people of a certain farm were working in the meadows, except the
mistress of the house who was at home looking after the house and her
little son, a boy three or four years old. Up to that time the boy had
thriven amazingly. He could talk well, and was a clever promising child.
As there was no one to assist the mother with the household work, one
day, she was obliged to leave the boy by himself for a short time, while
she went to wash the milk pails in a brook close by. On returning soon
after, she was surprised to find the boy, at the door, weeping and
howling in a strange uncouth way, very different from his wonted manner.
Usually he was very quiet, gentle and obedient, but now she could not
get a word out of him. Time passed on, but the child remained silent,
restless, and thoroughly untractable. His body ceased to grow, and his
behaviour was like that of an idiot. His mother could not account for
the strange change that had come over him. In the midst of her grief,
she at last bethought herself of going to take the advice of a neighbour
woman who was famous for her prudence and skill. The neighbour listened
attentively to all she had to say about the boy, and then said to her,
“Don’t you think, good wife, that the boy is a changeling? for, it seems
to me, that the fairies must have taken away your own boy the day you
left him alone, and have put another in his place.”
“How could I find out, if what you say is true?” said the surprised
mother.
“Oh, very easily, just go home, and take the first opportunity of
leaving the boy alone beside something that is likely to call forth his
surprise. When his eye catches what you have put purposely in his way,
if nobody is within sight, he is sure to make some remark about it to
himself. You must listen to what he says, and if you find anything
strange or suspicious about it, go in at once and flog him without
mercy, till something comes out of it.”
The boy’s mother thanked her neighbour humbly for her advice, and went
away home to put it into practice. The first thing she did on returning
was to place the little porridge pot in the middle of the kitchen floor.
She then bound a great many sticks together, so as to make a long rod,
and fastened the spurtle to one of the ends. The rod was so big, that
when the spurtle rested in the pot, the upper end was away up the
chimney. Leaving it in this position, she went away and fetched the boy
to the kitchen, and then left him all alone. On going out, she drew the
door behind her; but not so closely as to prevent her from peeping in to
see what was going on.
As soon as the boy thought he was alone, he began to trip round the pot,
wondering greatly what could be the meaning of the long spurtle. At last
he said, “Well, old as I am, and I am no chicken now, as my grey beard
and my eighteen children in Fairyland can testify, I never, in all my
born days, did see such a long spurtle for such a little porridge pot.”
This was enough for the mother, who was not long of making her
appearance in the kitchen with a good sized stick in her hand. Seizing
hold of the changeling, she flogged him unmercifully for a long while,
spite of his heart-rending cries.
Bye and bye a strange old woman walked in, holding on her arms a little
boy whom she fondled kindly. Addressing the farmer’s wife, she said,
“Why should you treat my husband so cruelly. Your conduct is a sorry
recompense for the care I have bestowed on this little boy of yours.” So
saying, she laid the little boy at his mother’s feet, and took her
husband away with her.
The fairy man and woman were never more seen again. The now recovered
boy remained with his parents, and grew up a fine manly youth, the joy
of his mother’s heart.[47]
-----
Footnote 42:
Sæmund Frodi, like other learned men of those days, was supposed to be
in possession of magic powers. He was the Friar Bacon of Iceland; and
these stories in which his name figures, handed down by tradition, are
still often told in Iceland by the fireside on the long winter
evenings. Curious to observe, that, in most mediæval stories of this
kind, Satan is always outwitted and gets the worst of it. A.J.S.
Footnote 43:
This story may explain the origin of the Scotch proverb, “Deil tak’
the hindmost.”—There is another version of Sæmund’s mode of escape;
viz.: That when he was about to be seized, pointing to his shadow on
the wall, he said, “I am not the hindmost, don’t you see him that is
coming behind me!” Old Nick then caught at the shadow, and thought it
was a man; but Sæmund got out, and the door was slammed on his heels.
But after that time, it is added, Sæmund was always without a shadow,
for Old Nick would not let his shadow free again. Here, in this
old-world story, we have the germ of Chamisso’s “Shadowless Man.”
A.J.S.
Footnote 44:
The reader will here be reminded of Aladdin’s Lamp, Genii, and of the
East, from whence these Stories also originally came in the days of
Odin.
Footnote 45:
To the right understanding of the story of “Biarni Sveinsson,” it must
be remembered that a superstition prevailed amongst the Icelanders
regarding the central deserts. These, they believed, were inhabited by
a strange mysterious race of men who held no intercourse with the
other inhabitants, and were said to be in the habit of kidnapping
women from the country. This belief may have had its origin in the
fact, that, in former days, some few outlaws and their families took
refuge in the deserts, and lived there for a time in order to escape
the hands of justice. A.J.S.
Footnote 46:
In Iceland vegetation is late.
Footnote 47:
These popular northern fireside stories and tales are partly gathered
from direct oral narration, and partly taken from a small volume,
“Islenzk Æfintyri,” the collection of Messrs. M. Grimson and J.
Arnason, published in Icelandic, at Reykjavik, in 1852.
II.
SPECIMENS OF ICELANDIC POEMS.
--------------
FROM THE “VÖLUSPÁ”
In the “Völuspá,”[48] from the older Edda, we have a sublime description
of chaos; of creation; an account of a period of strife, crime, and
suffering; dire conflicts between the powers of good and evil; of the
destruction of the world of Odin and the dissolution and conflagration
of the universe; of the Regnarök or twilight of the Gods; of the
renovated world, the descent of Baldur the Good, the punishment of the
wicked, and the happiness of the good in Gimlé or Heaven. From this
poem—the most remarkable in the whole range of Scandinavian
mytho-cosmogony—the following verses are extracted:
“It was time’s morning
When Ymer lived.
There was no sand, no sea;
No cooling billows;
Earth there was none,
No lofty heaven;
Only the Gulph of Ginunga,
But no grass.
· · · ·
The sun knew not
Where was his dwelling;
The stars knew not
That they had a firmament;
The moon knew not
What powers she possessed.
· · · ·
The tree Yggdrasil
Bears a sorer burden
Than men know of.
Above the stags bite it;
On its sides age rots it;
Nighögg gnaws below.
· · · ·
There saw she wade
In the heavy streams
Men—foul perjurers,
And murderers.
· · · ·
Brothers slay brothers:
Sisters’ children
Shed each other’s blood.
Hard is the world;
Sensual sin grows huge.
There are sword-ages, axe-ages,
Earth-cleaving cold;
Storm-ages, murder-ages,
Till the world falls dead,
And men no longer spare
Or pity one another.
· · · ·
Mimer’s sons play,
But the world is kindled
By the ancient
Gjallarhorn.
Loud blows Heimdall,
His sound is in the air:
Odin talks
With the head of Mimer.
Quivers then Yggdrasil,
The strong-rooted ash:
Rustles the old tree
When Jötun gives way.
All things tremble
In the realms of Hel,
Till Surtur’s son
Swallows up Odin.
Garmer he shouts
By the Gnipa-hall
The band must burst
And the wolf fly.
Hrymer drives eastward,
Bears his shield before him;
Jormungand welters
In giant fierceness.
The waves thunder;
The eagles scream;
Death rends the corpses
And Nagelfar gives way.
Köl hies eastward;
Come must Muspel’s
Folk to the sea.
Loke rows afar;
All the children of madness
Follow the wolf,
Bileist’s brother
Journeyeth with them.
Surtur fares southward.
With flickering flames
From his sword
God’s sun flashes.
Break the stone mountains;
The weird women flee,
Men throng Hel’s dread roads,
And Heaven is rent.”
Then Surtur flings fire over the world.
“The sun grows dark.
Earth sinks in the sea.
From heaven vanish
The lustrous stars.
High from the flames
Rolls the reek;
High play the fires
’Gainst heaven itself.
· · · ·
Up, sees she come
Yet once more,
The earth from the sea,
Gloriously green.
· · · ·
Then comes the Mighty One
To the great Judgment—
The great above all—
He who guides all things.
Judgments he utters;
Strifes he appeaseth;
Laws He ordaineth
To flourish for ever.
· · · ·
In Gimlé the lofty
There shall the hosts
Of the virtuous dwell,
And through all ages
Taste of deep gladness.”
FROM THE “SÓLAR LJÓD”
The “Sólar Ljód”—“Sol” or “Sun-song”—was composed by Sæmund himself, the
collector of the Edda, and a Christian priest, ages before the time of
Dante.
“By the Nornors’ seat
Nine days I sate,
Then to horse was lifted.
The sun of the giant race
Gleamed sadly
Out of heaven’s weeping clouds.
Without and within
Seemed I to journey
Through the seven worlds
Above and below.
Better path I sought
Than there was to find.
And now to be told is
What first I beheld
In the home of torture.
Scorched birds were flying—
Wretched souls in myriads,
Thick as mosquito legions.
Flying saw I
Hope’s dragons
And fall in drear waste places.
They shook their wings
Till to me seemed that
Heaven and earth were rent.
The stag of the sun
Southward saw I journey.
His feet stood
On earth, but his huge antlers
Traversed the heavens above him.
Northward saw I ride
The sons of the races;
Seven they were together.
From the full horn they drank
The purest mead
From wells of heavenly strength.
The winds stood still,
The waters ceased to flow.
Then heard I a dread cry.
There for their husbands
False vengeful women
Ground earth for food.
Bloody stones
Those women dark
Dragged sorrowfully,
Their gory hearts
Hung from their breasts
Weighed with heavy weights.
Many men
Along the burning ways
Sore wounded saw I go.
Their visages
Seemed deeply dyed
With blood in murder shed.
Many men
Saw I amongst the dead
Without one hope of grace.
Pagan stars there stood
Over their heads
All scored with cruel runes.
Men saw I too
Who enviously had scowled
Upon the good of others.
Bloody runes
Were on their breasts
Ploughed out by hands of men.
Men saw I there
All full of woe,
All mazed in wondering.
This do they win
Who to eternal loss
Love this world only.
Men saw I too
Who sought always to snatch
From others their possessions.
In throngs they were,
And to the miser’s hell
Bore groaning loads of lead.
Men saw I next
Who many had bereaved
Of life and goods,
And through the hearts of these
For ever fiercely ran
Strong venom snakes.
Men too I saw
Who never would observe
Sabbaths and holy days.
Their unblessed hands
Fast rivetted together
With ever burning stones.
Men too I saw
Who with huge brag and boast
On earth did vaunt themselves.
Here their clothes
Were vilely squalid
And with fire enwrapt.
Men saw I too
Who with their slanderous breath
Had blasted others.
Hel’s ravens
Remorselessly their eyes
Tore from their heads.
But all the horrors
Thou canst not know
Which Hel’s condemned endure.
Sweet sins
There bitterly are punished,
False pleasures reap true pain.
· · · ·
Men did I see
Who the Lord’s laws
Had followed stanchly.
Purest light
For ever growing clearer
Passed brightly o’er their heads.
Men did I see
Who with unwearied zeal
Did seek the good of others.
Angels read
The holy books
Upon their radiant heads.
Men did I see
Who with sharp fasts
Their bodies had subdued;
God’s holy hosts
Before them all bow’d down
And paid them highest homage.
Men did I see
Who had their mothers
Piously cherished,
And their place of rest
Amid heaven’s beams
Shone gloriously.
Holy maids there were
Who their pure souls
Had kept unsoiled by sin,
And souls of those
Who their rebellious flesh
Did ever sternly quail.
Lofty chariots saw I
Travel through heaven
Having access to God;
And they were filled with those
Who causelessly
Had on the earth been slain.
Father Almighty!
Illustrious Son!
And Holy Spirit of Heaven.
Thee do I implore,
Who didst make all things,
To keep us from all sin!”
Sæmund concludes this remarkable poem with these strophes:
“This song
Which I have taught thee
Thou shalt sing unto the living.
The Sun’s song,
Which in its solemn theme
Hath little that is feigned.
Here do we part,
But part again to meet
On the Great Day of men.
Oh, my Lord!
Give the dead rest,
Comfort to those who live!
Wonderful wisdom,
To thee in dream is sung,
’Tis truth which thou hast seen!
And no man is so wise
Of all who are created
As, ere this, to have heard
One word of this Sun’s Song!”
FROM THE POEMS RELATING TO SIGURD & BRYNHILD.
From the heroic poems relating to Sigurd and Brynhild—the originals from
which the German “Niebelungen-lied” is taken—the following passage is
extracted. In it Gudrun, in conversation with Thjodreck, describes her
youth before the murder of Sigurd: “A maid was I amongst maidens; my
mother reared me lovely in bower. Well loved I my brothers, till me
Gjuké apportioned with gold, with gold apportioned and gave me to
Sigurd. So raised himself, Sigurd, over the sons of Gjuké, as the green
lily above the grass grows; or the high-antlered stag, above other
beasts; or the fire-red gold above the silver grey. My brothers were
incensed that I should have a husband more illustrious than any. Sleep
they could not, nor decide on anything, before they Sigurd had caused to
perish. Grangé (Sigurd’s steed) galloped to the _Ting_ (assembly of the
people), wild was his neighing, but Sigurd himself was not there. All
the horses were covered with sweat, and with blood of the contenders.
“Weeping I went to speak to Grané, the blood sprinkled; of his master I
asked him; then hung down Grané mournfully his head, for the creature
knew that his lord was not living. Long did I wander, long was I
confused in mind before of the Prince I could ask after my King.”
The “Hávamál”—“Odin’s High Song”—displays a shrewd insight into human
nature, and contains many maxims, both of a moral and social kind, which
one would scarcely expect to find embodied in the heathen ethics of an
ancient Scandinavian Scald. The whole poem is here presented to the
reader.
HÁVAMÁL.
I.
“In every corner
Carefully look thou
Ere forth thou goest;
For insecure
Is the house when an enemy
Sitteth therein.
II.
Hail him who giveth!
Enters a guest.
Where shall he be seated?
Yet, ill shall fare he
Who seeks his welfare
In other men’s houses.
III.
Fire will be needful
For him who enters
With his knees frozen.
Of meat and clothing
Stands he in need
Who journeys o’er mountains.
IV.
Water is needful,
A towel and kindness
For this guest’s welcome;
Kind inclinations
Let him experience;
Answer his questions.
V.
Good sense is needful
To the far traveller;
Each place seems home to him.
He is a laughing-stock
Who, knowing nothing,
Sits mid the wise.
VI.
With the deep thinker
Speak thou but little;
But guard well thy temper;
When the noble and silent
Come to thy dwelling,
Least errs the cautious.
VII.
Good sense is needful
To the far traveller;
Least errs the cautious;
For a friend trustier
Than good understanding
Findeth man never.
VIII.
A cautious guest
When he comes to his hostel
Speaketh but little;
With his ears he listeneth;
With his eyes he looketh;
Thus the wise learneth.
IX.
Happy is he
Who for himself winneth
Honour and friends.
All is uncertain,
Which a man holdeth
In the heart of another.
X.
Happy is he
Who prudent guidance
From himself winneth;
For evil counsel
Man oft receiveth
From the breast of another.
XI.
No better burden
Bears a man on his journey
Than mickle wisdom.
Better is she than gold
Where he is a stranger;
In need she is a helper.
XII.
No better burden
Bears a man on his journey
Than mickle wisdom.
No worse provision
Takes a man on his journey
Than frequent drunkenness.
XIII.
Ale is not so good
As people have boasted
For the children of men.
For less and still less,
As more he drinketh,
Knows man himself.
XIV.
The hern of forgetfulness
Sits on the drunkard,
And steals the man’s senses.
By the bird’s pinions,
Fettered I lay,
In Gunlada’s dwelling.
XV.
Drunken I lay,
Lay thoroughly drunken,
With Fjalar the wise.
This is the best of drink,
That every one afterwards
Comes to his senses.
XVI.
Be silent and diligent,
Son of a Prince,
And daring in combat;
Cheerful and generous,
Let every man be,
Till death approaches.
XVII.
A foolish man fancies
He shall live for ever
If he shuns combat.
But old age will give
To him no quarter,
Although the spear may.
XVIII.
The fool stares about
When he goes on a visit,
Talks nonsense or slumbers.
All goes well
When he can drink,
For then the man speaks his mind.
XIX.
He, he only
Who has far travelled,
Has far and wide travelled,
Knoweth every
Temper of man,
If he himself is wise.
XX.
If cups thou lackest
Yet drink thou by measure:
Speak what is seemly or be still.
No one will charge thee
With evil, if early
Thou goest to slumber.
XXI.
The gluttonous man,
Though he may not know it,
Eats his life’s sorrow:
Lust of drink, often
Makes the fool, foolish
When he comes mid the prudent.
XXII.
The flocks they have knowledge
When to turn homeward
And leave the green pastures;
But he who is foolish
Knoweth no measure,
No bounds to his craving.
XXIII.
An evil man
And a carping temper
Jeer at all things.
He knows not;
He ought to know,
That himself is not faultless.
XXIV.
A foolish man
Lies awake the night through
And resolves on many things.
Thus is he weary
When the day cometh;
The old care remaineth.
XXV.
A foolish man
Thinks all are friendly
Who meet him with smiles;
But few he findeth
Who will aid his cause,
When to the Ting he cometh.
XXVI.
A foolish man
Thinks all are friendly
Who meet him with smiles.
Nor knows he the difference
Though they laugh him to scorn
When he sits ’mong the knowing ones.
XXVII.
A foolish man
Thinks he knows everything
While he needs not the knowledge.
But he knows not
How to make answer
When he is questioned.
XXVIII.
A foolish man,
When he comes into company
Had better keep silence.
No one remarketh
How little he knows
Till he begins talking.
XXIX.
He appears wise
Who can ask questions
And give replies.
Ever conceal then
The failings of others,
The children of men.
XXX.
Who cannot keep silence
Uttereth many
A word without purport.
The tongue of the garrulous,
Which keepeth back nothing,
Talks its own mischief.
XXXI.
Hold in derision
No one, although he
Come as a stranger.
Many a one, when he has had
Rest and dry clothing,
Thou mayest find to be wise.
XXXII.
He seemeth wise
Who in speech triumphs
O’er mocking guests.
The talkative man
Knows not at the table
If he talks with his enemies.
XXXIII.
Many are friendly
One to another;
Yet storm ariseth.
Strife will arise
For ever, if one guest
Affronteth another.
XXXIV.
Thou mayst dine early
Unless thou art going
Unto the banquet.
Sits he and flatters;
Hungry he seemeth,
Yet few things he learneth.
XXXV.
Long is the journey
To a deceitful friend
Though he dwell near thee.
But, direct lies the path
To a friend faithful,
Though he dwelleth afar off.
XXXVI.
Do not too frequently
Unto the same place
Go as a guest.
Sweet becomes sour
When a man often sits
At other men’s tables.
XXXVII.
One good house is there
Though it be humble:
Each man is master at home.
Though a man own but
Two goats and a straw-rick,
’Tis better than begging.
XXXVIII.
One good house is there
Though it be humble:
Each man is master at home.
The man’s heart bleedeth
At every mealtime
Who his food beggeth.
XXXIX.
Without his weapon
Goes no man
A-foot in the field.
For it is unsafe
Out on the by-paths
When weapons are needful.
XL.
Never found I so generous,
So hospitable a man
As to be above taking gifts.
Nor one of his money
So little regardful
But that it vexed him to lend.
XLI.
He who has laid up
Treasures of wealth
Finds want hard to bear.
Adversity often uses
What was meant for prosperity,
For many things are contrary to expectation.
XLII.
With weapons and garments,
As best may be fitting
Give thou thy friends pleasure.
By gifts interchanged
Is friendship made surest;
If the heart proffers them.
XLIII.
Let a man towards his friend,
Ever be friendly,
And with gifts make return for gifts.
With thy cheerful friend
Be thou cheerful;
With thy guileful friend on thy guard.
XLIV.
Let a man towards his friend
Ever be friendly;
Towards him and his friend.
But with an enemy’s friend
Can no man
Be friendly.
XLV.
If thou hast a friend
Whom thou canst confide in
And wouldst have joy of his friendship,
Then, mingle thy thoughts with his,
Give gifts freely,
And often be with him.
XLVI.
If thou hast another,
Whom thou hast no faith in
Yet wouldst have joy of his friendship,
Thou must speak smoothly;
Thou must think warily,
And with cunning pay back his guile.
XLVII.
Yet one word
About him thou mistrusteth
And in whom thou hast no reliance.
Thou must speak mildly,
More so than thou meanest;
Paying back like with like.
XLVIII.
Young was I formerly;
Then alone went I,
Taking wrong ways.
Rich seemed I to myself
When I found a companion;
For man is man’s pleasure.
XLIX.
The noble, the gentle
Live happiest,
And seldom meet sorrow.
But the foolish man,
He is suspicious,
And a niggard grieves to give.
L.
I hung my garments
On the two wooden men
Who stand on the wall.
Heroes they seemed to be
When they were clothed!
The unclad are despised.
LI.
The tree withereth
Which stands in the court-yard
Without shelter of bark or of leaf.
So is a man
Destitute of friends.
Why should he still live on?
LII.
Even as fire,
Burns peace between enemies,
For the space of five days.
But on the seventh
It is extinguished,
And the less is their friendship.
LIII.
Only a little
Will a man give;
He often gets praise for a little.
With half a loaf
And a full bottle
I won a companion.
LIV.
Small are the sand-grains,
Small are the water-drops:
Small human thoughts:
Yet are not these
Each of them equal.
Every century bears but one man.
LV.
Good understanding
Ought all to possess,—
But not too much wisdom.
Those human beings
Whose lives are the brightest,
Know much and know it well.
LVI.
Good understanding
Ought all to possess,
But not too much knowledge.
For the heart of a wise man
Seldom is gladdened
By knowledge of all things.
LVII.
Good understanding
Ought all to possess,
But not too much knowledge.
Let no one beforehand
Inquire his own fortune.
The gladdest heart knoweth it not.
LVIII.