sides bristling with armed men; “and when they saw her, none spoke, all knew it to be indeed the ‘Serpent,’–and they went to their ships to arm for the fight.” As soon as Olaf and his forces had been enticed into the narrow passage, the united fleets of the three allies pour out of the Sound; his people beg Olaf to hold on his way and not risk battle with such a superior force; but the King replied, high on the quarter-deck where he stood, “Strike the sails! I never fled from battle: let God dispose of my life, but flight I will never take!” He then orders the warhorns to sound, for all his ships to close up to each other. “Then,” says Ulf the Red, captain of the forecastle, “if the ‘Long Serpent’ is to lie so much a-head of the other vessels, we shall have hot work of it here on the forecastle.”
The King replies, “I did not think I had a forecastle man afraid, as well as red.” [Footnote: There is a play on these two words in the Icelandic, “Raudau oc Ragan.”]
Says Ulf, “Defend thou the quarter-deck, as _I_ shall the forecastle.”
The King had a bow in his hands; he laid an arrow on the string, and made as if he aimed at Ulf.
Ulf said, “Shoot another way, King, where it is more needful,–my work is thy gain.”
Then the King asks, “Who is the chief of the force right opposite to us?” He is answered, “Svend of Denmark, with his army.”
Olaf replies, “We are not afraid of these soft Danes! Who are the troops on the right?”
They answer, “Olaf of Sweden, and his forces.”
“Better it were,” replies the King, “for these Swedes to be sitting at home, killing their sacrifices, than venturing under the weapons of the ‘Long Serpent.’ But who owns the large ships on the larboard side of the Danes?”
“That is Jarl Eric, son of Hacon,” say they.
The King says, “He has reason for meeting us; we may expect hard blows from these men; they are Norsemen like ourselves.”
The fierce conflict raged for many hours. It went hard with the “soft Danes,” and idolatrous Swedes, as Olaf had foreseen: after a short struggle they turn and fly. But Jarl Eric in his large ship the “Iron Beard” is more than a match for Olafs lighter vessels. One by one their decks are deluged with blood, their brave defenders swept into the sea; one by one they are cut adrift and sent loose with the tide. And now at last the “Iron Beard” lies side by side with the “Long Serpent,” and it is indeed “hot work” both on forecastle and quarter-deck.
“Einar Tambarskelvar, one of the sharpest of bowmen, stood by the mast, and shot with his bow.” His arrow hits the tiller-end, just over the Earl’s head, and buries itself up to the shaft in the wood. “Who shot that bolt?” says the Jarl. Another flies between his hand and side, and enters the stuffing of the chief’s stool. Then said the Jarl to a man named Fin, “Shoot that tall archer by the mast!” Fin shoots; the arrow hits the middle of Einar’s bow as he is in the act of drawing it, and the bow is split in two.
“What is that,” cried King Olaf, “that broke with such a noise?”
“NORWAY, King, from thy hands!” cried Einar.
“No! not so much as that,” says the King; “take my bow, and shoot,”–flinging the bow to him.
Einar took the bow, and drew it over the head of the arrow. “Too weak, too weak,” said he, “for the bow of a mighty King!” and throwing the bow aside, “he took sword and buckler, and fought valiantly.”
But Olaf’s hour is come. Many slain lie around him, many that have fallen by his hand, more that have fallen at his side. The thinned ranks on board the “Iron Beard” are constantly replenished by fresh combatants from other vessels, even by the Swedes and soft Danes, now “strong, upon the stronger side,”–while Olaf, cut off from succour, stands almost alone upon the “Serpent’s” deck, made slippery by his people’s blood. The jarl had laid out boats to intercept all who might escape from the ship; but escape is not in the King’s thoughts. He casts one look around him, glances at his sword–broken like Einar’s bow–draws a deep breath, and, holding his shield above his head, springs overboard. A shout–a rush! who shall first grasp that noble prisoner? Back, slaves! the shield that has brought him scathless through a hundred fights, shall yet shelter him from dishonour.
Countless hands are stretched to snatch him back to worthless life, but the shield alone floats on the swirl of the wave;–King Olaf has sunk beneath it.
Perhaps you have already had enough of my Saga lore; but with that grey cathedral full in sight, I cannot but dedicate a few lines to another Olaf, king and warrior like the last, but to whom after times have accorded a yet higher title.
Saint Olaf’s–Saint Olave, as we call him–early history savours little of the odour of sanctity, but has rather that “ancient and fish-like smell” which characterised the doings of the Vikings, his ancestors. But those were days when honour rather than disgrace attached to the ideas of booty and plunder, especially in an enemy’s country; it was a “spoiling of the Egyptians” sanctioned by custom, and even permitted by the Church, which did not disdain occasionally to share in the profits of a successful cruise, when presented in the decent form of silver candlesticks and other ecclesiastical gauds. As to the ancient historian, he mentions these matters as a thing of course. “Here the King landed, burnt, and ravaged;” “there the Jarl gained much booty;” “this summer, they took a cruise in the Baltic, to gather property,” etc., much as a modern biographer would speak of a gentleman’s successful railroad speculations, his taking shares in a coal mine, or coming into a “nice little thing in the Long Annuities.” Nevertheless, there is something significant of his future vocation, in a speech which Olaf makes to his assembled friends and relations, imparting to them his design of endeavouring to regain possession of the throne: “I and my men have nothing for our support save what we captured in war, FOR WHICH WE HAVE HAZARDED BOTH LIFE AND SOUL; for many an innocent man have we deprived of his property, and some of their lives, and foreigners are now sitting in the possessions of my fathers.” One sees here a faint glimmer of the Saint’s nimbus, over the helmet of the Viking, a dawning perception of the “rights of property,” which, no doubt, must have startled his hearers into the most ardent conservative zeal for the good old marauding customs.
But though years elapsed, and fortunes changed, before this dim light of the early Church became that scorching and devouring flame which, later, spread terror and confusion among the haunts of the still lingering ancient gods, an earnest sense of duty seems to have been ever present with him. If it cannot be denied that he shared the errors of other proselytizing monarchs, and put down Paganism with a stern and bloody hand, no merely personal injury ever weighed with him. How grand is his reply to those who advise him to ravage with fire and sword the rebellious district of Throndhjem, as he had formerly punished numbers of his subjects who had rejected Christianity:–“We had then GOD’S honour to defend; but this treason against their sovereign is a much less grievous crime; it is more in my power to spare those who have dealt ill with me, than those whom God hated.” The same hard measure which he meted to others he applied to his own actions: witness that curiously characteristic scene, when, sitting in his high seat, at table, lost in thought, he begins unconsciously to cut splinters from a piece of fir-wood which he held in his hand. The table servant, seeing what the King was about, says to him, (mark the respectful periphrasis!) “IT IS MONDAY, SIRE, TO-MORROW.” The King looks at him, and it came into his mind what he was doing on a Sunday. He sweeps up the shavings he had made, sets fire to them, and lets them burn on his naked hand; “showing thereby that he would hold fast by God’s law, and not trespass without punishment.”
But whatever human weaknesses may have mingled with the pure ore of this noble character, whatever barbarities may have stained his career, they are forgotten in the pathetic close of his martial story.
His subjects,–alienated by the sternness with which he administers his own severely religious laws, or corrupted by the bribes of Canute, king of Denmark and England, are fallen from their allegiance. The brave, single-hearted monarch is marching against the rebellious Bonders, at the head of a handful of foreign troops, and such as remained faithful among his own people. On the eve of that last battle, on which he stakes throne and life, he intrusts a large sum of money to a Bonder, to be laid out “on churches, priests, and alms-men, as gifts for the souls of such as may fall in battle AGAINST HIMSELF,”–strong in the conviction of the righteousness of his cause, and the assured salvation of such as upheld it.
He makes a glorious end. Forsaken by many whom he had loved and served,–yet forgiving and excusing them; rejecting the aid of all who denied that holy Faith which had become the absorbing interest of his life,–but surrounded by a faithful few, who share his fate; “in the lost battle, borne down by the flying”–he falls, transpierced by many wounds, and the last words on his fervent lips are prayer to God. [Footnote: The exact date of the battle of Sticklestad is known: an eclipse of the sun occurred while it was going on.]
Surely there was a gallant saint and soldier. Yet he was not the only one who bore himself nobly on that day. Here is another episode of that same fatal fight.
A certain Thormod is one of the Scalds (or Poets) in King Olaf’s army. The night before the battle he sings a spirited song at the King’s request, who gives him a gold ring from his finger in token of his approval. Thormod thanks him for the gift, and says, “It is my prayer, Sire, that we shall never part, either in life or death.” When the King receives his death-wound Thormod is near him,–but, wounded himself, and so weak and weary that in a desperate onslaught by the King’s men,–nicknamed “Dag’s storm,”–HE ONLY STOOD BY HIS COMRADE IN THE RANKS, ALTHOUGH HE COULD DO NOTHING.
The noise of the battle has ceased; the King is lying dead where he fell. The very man who had dealt him his death-wound has laid the body straight out on the ground, and spread a cloak over it. “And when he wiped the blood from the face it was very beautiful, and there was red in the cheeks, as if he only slept.”
Thormod, who had received a second wound as he stood in the ranks–(an arrow in his side, which he breaks off at the shaft),–wanders away towards a large barn, where other wounded men have taken refuge. Entering with his drawn sword in his hand, he meets one of the Bonders coming out, who says, “It is very bad there, with howling and screaming; and a great shame it is, that brisk young fellows cannot bear their wounds. The King’s men may have done bravely to-day, but truly they bear their wounds ill.”
Thormod asks what his name is, and if he was in the battle. Kimbe was his name, and he had been “with the Bonders, which was the best side.” “And hast thou been in the battle too?” asks he of Thormod.
Thormod replies, “I was with them that had the best.”
“Art thou wounded?” says Kimbe.
“Not much to signify,” says Thormod.
Kimbe sees the gold ring, and says, “Thou art a King’s man: give me thy gold ring, and I will hide thee.”
Thormod replies, “Take the ring if thou canst get it; _I_ HAVE LOST THAT WHICH IS MORE WORTH.”
Kimbe stretches out his hand to seize the ring; but Thormod, swinging his sword, cuts off his hand; “and it is related, that Kimbe behaved no better under his wound than those he had just been blaming.”
Thormod then enters the house where the wounded men are lying, and seats himself in silence by the door.
As the people go in and out, one of them casts a look at Thormod, and says, “Why art thou so dead pale? Art thou wounded?” He answers carelessly, with a half-jesting rhyme; then rises and stands awhile by the fire. A woman, who is attending on those who are hurt, bids him “go out, and bring in firewood from the door.” He returns with the wood, and the girl then looking him in the face, says, “Dreadfully pale is this man;” and asks to see his wounds. She examines his wound in his side, and feels that the iron of the arrow is still there; she then takes a pair of tongs and tries to pull it out, “but it sat too fast, and as the wound was swelled, little of it stood out to lay hold of.” Thormod bids her “cut deep enough to reach the iron, and then to give him the tongs, and let him pull.” She did as he bade. He takes the ring from his hand, and gives it to the girl, saying, “It is a good man’s gift! King Olaf gave it to me this morning.” Then Thormod took the tongs and pulled the iron out. The arrow-head was barbed, and on it there hung some morsels of flesh. When he saw that he said, “THE KING HAS FED US WELL! I am fat, even at the heart-roots!” And so saying, he leant back, and died. [Footnote: When a man was wounded in the abdomen, it was the habit of the Norse leeches to give him an onion to eat; by this means they learnt whether the weapon had perforated the viscera.]
Stout, faithful heart! if they gave you no place in your master’s stately tomb, there is room for you by his side in heaven!
I have at last received–I need not say how joyfully–two letters from you; one addressed to Hammerfest. I had begun to think that some Norwegian warlock had bewitched the post-bags, in the approved old ballad fashion, to prevent their rendering up my dues; for when the packet of letters addressed to the “Foam” was brought on board, immediately after our arrival, I alone got nothing. From Sigurdr and the Doctor to the cabin-boy, every face was beaming over “news from home!” while I was left to walk the deck, with my hands in my pockets, pretending not to care. But the spell is broken now, and I retract my evil thoughts of the warlock and you.
Yesterday, we made an excursion as far as Lade, saw a waterfall, which is one of the lions of this neighbourhood (but a very mitigated lion, which “roars you as soft as any sucking dove”), and returned in the evening to attend a ball given to celebrate the visit of the Crown Prince.
At Lade, I confess I could think of nothing but “the great Jarl” Hacon, the counsellor, and maker of kings, king himself in all but the name, for he ruled over the western sea-board of Norway, while Olaf Tryggvesson was yet a wanderer and exile. He is certainly one of the most picturesque figures of these Norwegian dramas; what with his rude wit, his personal bravery, and that hereditary beauty of his race for which he was conspicuous above the rest. His very errors, great as they were, have a dash and prestige about them, which in that rude time must have dazzled men’s eyes, and especially WOMEN’S, as his story proves. It was his sudden passion for the beautiful Gudrun Lyrgia (the “Sun of Lunde,” as she was called), which precipitated the avenging fate which years of heart-burnings and discontent among his subjects had been preparing. Gudrun’s husband incites the Bonders to throw off the yoke of the licentious despot,–Olaf Tryggvesson is proclaimed king,–and the “great Jarl of Lade” is now a fugitive in the land he so lately ruled, accompanied by a single thrall, named Karker.
In this extremity, Jarl Hacon applies for aid to Thora of Rimmol, a lady whom he had once dearly loved; she is faithful in adversity to the friend of happier days, and conceals the Jarl and his companion in a hole dug for this purpose, in the swine-stye, and covered over with wood and litter; as the only spot likely to elude the hot search of his enemies. Olaf and the Bonders seek for him in Thora’s house, but in vain; and finally, Olaf, standing on the very stone against which the swine-stye is built, promises wealth and honours to him who shall bring him the Jarl of Lade’s head. The scene which follows is related by the Icelandic historian with Dante’s tragic power.
There was a little daylight in their hiding-place, and the Jarl and Karker both hear the words of Olaf.
“Why art thou so pale?” says the Jarl,” and now again as black as earth? Thou dost not mean to betray me?”
“By no means,” said Karker.
“We were born on the same night,” said the Jarl, “and the time will not be long between our deaths.”
When night came, the Jarl kept himself awake,–but Karker slept;–a troubled sleep. The Jarl awoke him, and asked of what he was dreaming. He answered, “I was at Lade, and Olaf was laying a gold ring about my neck.”
The Jarl said, “It will be a RED ring about thy neck, if he catches thee: from me thou shalt enjoy all that is good,–therefore, betray me not!”
Then they both kept themselves awake; “THE ONE, AS IT WERE, WATCHING UPON THE OTHER.” But towards day, the Jarl dropped asleep, and in his unquiet slumber he drew his heels under him, and raised his neck as if going to rise, “and shrieked fearfully.” On this, Karker, “dreadfully alarmed,” drew a knife from his belt, stuck it into the Jarl’s throat, and cut off his head. Late in the day he came to Lade, brought the Jarl’s head to Olaf, and told his story.
It is a comfort to know that “the red ring” was laid round the traitor’s neck: Olaf caused him to be beheaded.
What a picture that is, in the swine-stye, those two haggard faces, travel-stained and worn with want of rest, watching each other with hot, sleepless eyes through the half darkness, and how true to nature is the nightmare of the miserable Jarl!
It was on my return from Lade, that I found your letters; and that I might enjoy them without interruption, I carried them off to the churchyard–(such a beautiful place!)–to read in peace and quiet. The churchyard was NOT “populous with young men, striving to be alone,” as Tom Hood describes it to have been in a certain sentimental parish; so I enjoyed the seclusion I anticipated.
I was much struck by the loving care and ornament bestowed on the graves; some were literally loaded with flowers, and even those which bore the date of a long past sorrow had each its own blooming crown, or fresh nosegay. These good Throndhjemers must have much of what the French call la religion des souvenirs, a religion in which we English (as a nation) are singularly deficient. I suppose no people in Europe are so little addicted to the keeping of sentimental anniversaries as we are; I make an exception with regard to our living friends’ birthdays, which we are ever tenderly ready to cultivate, when called on; turtle, venison, and champagne, being pleasant investments for the affections. But time and business do not admit of a faithful adherence to more sombre reminiscences; a busy gentleman “on ‘Change” cannot conveniently shut himself up, on his “lost Araminta’s natal-day,” nor will a railroad committee allow of his running down by the 10.25 A.M., to shed a tear over that neat tablet in the new Willow-cum-Hatband Cemetery. He is necessarily content to regret his Araminta in the gross, and to omit the petty details of a too pedantic sorrow.
The fact is, we are an eminently practical people, and are easily taught to accept “the irrevocable,” if not without regret, at least with a philosophy which repudiates all superfluous methods of showing it. DECENT is the usual and appropriate term applied to our churchyard solemnities, and we are not only “content to dwell in decencies for ever,” but to die, and be buried in them.
The cathedral loses a little of its poetical physiognomy on a near approach. Modern restoration has done something to spoil the outside, and modern refinement a good deal to degrade the interior with pews and partitions; but it is a very fine building, and worthy of its metropolitan dignity. I am told that the very church built by Magnus the Good,–son of Saint Olave–over his father’s remains, and finished by his uncle Harald Hardrada, is, or rather was, included in the walls of the cathedral; and though successive catastrophes by fire have perhaps left but little of the original building standing, I like to think that some of these huge stones were lifted to their place under the eyes of Harald The Stern. It was on the eve of his last fatal expedition against our own Harold of England that the shrine of St. Olave was opened by the king, who, having clipped the hair and nails of the dead saint (most probably as relics, efficacious for the protection of himself and followers), then locked the shrine, and threw the keys into the Nid. Its secrets from that day were respected until the profane hands of Lutheran Danes carried it bodily away, with all the gold and silver chalices, and jewelled pyxes, which, by kingly gifts and piratical offerings, had accumulated for centuries in its treasury.
He must have been a fine, resolute fellow, that Harald the Stern, although, in spite of much church-building and a certain amount of Pagan-persecuting, his character did not in any way emulate that of his saintly brother. The early part of his history reads like a fairy tale, and is a favourite subject for Scald songs; more especially his romantic adventures in the East,–
“Well worthy of the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.”
where Saracens flee like chaff upon the wind before him, and impregnable Sicilian castles fall into his power by impossible feats of arms, or incredible stratagems. A Greek empress, “the mature Zoe,” as Gibbon calls her, falls in love with him, and her husband, Constantine Monomachus, puts him in prison; but Saint Olaf still protects his mauvais sujet of a brother, and inspires “a lady of distinction” with the successful idea of helping Harald out of his inaccessible tower by the prosaic expedient of a ladder of ropes. A boom, however, across the harbour’s mouth still prevents the escape of his vessel. The Sea-king is not to be so easily baffled. Moving all his ballast, arms, and men, into the afterpart of the ship, until her stem slants up out of the sea, he rows straight at the iron chain. The ship leaps almost half-way over. The weight being then immediately transferred to the fore-part, she slips down into the water on the other side,–having topped the fence like an Irish hunter. A second galley breaks her back in the attempt. After some questionable acts of vengeance on the Greek court, Harald and his bold Vaeringers go fighting and plundering their way through the Bosphorus and Black Sea back to Novogorod, where the first part of the romance terminates, as it should, by his marriage with the object of his secret attachment, Elisof, the daughter of the Russian king.
Hardrada’s story darkens towards the end, as most of the tales of that stirring time are apt to do. His death on English ground is so striking, that you must have patience with one other short Saga; it will give you the battle of Stanford Bridge from the Norse point of view.
The expedition against Harold of England commences ill; dreams and omens affright the fleet; one man dreams he sees a raven sitting on the stern of each vessel; another sees the fair English coast;
“But glancing shields
Hide the green fields;”
and other fearful phenomena mar the beautiful vision. Harald himself dreams that he is back again at Nidaros, and that his brother Olaf meets him with a prophecy of ruin and death. The bold Norsemen are not to be daunted by these auguries, and their first successes on the English coast seem to justify their persistence. But on a certain beautiful Monday in September (A.D. 1066, according to the Saxon Chronicle), part of his army being encamped at Stanford Bridge, “Hardrada, HAVING TAKEN BREAKFAST, ordered the trumpets to sound for going on shore;” but he left half his force behind, to guard the ships: and his men, anticipating no resistance from the castle, which had already surrendered, “went on shore (the weather being hot), with only their helmets, shields, and spears, and girt with swords; some had bows and arrows,–and all were very merry.” On nearing the castle, they see “a cloud of dust as from horses’ feet, and under it shining shields and bright armour.” English Harold’s army is before them. Hardrada sends back to his ship for succour, and sets up his banner, “Land Ravager,” undismayed by the inequality of his force, and their comparatively unarmed condition. The men on each side are drawn up in battle array, and the two kings in presence; each gazes eagerly to discover his noble foe among the multitude. Harald Hardrada’s black horse stumbles and falls; “the King got up in haste, and said, ‘A fall is lucky for a traveller.'”
The English King said to the Northmen who were with him, “Do you know the stout man who fell from his horse, with the blue kirtle, and beautiful helmet?”
“That is the Norwegian King,” said they.
English Harold replied, “A great man, and of stately appearance is he; but I think his luck has left him.”
And now twenty gallant English knights ride out of their ranks to parley with the Northmen. One advances beyond the rest and asks if Earl Toste, the brother of English Harold (who has banded with his enemy against him), is with the army.
The Earl himself proudly answers, “It is not to be denied that you will find him here.”
The Saxon says, “Thy brother, Harold, sends his salutation, and offers thee the third part of his kingdom, if thou wilt be reconciled and submit to him.”
The Earl replies, at the suggestion of the Norse King, “What will my brother the King give to Harald Hardrada for his trouble?”
“He will give him,” says the Knight, “SEVEN FEET OF ENGLISH GROUND, OR AS MUCH MORE AS HE MAY BE TALLER THAN OTHER MEN.”
“Then,” says the Earl, “let the English King, my brother, make ready for battle, for it never shall be said that Earl Toste broke faith with his friends when they came with him to fight west here in England.”
When the knights rode off, King Harald Hardrada asked the Earl, “Who was the man who spoke so well?”
The Earl replied, “That knight was Harold of England.”
The stern Norwegian King regrets that his enemy had escaped from his hands, owing to his ignorance of this fact; but even in his first burst of disappointment, the noble Norse nature speaks in generous admiration of his foe, saying to the people about him, “That was but a little man, yet he sat firmly in his stirrups.”
The fierce, but unequal combat is soon at an end, and when tardy succour arrives from the ships, Harald Hardrada is lying on his face, with the deadly arrow in his throat, never to see Nidaros again. Seven feet of English earth, and no more, has the strong arm and fiery spirit conquered.
But enough of these gallant fellows; I must carry you off to a much pleasanter scene of action. After a very agreeable dinner with Mr. K–, who has been most kind to us, we adjourned to the ball. The room was large and well lighted–plenty of pretty faces adorned it;–the floor was smooth, and the scrape of the fiddles had a festive accent so extremely inspiriting, that I besought Mr. K– to present me to one of the fair personages whose tiny feet were already tapping the floor with impatience at their own inactivity.
I was led up in due form to a very pretty lady, and heard my own name, followed by a singular sound purporting to be that of my charming partner, Madame Hghelghghagllaghem. For the pronunciation of this polysyllabic cognomen, I can only give you a few plain instructions; commence it with a slight cough, continue with a gurgling in the throat, and finish with the first convulsive movement of a sneeze, imparting to the whole operation a delicate nasal twang. If the result is not something approaching to the sound required, you must relinquish all hope of achieving it, as I did. Luckily, my business was to dance, and not to apostrophize the lady; and accordingly, when the waltz struck up, I hastened to claim, in the dumbest show, the honour of her hand. Although my dancing qualifications have rather rusted during the last two or three years, I remembered that the time was not so very far distant when even the fair Mademoiselle E– had graciously pronounced me to be a very tolerable waltzer, “for an Englishman,” and I led my partner to the circle already formed with the “air capable” which the object of such praise is entitled to assume. There was a certain languid rhythm in the air they were playing which rather offended my ears, but I suspected nothing until, observing the few couples who had already descended into the arena, I became aware that they were twirling about with all the antiquated grace of “la valse a trois temps.” Of course my partner would be no exception to the general rule! nobody had ever danced anything else at Throndhjem from the days of Odin downwards; and I had never so much as attempted it. What was to be done? I could not explain the state of the case to Madame Hghelghghagllaghem; she could not understand English, nor I speak Norse. My brain reeled with anxiety to find some solution of the difficulty, or some excuse for rushing from her presence. What if I were taken with a sudden bleeding at the nose, or had an apoplectic fit on the spot? Either case would necessitate my being carried decently out, and consigned to oblivion, which would have been a comfort under the circumstances. There was nothing for it but the courage of despair; so, casting reflection to the winds and my arm round her waist, I suddenly whisked her off her legs, and dashed madly down the room, “a deux temps.” At the first perception that something unusual was going on, she gave such an eldritch scream, that the whole society suddenly came to a standstill. I thought it best to assume an aspect of innocent composure and conscious rectitude; which had its effect, for though the lady began with a certain degree of hysterical animation to describe her wrongs, she finished with a hearty laugh, in which the company cordially joined, and I delicately chimed in. For the rest of the dance she seemed to resign herself to her fate, and floated through space, under my guidance, with all the ABANDON of Francesca di Rimini, in Scheffer’s famous picture.
The Crown Prince is a tall, fine-looking person; he was very gracious, and asked many questions about my voyage.
At night there was a general illumination, to which the “Foam” contributed some blue lights.
We got under way early this morning, and without a pilot–as we had entered–made our way out to sea again. I left Throndhjem with regret, not for its own sake, for in spite of balls and illuminations I should think the pleasures of a stay there would not be deliriously exciting; but this whole district is so intimately associated in my mind with all the brilliant episodes of ancient Norwegian History, that I feel as if I were taking leave of all those noble Haralds, and Olafs, and Hacons, among whom I have been living in such pleasant intimacy for some time past.
While we are dropping down the coast, I may as well employ the time in giving you a rapid sketch of the commencement of this fine Norse people, though the story “remonte jusqu’a la nuit des temps,” and has something of the vague magnificence of your own M’Donnell genealogy, ending a long list of great potentates, with “somebody, who was the son of somebody else, who was the son of Scotha, who was the daughter of Pharaoh!”
In bygone ages, beyond the Scythian plains and the fens of the Tanais, in that land of the morning, to which neither Grecian letters nor Roman arms had ever penetrated, there was a great city called Asgaard. Of its founder, of its history, we know nothing; but looming through the mists of antiquity we can discern an heroic figure, whose superior attainments won for him the lordship of his own generation, and divine honours from those that succeeded. Whether moved by an irresistible impulse, or impelled by more powerful neighbours, it is impossible to say; but certain it is that at some period, not perhaps very long before the Christian era, under the guidance of this personage, a sun-nurtured people moved across the face of Europe, in a north-westerly direction, and after leaving settlements along the southern shores of the Baltic, finally established themselves in the forests and valleys of what has come to be called the Scandinavian Peninsula. That children of the South should have sought out so inclement a habitation may excite surprise; but it must always be remembered that they were, probably, a comparatively scanty congregation, and that the unoccupied valleys of Norway and Sweden, teeming with fish and game, and rich in iron, were a preferable region to lands only to be colonised after they had been conquered.
Thus, under the leadership of Odin and his twelve Paladins, –to whom a grateful posterity afterwards conceded thrones in the halls of their chief’s Valhalla,–the new emigrants spread themselves along the margin of the out-ocean, and round about the gloomy fiords, and up and down the deep valleys that fall away at right angles from the backbone, or keel, as the seafaring population soon learnt to call the flat, snow-capped ridge that runs down the centre of Norway.
Amid the rude but not ungenial influences of its bracing climate, was gradually fostered that gallant race which was destined to give an imperial dynasty to Russia, a nobility to England, and conquerors to every sea-board in Europe.
Upon the occupation of their new home, the ascendency of that mysterious hero, under whose auspices the settlement was conducted, appears to have remained more firmly established than ever, not only over the mass of the people, but also over the twelve subordinate chiefs who accompanied him; there never seems to have been the slightest attempt to question his authority, and, though afterwards themselves elevated into an order of celestial beings, every tradition which has descended is careful to maintain his human and divine supremacy. Through the obscurity, the exaggeration, and the ridiculous fables, with which his real existence has been overloaded, we can still see that this man evidently possessed a genius as superior to his contemporaries, as has ever given to any child of man the ascendency over his generation. In the simple language of the old chronicler, we are told, “that his countenance was so beautiful that, when sitting among his friends, the spirits of all were exhilarated by it; that when he spoke, all were persuaded; that when he went forth to meet his enemies, none could withstand him.” Though subsequently made a god by the superstitious people he had benefited, his death seems to have been noble and religious. He summoned his friends around his pillow, intimated a belief in the immortality of his soul, and his hope that hereafter they should meet again in Paradise. “Then,” we are told, “began the belief in Odin, and their calling upon him.”
On the settlement of the country, the land was divided and subdivided into lots–some as small as fifty acres–and each proprietor held his share–as their descendants do to this day–by udal right; that is, not as a fief of the Crown, or of any superior lord, but in absolute, inalienable possession, by the same udal right as the kings wore their crowns, to be transmitted, under the same title, to their descendants unto all generations.
These landed proprietors were called the Bonders, and formed the chief strength of the realm. It was they, their friends and servants, or thralls, who constituted the army. Without their consent the king could do nothing. On stated occasions they met together, in solemn assembly, or Thing, (i.e. Parliament,) as it was called, for the transaction of public business, the administration of justice, the allotment of the scatt, or taxes.
Without a solemn induction at the Ore or Great Thing, even the most legitimately-descended sovereign could not mount the throne, and to that august assembly an appeal might ever lie against his authority.
To these Things, and to the Norse invasion that implanted them, and not to the Wittenagemotts of the Latinised Saxons, must be referred the existence of those Parliaments which are the boast of Englishmen.
Noiselessly and gradually did a belief in liberty, and an unconquerable love of independence, grow up among that simple people. No feudal despots oppressed the unprotected, for all were noble and udal born; no standing armies enabled the Crown to set popular opinion at defiance, for the swords of the Bonders sufficed to guard the realm; no military barons usurped an illegitimate authority, for the nature of the soil forbade the erection of feudal fortresses. Over the rest of Europe despotism rose up rank under the tutelage of a corrupt religion; while, year after year, amid the savage scenery of its Scandinavian nursery, that great race was maturing whose genial heartiness was destined to invigorate the sickly civilization of the Saxon with inexhaustible energy, and preserve to the world, even in the nineteenth century, one glorious example of a free European people.
LETTER XIII.
COPENHAGEN–BERGEN–THE BLACK DEATH–SIGURDR–HOMEWARDS.
Copenhagen, Sept. 12th, 1856.
Our adventures since the date of my last letter have not been of an exciting character. We had fine weather and prosperous winds down the coast, and stayed a day at Christiansund, and another at Bergen. But though the novelty of the cruise had ceased since our arrival in lower latitudes, there was always a certain raciness and oddity in the incidents of our coasting voyage; such as–waking in the morning, and finding the schooner brought up under the lee of a wooden house, or–riding out a foul wind with your hawser rove through an iron ring in the sheer side of a mountain,–which took from the comparative flatness of daily life on board.
Perhaps the queerest incident was a visit paid us at Christiansund. As I was walking the deck I saw a boat coming off, with a gentleman on board; she was soon alongside the schooner, and as I was gazing down on this individual, and wondering what he wanted, I saw him suddenly lift his feet lightly over the gunwale and plunge them into the water, boots and all. After cooling his heels in this way for a minute or so, he laid hold of the side ropes and gracefully swung himself on deck. Upon this, Sigurdr, who always acted interpreter on such occasions, advanced towards him, and a colloquy followed, which terminated rather abruptly in Sigurdr walking aft, and the web-footed stranger ducking down into his boat again. It was not till some hours later that the indignant Sigurdr explained the meaning of the visit. Although not a naval character, this gentleman certainly came into the category of men “who do business in great waters,” his BUSINESS being to negotiate a loan; in short, to ask me to lend him 100 pounds. There must have been something very innocent and confiding in “the cut of our jib” to encourage his boarding us on such an errand; or perhaps it was the old marauding, toll-taking spirit coming out strong in him: the politer influences of the nineteenth century toning down the ancient Viking into a sort of a cross between Paul Jones and Jeremy Diddler. The seas which his ancestors once swept with their galleys, he now sweeps with his telescope, and with as keen an eye to the MAIN chance as any of his predecessors displayed. The feet-washing ceremony was evidently a propitiatory homage to the purity of my quarter-deck.
Bergen, with its pale-faced houses grouped on the brink of the fiord, like invalids at a German Spa, though picturesque in its way, with a cathedral of its own, and plenty of churches, looked rather tame and spiritless after the warmer colouring of Throndhjem; moreover it wanted novelty to me, as I called in there two years ago on my return from the Baltic. It was on that occasion that I became possessed of my ever-to-be-lamented infant Walrus.
No one, personally unacquainted with that “most delicate monster,” can have any idea of his attaching qualities. I own that his figure was not strictly symmetrical, that he had a roll in his gait, suggestive of heavy seas, that he would not have looked well in your boudoir; but he never seemed out of place on my quarter-deck, and every man on board loved him as a brother. With what a languid grace he would wallow and roll in the water, when we chucked him overboard; and paddle and splash, and make himself thoroughly cool and comfortable, and then come and “beg to be taken up,” like a fat baby, and allow the rope to be slipped round his extensive waist, and come up–sleek and dripping–among us again with a contented grunt, as much as to say, “Well, after all, there’s no place like HOME!” How he would compose himself to placid slumber in every possible inconvenient place, with his head on the binnacle (especially when careful steering was a matter of moment), or across the companion entrance, or the cabin skylight, or on the shaggy back of “Sailor,” the Newfoundland, who positively abhorred him. But how touching it was to see him waddle up and down the deck after Mr. Wyse, whom he evidently regarded in a maternal point of view–begging for milk with the most expressive snorts and grunts, and embarrassing my good-natured master by demonstrative appeals to his fostering offices!
I shall never forget Mr. Wyse’s countenance that day in Ullapool Bay, when he tried to command his feelings sufficiently to acquaint me with the creature’s death, which he announced in this graphic sentence, “Ah, my Lord!–the poor thing!–TOES UP AT LAST!”
Bergen is not as neat and orderly in its architectural arrangements as Drontheim; a great part of the city is a confused network of narrow streets and alleys, much resembling, I should think, its early inconveniences, in the days of Olaf Kyrre. This close and stifling system of street building must have ensured fatal odds against the chances of life in some of those world-devastating plagues that characterised past ages. Bergen was, in fact, nearly depopulated by that terrible pestilence which, in 1349, ravaged the North of Europe, and whose memory is still preserved under the name of “The Black Death.”
I have been tempted to enclose you a sort of ballad, which was composed while looking on the very scene of this disastrous event; its only merit consists in its local inspiration, and in its conveying a true relation of the manner in which the plague entered the doomed city.
THE BLACK DEATH OF BERGEN.
I.
What can ail the Bergen Burghers
That they leave their stoups of wine? Flinging up the hill like jagers,
At the hour they’re wont to dine! See, the shifting groups are fringing
Rock and ridge with gay attire,
Bright as Northern streamers tinging Peak and crag with fitful fire!
II.
Towards the cliff their steps are bending, Westward turns their eager gaze,
Whence a stately ship ascending,
Slowly cleaves the golden haze.
Landward floats the apparition–
“Is it, CAN it be the same?”
Frantic cries of recognition
Shout a long-lost vessel’s name!
III.
Years ago had she departed–
Castled poop and gilded stern;
Weeping women, broken-hearted,
Long had waited her return.
When the midnight sun wheeled downwards, But to kiss the ocean’s verge–
When the noonday sun, a moment
Peeped above the Wintry surge,
IV.
Childless mothers, orphaned daughters, From the seaward-facing crag,
Vainly searched the vacant waters For that unreturning flag!
But, suspense and tears are ended, Lo! it floats upon the breeze!
Ne’er from eager hearts ascended
Thankful prayers as warm as these.
V.
See the good ship proudly rounding
That last point that blocks the view; “Strange! no answering cheer resounding From the long home-parted crew!”
Past the harbour’s stony gateway, Onwards borne by sucking tides,
Tho’ the light wind faileth–straightway Into port she safely glides.
VI.
Swift, as by good angels carried,
Right and left the news has spread. Wives long widowed-yet scarce married– Brides that never hoped to wed,
From a hundred pathways meeting
Crowd along the narrow quay,
Maddened by the hope of meeting
Those long counted cast away.
VII.
Soon a crowd of small boats flutter O’er the intervening space,
Bearing hearts too full to utter
Thoughts that flush the eager face! See young Eric foremost gaining–
(For a father’s love athirst!)
Every nerve and muscle straining, But to touch the dear hand FIRST.
VIII.
In the ship’s green shadow rocking
Lies his little boat at last,
Wherefore is the warm heart knocking At his side, so loud and fast?
“What strange aspect is she wearing, Vessel once so taut and trim?
Shout!–MY heart has lost its daring; Comrades, search!–MY eyes are dim.”
IX.
Sad the search, and fearful finding! On the deck lay parched and dry
Men–who in some burning, blinding Clime–had laid them down to die!
Hands–prayer–clenched–that would not sever, Eyes that stared against the sun,
Sights that haunt the soul for ever, Poisoning life–till life is done!
X.
Strength from fear doth Eric gather, Wide the cabin door he threw–
Lo! the face of his dead father,
Stern and still, confronts his view! Stately as in life he bore him,
Seated–motionless and grand,
On the blotted page before him
Lingers still the livid hand!
XI.
What sad entry was he making,
When the death-stroke fell at last? “Is it then God’s will, in taking
All, that I am left the last?
I have closed the cabin doorway,
That I may not see them die:–
Would our bones might rest in Norway,– ‘Neath our own cool Northern sky!”
XII.
Then the ghastly log-book told them How-in some accursed clime,
Where the breathless land-swell rolled them, For an endless age of time–
Sudden broke the plague among them, ‘Neath that sullen Tropic sun;
As if fiery scorpions stung them– Died they raving, one by one!
XIII.
–Told the vain and painful striving, By shot-weighted shrouds to hide
(Last fond care), from those surviving, What good comrade last had died;
Yet the ghastly things kept showing, Waist deep in the unquiet grave–
To each other gravely bowing
On the slow swing of the wave!
XIV.
Eric’s boat is near the landing–
From that dark ship bring they aught? In the stern sheets ONE is standing,
Though their eyes perceive him not; But a curdling horror creepeth
Thro’ their veins, with icy darts, And each hurried oar-stroke keepeth
Time with their o’er-labouring hearts!
XV.
Heavy seems their boat returning,
Weighted with a world of care!
Oh, ye blind ones–none discerning WHAT the spectral freight ye bear.
Glad they hear the sea-beach grating Harsh beneath the small boat’s stem– Forth they leap, for no man waiting–
But the BLACK DEATH LANDS WITH THEM.
XVI.
Viewless–soundless–stalks the spectre Thro’ the city chill and pale,
Which like bride, this morn, had decked her For the advent of that sail.
Oft by Bergen women, mourning,
Shall the dismal tale be told,
Of that lost ship home returning, With “THE BLACK DEATH” in her hold!
I would gladly dwell on the pleasures of my second visit to Christiansund, which has a charm of its own, independent of its interest as the spot from whence we really “start for home.” But though strange lands, and unknown or indifferent people, are legitimate subjects for travellers’ tales, our FRIENDS and their pleasant homes are NOT; so I shall keep all I have to say of gratitude to our excellent and hospitable Consul, Mr. Morch, and of admiration for his charming wife, until I can tell you viva voce how much I wish that you also knew them.
And now, though fairly off from Norway, and on our homeward way, it was a tedious business–what with fogs, calms, and headwinds–working towards Copenhagen. We rounded the Scaw in a thick mist, saw the remains of four ships that had run aground upon it, and were nearly run into ourselves by a clumsy merchantman, whom we had the relief of being able to abuse in our native vernacular, and the most racy sea-slang.
Those five last days were certainly the only tedious period of the whole cruise. I suppose there is something magnetic in the soil of one’s own country, which may account for that impatient desire to see it again, which always grows, as the distance from it diminishes; if so, London clay,–and its superstratum of foul, greasy, gas-discoloured mud–began about this time to exercise a tender influence upon me, which has been increasing every hour since: it is just possible that the thoughts of seeing you again may have some share in the matter.
Somebody (I think Fuller) says somewhere, that “every one with whom you converse, and every place wherein you tarry awhile, giveth somewhat to you, and taketh somewhat away, either for evil or for good;” a startling consideration for circumnavigators, and such like restless spirits, but a comfortable thought, in some respects, for voyagers to Polar regions, as (except seals and bears) few things could suffer evil from us there; though for our own parts, there were solemn and wholesome influences enough “to be taken away” from those icy solitudes, if one were but ready and willing to “stow” them.
To-morrow I leave Copenhagen, and my good Sigurdr, whose companionship has been a constant source of enjoyment, both to Fitz and myself, during the whole voyage; I trust that I leave with him a friendly remembrance of our too short connexion, and pleasant thoughts of the strange places and things we have seen together; as I take away with me a most affectionate memory of his frank and kindly nature, his ready sympathy, and his imperturbable good humour. From the day on which I shipped him–an entire stranger–until this eve of our separation–as friends, through scenes of occasional discomfort, and circumstances which might sometimes have tried both temper and spirits–shut up as we were for four months in the necessarily close communion of life on board a vessel of eighty tons,–there has never been the shadow of a cloud between us; henceforth, the words “an Icelander” can convey no cold or ungenial associations to my ears, and however much my imagination has hitherto delighted in the past history of that singular island, its Present will always claim a deeper and warmer interest from me, for Sigurdr’s sake.
To-morrow Fitz and I start for Hamburg, and very soon after–at least as soon as railroad and steamer can bring me–I look for the joy of seeing your face again.
By the time this reaches Portsmouth, the “Foam” will have perfomed a voyage of six thousand miles.
I have had a most happy time of it, but I fear my amusement will have cost you many a weary hour of anxiety and suspense.