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The Story of the Volsungs by Anonymous - The Story of the Volsungs

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The Story of the Volsungs

****The Project Guten­berg Etext of The Sto­ry of the Vol­sungs**** The Vol­sun­ga Saga

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The Sto­ry of the Vol­sungs (Vol­sun­ga Saga), with Ex­cerpts from the Po­et­ic Ed­da.

Anony­mous Old Norse and Ice­landic Mytholo­gies

De­cem­ber, 1997 [Etext #1152]

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The Sto­ry of the Vol­sungs (Vol­sun­ga Saga), with Ex­cerpts from the Po­et­ic Ed­da.

Orig­inal­ly writ­ten in Ice­landic (Old Norse) in the thir­teenth cen­tu­ry A.D., by an un­known hand. How­ev­er, most of the ma­te­ri­al is based sub­stan­tial­ly on pre­vi­ous works, some cen­turies old­er. A few of these works have been pre­served in the col­lec­tion of Norse po­et­ry known as the “Po­et­ic Ed­da”.

The text of this edi­tion is based on that pub­lished as “The Sto­ry of the Vol­sungs”, trans­lat­ed by William Mor­ris and Eirikr Mag­nus­son (Wal­ter Scott Press, Lon­don, 1888).

This elec­tron­ic edi­tion was edit­ed, proofed, and pre­pared by Dou­glas B. Killings (De­Troyes@En­ter­Act.COM)

SE­LECT­ED BIB­LI­OG­RA­PHY:

REC­OM­MEND­ED READ­ING –

Anony­mous: “Ku­drun”, Trans­lat­ed by Mar­ion E. Gibbs & Sid­ney John­son (Gar­land Pub., New York, 1992).

Anony­mous: “Ni­belun­gen­lied”, Trans­lat­ed by A.T. Hat­to (Pen­guin Clas­sics, Lon­don, 1962).

Saxo Gram­mati­cus: “The First Nine Books of the Dan­ish His­to­ry”, Trans­lat­ed by Oliv­er El­ton (Lon­don, 1894; Reis­sued by the On­line Me­dieval and Clas­si­cal Li­brary as E-​Text OMACL #28, 1997).

IN­TRO­DUC­TION

It would seem fit­ting for a North­ern folk, de­riv­ing the greater and bet­ter part of their speech, laws, and cus­toms from a North­ern root, that the North should be to them, if not a holy land, yet at least a place more to be re­gard­ed than any part of the world be­side; that how­so­ev­er their knowl­edge widened of oth­er men, the faith and deeds of their fore­fa­thers would nev­er lack in­ter­est for them, but would al­ways be kept in re­mem­brance. One cause af­ter an­oth­er has, how­ev­er, aid­ed in turn­ing at­ten­tion to clas­sic men and lands at the cost of our own his­to­ry. Among bat­tles, “ev­ery school­boy” knows the sto­ry of Marathon or Salamis, while it would be hard in­deed to find one who did more than recog­nise the name, if even that, of the great fights of Hafrs­firth or Stick­lestead. The lan­guage and his­to­ry of Greece and Rome, their laws and re­li­gions, have been al­ways held part of the learn­ing need­ful to an ed­ucat­ed man, but no trou­ble has been tak­en to make him fa­mil­iar with his own peo­ple or their tongue. Even that En­glish­man who knew Al­fred, Be­de, Caed­mon, as well as he knew Pla­to, Cae­sar, Ci­cero, or Per­icles, would be hard bestead were he asked about the great peo­ples from whom we sprang; the war­ring of Harold Fairhair or Saint Olaf; the Viking (1) king­doms in these (the British) West­ern Isles; the set­tle­ment of Ice­land, or even of Nor­mandy. The knowl­edge of all these things would now be even small­er than it is among us were it not that there was one land left where the old­en learn­ing found refuge and was kept in be­ing. In Eng­land, Ger­many, and the rest of Eu­rope, what is left of the tra­di­tions of pa­gan times has been al­tered in a thou­sand ways by for­eign in­flu­ence, even as the peo­ples and their speech have been by the in­flux of for­eign blood; but Ice­land held to the old tongue that was once the uni­ver­sal speech of north­ern folk, and held al­so the great stores of tale and po­em that are slow­ly be­com­ing once more the com­mon her­itage of their de­scen­dants. The truth, care, and lit­er­ary beau­ty of its records; the var­ied and strong life shown alike in tale and his­to­ry; and the preser­va­tion of the old speech, char­ac­ter, and tra­di­tion — a peo­ple placed apart as the Ice­landers have been — com­bine to make valu­able what Ice­land holds for us. Not be­fore 1770, when Bish­op Per­cy trans­lat­ed Mal­let’s “North­ern An­tiq­ui­ties”, was any­thing known here of Ice­landic, or its lit­er­ature. On­ly with­in the lat­ter part of this cen­tu­ry has it been stud­ied, and in the brief book-​list at the end of this vol­ume may be seen the lit­tle that has been done as yet. It is, how­ev­er, be­com­ing ev­er clear­er, and to an in­creas­ing num­ber, how supreme­ly im­por­tant is Ice­landic as a word-​hoard to the En­glish- speak­ing peo­ples, and that in its leg­end, song, and sto­ry there is a very mine of no­ble and pleas­ant beau­ty and high man­hood. That which has been done, one may hope, is but the be­gin­ning of a great new birth, that shall give back to our lan­guage and lit­er­ature all that heed­less­ness and ig­no­rance bid fair for awhile to de­stroy.

The Scan­do-​Goth­ic peo­ples who poured south­ward and west­ward over Eu­rope, to shake em­pires and found king­doms, to meet Greek and Ro­man in con­flict, and levy trib­ute ev­ery­where, had kept up their con­stant­ly-​re­cruit­ed waves of in­cur­sion, un­til they had raised a bar­ri­er of their own blood. It was their own kin, the sons of ear­li­er in­vaders, who stayed the land­ward march of the North­men in the time of Charle­magne. To the South­lands their road by land was hence­forth closed. Then be­gins the day of the Vikings, who, for two hun­dred years and more, “held the world at ran­som.” Un­der many and brave lead­ers they first of all came round the “West­ern Isles” (2) to­ward the end of the eighth cen­tu­ry; soon af­ter they in­vad­ed Nor­mandy, and har­ried the coasts of France; grad­ual­ly they length­ened their voy­ages un­til there was no shore of the then known world up­on which they were un­seen or un­felt. A glance at En­glish his­to­ry will show the large part of it they fill, and how they took trib­ute from the An­glo-​Sax­ons, who, by the way, were far near­er kin to them than is usu­al­ly thought. In Ire­land, where the old civil­isa­tion was falling to pieces, they found­ed king­doms at Lim­er­ick and Dublin among oth­er places; (3) the last named, of which the first king, Olaf the White, was tra­di­tion­al­ly de­scend­ed of Sig­urd the Vol­sung, (4) en­dured even to the En­glish in­va­sion, when it was tak­en by men of the same Viking blood a lit­tle al­tered. What ef­fect they pro­duced up­on the na­tives may be seen from the de­scrip­tion giv­en by the un­known his­to­ri­an of the “Wars of the Gaed­hil with the Gaill”: “In a word, al­though there were an hun­dred hard-​steeled iron heads on one neck, and an hun­dred sharp, ready, cool, nev­er-​rust­ing brazen tongues in each head, and an hun­dred gar­ru­lous, loud, un­ceas­ing voic­es from each tongue, they could not re­count, or nar­rate, or enu­mer­ate, or tell what all the Gaed­hil suf­fered in com­mon — both men and wom­en, laity and cler­gy, old and young, no­ble and ig­no­ble — of hard­ship, and of in­jury, and of op­pres­sion, in ev­ery house, from these valiant, wrath­ful, pure­ly pa­gan peo­ple. Even though great were this cru­el­ty, op­pres­sion, and tyran­ny, though nu­mer­ous were the oft-​vic­to­ri­ous clans of the many- fam­ilied Erinn; though nu­mer­ous their kings, and their roy­al chiefs, and their princes; though nu­mer­ous their heroes and cham­pi­ons, and their brave sol­diers, their chiefs of val­our and renown and deeds of arms; yet not one of them was able to give re­lief, al­le­vi­ation, or de­liv­er­ance from that op­pres­sion and tyran­ny, from the num­bers and mul­ti­tudes, and the cru­el­ty and the wrath of the bru­tal, fe­ro­cious, fu­ri­ous, un­tamed, im­pla­ca­ble hordes by whom that op­pres­sion was in­flict­ed, be­cause of the ex­cel­lence of their pol­ished, am­ple, tre­ble, heavy, trusty, glit­ter­ing corslets; and their hard, strong, valiant swords; and their well-​riv­et­ed long spears, and their ready, bril­liant arms of val­our be­sides; and be­cause of the great­ness of their achieve­ments and of their deeds, their brav­ery, and their val­our, their strength, and their ven­om, and their fe­roc­ity, and be­cause of the ex­cess of their thirst and their hunger for the brave, fruit­ful, nobly-​in­hab­it­ed, full of cataracts, rivers, bays, pure, smooth-​plained, sweet grassy land of Erinn” — (pp. 52-53). Some part of this, how­ev­er, must be abat­ed, be­cause the chron­icler is ex­alt­ing the ter­ror-​strik­ing en­emy that he may still fur­ther ex­alt his own peo­ple, the Dal Cais, who did so much un­der Bri­an Boroimhe to check the in­roads of the North­men. When a book does (5) ap­pear, which has been an­nounced these ten years past, we shall have more ma­te­ri­al for the re­con­struc­tion of the life of those times than is now any­where ac­ces­si­ble. Viking earl­doms al­so were the Orkneys, Faroes, and Shet­lands. So late as 1171, in the reign of Hen­ry II., the year af­ter Beck­ett’s mur­der, Earl Sweyn Asleif­sson of Orkney, who had long been the ter­ror of the west­ern seas, “fared a sea-​rov­ing” and scoured the west­ern coast of Eng­land, Man, and the east of Ire­land, but was killed in an at­tack on his kins­men of Dublin. He had used to go up­on a reg­ular plan that may be tak­en as typ­ical of the home­ly man­ner of most of his like in their cruis­ing: “Sweyn had in the spring hard work, and made them lay down very much seed, and looked much af­ter it him­self. But when that toil was end­ed, he fared away ev­ery spring on a viking-​voy­age, and har­ried about among the south­ern isles and Ire­land, and came home af­ter mid­sum­mer. That he called spring-​viking. Then he was at home un­til the corn- fields were reaped down, and the grain seen to and stored. Then he fared away on a viking-​voy­age, and then he did not come home till the win­ter was one month off, and that he called his au­tumn- viking.” (6)

To­ward the end of the ninth cen­tu­ry Harold Fairhair, ei­ther spurred by the ex­am­ple of Charle­magne, or re­al­ly prompt­ed, as Snor­ri Sturlu­son tells us, re­solved to bring all Nor­way un­der him. As Snor­ri has it in “Heim­skringla”: “King Harold sent his men to a girl hight Gy­da…. The king want­ed her for his le­man; for she was won­drous beau­ti­ful but of high mood with­al. Now when the mes­sen­gers came there and gave their mes­sage to her, she made an­swer that she would not throw her­self away even to take a king for her hus­band, who swayed no greater king­dom than a few dis­tricts; `And me­thinks,’ said she, `it is a mar­vel that no king here in Nor­way will put all the land un­der him, af­ter the fash­ion that Gorm the Old did in Den­mark, or Er­ic at Up­sala.’ The mes­sen­gers deemed this a dread­ful­ly proud-​spo­ken an­swer, and asked her what she thought would come of such an one, for Harold was so mighty a man that his ask­ing was good enough for her. But al­though she had replied to their say­ing oth­er­wise than they would, they saw no like­li­hood, for this while, of bear­ing her along with them against her will, so they made ready to fare back again. When they were ready and the folk fol­lowed them out, Gy­da said to the mes­sen­gers — `Now tell to King Harold these my words: — I will on­ly agree to be his law­ful wife up­on the con­di­tion that he shall first, for sake of me, put un­der him the whole of Nor­way, so that he may bear sway over that king­dom as freely and ful­ly as King Er­ic over the realm of Swe­den, or King Gorm over Den­mark; for on­ly then, me­thinks, can he be called king of a peo­ple.’ Now his men came back to King Harold, bring­ing him the words of the girl, and say­ing she was so bold and heed­less that she well de­served the king should send a greater troop of peo­ple for her, and put her to some dis­grace. Then an­swered the king. `This maid has not spo­ken or done so much amiss that she should be pun­ished, but the rather should she be thanked for her words. She has re­mind­ed me,’ said he, `of some­what that it seems won­der­ful I did not think of be­fore. And now,’ added he, `I make the solemn vow, and take who made me and rules over all things, to wit­ness that nev­er shall I clip or comb my hair un­til I have sub­dued all Nor­way with scatt, and du­ties, and lord­ships; or, if not, have died in the seek­ing.’ Gut­torm gave great thanks to the king for his oath, say­ing it was “roy­al work ful­fill­ing roy­al rede.” The new and strange gov­ern­ment that Harold tried to en­force — noth­ing less than the feu­dal sys­tem in a rough guise - — which made those who had hith­er­to been their own men save at spe­cial times, the king’s men at all times, and laid freemen un­der tax, was with­stood as long as might be by the stur­dy Norse­men. It was on­ly by dint of hard fight­ing that he slow­ly won his way, un­til at Hafrs­firth he fi­nal­ly crushed all ef­fec­tive op­po­si­tion. But the dis­con­tent­ed, “and they were a great mul­ti­tude,” fled over­sea to the out­lands, Ice­land, the Faroes, the Orkneys, and Ire­land. The whole coast of Eu­rope, even to Greece and the shores of the Black Sea, the north­ern shores of Africa, and the west­ern part of Asia, felt the ef­fects al­so. Rolf Pad-​th’-hoof, son of Harold’s dear friend Rogn­vald, made an out­law for a cat­tle-​raid with­in the bounds of the king­dom, be­took him­self to France, and, with his men, found­ed a new peo­ple and a dy­nasty.

Ice­land had been known for a good many years, but its on­ly dwellers had been Irish Culdees, who sought that lone­ly land to pray in peace. Now, how­ev­er, both from Nor­way and the West­ern Isles set­tlers be­gan to come in. Aud, wid­ow of Olaf the White, King of Dublin, came, bring­ing with her many of mixed blood, for the Gaed­hil (pro­nounced “Gael”, Irish) and the Gaill (pro­nounced “Gaul”, strangers) not on­ly fought fu­ri­ous­ly, but made friends firm­ly, and of­ten in­ter­mar­ried. In­deed, the West­men were among the first ar­rivals, and took the best parts of the is­land — on its west­ern shore, ap­pro­pri­ate­ly enough. Af­ter a time the Vikings who had set­tled in the Isles so wor­ried Harold and his king­dom, up­on which they swooped ev­ery oth­er while, that he drew to­geth­er a mighty force, and fell up­on them where­so­ev­er he could find them, and fol­lowed them up with fire and sword; and this he did twice, so that in those lands none could abide but folk who were con­tent to be his men, how­ev­er light­ly they might hold their al­le­giance. Hence it was to Ice­land that all turned who held to the old ways, and for over six­ty years from the first com­er there was a stream of hardy men pour­ing in, with their fam­ilies and their be­long­ings, sim­ple yeomen, great and war­wise chief­tains, rich landown­ers, who had left their land “for the over­bear­ing of King Harold,” as the “Land­nam­abok” (7) has it. “There al­so we shall es­cape the trou­bling of kings and scoundrels”, says the “Vats­dae­lasaga”. So much of the best blood left Nor­way that the king tried to stay the leak by fines and pun­ish­ments, but in vain.

As his ship neared the shore, the new-​com­ing chief would leave it to the gods as to where he set­tled. The hal­lowed pil­lars of the high seat, which were car­ried away from his old abode, were thrown over­board, with cer­tain rites, and were let drive with wind and wave un­til they came ashore. The piece of land which lay next the beach they were flung up­on was then viewed from the near­est hill-​sum­mit, and place of the home­stead picked out. Then the land was hal­lowed by be­ing en­cir­cled with fire, par­celled among the band, and marked out with bound­ary-​signs; the hous­es were built, the “town” or home-​field walled in, a tem­ple put up, and the set­tle­ment soon as­sumed shape. In 1100 there were 4500 franklins, mak­ing a pop­ula­tion of about 50,000, ful­ly three- fourths of whom had a strong in­fu­sion of Celtic blood in them. The mode of life was, and is, rather pas­toral than aught else. In the 39,200 square miles of the is­land’s area there are now about 250 acres of cul­ti­vat­ed land, and al­though there has been much more in times past, the Ice­landers have al­ways been forced to reck­on up­on flocks and herds as their chief re­sources, grain of all kinds, even rye, on­ly grow­ing in a few favoured places, and very rarely there; the hay, self-​sown, be­ing the on­ly cer­tain har­vest. On the coast fish­ing and fowl­ing were of help, but nine-​tenths of the folk lived by their sheep and cat­tle. Pota­toes, car­rots, turnips, and sev­er­al kinds of cab­bage have, how­ev­er, been late­ly grown with suc­cess. They pro­duced their own food and cloth­ing, and could ex­port enough wool, cloth, horn, dried fish, etc., as en­abled them to ob­tain wood for build­ing, iron for tools, hon­ey, wine, grain, etc, to the ex­tent of their sim­ple needs. Life and work was lot­ted by the sea­sons and their changes; out­door work — fish­ing, herd­ing, hay-​mak­ing, and fu­el- get­ting — fill­ing the long days of sum­mer, while the long, dark win­ter was used in weav­ing and a hun­dred in­door crafts. The cli­mate is not so bad as might be ex­pect­ed, see­ing that the is­land touch­es the po­lar cir­cle, the mean tem­per­ature at Reyk­javik be­ing 39 de­grees.

The re­li­gion which the set­tlers took with them in­to Ice­land — the eth­nic re­li­gion of the Norse­folk, which fought its last great fight at Stick­lestead, where Olaf Har­alds­son lost his life and won the name of Saint — was, like all re­li­gions, a com­pound of myths, those which had sur­vived from sav­age days, and those which ex­pressed the var­ious de­grees of a grow­ing knowl­edge of life and bet­ter un­der­stand­ing of na­ture. Some his­to­ri­ans and com­men­ta­tors are still fond of the un­sci­en­tif­ic method of tak­ing a lat­er re­li­gion, in this case chris­tian­ity, and writ­ing down all ap­par­ent­ly co­in­ci­dent parts of be­lief, as hav­ing been bor­rowed from the chris­tian teach­ings by the Norse­folk, while all that re­main they lump un­der some slight­ing head. Ev­ery folk has from the be­gin­ning of time sought to ex­plain the won­ders of na­ture, and has, af­ter its own fash­ion, set forth the mys­ter­ies of life. The low­est sav­age, no less than his more ad­vanced broth­er, has a phi­los­ophy of the uni­verse by which he solves the world-​prob­lem to his own sat­is­fac­tion, and seeks to rec­on­cile his con­duct with his con­cep­tion of the na­ture of things. Now, it is not to be thought, save by “a pri­ori” rea­son­ers, that such a folk as the North­men — a mighty folk, far ad­vanced in the arts of life, imag­ina­tive, lit­er­ary — should have had no fur­ther creed than the totemistic myths of their prim­itive state; a state they have whol­ly left ere they en­ter his­to­ry. Judg­ing from uni­ver­sal anal­ogy, the re­li­gion of which record re­mains to us was just what might be looked for at the par­tic­ular stage of ad­vance­ment the North­men had reached. Of course some­thing may have been gained from con­tact with oth­er peo­ples — from the Greeks dur­ing the long years in which the north­ern races pressed up­on their fron­tier; from the Irish dur­ing the ex­is­tence of the west­ern viking-​king­doms; but what I par­tic­ular­ly warn young stu­dents against is the con­stant ef­fort of a cer­tain or­der of minds to wrest facts in­to agree­ment with their pet the­ories of re­li­gion or what not. The whole ten­den­cy of the more mod­ern in­ves­ti­ga­tion shows that the pe­ri­od of myth-​trans­mis­sion is long over ere his­to­ry be­gins. The same con­fu­sion of dif­fer­ent stages of myth- mak­ing is to be found in the Greek re­li­gion, and in­deed in those of all peo­ples; sim­ilar con­di­tions of mind pro­duce sim­ilar prac­tices, apart from all bor­row­ing of ideas and man­ners; in Greece we find snake-​dances, bear-​dances, swim­ming with sa­cred pigs, leap­ing about in im­ita­tion of wolves, dog-​feasts, and of­fer­ing of dogs’ flesh to the gods — all of them prac­tices dat­ing from crude sav­agery, min­gled with ideas of ex­alt­ed and no­ble beau­ty, but none now, save a big­ot, would think of ac­cus­ing the Greeks of hav­ing stolen all their high­er be­liefs. Even were some part of the mat­ter of their myths tak­en from oth­ers, yet the Norse­men have giv­en their gods a no­ble, up­right, great spir­it, and placed them up­on a high lev­el that is all their own. (8) From the prose Ed­da the fol­low­ing all too brief state­ment of the salient points of Norse be­lief is made up: — “The first and el­dest of gods is hight All­fa­ther; he lives from all ages, and rules over all his realm, and sways all things great and small; he smithied heav­en and earth, and the lift, and all that be­longs to them; what is most, he made man, and gave him a soul that shall live and nev­er per­ish; and all men that are right-​mind­ed shall live and be with him­self in Vin­golf; but wicked men fare to Hell, and thence in­to Ni­ithell, that is be­neath in the ninth world. Be­fore the earth `’twas the morn­ing of time, when yet naught was, nor sand nor sea was there, nor cool­ing streams. Earth was not found, nor Heav­en above; a Yawn­ing-​gap there was, but grass nowhere.’ Many ages ere the earth was shapen was Ni­fl­heim made, but first was that land in the south­ern sphere hight Mus­pell, that burns and blazes, and may not be trod­den by those who are out­landish and have no her­itage there. Surtr sits on the bor­der to guard the land; at the end of the world he will fare forth, and har­ry and over­come all the gods and burn the world with fire. Ere the races were yet min­gled, or the folk of men grew, Yawn­ing-​gap, which looked to­wards the north parts, was filled with thick and heavy ice and rime, and ev­ery­where with­in were fog and gusts; but the south side of Yawn­ing-​gap light­ened by the sparks and gledes that flew out of Mus­pell-​heim; as cold arose out of Ni­fl­heim and all things grim, so was that part that looked to­wards Mus­pell hot and bright; but Yawn­ing-​gap was as light as wind­less air, and when the blast of heat met the rime, so that it melt­ed and dropped and quick­ened; from those life- drops there was shaped the like­ness of a man, and he was named Ymir; he was bad, and all his kind; and so it is said, when he slept he fell in­to a sweat; then waxed un­der his left hand a man and a wom­an, and one of his feet got a son with the oth­er, and thence cometh the Hrimthur­sar. The next thing when the rime dropped was that the cow hight Au­dhum­la was made of it; but four milk-​rivers ran out of her teats, and she fed Ymir; she licked rime-​stones that were salt, and the first day there came at even, out of the stones, a man’s hair, the sec­ond day a man’s head, the third day all the man was there. He is named Turi; he was fair of face, great and mighty; he gat a son named Bor, who took to him Besla, daugh­ter of Bolthorn, the gi­ant, and they had three sons, Odin, Vili, and Ve. Bor’s sons slew Ymir the gi­ant, but when he fell there ran so much blood out of his wounds that all the kin of the Hrimthur­sar were drowned, save Hvergelmir and his house­hold, who got away in a boat. Then Bor’s sons took Ymir and bore him in­to the midst of Yawn­ing-​gap, and made of him the earth; of his blood seas and wa­ters, of his flesh earth was made; they set the earth fast, and laid the sea round about it in a ring with­out; of his bones were made rocks; stones and peb­bles of his teeth and jaws and the bones that were bro­ken; they took his skull and made the lift there­of, and set it up over the earth with four sides, and un­der each cor­ner they set dwarfs, and they took his brain and cast it aloft, and made clouds. They took the sparks and gledes that went loose, and had been cast out of Mus­pell­heim, and set them in the lift to give light; they gave rest­ing-​places to all fires, and set some in the lift; some fared free un­der it, and they gave them a place and shaped their go­ings. A won­drous great smithy­ing, and deft­ly done. The earth is fash­ioned round with­out, and there be­yond, round about it lies the deep sea; and on that sea-​strand the gods gave land for an abode to the gi­ant kind, but with­in on the earth made they a burg round the world against rest­less gi­ants, and for this burg reared they the brows of Ymir, and called the burg Midgard. The gods went along the sea-​strand and found two stocks, and shaped out of them men; the first gave soul and life, the sec­ond wit and will to move, the third face, hear­ing, speech, and eye­sight. They gave them cloth­ing and names; the man Ask and the wom­an Em­bla; thence was mankind be­got­ten, to whom an abode was giv­en un­der Midgard. Then next Bor’s sons made them a burg in the midst of the world, that is called As­gard; there abode the gods and their kind, and wrought thence many tid­ings and feats, both on earth and in the Sky. Odin, who is hight All­fa­ther, for that he is the fa­ther of all men and sat there in his high seat, see­ing over the whole world and each man’s do­ings, and knew all things that he saw. His wife was called Frigg, and their off­spring is the Asa- stock, who dwell in As­gard and the realms about it, and all that stock are known to be gods. The daugh­ter and wife of Odin was Earth, and of her he got Thor, him fol­lowed strength and stur­di­ness, there­by quells he all things quick; the strongest of all gods and men, he has al­so three things of great price, the ham­mer Mi­ol­nir, the best of strength belts, and when he girds that about him wax­es his god strength one-​half, and his iron gloves that he may not miss for hold­ing his ham­mer’s haft. Balidr is Odin’s sec­ond son, and of him it is good to say, he is fair and: bright in face, and hair, and body, and him all praise; he is wise and fair-​spo­ken and mild, and that na­ture is in him none may with­stand his doom. Tyr is dar­ing and best of mood; there is a saw that he is tyrstrong who is be­fore oth­er men and nev­er yields; he is al­so so wise that it is said he is tyr­learned who is wise. Bra­gi is fa­mous for wis­dom, and best in tongue-​wit, and cun­ning speech, and song-​craft. `And many oth­er are there, good and great; and one, Lo­ki, fair of face, ill in tem­per and fick­le of mood, is called the back­biter of the Asa, and speak­er of evil re­des and shame of all gods and men; he has above all that craft called sleight, and cheats all in all things. Among the chil­dren of Lo­ki are Fen­ris-​wolf and Midgards-​worm; the sec­ond lies about all the world in the deep sea, hold­ing his tail in his teeth, though some say Thor has slain him; but Fen­ris-​wolf is bound un­til the doom of the gods, when gods and men shall come to an end, and earth and heav­en be burnt, when he shall slay Odin. Af­ter this the earth shoots up from the sea, and it is green and fair, and the fields bear un­sown, and gods and men shall be alive again, and sit in fair halls, and talk of old tales and the tid­ings that hap­pened afore­time. The head-​seat, or holi­est-​stead, of the gods is at Yg­gdrasil’s ash, which is of all trees best and biggest; its boughs are spread over the whole world and stand above heav­en; one root of the ash is in heav­en, and un­der the root is the right holy spring; there hold the gods doom ev­ery day; the sec­ond root is with the Hrimthur­sar, where be­fore was Yawn­ing-​gap; un­der that root is Mimir’s spring, where knowl­edge and wit lie hid­den; thith­er came All­fa­ther and begged a drink, but got it not be­fore he left his eye in pledge; the third root is over Ni­fl­heim, and the worm Nid­hogg gnaws the root be­neath. A fair hall stands un­der the ash by the spring, and out of it come three maid­ens, Norns, named Has-​been, Be­ing, Will-​be, who shape the lives of men; there are be­side oth­er Norns, who come to ev­ery man that is born to shape his life, and some of these are good and some evil. In the boughs of the ash sits an ea­gle, wise in much, and be­tween his eyes sits the hawk Ve­dr­fal­nir; the squir­rel Ratatoskr runs up and down along the ash, bear­ing words of hate be­twixt the ea­gle and the worm. Those Norns who abide by the holy spring draw from it ev­ery day wa­ter, and take the clay that lies around the well, and sprin­kle them up over the ash for that its boughs should not with­er or rot. All those men that have fall­en in the fight, and borne wounds and toil un­to death, from the be­gin­ning of the world, are come to Odin in Val­hall; a very great throng is there, and many more shall yet come; the flesh of the boar So­erfm­nir is sod­den for them ev­ery day, and he is whole again at even; and the mead they drink that flows from the teats of the she-​goat Hei­dhrun. The meat Odin has on his board he gives to his two wolves, Geri and Fre­ki, and he needs no meat, wine is to him both meat and drink; ravens twain sit on his shoul­ders, and say in­to his ear all tid­ings that they see and hear; they are called Hug­inn and Muninn (mind and mem­ory); them sends he at dawn to fly over the whole world, and they come back at break­fast-​tide, there­by be­comes he wise in many tid­ings, and for this men call him Raven’s-​god. Ev­ery day, when they have clothed them, the heroes put on their arms and go out in­to the yard and fight and fell each oth­er; that is their play, and when it looks to­ward meal­time, then ride they home to Val­hall and sit down to drink. For mur­der­ers and men for­sworn is a great hall, and a bad, and the doors look north­ward; it is al­to­geth­er wrought of adder-​backs like a wat­tled house, but the worms’ heads turn in­to the house, and blow ven­om, so that rivers of ven­om run along the hall, and in those rivers must such men wade for­ev­er.” There was no priest-​class; ev­ery chief was priest for his own folk, of­fered sac­ri­fice, per­formed cer­emonies, and so on.

In pol­itics the home­stead, with its franklin-​own­er, was the unit; the “thing”, or hun­dred-​moot, the pri­mal or­gan­isa­tion, and the “godord”, or chief­tain­ship, its tie. The chief who had led a band of kins­men and fol­low­ers to the new coun­try, tak­en pos­ses­sion of land, and shared it among them, be­came their head- ruler and priest at home, speak­er and pres­ident of their Thing, and their rep­re­sen­ta­tive in any deal­ings with neigh­bour­ing chiefs and their clients. He was not a feu­dal lord, for any franklin could change his “godord” as he liked, and the right of “judg­ment by peers” was in full use. At first there was no high­er or­gan­isa­tion than the lo­cal thing. A cen­tral thing, and a speak­er to speak a sin­gle “law” for the whole is­land, was in­sti­tut­ed in 929, and af­ter­wards the is­land was di­vid­ed in four quar­ters, each with a court, un­der the Al-​thing. So­ci­ety was di­vid­ed on­ly in­to two class­es of men, the free and un­free, though po­lit­ical pow­er was in the hands of the franklins alone; “go­di” and thrall ate the same food, spoke the same tongue, wore much the same clothes, and were near­ly alike in life and habits. Among the free men there was equal­ity in all but wealth and the so­cial stand­ing that can­not be sep­arat­ed there­from. The thrall was a serf rather than a slave, and could own a house, etc., of his own. In a gen­er­ation or so the free­man or land­less re­tain­er, if he got a home­stead of his own, was the peer of the high­est in the land. Dur­ing the tenth cen­tu­ry Green­land was colonised from Ice­land, and by end of the same cen­tu­ry chris­tian­ity was in­tro­duced in­to Ice­land, but made at first lit­tle dif­fer­ence in ar­range­ments of so­ci­ety. In the thir­teenth cen­tu­ry dis­putes over the pow­er and ju­ris­dic­tion of the cler­gy led, with oth­er mat­ters, to civ­il war, end­ing in sub­mis­sion to Nor­way, and the break­ing down of all na­tive great hous­es. Al­though life un­der the com­mon­wealth had been rough and ir­reg­ular, it had been free and var­ied, breed­ing heroes and men of mark; but the “law and or­der” now brought in left all on a dead lev­el of peas­ant pro­pri­etor­ship, with­out room for hope or open­ing for am­bi­tion. An alien gov­er­nor ruled the is­land, which was di­vid­ed un­der him in­to lo­cal coun­ties, ad­min­is­tered by sher­iffs ap­point­ed by the king of Nor­way. The Al-​thing was re­placed by a roy­al court, the lo­cal work of the lo­cal things was tak­en by a sub­or­di­nate of the sher­iff, and things, quar­ter-​courts, tri­al by ju­ry, and all the rest, were swept away to make room for these “im­prove­ments”, which have last­ed with few changes in­to this cen­tu­ry. In 1380 the is­land passed un­der the rule of Den­mark, and so con­tin­ues. (9) Dur­ing the fif­teenth cen­tu­ry the En­glish trade was the on­ly link be­tween Ice­land and the out­er world; the Dan­ish gov­ern­ment weak­ened that link as much as it could, and sought to shut in and mo­nop­olise ev­ery­thing Ice­landic; un­der the dead­en­ing ef­fect of such rule it is no mar­vel that ev­ery­thing found a low­er lev­el, and many things went out of ex­is­tence for lack of use. In the six­teenth cen­tu­ry there is lit­tle to record but the Ref­or­ma­tion, which did lit­tle good, if any, and the rav­ages of En­glish, Gas­con, and Al­ger­ine pi­rates who made hav­oc on the coast; (10) they ap­pear to­ward the close of the cen­tu­ry and dis­ap­pear ear­ly in the sev­en­teenth. In the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry small-​pox, sheep dis­ease, famine, and the ter­ri­ble erup­tions of 1765 and 1783, fol­low one an­oth­er swift­ly and with ter­ri­ble ef­fect. At the be­gin­ning of the present cen­tu­ry Ice­land, how­ev­er, be­gan to shake off the stu­por her ill-​hap had brought up­on her, and as Eu­ro­pean at­ten­tion had been drawn to her, she was lis­tened to. News­pa­pers, pe­ri­od­icals, and a Use­ful Knowl­edge So­ci­ety were start­ed; then came free trade, and the “home-​rule” strug­gle, which met with par­tial suc­cess in 1874, and is still be­ing car­ried on. A colony, Gim­li, in far-​off Cana­da, has been formed of Ice­landic em­igrants, and large num­bers have left their moth­er- land; but there are many co-​op­er­ative so­ci­eties or­gan­ised now, which it is hoped will be able to so re­vive the old re­sources of the is­land as to make pro­vi­sion for the old pop­ula­tion and ways of life. There is now again a rep­re­sen­ta­tive cen­tral coun­cil, but very many of the old rights and pow­ers have not been yet re­stored. The con­di­tion of so­ci­ety is pe­cu­liar ab­sence of towns, so­cial equal­ity, no ab­ject pover­ty or great wealth, rar­ity of crime, mak­ing it easy for the whole coun­try to be ad­min­is­tered as a co-​op­er­ative com­mon­wealth with­out the great and strik­ing changes ren­dered nec­es­sary by more com­pli­cat­ed sys­tems.

Ice­land. has al­ways borne a high name for learn­ing and lit­er­ature; on both sides of their de­scent peo­ple in­her­it­ed spe­cial po­et­ic pow­er. Some of old­er Ed­da­ic frag­ments at­test the great reach and deep over­pow­er­ing strength of imag­ina­tion pos­sessed by their Norse an­ces­tors; and they them­selves had been quick­ened by a new leav­en. Dur­ing the first gen­er­ations of the “land-​tak­ing” a great school of po­et­ry which had arisen among the Norse­men of the West­ern Isles was brought by them to Ice­land. (11) The po­ems then pro­duced are quite be­yond par­al­lel with those of any Teu­ton­ic lan­guage for cen­turies af­ter their date, which lay be­tween the be­gin­ning of the ninth and the end of the tenth cen­turies. Through the Green­land colony al­so came two, or per­haps more, great po­ems of this west­ern school. This school grew out of the stress and storm of the viking life, with its wild ad­ven­ture and var­ied com­merce, and the close con­tact with an artis­tic and in­ven­tive folk, pos­sessed of high cul­ture and great learn­ing. The in­fu­sion of Celtic blood, how­ev­er slight it may have been, had al­so some­thing to do with the swift in­tense feel­ing and ra­pid­ity of pas­sion of the ear­li­er Ice­landic po­ets. They are hot-​head­ed and hot-​heart­ed, warm, im­pul­sive, quick to quar­rel or to love, faith­ful, brave; ready with sword or song to bat­tle with all com­ers, or to seek ad­ven­ture where­so­ev­er it might be found. They leave Ice­land young, and wan­der at their will to dif­fer­ent courts of north­ern Eu­rope, where they are al­ways held in high hon­our. Gunnlaug Worm-​tongue (12) in 1004 carne to Eng­land, af­ter be­ing in Nor­way, as the saga says: — “Now sail Gunnlaug and his fel­lows in­to the En­glish main, and come at au­tum­ntide south to Lon­don Bridge, where they hauled ashore their ship. Now, at that time King Ethelred, the son of Edgar, ruled over Eng­land, and was a good lord; the win­ter he sat in Lon­don. But in those days there was the same tongue in Eng­land as in Nor­way and Den­mark; but the tongues changed when William the Bas­tard won Eng­land, for thence­for­ward French went cur­rent there, for he was of French kin. Gunnlaug went present­ly to the king, and greet­ed him well and worthi­ly. The king asked him from what land he came, and Gunnlaug told him all as it was. `But,’ said he, `I have come to meet thee, lord, for that I have made a song on thee, and I would that it might please thee to hear­ken to that song.’ The king said it should be so, and Gunnlaug gave forth the song well and proud­ly, and this is the bur­den there­of –

“‘As God are all folk fear­ing The fire lord King of Eng­land, Kin of all kings and all folk, To Ethelred the head bow.’

The king thanked him for the song, and gave him as song-​re­ward a scar­let cloak lined with the costli­est of furs, and gold­en- broi­dered down to the hem; and made him his man; and Gunnlaug was with him all the win­ter, and was well ac­count­ed of.”

The po­ems in this vol­ume are part of the won­der­ful frag­ments which are all that re­main of an­cient Scan­di­na­vian po­et­ry. Ev­ery piece which sur­vives has been gar­nered by Vig­fusson and Pow­ell in the vol­umes of their “Cor­pus”, where those who seek may find. A long and il­lus­tri­ous line of po­ets kept the old tra­di­tions, down even to with­in a cou­ple cen­turies, but the ear­li­er great har­vest of song was nev­er again equalled. Af­ter chris­tian­ity had en­tered Ice­land, and that, with oth­er caus­es, had qui­et­ed men’s lives, al­though the po­et­ry which stood to the folk in lieu of mu­sic did not die away, it lost the ex­clu­sive hold it had up­on men’s minds. In a time not so stir­ring, when emo­tion was not so fer­vent or so swift, when there was less to quick­en the blood, the sto­ry that had be­fore found no fit ex­pres­sion but in verse, could stretch its limbs, as it were, and be told in prose. Some­thing of Irish in­flu­ence is again felt in this new de­par­ture and that mar­vel­lous new growth, the saga, that came from it, but is lit­tle more than an in­flu­ence. Ev­ery peo­ple find some one means of ex­pres­sion which more than all else suits their mood or their pow­ers, and this the Ice­landers found in the saga. This was the life of a hero told in prose, but in set form, af­ter a reg­ular fash­ion that un­con­scious­ly com­plied with all epi­cal re­quire­ments but that of verse — sim­ple plot, events in or­der of time, set phras­es for even the shift­ing emo­tion or change­ful for­tune of a fight or storm, and care­ful avoid­ance of di­gres­sion, com­ment, or putting for­ward by the nar­ra­tor of ought but the theme he has in hand; he him­self is nev­er seen. Some­thing in the per­fec­tion of the saga is to be traced to the long win­ter’s evenings, when the whole house­hold, gath­ered to­geth­er at their spin­ning, weav­ing, and so on, would lis­ten to one of their num­ber who told anew some old sto­ry of ad­ven­ture or achieve­ment. In very truth the saga is a prose epic, and marked by ev­ery qual­ity an epic should pos­sess. Grow­ing up while the deeds of dead heroes were fresh in mem­ory, most of­ten re­cit­ed be­fore the shar­ers in such deeds, the saga, in its pure form, nev­er goes from what is truth to its teller. Where the saga, as this one of the Vol­sungs is found­ed up­on the de­bris of songs and po­ems, even then very old, tales of mytho­log­ical heroes, of men quite re­moved from the per­son­al knowl­edge of the nar­ra­tor, yet the sto­ry is so in­wound with the tra­di­tion of his race, is so much a part of his thought-​life, that ev­ery ac­tor in it has for him a re­al ex­is­tence. At the feast or gath­er­ing, or by the fire­side, as men made nets and wom­en spun, these tales were told over; in their fre­quent rep­eti­tion by men who be­lieved them, though in­ci­dent or se­quence un­der­went no change, they would be­come clos­er knit, more co­her­ent, and each an or­gan­ic whole. Grad­ual­ly they would take a reg­ular and ac­cept­ed form, which would ease the strain up­on the re­citer’s mem­ory and leave his mind free to adorn the sto­ry with fair de­vices, that again gave help in the mak­ing it eas­ier to re­mem­ber, and thus aid­ed in its preser­va­tion. Af­ter a cou­ple of gen­er­ations had round­ed and pol­ished the sagas by their telling and retelling, they were writ­ten down for the most part be­tween 1141 and 1220, and so much was their form im­pressed up­on the mind of the folk, that when learned and lit­er­ary works ap­peared, they were writ­ten in the same style; hence we have his­to­ries alike of king­doms, or fam­ilies, or mir­acles, lives of saints, kings, or bish­ops in saga-​form, as well as sub­jects that seem at first sight even less hope­ful. All sagas that have yet ap­peared in En­glish may be found in the book-​list at end of this vol­ume, but they are not a tithe of those that re­main.

Of all the sto­ries kept in be­ing by the saga-​tellers and left for our de­light, there is none that so epit­omis­es hu­man ex­pe­ri­ence; has with­in the same space so much of na­ture and of life; so ful­ly the tem­per and ge­nius of the North­ern folk, as that of the Vol­sungs and Niblungs, which has in var­ied shapes en­tered in­to the lit­er­ature of many lands. In the be­gin­ning there is no doubt that the sto­ry be­longed to the com­mon an­ces­tral folk of all the Teu­ton­ic of Scan­do-​Goth­ic peo­ples in the ear­li­est days of their wan­der­ings. Whether they came from the Hin­du Kush, or orig­inat­ed in North­ern Eu­rope, brought it with them from Asia, or evolved it among the moun­tains and rivers it has tak­en for scenery, none know nor can; but each branch of their de­scen­dants has it in one form or an­oth­er, and as the Ice­landers were the very crown and flow­er of the north­ern folk, so al­so the sto­ry which is the pe­cu­liar her­itage of that folk re­ceived in their hands its high­est ex­pres­sion and most no­ble form. The old­est shape in which we have it is in the Ed­da­ic po­ems, some of which date from un­num­bered gen­er­ations be­fore the time to which most of them are usu­al­ly as­cribed, the time of the viking-​king­doms in the West­ern Isles. In these po­ems the on­ly his­tor­ical name is that of At­ti­la, the great Hun lead­er, who filled so large a part of the imag­ina­tion of the peo­ple whose pow­er he had bro­ken. There is no doubt that, in the days when the king­doms of the Scan­do-​Goths reached from the North Cape to the Caspi­an, that some ear­li­er great king per­formed his part; but, af­ter the strik­ing ca­reer of At­ti­la, he be­came the recog­nised type of a pow­er­ful for­eign po­ten­tate. All the oth­er ac­tors are myth­ic-​hero­ic. Of the Ed­da­ic songs on­ly frag­ments now re­main, but ere they per­ished there arose from them a saga, that now giv­en to the read­ers of this. The so-​called An­glo-​Sax­ons brought part of the sto­ry to Eng­land in “Be­owulf”; in which al­so ap­pear some in­ci­dents that are again giv­en in the Ice­landic saga of “Gret­tir the Strong”. Most wide­ly known is the form tak­en by the sto­ry in the hands of an un­known me­dieval Ger­man po­et, who, from the bro­ken bal­lads then sur­viv­ing wrote the “Ni­belun­gen­lied” or more prop­er­ly “Ni­belun­gen Not” (”The Need of the Niblungs”). In this the char­ac­ters are all re­named, some be­ing more or less his­tor­ical ac­tors in mid-​Eu­ro­pean his­to­ry, as Theodor­ic of the East-​Goths, for in­stance. The whole of the ear­li­er part of the sto­ry has dis­ap­peared, and though Siegfried (Sig­urd) has slain a drag­on, there is noth­ing to con­nect it with the fate that fol­lows the trea­sure; And­vari, the Vol­sungs, Fafnir, and Re­gin are all for­got­ten; the mytho­log­ical fea­tures have be­come faint, and the gen­er­al air of the whole is that of me­dieval ro­mance. The swoard Gram is re­placed by Bal­mung, and the Helm of Aw­ing by the Tarn-​cap — the for­mer with no gain, the lat­ter with great loss. The curse of And­vari, which in the saga is grim­ly re­al, work­ing it­self out with slow, sure steps that no pow­er of god or man can turn aside, in the me­dieval po­em is but a mere scenic ef­fect, a strain of mys­tery and mag­ic, that runs through the changes of the sto­ry with much added pic­turesque­ness, but that has no ob­vi­ous re­la­tion to the work­ing-​out of the plot, or ful­fil­ment of their des­tiny by the dif­fer­ent char­ac­ters. Bryn­hild los­es a great deal, and is a poor crea­ture when com­pared with her­self in the saga; Grimhild and her fate­ful drink have gone; Gu­drun (Chriemhild)is much more com­plex, but not more trag­ic; one new char­ac­ter, Rudi­ger, ap­pears as the type of chival­ry; but Sig­urd (Siegfred) the cen­tral fig­ure, though he has lost by the omis­sion of so much of his life, is, as be­fore, the em­bod­iment of all the virtues that were dear to north­ern hearts. Brave, strong, gen­er­ous, dig­ni­fied, and ut­ter­ly truth­ful, he moves amid a tan­gle of trag­ic events, over­mas­tered by a mighty fate, and in life or death is still a hero with­out stain or flaw. It is no won­der that he sur­vives to this day in the na­tion­al songs of the Faroe Is­lands and in the folk-​bal­lads of Den­mark; that his leg­end should have been min­gled with north­ern his­to­ry through Rag­nar Lod­brog, or south­ern through At­ti­la and Theodor­ic; that it should have in­spired William Mor­ris in pro­duc­ing the one great En­glish epic of the cen­tu­ry; (13) and Richard Wag­ner in the might­iest among his mu­sic-​dra­mas. Of the sto­ry as told in the saga there is no need here to speak, for to read it, as may be done a few pages far­ther on, is that not bet­ter than to read about it? But it may be urged up­on those that are pleased and moved by the pas­sion and pow­er, the strength and deep truth of it, to find out more than they now know of the folk among whom it grew, and the land in which they dwelt. In so do­ing they will come to see how need­ful are a few lessons from the healthy life and speech of those days, to be ap­plied in the bet­ter­ing of our own.

H. HAL­LI­DAY SPAR­LiNG.

END­NOTES: (1) Viking (Ice. “Vikingr”; “vik”, a bay or creek, “in­gr”, be­loning to, (or men of) free­boot­ers. (2) “West over the Sea” is the word for the British Isles. (3) See Todd (J. H.). “War of the Gaed­hil with the Gaill”. (4) He was son of In­giald, son of Tho­ra, daugh­ter of Sig­urd Snake-​I’-th’-eye, son of Rag­nar Lod­brok by Aslaug, daugh­ter of Sig­urd by Bryn­hild. The ge­neal­ogy is, doubt­less, quite myth­ical. (5) A Col­lec­tion of Sagas and oth­er His­tor­ical Doc­uments re­lat­ing to the Set­tle­ments and De­scents of the North­men on the British Isles. Ed., G. W. Dasent, D.C.L, and Gud­brand Vig­fusson, M.A. “In the Press. Long­mans, Lon­don. 8vo. (6) “Orkneyin­ga Saga”. (7) Land­tak­ing-​book — “land­nam”, land­tak­ing, from “at ne­ma land”, hence al­so the ear­ly set­tlers were called “land­nams­menn”. (8) To all in­ter­est­ed in the sub­ject of com­par­ative mythol­ogy, An­drew Lang’s two ad­mirable books, “Cus­tom and Myth” (1884, 8vo) and “Myth, Rit­ual, and Re­li­gion” (2 vols., crown 8vo, 1887), both pub­lished by Long­mans, Lon­don, may be warm­ly rec­om­mend­ed. (9) Ice­land was grant­ed full in­de­pen­dence from Den­mark in 1944. — DBK. (10) These pi­rates are al­ways ap­pear­ing about the same time in En­glish State pa­pers as plun­der­ing along the coasts of the British Isles, es­pe­cial­ly Ire­land. (11) For all the old Scan­di­na­vian po­et­ry ex­tant in Ice­landic, see “Cor­pus Po­et­icum Bo­re­alis” of Vig­fusson and Pow­ell. (12) Snake-​tongue — so called from his bit­ing satire. (13) “Sig­urd the Vol­sung”, which seems to have be­come all but for­got­ten in this cen­tu­ry. — DBK.

TRANS­LA­TORS’ PREF­ACE.

In of­fer­ing to the read­er this trans­la­tion of the most com­plete and dra­mat­ic form of the great Epic of the North, we lay no claim to spe­cial crit­ical in­sight, nor do we care to deal at all with vexed ques­tions, but are con­tent to abide by ex­ist­ing au­thor­ities, do­ing our ut­most to make our ren­der­ing close and ac­cu­rate, and, if it might be so, at the same time, not over pro­sa­ic: it is to the lover of po­et­ry and na­ture, rather than to the stu­dent, that we ap­peal to en­joy and won­der at this great work, now for the first time, strange to say, trans­lat­ed in­to En­glish: this must be our ex­cuse for speak­ing here, as briefly as may be, of things that will seem to the stu­dent over well known to be worth men­tion­ing, but which may give some ease to the gen­er­al read­er who comes across our book.

The prose of the “Vol­sun­ga Saga” was com­posed prob­ably some time in the twelfth cen­tu­ry, from float­ing tra­di­tions no doubt; from songs which, now lost, were then known, at least in frag­ments, to the Saga­man; and fi­nal­ly from songs, which, writ­ten down about his time, are still ex­ist­ing: the greater part of these last the read­er will find in this book, some in­sert­ed amongst the prose text by the orig­inal sto­ry-​teller, and some by the present trans­la­tors, and the re­main­der in the lat­ter part of the book, put to­geth­er as near­ly as may be in the or­der of the sto­ry, and form­ing a met­ri­cal ver­sion of the greater por­tion of it.

These Songs from the El­der Ed­da we will now briefly com­pare with the prose of the Vol­sung Sto­ry, premis­ing that these are the on­ly met­ri­cal sources ex­ist­ing of those from which the Saga­man told his tale.

Ex­cept for the short snatch on p. 24 (1) of our trans­la­tion, noth­ing is now left of these till we come to the episode of Hel­gi Hund­ings-​bane, Sig­urd’s half-​broth­er; there are two songs left re­lat­ing to this, from which the prose is put to­geth­er; to a cer­tain ex­tent they cov­er the same ground; but the lat­ter half of the sec­ond is, wise­ly as we think, left un­touched by the Saga­man, as its in­ter­est is of it­self too great not to en­cum­ber the progress of the main sto­ry; for the sake of its won­der­ful beau­ty, how­ev­er, we could not re­frain from ren­der­ing it, and it will be found first among the met­ri­cal trans­la­tions that form the sec­ond part of this book.

Of the next part of the Saga, the deaths of Sin­fjotli and Sig­mund, and the jour­ney of Queen Hjordis to the court of King Alf, there is no trace left of any met­ri­cal ori­gin; but we meet the Ed­da once more where Re­gin tells the tale of his kin to Sig­urd, and where Sig­urd de­feats and slays the sons of Hund­ing: this lay is known as the “Lay of Re­gin”.

The short chap. xvi. is ab­bre­vi­at­ed from a long po­em called the “Prophe­cy of Gripir” (the Gri­fir of the Saga), where the whole sto­ry to come is told with some de­tail, and which cer­tain­ly, if drawn out at length in­to the prose, would have fore­stalled the in­ter­est of the tale.

In the slay­ing of the Drag­on the Saga ad­heres very close­ly to the “Lay of Fafnir”; for the in­ser­tion of the song of the birds to Sig­urd the present trans­la­tors are re­spon­si­ble.

Then comes the wak­ing of Bryn­hild, and her wise re­des to Sig­urd, tak­en from the Lay of Sigr­dri­fa, the greater part of which, in its met­ri­cal form, is in­sert­ed by the Saga­man in­to his prose; but the stan­za re­lat­ing Bryn­hild’s awak­ing we have in­sert­ed in­to the text; the lat­ter part, omit­ted in the prose, we have trans­lat­ed for the sec­ond part of our book.

Of Sig­urd at Hlym­dale, of Gu­drun’s dream, the mag­ic po­tion of Grimhild, the wed­ding of Sig­urd con­se­quent on that po­tion; of the woo­ing of Bryn­hild for Gun­nar, her mar­riage to him, of the quar­rel of the Queens, the brood­ing grief and wrath of Bryn­hild, and the in­ter­view of Sig­urd with her — of all this, the most dra­mat­ic and best-​con­sid­ered parts of the tale, there is now no more left that re­tains its met­ri­cal form than the few snatch­es pre­served by the Saga­man, though many of the in­ci­dents are al­lud­ed to in oth­er po­ems.

Chap. xxx. is met by the po­em called the “Short Lay of Sig­urd”, which, frag­men­tary ap­par­ent­ly at the be­gin­ning, gives us some­thing of Bryn­hild’s awak­en­ing wrath and jeal­ousy, the slay­ing of Sig­urd, and the death of Bryn­hild her­self; this po­em we have trans­lat­ed en­tire.

The Frag­ments of the “Lay of Bryn­hild” are what is left of a po­em part­ly cov­er­ing the same ground as this last, but giv­ing a dif­fer­ent ac­count of Sig­urd’s slay­ing; it is very in­com­plete, though the Saga­man has drawn some in­ci­dents from it; the read­er will find it trans­lat­ed in our sec­ond part.

But be­fore the death of the hero­ine we have in­sert­ed en­tire in­to the text as chap. xxxi. the “First Lay of Gu­drun”, the most lyri­cal, the most com­plete, and the most beau­ti­ful of all the Ed­da­ic po­ems; a po­em that any age or lan­guage might count among its most pre­cious pos­ses­sions.

From this point to the end of the Saga it keeps close­ly to the Songs of Ed­da; in chap. xxxii. the Saga­man has ren­dered in­to prose the “An­cient Lay of Gu­drun”, ex­cept for the be­gin­ning, which gives again an­oth­er ac­count of the death of Sig­urd: this lay al­so we have trans­lat­ed.

The grand po­em, called the “Hell-​ride of Bryn­hild”, is not rep­re­sent­ed di­rect­ly by any­thing in the prose ex­cept that the Saga­man has sup­plied from it a link or two want­ing in the “Lay of Sigr­dri­fa”; it will be found trans­lat­ed in our sec­ond part.

The be­tray­al and slaugh­ter of the Giuk­ings or Niblungs, and the fear­ful end of Atli and his sons, and court, are re­count­ed in two lays, called the “Lays of Atli”; the longest of these, the “Green­land Lay of Atli”, is fol­lowed close­ly by the Saga­man; the Short­er one we have trans­lat­ed.

The end of Gu­drun, of her daugh­ter by Sig­urd and of her sons by her last hus­band Jon­akr, treat­ed of in the last four chap­ters of the Saga, are very grand­ly and po­et­ical­ly giv­en in the songs called the “Whet­ting of Gu­drun”, and the “Lay of Hamdir”, which are al­so among our trans­la­tions.

These are all the songs of the Ed­da which the Saga­man has dealt with; but one oth­er, the “Lament of Odd­run”, we have trans­lat­ed on ac­count of its in­trin­sic mer­it.

As to the lit­er­ary qual­ity of this work we in say much, but we think we may well trust the read­er of po­et­ic in­sight to break through what­ev­er en­tan­gle­ment of strange man­ners or un­used el­ement may at first trou­ble him, and to meet the na­ture and beau­ty with which it is filled: we can­not doubt that such a read­er will be in­tense­ly touched by find­ing, amidst all its wild­ness and re­mote­ness, such a startling re­al­ism, such sub­tilty, such close sym­pa­thy with all the pas­sions that may move him­self to-​day.

In con­clu­sion, we must again say how strange it seems to us, that this Vol­sung Tale, which is in fact an un­ver­si­fied po­em, should nev­er be­fore been trans­lat­ed in­to En­glish. For this is the Great Sto­ry of the North, which should be to all our race what the Tale of Troy was to the Greeks — to all our race first, and af­ter­wards, when the change of the world has made our race noth­ing more than a name of what has been — a sto­ry too — then should it be to those that come af­ter us no less than the Tale of Troy has been to us.

WILLIAM MOR­RIS and EIRIKR MAG­NUS­SON.

END­NOTES: (1) Chap­ter vi­ii. — DBK.

THE STO­RY OF THE VOL­SUNGS AND NIBLUNGS.

CHAP­TER I. Of Si­gi, the Son of Odin.

Here be­gins the tale, and tells of a man who was named Si­gi, and called of men the son of Odin; an­oth­er man with­al is told of in the tale, hight Ska­di, a great man and mighty of his hands; yet was Si­gi the might­ier and the high­er of kin, ac­cord­ing to the speech of men of that time. Now Ska­di had a thrall with whom the sto­ry must deal some­what, Bre­di by name, who was called af­ter that work which he had to do; in prowess and might of hand he was equal to men who were held more wor­thy, yea, and bet­ter than some there­of.

Now it is to be told that, on a time, Si­gi fared to the hunt­ing of the deer, and the thrall with him; and they hunt­ed deer day- long till the evening; and when they gath­ered to­geth­er their prey in the evening, lo, greater and more by far was that which Bre­di had slain than Si­gi’s prey; and this thing he much mis­liked, and he said that great won­der it was that a very thrall should out-​do him in the hunt­ing of deer: so he fell on him and slew him, and buried the body of him there­after in a snow-​drift.

Then he went home at evening tide and says that Bre­di had rid­den away from him in­to the wild-​wood. “Soon was he out of my sight,” he says, “and naught more I wot of him.”

Ska­di mis­doubt­ed the tale of Si­gi, and deemed that this was a guile of his, and that he would have slain Bre­di. So he sent men to seek for him, and to such an end came their seek­ing, that they found him in a cer­tain snow-​drift; then said Ska­di, that men should call that snow-​drift Bre­di’s Drift from hence­forth; and there­after have folk fol­lowed, so that in such wise they call ev­ery drift that is right great.

Thus it is well seen that Si­gi has slain the thrall and mur­dered him; so he is giv­en forth to be a wolf in holy places, (1) and may no more abide in the land with his fa­ther; there­with Odin bare him fel­low­ship from the land, so long a way, that right long it was, and made no stay till he brought him to cer­tain war- ships. So Si­gi falls to ly­ing out a-​war­ring with the strength that his fa­ther gave him or ev­er they part­ed; and hap­py was he in his war­ring, and ev­er pre­vailed, till he brought it about that he won by his wars land and lord­ship at the last; and there­upon he took to him a no­ble wife, and be­came a great and mighty king, and ruled over the land of the Huns, and was the great­est of war­riors. He had a son by his wife, who was called Re­fit, who grew up in his fa­ther’s house, and soon be­came great of growth, and shape­ly.

END­NOTES: (1) “Wolf in holy places,” a man put out of the pale of so­ci­ety for crimes, an out­law.