Chapter I: Denmark (2)

Beyond this stream the adventurers perceived, at no great distance, a dark, unfrequented city, resembling a cloud of smoke. On high poles, grinned mortal heads, dissevered from their bodies; and below the entrance, which could only be reached by ladders, yelled hideous dogs, ready to devour the travellers. The entrails of a beast, cast before them by Thorkil, satisfied their howls, and the whole party ascended to the gate. Within, the whole town was possessed by dark larvæ, whose horrid noise, as they hovered about, were ended by the frightfulness of their shapes: all within was putrid, intolerable to the eye, and still more so to the breath. Onward the adventurers went, and entered a stony cavern which, according to tradition, had been the palace of Geruth. The horrible gloom within made them pause on the threshold, but Thorkil encouraged them to proceed; at the same time, he warned them to beware of taking or touching anything, however inviting to the eye; to restrain their minds from avarice as from fear; to desire nothing, to dread nothing; for if they laid a covetous hand on any desirable object, that hand would instantly become immoveable, and the whole body as if it were inextricably fettered. Their guide then directed them to enter in fours: Broder and Buchi led the way; Thorkil and the king followed; the rest, in the same order, formed the main body. The interior of the palace was old and unfrequented; a dark cloud filled it; and it abounded with everything offensive to the senses. The pillars were encrusted with ancient mould; the walls teemed with loathsome slime; the roof was formed of spears; the floor was covered with serpents, and filth of every kind; so that the strangers were not a little terrified. Above all, their noses were offended with the fœtid smell. Farther on were iron seats, filled with lifeless images of monstrous forms; and these were in the recesses of the hall, separated from it by leaden grates; and at the entrances were horrid porters, some howling, and shaking their maces; some, with their goat-like bodies, exhibiting an unseemly sport. Before the adventurers proceeded farther into the interior, Thorkil was careful to repeat his warning,—not to stretch forth their hands to the treasures they would see. Passing by a huge fragment of a rock, they perceived an aged man reclining, with wounded body, on the sharp rocky peaks above them. Beside him were three females, their bodies covered with tumors, and, as if unable to sit, reclined on the same couch. Who and what were these? Thorkil, who was well versed in such matters, informed his companions that the god Thor, offended by the insolence of Geruth, had driven his bolt through the heart of the giant; that the awful instrument had penetrated into and riven the mountain; that the females had been touched by it; and though their bodies were unbroken, they were suffering the punishment due to those who insulted the god. Proceeding forward, they perceived seven large vessels, surrounded with golden hoops, and filled with precious liquor. Near them was a tooth of an unknown sea monster, the extremities adorned with gold. Close by it was a large horn inlaid with shining gems, and of exquisite workmanship. Near this was a golden bracelet of great weight. The temptation to seize these valuable treasures was too great to be resisted. One man, ignorant that the shining metal concealed destruction beneath it, stretched out his hand to the bracelet. Another, influenced, also, by avarice, laid his eager hands on the horn. A third, emboldened by their example, placed the huge tooth on his shoulders. They soon found how fatally they had been deluded. One of these treasures was immediately transformed into a serpent, which, with venomous tooth, fell upon the robber. The horn became a dragon, which, also, destroyed the spoiler. The tooth became a sword, which found its way to the heart of the bearer. Terrified at this spectacle, even the innocent began to fear that they should suffer with the guilty. Proceeding onwards, a door opened to a smaller recess, but rich in treasures. Here were weapons, too large indeed for the human body, but of inestimable value. Among them was a royal mantle or cloak, with a cap, and a belt of admirable workmanship. At the sight, Thorkil, who had so often advised others, forgot himself. He took the garment in his hand, and the rest, influenced by his example, seized the things which they most coveted. Suddenly the cavern, from its lowest foundations, shook; every thing began to reel; and the women cried aloud that these wicked robbers must no longer be spared. Lifeless as they had appeared, and more like statues than women, they suddenly found a voice, and, rising from their couch, advanced against the strangers. The rest of the monstrous shapes began to howl in a most hideous manner. Broder and Buchi were not unmindful of their former pursuits: with their lances, they resisted the advancing genii; from their bows and their slings they sent the sharp missiles into the dense ranks of the monsters, and dispersed or overthrew them. Yet twenty only of the royal party survived; the rest were torn to pieces by the monsters. In great consternation the survivors issued from the cavern, returned to the river, were ferried over by Guthmund, and entertained in the same manner as before. On this occasion all abstained from the viands and the ladies save Buchi, he who had hitherto been an example of moderation, and to whose valour in the caverned palace so many were indebted for their lives. Having taken one of the ladies to his bed, he was seized with a sudden dizziness, and lost the memory of the past. He did not, however, forget his human feeling; for, anxious to show attention to the guests—now strangers to him—he followed them in one of the chariots of Guthmund, and was for ever engulfed in the waters of the river. The king, pitying the infatuation of his subjects, embarked and returned towards Halogia. But the voyage was again a troubled one: the men were exhausted by the fury of the tempests and by hunger; and Gorm resolved on sacrificing to the gods. While some of his crew called on this, some on that divinity, he invoked the awful Ugarthiloc, by whose favour he obtained a prosperous navigation homewards.[85]

On the return of Thorkil, great as had been his services to his companions in the enterprise, he could not escape the malice of evil tongues. They said that he had offended Ugarthiloc, whose vengeance must be averted by supplication, and that Thorkil should, for this purpose, be sent to the distant, mysterious shrine of that deity. He insisted that his accusers should be the companions of his voyage; and his request was granted by the king. The vessels were prepared as before, and the expedition sailed. At length they reached a region where there was no sun, no moon, no stars, where eternal night spread her sceptre over this unknown deep. Fuel was the first thing of which they felt the want, and they were compelled to subsist on raw meat. Some of them caught the plague from food so indigestible; the disease began in the stomach, and soon descended to the vitals. To abstain was just as fatal as to eat; and languor crept on those whom sickness spared. At this moment, when despair had seized on all, a light was seen at a distance. This inspired all with hope, with new strength. They soon anchored; and before going on shore, Thorkil placed a shining carbuncle on the summit of the mast to direct them on their return to the vessels. A cavern, with a low narrow entrance, was before them. Leaving his companions outside, Thorkil went in, and perceived two gigantic eagles (or giants under the form of eagles[86]), with hard hooked beaks, placing wood on the fire. The rugged entrance, the stinking threshold, the black wall, the filthy roof, the floor covered with serpents, were not more offensive to the eye than to the mind. One of the giants, saluting him, told him that he had ventured on a bold and most difficult undertaking,—that of visiting the abode of a divinity little worshipped, and of exploring regions beyond the sphere of the world. “But,” added the giant, “I am acquainted with the course which you will have to follow, and if you will give me three good proverbs in as many sentences, I will indicate it to you.” Thorkil did so to the satisfaction of the giant. “You have yet a four days’ sail before you,” said the latter, “with hard rowing, before you can reach the place you seek; there you may find Ugarthiloc in his foul and gloomy cave.” Thorkil was staggered at the labour before him; but he had gone too far to recede, and he advanced to the fire to take some of the flaming brands. He was compelled, before he could obtain them, to deliver three more proverbs.[87] With his companions he then returned to the ships; and a favourable breeze arising, they reached the destined port on the fourth day. Here they landed, and by means of a lurid twilight, were enabled to have some glimpse of the objects around them. Before them was a huge rock. With their flints they struck a light, and made a fire at the entrance of the cave,—a safeguard against the power of demons. Then, with lighted torches borne before them, Thorkil and some of his companions entered the narrow opening, and perceived a great number of iron seats surrounded by serpents. Onward was a stream which gently flowed over a sandy bottom: this being crossed, the path declined a little, when a dark and obscure cave was before them. There sat Ugarthiloc, his hands and feet laden with a vast weight of fetters: and the hairs of his head and beard were long and hard as so many lances. That there might be some evidence of the wonders he had seen, Thorkil, with the assistance of his companions, plucked one hair from the chin of the divinity; when such a stench issued from the part, that had they not speedily applied their mantles to their noses, they would have been unable to breathe. As they issued from this awful cave, the snakes, flying about them, spued venom upon them. With great difficulty five only reached the ship, the rest falling victims to the venom; and of these five, who were pursued by the serpents, one lost his head, another his eye-sight, a third his hand, through a fatal curiosity to inspect these vengeful creatures. All would have perished had not the hatches been closed by the thick ox-skins, which bade defiance to the power of the venom. Seeing how vain the attempt to propitiate these divinities, Thorkil addressed his prayers to the God of all, by whose favour a prosperous navigation brought him to his own country.[88]

Legends like the foregoing, which illustrate the opinions of mankind, are not to be rejected as childish. Wild as they are, they had once their believers,—and believers, for anything we know, they may have at this day, among the remote Lapps and Finns. Whether the inventors, who were probably priests of Thor or Odin, took this method of unfolding to their disciples some physical theory, we shall not inquire. The darkness which, as all men knew, overhung the polar sea during half the year, favoured the diffusion of such stories. But what will most have struck the reader, in the first of these legends, is, the similarity of some of its passages with those of the Odyssey and other classical productions. Many of the adventures in the second legend are to be found in the Edda, but ascribed to another individual. As Saxo could not borrow from the compilation of either Saemund or Snorro, all three must have drawn from some common source, and that source was tradition. But we have dwelt long enough on these fabulous times, and we must hasten to the historical.[89]

If any faith can be placed in Saxo’s relation, which we see no reason to doubt, Gorm must have been contemporary with the first of the Carlovingian kings; for the historian expressly assures us that in this reign Denmark was christianised. And in that of _Godric_ his son, who is also called _Godfrey_, we are told that Charlemagne was subduing the Saxons. On referring, indeed, to the list which we have given at the beginning of this chapter, and which the best Danish critics regard as approximating nearer to the truth than any other yet constructed[90], the reader will perceive that there is no mention of Gorm or Godric. But here we must repeat what we have already frequently observed, that both might have reigned in Jutland, while Sigurd Ring and Ragnar Lodbrok and Sigurd Snogoje reigned in Zealand. And even if this were not so, we are by no means sure that the Icelandic authorities, which alone have weight with the modern historians of Denmark, ought to be followed to the utter exclusion of Saxo, who lived as near to the period as any of the former, and whose means of information must have been of easier access. Strange that in the eighth century—nay, even in the ninth—we should find so much darkness, so much contradiction in the history of a country which was now beginning to occupy the attention of the Frank historians! Yet such is the fact. “C’est un vrai labyrinthe,” says Mallet, “où l’on se perd dans les contradictions et les ténèbres.” The conjecture, however, which we have made, viz., that Godric or Godfrey might reign in one part of Denmark, while Sigurd Ring and Ragnar reigned in another, acquires some confirmation from the fact that the former, as rex Danorum in 803, is expressly mentioned by Ado of Vienne. And in the Saga of Olaf Trygveson, king of Norway, we read that this very Godfrey reigned in Jutland during the time of Charlemagne. Was he, the Jutish king, or Sigurd and Ragnar, who appear to have reigned in Zealand, the true sovereign of the Danes? Was one subject to the other, or were both independent? This question no man can answer. The passage, however, of Ado, confirmed as it is by that in Olaf Trygveson’s Saga, explains the confusion which we find at every step in the Danish history prior to the latter part of the tenth century. We may add that, according to the same authority, Godfrey being slain by his own subjects on his return from a successful expedition to Frisia, Hemming, his brother or nephew, succeeded. Now these facts are confirmed by Saxo; and where both Icelandic and Danish authorities concur, and are confirmed by the Frank historians (and Hemming’s accession, no less than Godfrey’s death, is mentioned by several), we see no ground for scepticism. These princes, then, must be admitted; and for the reasons already given they may be admitted, without excluding Sigurd Ring, or Ragnar Lodbrog, or Sigurd Snogoje.[91]

The age of _Ragnar_ ought to be an historic age; but his reign is so pervaded by fable, that we can make nothing of it. Many have been the attempts to reconcile his chronology, at least as found in northern writers, with that of the Frankish and Anglo-Saxon historians; but neither it, nor the actions recorded of him by both, can possibly be reconciled. Critics, therefore, have been driven to the inference that there were two Ragnars,—one of the eighth, the other of the ninth century; and, probably, this conjecture is the true one. In the latter century, indeed, we read of a Jutland chief named Ragenfred, or Regnier, who, being exiled by the reigning king of Denmark, became a pirate, and committed dreadful depredations on the coasts of Britain and Ireland. Very probably the actions of both—and both, no doubt, were extraordinary men—have been confounded together, and enabled Saxo to incorporate, into one relation, the romantic incidents which tradition had preserved of both. As we have indulged so largely in the romantic, we will not, on this occasion, translate that venerable authority. And it is scarcely necessary to allude to this hero’s death, which, as everybody knows, happened in Northumberland. Defeated by Ella, the Saxon king of the province, and thrown into a dungeon full of serpents, he expired, insensible of his torments. It is said, indeed, that he composed a lay enumerating his former exploits, and his conviction that his sons would revenge his death; but the story, and the ode itself, are so improbable, that they must be consigned to the domain of poetic invention, and no longer be allowed to grow in that of history. Whether there be much truth in the subsequent part of this story, viz., that the sons of Ragnar did hasten to revenge him, that they disembarked on the Northumbrian coast, defeated the Anglo-Saxons near York, and transformed the province from a Saxon into a Danish state, we are unable to decide with anything approaching to confidence. The probability, however, is, that, notwithstanding the silence of the Saxon Chronicle on this subject, there is some foundation for the account. So constantly do the ancient writers—writers, too, at no great distance from the period—speak of Danish viceroys, often with the regal title, being sent to Northumbria, that we are unwilling to consider the narrative as the pure invention of the Scalds.[92]

[Sidenote: 794 to 935.]

On the death of Ragnar, the sceptre of at least a portion of Denmark—perhaps Scania and the isles—passed into the hands of _Sigurd II._ (or _Siward_[93]), surnamed _Snogoje_, or Snake-eyed. At the same time, Jutland was possessed by other kings, whether as tributaries, or independent, there would be rashness in deciding. We read, indeed, that _Hemming_ was contemporary with him; that _Harald_ succeeded Hemming in some part of Jutland; that this latter prince was exiled through an insurrection of the sons of Godric, or Godfrey, who fought for the inheritance of their father; that this Harald became a Christian, and sought the protection of Louis le Debonnaire; that the Carlovingian monarch assisted him to return triumphant; but that, about the year 828, being again deprived of his throne, he passed his days in religious contemplation. His name will always be memorable for his solemn baptism at Ingleheim, in presence of the emperor’s court; and for his efforts to introduce Christianity into Jutland. Under his auspices St. Anscar, the apostle of Scandinavia, penetrated into Jutland; and though the labours of this pious missionary, owing to the troubles of the country, were attended with little success, the merit of this first Christian prince of Denmark is not the less. It was, indeed, his attachment to the new religion which, more than any other cause, led to his failure. Sigurd, the other Danish king, had no wish to imitate the example of Harald; but he is celebrated as a peaceful, good, and enlightened ruler. For this reason, his reign affords no materials for history. On his death, in 803, he was succeeded, say the Icelandic chroniclers, by _Harda Canute_, his son; but, according to Saxo, by his son _Eric I._ How shall we decide? We can only conjecture that both princes reigned, at the same time, over different parts of the monarchy; but that Eric died early, while Harda Canute survived to the middle of the ninth century. By the same hypothesis only can we reconcile the names of the kings who succeeded Eric and Harda Canute. By referring to the list at the head of this chapter[94], the reader will perceive that it allows of only two sovereigns between Eric I. and Harold Blaatand,—king _Eric II._ and _Gorm the Old_; while Saxo admits five, viz., _Canute the Little_, _Frode VI._, _Gorm Anglicus_ (so called from his birthplace), _Harold V._, and _Gorm the Old_; thus rejecting Eric II., and adding four others. To us, the mode of reconciliation appears simple. While Eric II. and Gorm ruled over the islands and Scania, the other princes mentioned by Saxo reigned in another part of Jutland. This hypothesis is confirmed by one important fact,—that the life of Gorm was unusually protracted; and that, by conquest or negotiation, by open force or cunning, he obtained the government of all the states now comprising the Danish monarchy. Seeing the conduct of the Jutland princes, their civil wars, their consequent weakness and unpopularity, he fell on them, and put an end to their stormy independence. Over the reign of Gorm, indeed, there hangs much obscurity, which the researches of northern critics have by no means dissipated. That he performed many great actions; that, in a few years, he conquered Jutland; that he humbled the Saxons, and made some temporary accessions to his states on the side of Mecklenburg and Pomerania; appear to be undoubted facts. The Frankish writers, however, affirm that he was defeated by Henry the Fowler, his newly incorporated monarchy conquered as far as Sleswic, a margrave established in that place, and he himself compelled to admit the missionaries of Christianity into his states. Against this statement, which principally depends on the authority of Adam of Bremen, the native historians of Denmark make a stand; they will not allow that their country, or any portion of it, was ever thus subdued. But what counter authority can they oppose to this? Where are their native writers, if not contemporary, at least as near to the period as Adam, to contradict this relation? They have no such writers; they have nothing in the shape of authority before the close of the twelfth century: for the materials of their history, they must recur to the very writers whom they would thus undervalue. The statement of Adam, a canon of Bremen, who during so long a period collected materials for his ecclesiastical history, is too minute, too reasonable, too well confirmed by allusions, however incidental, in other writers (especially in the biographers of a few saints), to leave room for scepticism on the subject. Nor does this detract, in the least degree, from the merit of Gorm. By incorporating into one compact monarchy insignificant states, which had so often refused even a nominal obedience to the kings of Ledra, or Jutland, and by destroying so many piratical chiefs, whose arms were turned now against one another, now against their royal superiors, he effected more good than any preceding king of Denmark. This is his true glory. In another respect, he is less deserving of our praise;—he was hostile to the diffusion of Christianity. Yet he had married a Christian lady, whose beauty and virtues were the theme of admiration, and who certainly had considerable influence over him. While persecuting the missionaries in the rest of his states, he appears to have allowed her the exercise of her religion,—her chapel and priests. Some writers assert that, though he did not like, he never seriously opposed, the preaching of Christianity in any part of his states; and, in confirmation of this statement, they assert that he allowed his sons, Canute and Harald, to be baptized, and Jutland, at least, to make daily progress in the new faith. Yet Saxo assures us that he demolished the churches which had been erected in the preceding reign; that he restored the pagan temples; that he put to death, or exiled, the teachers of Christianity. This testimony is too positive to be evaded. But, though always a bigoted pagan, he might have been more intolerant at one period of life than another: probably he was a fierce persecutor until his marriage, and the virtues of his queen had mitigated his hatred of Christianity, and, by degrees, induced him to tolerate it. Though he might have allowed his sons to be baptized, he took care that their habits should be pagan. They were the most noted pirates of the age, and he rejoiced in their success. One of them, however, was killed near Dublin, and the blow is said to have proved fatal to him. He died, says Adam of Bremen, in 935; probably, however, he resigned his power in that year, and survived six years longer.[95]

[Sidenote: 935 to 964.]

HARALD II. surnamed _Blaatand_, or Blue-tooth, seems, during the last six years of his father’s life, to have been either associated in the government with that king, or to have ruled as his deputy. In 941, however, on the death of Gorm, he was the undisputed heir of the monarchy. The early part of his reign was most brilliant; the latter disastrous. Soon after his accession, his aid was implored by his countrymen in Normandy. Most readers are aware that, in the latter half of the preceding century, Rollo, assisted by perpetual reinforcements from the north, had wrested that province from the kings of France, and, in 912, on his baptism, had been declared the lawful duke of his new conquest. In 927, the veteran warrior, exhausted by age and fatigue, had resigned the dignity to his son William Longsword. In 943, this duke was assassinated, and his son Richard, a child, was left exposed to the hostilities of Louis d’Outremer, who naturally wished to recover that fine province, and confide the government to a French, not to a Norman, vassal. Louis led an army into Normandy, defeated the troops which the regency opposed to him, and obtained possession of the young duke’s person. In this emergency the Normans applied for aid to Harald, whose warlike actions were well known to them. In 944, that is, in a year after duke William’s assassination, the Danish king appeared off Cherburg, with a considerable armament. Alarmed at the danger, Louis had recourse to negotiation; and at the personal interview which followed, the dispute would, in all probability, have been amicably arranged, had not some chiefs of both armies begun to quarrel. This quarrel led to a general engagement, in which Louis was vanquished, and made prisoner. To obtain his liberty, he was compelled to release the young duke, whose right to the fief he also recognised. This was a proud day for Harald, who returned to Denmark with a reputation unrivalled in the north. His next exploit was similar—to place on the throne of Norway (now a monarchy) the sons of Eric, whom Hako, the reigning king, had driven into exile. His arms were successful; and he restored to Harald Grafeld the sceptre of the father. Twelve years afterwards, this prince being assassinated (an event of very usual occurrence in the history of the north), the Danish king went a second time into Norway, subdued the country, and divided it into three kingdoms. One portion he confided, under the ordinary feudal obligations, to Harald Grenshi, a prince of the family; a second, subject to the same homage and service, was bestowed on jarl Hako; the third, which was the lion’s share, was reserved to the Danish crown; and from all a large annual tribute was exacted. This policy was injurious enough to Norway, however useful it might be to Denmark. And it was scarcely less hurtful to England, since it augmented the power of the Danish kings, so as to render them formidable enemies to this island. In his next expedition, which was against no less a personage than the emperor Otho I., he was less happy. Embracing the cause of a rebel whom Otho had placed under the ban of the empire, and learning that the monarch was absent in Italy, he made a fierce irruption into Saxony, and, we are told, put to death the ambassadors of Otho. He had little difficulty in driving the imperial garrison from Sleswic, and in destroying that important fortress. On the return of Otho, however, who lost no time in avenging the indignity offered to the empire, Holstein was speedily overrun, and he driven into the north of Jutland. He was compelled to treat with the victor; and his states were left him on the condition of his baptism, and that of his son Sweyn, and of helping, instead of impeding, the progress of Christianity in his dominions. That on this occasion he did homage for them to the emperor, is asserted by the German, and denied by most native, historians. The subject may occupy our attention for a few moments.[96]

[Sidenote: 964.]

That Harald did homage to Otho for the whole of Denmark,—that country being subdued and rendered tributary by the latter,—is expressly asserted by Sweyn Aggesen, a Danish writer of the twelfth century.[97] It is equally affirmed by Adam of Bremen, who wrote within half a century of Harald’s death, and who is better acquainted with the transactions of Holstein and Jutland than all the writers of his age.[98] And it is inferred, from a privilege granted by Otho to the church of Hamburg, exempting the lands of three bishoprics just created in Denmark—Aarhuus, Sleswic, Rypen—from all contributions to the state, from all dependence on the secular government; and extending the same privilege to all the lands which those churches might hereafter possess throughout Denmark. To weaken the effect of these testimonies has been the object of native writers. But what are their reasons? Too feeble to have any weight out of Denmark. They insist that Sweyn was misled by the authority of Adam of Bremen; that Adam, himself, was an ignorant ecclesiastic, who readily assented to whatever Otho assumed; and that the privilege in question, of which the authenticity cannot be denied, is of no weight,—a pure formula of the imperial chancellor, dictated, indeed, by an ambitious, all-grasping court, but founded on no real conquest, much less vassalage. To answer such objections would be an insult to the reader’s understanding. There can be no doubt of the emperor’s feudal supremacy over Denmark, any more than over Bohemia, or Poland, or Lombardy. It has, indeed, been contended that if Otho had a spiritual, he had no temporal jurisdiction; that he might be the protector, the superintendent, the head of the rising church, without having the least authority over the state. But this allegation is at variance with all reason and with all history. Would a sovereign have the insane effrontery to say what lands shall, and what shall not, pay taxes, unless he had some authority over them? Would he exempt them from contributing towards the support of the crown, unless that crown were in some degree dependent on him? And where is there any example of such unlicensed interference? But we all know that vassalitic obligations were of various kinds, some oppressive enough, others little more than nominal; and we may admit that though Harald was compelled to do homage, and even to pay a yearly tribute, he remained independent so far as his internal administration was concerned. It was the policy of Otho to christianise the kingdom—to transform restless barbarians into civilised creatures—to humanise the fiercest of pagans by the influence of a mild and powerful religion. Without such a change, he saw no security for his northern frontier. But in striving to attain this object, great moderation was necessary: he did not wish to exasperate, where his interest was so obviously to induce the most friendly relations; still less would he, by severe exactions,—exactions, however, which his position as conqueror might have enabled him to enforce,—indispose the minds of a high-spirited prince and a warlike people, against the faith which he wished them to embrace.[99]

[Sidenote: 964.]

But miracles were no longer wrought in the time of the Othos. If Harald and some of his people outwardly conformed to the religion of Christ, they were still influenced by that of Odin. Besides, to both the national independence was dear; and we cannot be surprised at the hostile feeling with which the Danes regarded the Germans. During the life of the first Otho, indeed, there was outward harmony; but in about a year after the accession of the second (974), he joined the party of Henry duke of Bavaria, then a rebel, and made several irruptions into Saxony. On the defeat of that powerful vassal, Otho penetrated into Jutland, and advanced as far as the Sound which bears his name. With the result of this war we are not acquainted; but probably Harald submitted. The events, however, of both wars, which have been frequently confounded into one, are very doubtful. A more certain fact is, that the good fortune of Harald now forsook him. He failed in an expedition against Norway, which had thrown off its vassalage. Nor was this the worst: his son Sweyn, who had been baptized with him, rebelled against him. The motives which led the prince in this undutiful conduct are unknown. Probably the chief was the desire of power; and as his nature was ferocious, he scrupled not to bear arms against his father. There is also some reason to believe that he was the instrument of a great party,—the old pagans, who could not behold with much pleasure the gradual progress of the new faith, and the consequent decline of their own. _His_ conversion was not, like his father’s, very sincere; or, perhaps, he cared not for either religion, so that his ambition was gratified. As the pagans were still the more numerous subjects of the state, he became at once their patron and their tool. The war was short, and Harald was compelled to flee. He sought a refuge in Normandy, and by duke Richard, we are told, was restored to at least a portion of his dominions. How far this relation is true, we cannot, in the absence of contemporary authority, decide. A more certain fact is, that, in 991, he was assassinated by the procurement of his own son. He was walking on the skirts of a wood, when an arrow from the bow of a Jomsberg pirate belonging to a band in the pay of Sweyn, laid him in the dust.[100]

Such was the fate of a monarch whose memory was dear to the early Christians of Denmark. He was the first monarch that openly professed the new religion; and the constancy with which he adhered to it affords indisputable proof of his sincerity. From Ledra, the ancient seat of the Odinic superstition, he removed his court to Roskild, where he erected a cathedral to the most holy Trinity. This was a politic step; connected with the new capital were no ancient recollections to remind the idolater of the faith of his fathers. The foundation of three other bishoprics attested his zeal. The reverence in which this monarch was held in the centuries immediately following his death, and a passage, of which the application was mistaken, in the History of Adam of Bremen, nearly led to his canonisation.[101]

[Sidenote: 991.]

On the tragical death of Harald, the sceptre devolved to the unnatural _Sweyn_. As the majority of the people were still pagans, the accession of this prince was beheld with satisfaction; for though, perhaps, he did not openly apostatise, he encouraged the old religion, and rebuilt many of the temples which had been destroyed. And he was the ally of the Jomsburg pirates, the leader of whom shot the arrow which had proved fatal to Harald. Yet Harald was the founder of that city,—one of the most famous in the annals of the world. It was situated near the great lake of Pomerania, on the site of the modern Wollin. It was avowedly built for a piratical fortress; yet the founders could not anticipate the greatness which it afterwards retained. Its first governor, who was also its legislator, was a pirate chief, Palnatoko, whose skill as an archer was never equalled in the north. He decreed that no man who had ever shown the slightest fear, even in the greatest dangers, should be a member of the new community. No Christian was admitted, because Christianity was supposed to enfeeble the mind; but people of all other religions and of all countries were received; and each of the great European nations had a street of its own. It was the last place of the north which was humanised by the religion of Christ; and probably it would longer have defied the general influence of that faith, had not its riches enervated the vigour of its inhabitants, and intestine dissensions still further weakened it, so as to render it a prey to its enemies. Palnatoko, the assassin of Harald, had been long resident at the Danish court, and had been the tutor of Sweyn; and to that barbarous deed he was, we are told, excited by a personal injury. His skill in archery was the quality on which he most prided himself, and he was accustomed to boast that he could hit an apple, however small, on the top of a pole. This boast, which was regarded as an arrogant display, made him some enemies. It reached Harald, who insisted that the archer’s own child should supply the place of the pole; and threatened, that if the first arrow missed its aim, his own head should bear the penalty. As there was no hope of changing the royal determination, Palnatoko warned his child to be steady—not to flinch hand or foot—not to move a muscle of his body, when the arrow approached. On the day appointed, the dreaded experiment was tried; and the apple was cloven, while the child remained uninjured. But the archer had three arrows, and being asked what he had intended to do with the remaining two, he replied, that had he been the death of innocence, the guilty contriver of the experiment should not have escaped.—Such is the story which Saxo has preserved. That it has given rise to the fabulous one of William Tell, must be apparent to the reader; for the Danish historian wrote a full century before the Swiss patriot flourished. Nor do we think that Saxo’s account is the original one: the circumstance probably took place centuries before the reign of Harald Blaatand, and became a portion of the “legendary lore” the origin of which is so mysterious. Whether this incident be true or false in regard to Harald and this archer, the latter joined Sweyn, and, as we have already related, caused the death of the former.[102]

[Sidenote: 991.]

In the early part of this monarch’s reign we meet with much obscurity, much contradiction. We are told that in return for his rebellion against his father, and for his restoration of paganism, he was doomed to great bitterness of suffering; that he was thrice a prisoner among the pirates, and thrice redeemed by his people. For the last act of redemption he is said to have been indebted to Danish ladies, who, seeing that the money of the state was wholly exhausted by the preceding ransoms, contributed their choicest ornaments for that purpose. For this generosity, adds Saxo, the grateful Sweyn passed a law, that, in future, females should, like males, succeed, by inheritance, to a portion of their father’s property. Such a law certainly existed, and it may possibly be referred to Sweyn; but in regard to the circumstances which gave rise to it, there is room for scepticism. That a powerful monarch—for such Sweyn always was—should be _thrice_ captured by pirates,—the pirates, too, of Jomsberg,—is surely unparalleled in the history of the world. Yet the relation alike of Saxo and Sweyn Aggesen must have had some foundation in truth. The probability is, that the king, _prior to his accession_, was _once_ a captive, and that the monastic writers of the following age mistook the time and multiplied the circumstances.[103] Those venerable fathers, struck with horror at the filial no less than the religious impiety of this king, were ready to adopt, without examination, the most unfavourable reports concerning him. Another statement, that Sweyn was expelled from his kingdom by Eric of Sweden, and that he remained almost fifteen years in exile, fourteen of which he spent in Scotland, is entitled to just the same credit. His father, we are told, died in 991; yet in 994 he was powerful enough to begin the conquest of England; and from that year to the period of his death, in 1014, he was always in this country, or in Denmark. Where, then, are these sixteen years to be inserted? Assuredly no chasm can be found for them between 991 and 1014. Other circumstances demonstrate the falsehood of the relation,—a relation, however, adopted by the most recent historians. On his expulsion, we are told, he applied for the common rights of hospitality to Olaf Trygveson of Norway, but was spurned by that prince. This conduct of Olaf, says Saxo, was the less justifiable, as Sweyn had assisted him to regain the throne of Norway. Let us for a moment attend to dates. Sweyn’s restoration to his country, after his fifteen years of exile, is placed in the year 994; and as Olaf was the first monarch to whom he applied, this application must have been made about 979. But Olaf did not return to Norway before 996. How much earlier than this year must he have been assisted by Sweyn? Yet for this, as for the preceding relation, there was probably some basis. If Sweyn ever was in exile,—and there is some reason to infer that he was, during his hostility with his father,—that exile was before the death of Harald, and consequently before his accession to the monarchy. It may possibly be that he was at one time prior to that event king of some portion of the monarchy,—perhaps of Scania; and this conjecture would at once account for the facility with which Eric expelled him. However this be, there can be no doubt that if this banishment be a fact, it must be referred to a period long prior to 991. What confirms this conjecture is, the statement of Saxo, that the monarch to whom Sweyn next applied was Edward king of England. This was evidently Edward the Martyr, who ascended the throne in 975, and was assassinated in 978,—a period which will exactly agree with the duration assigned to his exile.[104]

[Sidenote: 991 to 993.]

All writers allow that Sweyn, soon after his accession, sent or led an armament against Hako, the usurper of Norway. Snorro assures us that this expedition was planned by the Jomsberg pirates, who were invited to celebrate the funeral solemnities of Harald (that is, to get drunk) at the court of Sweyn; and he adds that the same vow was taken in regard to England. The vows of drunken men are not usually remembered; but these pirates remembered theirs but too well. With sixty vessels, filled by the bravest heroes of the republic, they hastened to the Norwegian coast; there they separated, and were separately assailed by jarl Hako, his son, and other chiefs of the kingdom. But, desperate as was the valour of the pirates, their numbers were too few, in comparison with those of the enemy, to fulfil their oath of taking Harald alive, or expelling him from Norway. They were signally defeated, though not until prodigies of valour had been effected by them. The contempt in which they beheld death is horribly illustrated by Snorro. Thirty of them being captured, their feet were tied by a rope, and they were carried on shore. They were placed on benches, in a right line, each near to the other, awaiting their death. Thorkil, a Norwegian jarl, advanced with a huge sword, and anticipated much pleasure from the exercise of killing them in detail. Accosting the chief of them, he said, “So, Vagne, thou madest a vow to put me to death; but it seems more likely that I shall have the honour of sending thee with my apology.” The pirate looked at him with much contempt. Beginning at the end of the line, he struck off the heads of many in succession, who faithfully observed the condition of their order,—never to exhibit the shadow of a fear. One desired the jarl to strike him in the forehead, and to look whether he should so much as blink his eyes. The next victim held in his hand the backbone of a fish. “I will wager thee,” he said to Thorkil, “that, after my head is off, I shall be able to plunge this bone into the ground!” But the boast was vain: when his head left his body, the bone fell from his hand. “Injure not my hair!”[105] cried another, as he stretched out his neck to receive the blow. An attendant held the long tresses with both hands, while the executioner struck; but, at the moment, the pirate threw back his head, and the sword amputated the two hands of the courtier, without injuring the pirate. Great was the triumph of the latter; and Eric, the son of Hako, admiring his intrepidity, procured his pardon. Another, Vagne, one of the chiefs, was pushed against the executioner by his next fellow; Thorkil fell, and, in so doing, his sword cut the rope which bound the pirate, who, seizing the weapon, beheaded the Norwegian jarl. Eric, too, procured _his_ pardon. Eighteen being in this manner slain, the visitors began to feel some admiration for the rest. “Wilt thou accept the offer of thy life?” was demanded of the next. “That,” replied the man, who would not receive even life from an ignoble hand, “depends on the dignity of the giver!” Jarl Eric, the son of Hako, was named, and the offer was accepted. “Wilt thou?” was addressed to another. “Not unless my companions are spared also!” was the reply; and they were spared.[106]

[Sidenote: 991 to 1001.]

If the expedition against Norway thus failed, very different was the issue of that directed against England. During the greater part of a century, this island had been unmolested by the pirates. Alfred, towards the close of his reign, had humbled them; Edward the elder had signally triumphed over them; and the name of Athelstane had been dreaded by all the rovers of the sea. There had been battles, indeed, with the Danish state of Northumberland, which, prior to Athelstane’s reign, had formed no part of the Saxon confederation; but the coasts of central and northern England had been undisturbed. On the accession of Ethelred, however, the scourge was resumed. In 991, a large force appeared before Ipswich, and marched to Malden, laying waste the country on every side. On this occasion Brithnoth, the Saxon governor of Essex, was slain; and his fate has been related in a poem, from which copious extracts may be found in a volume connected with the present.[107] These formidable invaders, as every child knows, were bribed to leave England; and, as every child knows, they soon returned in greater numbers than before. Even when steel, instead of gold, was to be the tribute, a cowardly and treacherous commander, Alfric of Mercia, was intrusted with the defence of England. In the following years, every province was desolated. In 994, Sweyn himself appeared in the Thames with a formidable fleet. He had an ally, Olaf, the son of Trygve, who, since infancy, had never been in Norway, and whose piratical exploits had been celebrated from Russia to Ireland.[108] His attack on London was repelled; but Essex, Kent, Sussex, and Hampshire suffered dreadfully from his depredations, and those of his ally. As before, though the number of pirates did not exceed 10,000, money was offered by the despicable Ethelred. Olaf, on receiving it, visited the court of the Saxon king, received the rite of confirmation (he had previously been baptized in one of the Scilly islands), and promised never again to molest the English coast. We hear no more of his depredations: but whether his forbearance was owing to his promise, or to his departure for Norway, the throne of which he ascended in little more than a year from this period, may well be doubted.[109] But Sweyn had no such moderation. In about three years from the payment of the 16,000_l._, he appeared in the south-west counties, advanced into Sussex and Hampshire, laying waste everything in his passage, and wintered as securely as if he had been naturalised: no opposition was made to his progress. Kent was next ravaged; and the whole of England would, no doubt, have become Danish, had not Sweyn been recalled to contend with a more formidable enemy, Olaf of Norway. One year after the death of that monarch[110], that is, in 1001, the Danes returned to a country where they had found no enemies, but abundance of prey. Another heavy ransom, and extensive estates in different parts of the kingdom, procured a temporary cessation of hostilities.[111]

[Sidenote: 1001 to 1003.]

If Ethelred could not oppose the enemy in the field, and if his coffers were exhausted, he had still one resource left,—that of a general massacre. The day before the festival of St. Brice, the authorities of every city and town received secret letters from the court, commanding them and the people everywhere to rise at a certain hour, to fall on the unarmed, unsuspicious Danes, and not to spare one of them. The order was too well obeyed, and the English nation made itself equally guilty with its king. Many of the victims were naturalised; many had English husbands or wives; more were on terms of intimacy with the natives, and, at the moment this bloody mandate was executed, were sharing the hospitality of their huts. Nobody was spared: decrepit age and helpless infancy, youth and beauty, pleaded in vain. Even Gunhilda, sister of Sweyn, a convert to Christianity and the wife of an English earl, suffered with the rest; but not until she had seen her husband and son beheaded in her presence. This was not the mere act of the crown, nor that of a few courtiers, nor that of the municipal authorities: it was that of the English nation. Retribution, as Gunhilda had prophesied, was at hand; and every reader will rejoice that it was so. Sweyn no sooner heard of the massacre, than he swore never to rest until he had inflicted a terrible vengeance on the people. He no longer wished for booty, merely: he would also destroy. With a fleet of three hundred sail, he steered to the west of the island, landed in Cornwall, commenced his devastating career, reached Exeter, which he took by assault, set it on fire, and massacred the inhabitants. From thence he proceeded into Wiltshire, where fire and sword did their work, and passed by way of Salisbury to the sea coast, laden with plunder. No attempt was made to arrest his destructive progress: a Saxon force under Alfric had, indeed, assembled; but it would not fight, and it retired covered with the derision of the invaders.[112]

[Sidenote: 1003 to 1009.]

The winter of 1003 Sweyn passed in Denmark; in the following year he was again in England. His destructive career now commenced in the eastern counties; but this year they terminated sooner than could have been foreseen. A famine—the result of preceding depredations—afflicted the land; and as provisions in sufficient abundance could not be found, the pirates returned home for a season. The deplorable cowardice of the troops, the imbecility of the governors, from Ethelred down to the meanest thane, was never equalled in any other country. This condition is well described by Turketul in a letter to Sweyn:—“A country illustrious and powerful; a king asleep, caring only for women and wine, trembling at the very mention of war, hated by his own people, despised by foreigners; generals envious of one another; governors who fly at the first shout of battle.” This weak and vicious king had the felicity to convert his friends into enemies at the very time he most needed their assistance. In 1002 he married the princess Emma of Normandy; but his behaviour to her was so grossly offensive, so brutal, that her father, duke Richard I., joined in making him still more contemptible by imprisoning or killing his subjects who happened to pass through Normandy. The pirates of Sweyn soon returned to consummate their work. In 1006 a heavy sum was paid them; the following year they demanded an equal sum, and declared that, in future, it must be annually paid by way of tribute. Some feeble efforts were made to defend the country; but the leaders of the fleet which had been raised turned their arms against one another. Thus fell the hopes of the nation, which prepared its neck for the most galling yoke that had ever afflicted it.[113]

[Sidenote: 1010.]