But Olaf's hour is come. Many slain lie around him, many that have fallen by his hand, more that have fallen at his side. The thinned ranks on board the "Iron Beard"

are constantly replenished by fresh combatants from other vessels, even by the Swedes and soft Danes, now "strong, upon the stronger side,"--while Olaf, cut off from succour, stands almost alone upon the "Serpent's" deck, made slippery by his people's blood. The jarl had laid out boats to intercept all who might escape from the ship; but escape is not in the King's thoughts. He casts one look around him, glances at his sword--broken like Einar's bow--draws a deep breath, and, holding his shield above his head, springs overboard. A shout--a rush! who shall first grasp that n.o.ble prisoner? Back, slaves! the shield that has brought him scathless through a hundred fights, shall yet shelter him from dishonour.

Countless hands are stretched to s.n.a.t.c.h him back to worthless life, but the shield alone floats on the swirl of the wave;--King Olaf has sunk beneath it.

Perhaps you have already had enough of my Saga lore; but with that grey cathedral full in sight, I cannot but dedicate a few lines to another Olaf, king and warrior like the last, but to whom after times have accorded a yet higher t.i.tle.

Saint Olaf's--Saint Olave, as we call him--early history savours little of the odour of sanct.i.ty, but has rather that "ancient and fish-like smell" which characterised the doings of the Vikings, his ancestors. But those were days when honour rather than disgrace attached to the ideas of booty and plunder, especially in an enemy's country; it was a "spoiling of the Egyptians" sanctioned by custom, and even permitted by the Church, which did not disdain occasionally to share in the profits of a successful cruise, when presented in the decent form of silver candlesticks and other ecclesiastical gauds. As to the ancient historian, he mentions these matters as a thing of course. "Here the King landed, burnt, and ravaged;" "there the Jarl gained much booty;" "this summer, they took a cruise in the Baltic, to gather property," etc., much as a modern biographer would speak of a gentleman's successful railroad speculations, his taking shares in a coal mine, or coming into a "nice little thing in the Long Annuities." Nevertheless, there is something significant of his future vocation, in a speech which Olaf makes to his a.s.sembled friends and relations, imparting to them his design of endeavouring to regain possession of the throne: "I and my men have nothing for our support save what we captured in war, FOR WHICH WE HAVE HAZARDED BOTH LIFE AND SOUL; for many an innocent man have we deprived of his property, and some of their lives, and foreigners are now sitting in the possessions of my fathers." One sees here a faint glimmer of the Saint's nimbus, over the helmet of the Viking, a dawning perception of the "rights of property,"

which, no doubt, must have startled his hearers into the most ardent conservative zeal for the good old marauding customs.

But though years elapsed, and fortunes changed, before this dim light of the early Church became that scorching and devouring flame which, later, spread terror and confusion among the haunts of the still lingering ancient G.o.ds, an earnest sense of duty seems to have been ever present with him. If it cannot be denied that he shared the errors of other proselytizing monarchs, and put down Paganism with a stern and b.l.o.o.d.y hand, no merely personal injury ever weighed with him. How grand is his reply to those who advise him to ravage with fire and sword the rebellious district of Throndhjem, as he had formerly punished numbers of his subjects who had rejected Christianity:--"We had then G.o.d'S honour to defend; but this treason against their sovereign is a much less grievous crime; it is more in my power to spare those who have dealt ill with me, than those whom G.o.d hated."

The same hard measure which he meted to others he applied to his own actions: witness that curiously characteristic scene, when, sitting in his high seat, at table, lost in thought, he begins unconsciously to cut splinters from a piece of fir-wood which he held in his hand. The table servant, seeing what the King was about, says to him, (mark the respectful periphrasis!) "IT IS MONDAY, SIRE, TO-MORROW." The King looks at him, and it came into his mind what he was doing on a Sunday. He sweeps up the shavings he had made, sets fire to them, and lets them burn on his naked hand; "showing thereby that he would hold fast by G.o.d's law, and not trespa.s.s without punishment."

But whatever human weaknesses may have mingled with the pure ore of this n.o.ble character, whatever barbarities may have stained his career, they are forgotten in the pathetic close of his martial story.

His subjects,--alienated by the sternness with which he administers his own severely religious laws, or corrupted by the bribes of Canute, king of Denmark and England, are fallen from their allegiance. The brave, single-hearted monarch is marching against the rebellious Bonders, at the head of a handful of foreign troops, and such as remained faithful among his own people. On the eve of that last battle, on which he stakes throne and life, he intrusts a large sum of money to a Bonder, to be laid out "on churches, priests, and alms-men, as gifts for the souls of such as may fall in battle AGAINST HIMSELF,"--strong in the conviction of the righteousness of his cause, and the a.s.sured salvation of such as upheld it.

He makes a glorious end. Forsaken by many whom he had loved and served,--yet forgiving and excusing them; rejecting the aid of all who denied that holy Faith which had become the absorbing interest of his life,--but surrounded by a faithful few, who share his fate; "in the lost battle, borne down by the flying"--he falls, transpierced by many wounds, and the last words on his fervent lips are prayer to G.o.d. [Footnote: The exact date of the battle of Sticklestad is known: an eclipse of the sun occurred while it was going on.]

Surely there was a gallant saint and soldier. Yet he was not the only one who bore himself n.o.bly on that day.

Here is another episode of that same fatal fight.

A certain Thormod is one of the Scalds (or Poets) in King Olaf's army. The night before the battle he sings a spirited song at the King's request, who gives him a gold ring from his finger in token of his approval. Thormod thanks him for the gift, and says, "It is my prayer, Sire, that we shall never part, either in life or death."

When the King receives his death-wound Thormod is near him,--but, wounded himself, and so weak and weary that in a desperate onslaught by the King's men,--nicknamed "Dag's storm,"--HE ONLY STOOD BY HIS COMRADE IN THE RANKS, ALTHOUGH HE COULD DO NOTHING.

The noise of the battle has ceased; the King is lying dead where he fell. The very man who had dealt him his death-wound has laid the body straight out on the ground, and spread a cloak over it. "And when he wiped the blood from the face it was very beautiful, and there was red in the cheeks, as if he only slept."

Thormod, who had received a second wound as he stood in the ranks--(an arrow in his side, which he breaks off at the shaft),--wanders away towards a large barn, where other wounded men have taken refuge. Entering with his drawn sword in his hand, he meets one of the Bonders coming out, who says, "It is very bad there, with howling and screaming; and a great shame it is, that brisk young fellows cannot bear their wounds. The King's men may have done bravely to-day, but truly they bear their wounds ill."

Thormod asks what his name is, and if he was in the battle. Kimbe was his name, and he had been "with the Bonders, which was the best side." "And hast thou been in the battle too?" asks he of Thormod.

Thormod replies, "I was with them that had the best."

"Art thou wounded?" says Kimbe.

"Not much to signify," says Thormod.

Kimbe sees the gold ring, and says, "Thou art a King's man: give me thy gold ring, and I will hide thee."

Thormod replies, "Take the ring if thou canst get it; _I_ HAVE LOST THAT WHICH IS MORE WORTH."

Kimbe stretches out his hand to seize the ring; but Thormod, swinging his sword, cuts off his hand; "and it is related, that Kimbe behaved no better under his wound than those he had just been blaming."

Thormod then enters the house where the wounded men are lying, and seats himself in silence by the door.

As the people go in and out, one of them casts a look at Thormod, and says, "Why art thou so dead pale? Art thou wounded?" He answers carelessly, with a half-jesting rhyme; then rises and stands awhile by the fire. A woman, who is attending on those who are hurt, bids him "go out, and bring in firewood from the door." He returns with the wood, and the girl then looking him in the face, says, "Dreadfully pale is this man;" and asks to see his wounds. She examines his wound in his side, and feels that the iron of the arrow is still there; she then takes a pair of tongs and tries to pull it out, "but it sat too fast, and as the wound was swelled, little of it stood out to lay hold of." Thormod bids her "cut deep enough to reach the iron, and then to give him the tongs, and let him pull." She did as he bade. He takes the ring from his hand, and gives it to the girl, saying, "It is a good man's gift! King Olaf gave it to me this morning."

Then Thormod took the tongs and pulled the iron out. The arrow-head was barbed, and on it there hung some morsels of flesh. When he saw that he said, "THE KING HAS FED US WELL! I am fat, even at the heart-roots!" And so saying, he leant back, and died. [Footnote: When a man was wounded in the abdomen, it was the habit of the Norse leeches to give him an onion to eat; by this means they learnt whether the weapon had perforated the viscera.]

Stout, faithful heart! if they gave you no place in your master's stately tomb, there is room for you by his side in heaven!

I have at last received--I need not say how joyfully--two letters from you; one addressed to Hammerfest. I had begun to think that some Norwegian warlock had bewitched the post-bags, in the approved old ballad fashion, to prevent their rendering up my dues; for when the packet of letters addressed to the "Foam" was brought on board, immediately after our arrival, I alone got nothing. From Sigurdr and the Doctor to the cabin-boy, every face was beaming over "news from home!" while I was left to walk the deck, with my hands in my pockets, pretending not to care. But the spell is broken now, and I retract my evil thoughts of the warlock and you.

Yesterday, we made an excursion as far as Lade, saw a waterfall, which is one of the lions of this neighbourhood (but a very mitigated lion, which "roars you as soft as any sucking dove"), and returned in the evening to attend a ball given to celebrate the visit of the Crown Prince.

At Lade, I confess I could think of nothing but "the great Jarl" Hacon, the counsellor, and maker of kings, king himself in all but the name, for he ruled over the western sea-board of Norway, while Olaf Tryggvesson was yet a wanderer and exile. He is certainly one of the most picturesque figures of these Norwegian dramas; what with his rude wit, his personal bravery, and that hereditary beauty of his race for which he was conspicuous above the rest. His very errors, great as they were, have a dash and prestige about them, which in that rude time must have dazzled men's eyes, and especially WOMEN'S, as his story proves. It was his sudden pa.s.sion for the beautiful Gudrun Lyrgia (the "Sun of Lunde," as she was called), which precipitated the avenging fate which years of heart-burnings and discontent among his subjects had been preparing. Gudrun's husband incites the Bonders to throw off the yoke of the licentious despot,--Olaf Tryggvesson is proclaimed king,--and the "great Jarl of Lade" is now a fugitive in the land he so lately ruled, accompanied by a single thrall, named Karker.

In this extremity, Jarl Hacon applies for aid to Thora of Rimmol, a lady whom he had once dearly loved; she is faithful in adversity to the friend of happier days, and conceals the Jarl and his companion in a hole dug for this purpose, in the swine-stye, and covered over with wood and litter; as the only spot likely to elude the hot search of his enemies. Olaf and the Bonders seek for him in Thora's house, but in vain; and finally, Olaf, standing on the very stone against which the swine-stye is built, promises wealth and honours to him who shall bring him the Jarl of Lade's head. The scene which follows is related by the Icelandic historian with Dante's tragic power.

There was a little daylight in their hiding-place, and the Jarl and Karker both hear the words of Olaf.

"Why art thou so pale?" says the Jarl," and now again as black as earth? Thou dost not mean to betray me?"

"By no means," said Karker.

"We were born on the same night," said the Jarl, "and the time will not be long between our deaths."

When night came, the Jarl kept himself awake,--but Karker slept;--a troubled sleep. The Jarl awoke him, and asked of what he was dreaming. He answered, "I was at Lade, and Olaf was laying a gold ring about my neck."

The Jarl said, "It will be a RED ring about thy neck, if he catches thee: from me thou shalt enjoy all that is good,--therefore, betray me not!"

Then they both kept themselves awake; "THE ONE, AS IT WERE, WATCHING UPON THE OTHER." But towards day, the Jarl dropped asleep, and in his unquiet slumber he drew his heels under him, and raised his neck as if going to rise, "and shrieked fearfully." On this, Karker, "dreadfully alarmed," drew a knife from his belt, stuck it into the Jarl's throat, and cut off his head. Late in the day he came to Lade, brought the Jarl's head to Olaf, and told his story.

It is a comfort to know that "the red ring" was laid round the traitor's neck: Olaf caused him to be beheaded.

What a picture that is, in the swine-stye, those two haggard faces, travel-stained and worn with want of rest, watching each other with hot, sleepless eyes through the half darkness, and how true to nature is the nightmare of the miserable Jarl!

It was on my return from Lade, that I found your letters; and that I might enjoy them without interruption, I carried them off to the churchyard--(such a beautiful place!)--to read in peace and quiet. The churchyard was NOT "populous with young men, striving to be alone," as Tom Hood describes it to have been in a certain sentimental parish; so I enjoyed the seclusion I antic.i.p.ated.

I was much struck by the loving care and ornament bestowed on the graves; some were literally loaded with flowers, and even those which bore the date of a long past sorrow had each its own blooming crown, or fresh nosegay. These good Throndhjemers must have much of what the French call la religion des souvenirs, a religion in which we English (as a nation) are singularly deficient. I suppose no people in Europe are so little addicted to the keeping of sentimental anniversaries as we are; I make an exception with regard to our living friends' birthdays, which we are ever tenderly ready to cultivate, when called on; turtle, venison, and champagne, being pleasant investments for the affections. But time and business do not admit of a faithful adherence to more sombre reminiscences; a busy gentleman "on 'Change" cannot conveniently shut himself up, on his "lost Araminta's natal-day," nor will a railroad committee allow of his running down by the 10.25 A.M., to shed a tear over that neat tablet in the new Willow-c.u.m-Hatband Cemetery. He is necessarily content to regret his Araminta in the gross, and to omit the petty details of a too pedantic sorrow.

The fact is, we are an eminently practical people, and are easily taught to accept "the irrevocable," if not without regret, at least with a philosophy which repudiates all superfluous methods of showing it. DECENT is the usual and appropriate term applied to our churchyard solemnities, and we are not only "content to dwell in decencies for ever," but to die, and be buried in them.

The cathedral loses a little of its poetical physiognomy on a near approach. Modern restoration has done something to spoil the outside, and modern refinement a good deal to degrade the interior with pews and part.i.tions; but it is a very fine building, and worthy of its metropolitan dignity. I am told that the very church built by Magnus the Good,--son of Saint Olave--over his father's remains, and finished by his uncle Harald Hardrada, is, or rather was, included in the walls of the cathedral; and though successive catastrophes by fire have perhaps left but little of the original building standing, I like to think that some of these huge stones were lifted to their place under the eyes of Harald The Stern. It was on the eve of his last fatal expedition against our own Harold of England that the shrine of St. Olave was opened by the king, who, having clipped the hair and nails of the dead saint (most probably as relics, efficacious for the protection of himself and followers), then locked the shrine, and threw the keys into the Nid. Its secrets from that day were respected until the profane hands of Lutheran Danes carried it bodily away, with all the gold and silver chalices, and jewelled pyxes, which, by kingly gifts and piratical offerings, had acc.u.mulated for centuries in its treasury.

He must have been a fine, resolute fellow, that Harald the Stern, although, in spite of much church-building and a certain amount of Pagan-persecuting, his character did not in any way emulate that of his saintly brother.

The early part of his history reads like a fairy tale, and is a favourite subject for Scald songs; more especially his romantic adventures in the East,--

"Well worthy of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid."

where Saracens flee like chaff upon the wind before him, and impregnable Sicilian castles fall into his power by impossible feats of arms, or incredible stratagems. A Greek empress, "the mature Zoe," as Gibbon calls her, falls in love with him, and her husband, Constantine Monomachus, puts him in prison; but Saint Olaf still protects his mauvais sujet of a brother, and inspires "a lady of distinction" with the successful idea of helping Harald out of his inaccessible tower by the prosaic expedient of a ladder of ropes. A boom, however, across the harbour's mouth still prevents the escape of his vessel. The Sea-king is not to be so easily baffled.

Moving all his ballast, arms, and men, into the afterpart of the ship, until her stem slants up out of the sea, he rows straight at the iron chain. The ship leaps almost half-way over. The weight being then immediately transferred to the fore-part, she slips down into the water on the other side,--having topped the fence like an Irish hunter.

A second galley breaks her back in the attempt. After some questionable acts of vengeance on the Greek court, Harald and his bold Vaeringers go fighting and plundering their way through the Bosphorus and Black Sea back to Novogorod, where the first part of the romance terminates, as it should, by his marriage with the object of his secret attachment, Elisof, the daughter of the Russian king.

Hardrada's story darkens towards the end, as most of the tales of that stirring time are apt to do. His death on English ground is so striking, that you must have patience with one other short Saga; it will give you the battle of Stanford Bridge from the Norse point of view.

The expedition against Harold of England commences ill; dreams and omens affright the fleet; one man dreams he sees a raven sitting on the stern of each vessel; another sees the fair English coast;

"But glancing shields Hide the green fields;"

and other fearful phenomena mar the beautiful vision.