by L. Maria Child.
Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William & Mary Howitt) vol.2 #37 (11 Sep 1847).
When the Northmen invaded England, in the tenth century, they were still worshippers of Woden and Thor, and had never worn the fetters of the Romish Church. The Latin language had never been introduced to build up a wall of separation between the more educated and the less educated classes. Compared with other literature of those remote ages, theirs was far richer than is generally imagined. Their wild mythology had a great deal of poetic beauty and significance, and their old sagas are characterized by a strong vitality, compared with which the monkish legends of contemporary countries seem like the dull pbosphorescence of a stagnant pool in the presence of lightning. It seems as if spiritual as well as natural electricity centred at the North.
But the main point is, that their literature, however rude, was in the vernacular idiom of the country. Those adventurous old sea-kings had their exploits told in the Norse language, written and sung by their skalds, or minstrels, and repeated at the fire-side of every peasant. This diffusion of one spirit, one mode of thinking and doing, through a medium common to all, must have had a prodigious influence on the character of a nation. In Germany, little or nothing, except Luther's Bible, was written in the popular tongue, previous to the eighteenth century. That noble language, itself became so imbued with Latin, that to this day a labouring man must study the best authors of his own country as he would a dead language, before he can understand them.
Other circumstances combined to give the Scandinavian tribes a more distinct individuality, a more unfettered freedom, than the Anglo-Saxons of the same period. There was no stone in Norway, except stubborn primeval rock, which broke into lumps, or shivered into splinters, and therefore could not be hewn for the purposes of building. Wood was consequently the universal material for king and peasant. No strong castles could be built on lofty peaks, commanding the surrounding country, and compelling the labouring classes into vassalage. In time of danger, the king and the military leaders had nothing to fall back upon but their ships and the good-will of the people. By this circumstance, over-ambitious and grasping spirits were drawn off to foreign conquests, and thus the growth of a dangerous aristocracy at home was prevented. The upper classes were not separated from the lower by the size and magnificence of their dwellings. The peasant
"Saw no contignous palace rear its head,
To shame the meanness of his humble shed."
With time and labour he could fell the trees of the forest, and make himself as good a habitation as the king's. Even down to the present day, there is no order of nobility in Norway, and no royal castles. The king, in travelling through his Norwegian possessions, lodges with independent working men, who are proprietors of the soil; and it is said no monarch in Europe could travel through his kingdom, and be lodged so well every night by the same class.
Under these circumstances, the defence of the country was of course a common concern; for every man had some interest at stake in the general welfare. Hence, all classes were accustomed to take part in legislative assemblies; and this was another medium by which the active intellectuality of stronger minds was diffused through the whole social mass. Each man was an individual who thought and acted in his own right; not merely a spoke in the wheel to roll forward the car of some privileged class above him. Their chosen leaders often discussed subjects of general interest previous to the meeting of popular assemblies, which were convened at stated periods, or called on sudden emergencies; but the right of deciding and executing rested solely with the people. The leaders chosen in time of danger returned to the level of other citizens as soon as the danger was over. The people did not obey any positive and permanent laws, so much as the temporary ascendancy of the strongest intellect and the most impetuous will.
These daring marauders, with free energetic characters, formed by equality of property, hardy adventures, and active participation in making the laws they chose to obey, naturally met a very feeble resistance to their barbaric force when they invaded England. The original Anglo-Saxon vigour was miserably weakened by the influence of Roman institutions. The common people had no property to defend. They were mere serfs on the lands of bishops and nobles, and it made little difference to them who owned them. They had lost the habit of self-reliance, and superstitiously looked for aid from saints and miracles. This second tide of Scandinavian heroes, never enthralled by similar lethargic influences, always accustomed to say their own say, and have their own will, infused a bolder and freer spirit into the social elements, well calculated to change the petrifactions of Rome into a living and natural growth. The electric flame transmitted by them remains in the English heart, and was brought with us to a more unimpeded field of action in this New World.
Physical causes aided in producing athletic frames and fearless characters among these Northern tribes. They lived by hunting, fishing, and conquering; and their home was among the mountains and on the open sea. The continual presence of mountains seems to impart something of their own elevation to the soul of man, and the broad heaving ocean inspires feelings kindred to its own strong freedom and unlimited expanse.
"Two voices are there; one is of the Sea,
One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice.
In both, from age to age, thou didst rejoice;
They were thy chosen music, Liberty!"
To this day, a passion for the sea characterizes the descendants of those old Vikings. No sailors in the world equal the Norwegian for boldness, strength, and dexterity; and the water is a favourite element with the peasantry at home. Their boats are of an ancient, picturesque pattern, narrow and thin, with high prow and stern, and the waist lying level with the water. In these they go careering over sharp, steep waves, the boat sometimes almost on one end, at the rate of sixteen English miles an hour, cutting a path so swiftly that the waves sing a crisp tune under them as they go. These expert mariners never experience a sensation of fear. They eat and drink, and laugh and sing, while the mad waves are tumbling their boats about, in the most frantic manner.
This love of sea-adventures led the Northmen to America, of which they were undoubtedly the first discoverers. At the end of the tenth century, Bjarne, an Icelander, visited Greenland, and brought back tidings of other lands, which he had seen when he had drifted southward. His accounts kindled the imagination of Lief, son of Eric Jarl, in Norway, who went on a voyage of discovery, and landed in Canada. He brought back a description of the country, which he called Vineland, on account of the quantity of wild grapes. Afterward, a Norwegian, named Karlefne, headed a small colony, and with his wife went to the new country. These are probably the people represented in Leutze's beautiful picture of the Landing of the Northmen, lately exhibited in the Gallery of Design. These adventures and discoveries continued from the time of Lief to that of Columbus, and were recorded in sagas, famous for their beautiful penmanship, written by the skalds, or minstrels, of Iceland. Perhaps Columbus, who took a lively interest in all marine affairs, heard of these stories. His son Fernando says that he went to Iceland in 1477. To a mind like his, a slight hint might give birth to large results.
The indomitable freedom of the Northmen remains in greater vigour in Norway than in neighbouring countries. Her social habits and opinions are more simple and democratic. When, in the general partition of Europe, in 1814, she was united under one government with aristocratic Sweden, she insisted upon retaining her old constitution, and being to all intents and purposes a free and independent state. No other terms could be made with the sturdy yeomanry, who even carried their pride so far as to have the royal title altered on Norwegians coins, so that Norway should be named before Sweden. They have always resisted the introduction of any order of nobility, and a watchful jealousy of an encroachment on their rights is ever awake.
The patriarchal simplicity of their manners is indicated by Fredrika Bremer, where she describes the emotions of a Swedish serving girl, cordially invited and received among the guests in the house of a respectable and wealthy Norwegian clergyman: "It seemed to her that life amid these grand scenes and simple manners must be beautiful. The relationship between parents and children, between masters and servants, appeared so cordial, so patriarchal. She heard the servants call her host and his wife father and mother; she saw the eldest daughter assisting to wait on the guests, and that so joyously, one saw she did it from her heart; she saw a frank satisfaction upon all faces, a freedom from care, a simplicity in the behaviour of all."
This naturalness in their modes of living, this comparative freedom from conventional restraints, greatly assists the influence of their mountain breezes in producing physical vigour and buoyant energy of character. Whatever they say or do is apt to be all alive. The Norwegian national polka, called the Halling, is thus described: "This dance is deeply characteristic of the North. It is the Berserker[1] gladness of motion. The measure is determined, bold, and full of life. It is a dance-intoxication, in which people for the moment release themselves from every care, every burden and oppression of existence."
This same characteristic of vitality distinguishes their authors and artists. Wergeland, one of the most popular of Norwegian poets, wrote with astonishing rapidity, sometimes day and night, scarcely stopping to rest his hand; yet every trifle that fell from his pen is said to have contained some sparkling fancy, some breathing of truly poetic sentiment. In his description of natural objects, he was remarkable for making them seem alive. The fiords, or friths, of Norway wind about in most romantic fashion. In one of his pieces, he describes a sunny day, when the winds, coming down clefts in the mountains, made a powerful current in one of these fiords, driving the waves in white crested foam, like a flock of great storm-birds. He imagined them chasing a lawyer, who had been hard and grasping in his dealings with the poor. Made timid by an uneasy conscience, he thought they were shrouded ghosts of clients he had wronged, and he threw one ten dollars, another twenty, another fifty, to let him escape. At last, a huge wave comes towards him, wondrous tall, stretching forward his long neck, as if eager to swallow him. The poor sinner throws one hundred dollars, and just then the boat turns a corner of the rock out of the current. The wave stretches round his long fingers to clutch him, and retreats, disappointed that he has escaped.
Wergeland had a strongly marked head, full of indentations, like a bold rocky shore. He was extremely facetious and life-like in his manner of telling a story. While he was settling his spectacles, a smile would go mantling all over the lower part of his face before he began, and his auditors would perceive that something good was coming. He and Ole Bull were intimate friends. On. one occasion, Ole bought a short pony, with which he was pleased on account of his uncommon speed, and proposed to ride him from Bergen to Christiana, to visit the poet. An ignorant groom, in his zeal to put the little animal in very fine trim, cut his tail ridiculously short. When Ole mounted him, his feet nearly touched the ground; and the short horse and the tall man cut a rather droll figure trotting furiously into Christiana. Wergeland had a very short pony, too. As soon as he saw his friend, he laughed out, and exclaimed, "Ah, you have got a horse shorter than mine. Let us ride together." His own figure was tall and athletic, and he liked the fun of the disparity between themselves and their animals. He went to saddle his own horse, which was standing loose in the barn, with pet rabbits, pet pigeons, pet birds, poultry in great numbers, and a favourite cat. These creatures all lived in the greatest friendship together. They knew their master's voice perfectly well, and would all come fluttering and capering and neighing about him, the moment he opened the door. His cottage was a picturesque place, with all sorts of mosses, vines, and flowers. Under it was a grotto made of rocks and shells, in which were an old hermit carved in wood, and other grotesque figures. When lighted up in the evening, these images used to be a source of great terror to the peasant children.
This interesting man, who lived in such loving companionship with nature, was called away from his cheerful existence before he had passed the middle term of life. While in the last stage of consumption, in May, 1845, he wrote the following verses, so child-like in feeling, so touchingly plaintive in expression. The last was written two days before he died. By changing them into rhyme in another language, I have unavoidably lost something of the tenderness and simplicity of the original.
SUPPLICATION TO SPRING.
Oh, save me, save me, gentle Spring!Bring healing on thy balmy wing!
I loved thee more than all the year;
To no one hast thou been more dear.
Bright emeralds I valued less
Than early grass and water-cress.
Gem of the year I named thy flower,
Though roses grace fair Summer's bower.
The queenly ones, with fragrant sighs,
Tried to allure thy poet's eyes;
But they were far less dear to me
Than thy simple, wild anemone.
Bear witness for me, little flower,
Beloved from childhood's earliest hour;
And dandelions, so much despised,
Whose blossoms more than gold I prized.
I welcomed swallows on the wing,
And loved them for their news of Spring;
I gave a feast to the first that came,
—To a long-lost child I had done the same.
Blest harbingers of genial hours,
Unite your voices with the flowers!
Dear, graceful birds, pour forth your prayer,
That Nature will her poet spare.
Plead with the Maker of the rain,
That he will chilling showers restrain,
And my poor breast no longer feel
Sharp needle-points of frosty steel.
Thou beautiful old maple-tree,
For my love's sake, pray thou for me!
Thy leaf-buds, opening to the sun,
Like pearls I counted every one.
I wished I might thy grandson be,
Dear, venerable old maple tree!
That my young arms might round thee twine,
And mix my vernal crown with thine.
Ah, even now full well I ween,
Thou hast thy robe of soft, light green;
I seem to hear thee whispering low
Unto the listening grass below.
Stretch thy strong arms towards the sky,
And pray thy poet may not die!
I will heal thy scars with kisses sweet,
And pour out wine upon thy feet.
Blessings on the patriarch tree!
Hoarsely he intercedes for me;
And little flowers, with voices mild,
Beg thee to spare thy suffering child.
Fair season, so beloved by me,
Thy young and old all plead with thee;
Oh, heal me with thy balmy wing,
I have so worshipped thee, sweet Spring!
TO THE GULDENLAK, OR WALLFLOWER.
Sweet flower, before thy reign is o'er,
I shall be gone to return no more;
Before thou losest thy crown of gold,
I shall lie low in the cold, dark mould.
Open the window, and raise me up!
My last glance must rest on her golden cup.
My soul will kiss her, passing by,
And wave farewell from the distant sky.
Yea, twice will I kiss thy fragrant lip,
Where the wild honey-bee loves to sip;
The first I will give for thy own dear sake,
The second thou must to my rose-bush take.
I shall sleep sound in the silent tomb,
Before the beautiful bush will bloom;
But ask her the first fair rose to lay
On her lover's grave to fade away.
Give her the kiss I gave thee to keep,
And bid her come on my breast to sleep;
And, glowing flower, with sweetest breath,
Be thou her bridal torch in death.
Crowds of people went to Christiana, to bid farewell to the lifeless body of their favourite poet. In the poems which expressed his own life there was often something above common comprehension. But his writings were familiarly known to the people at large, and he was very popular among them, because, in addition to these higher efforts, he wrote an abundance of verses for the peasantry, in all the peculiar dialects of their various districts.
The music of the Northmen, of course, expressed the same character as their literature and actions. The old national airs of Norway are wild, strong, and peculiar; the expression of unconquerable energy.
Fredrika Bremer, in allusion to the popular music of those nations, says, "They played one of those Northern melodies, in which a sad seriousness is pervaded by a touching, innocent joy; and every close has a moriendo, in which the tone does not seem to terminate, but to disappear, like a spirit in space, which goes to continue its song upon another shore." The last tones of Ole Bull's cadences on the violin often had, to an almost supernatural degree, this quality of disappearing without stopping. They seem to float far off, and yet be still alive. It was the wayward freedom of the Northman's spirit, embodied in a temperament poetic and sensitive, which gave him such a tendency to improvisation. It led him off wandering in dreamy sadness; it waked him up suddenly, with fresh, buoyant life. This impulsive expression of the present feeling, or fancy, forgetful of fixed rules, vexed the critics, and will for ever prevent his genius from being duly appreciated by them. But this outward expression of the indwelling life, however irregular the form it takes, whether in literature, manners, or art, always has a magnetic power over the soul, to which mere perfect correctness can never attain. I once heard him, while he was sitting at the piano, describe his visit to Mammoth Cave. The tones and gestures were so wonderfully alive, that they thrilled every person present. We seemed actually to see the gloomy shadow of the rocks, and hear the muffled roar of the waters, and then emerge at once into the fairy sparkle of the alabaster grottos. "Nothing ever impressed my imagination like that awful and beautiful cave," said he. "If ever the remembrance should express itself in music, I will represent a hunter separated from his companions, and lost in the wide forest. Fairies come in answer to his bugle, and lead him into the recesses of the cave floating before him, and gambolling to their own music. Grim spectres stalk across their path, like huge shadows, and shrick, and jibe, and mutter. The hunter turns away with the flying fairies, and presently hears the horns of his companions calling him in the distant wood." He touched the keys of the piano, and there came forth a strain wildly beautiful, strangely ethereal and visionary. When he paused, I asked him to play it again; but he could not. It was a foolish request; for I knew full well that such breathings are from the unseen world, and will not come when they are called.
Dahl, the celebrated Norwegian landscape-painter, is distinguished by this same expression of strong, free life. There is a wild boldness in his choice of subjects, and remarkable fidelity to nature in the mode of expression. His sunshine and rainbows are said to have a transparent reality, which makes them seem like the beautiful phenomena they represent. He painted a landscape in Italy, with the light of Vesuvius on it, and it radiated an actual glow, almost startling in effect. Bergenstift, the district which contains his native city of Bergen, is remarkable for bold and romantic scenery, from which he has taken a series of pictures highly valued by his countrymen. He has been for many years a professor in Dresden; but though domesticated among the Germans, he clings with intense affection to his own Norway, the grand, the simple, and the free. He has always kept up affectionate correspondence with the schoolmaster who taught him when he was a boy, and who is proud enough of his gifted pupil. In one of his letters, the old man happened to mention the uncommon scarcity of wood, and how much it cost him to keep his school-house warm. Dahl sent him a landscape, with a remarkable tree in the foreground, and a broken stump, in which the grain of the wood was so wonderfully natural, that the spectator was continually tempted to break off the splinters. "You will have no excuse if you do not keep yourself warm now," wrote the great artist, in his friendly reply, "for you see I have sent you wood enough." The old man might, indeed, have purchased abundance of fuel by the sale of this landscape; for Dahl's productions command a very high price. But he could not do it. He preferred to let his limbs shiver a little, and keep the picture to warm his heart.
T horwaldsen, the Dane, son of a poor stone-cutter from Iceland, is admitted to be the greatest of modern sculptors. In him the wildness of Northern life was chastened by severe purity of classical taste. But his characteristics were grandeur and strength. When his subjects required the embodiment of grace and beauty, they were always remarkable for simplicity and naturalness.
Andersen, the beautiful Danish novelist, is deficient in the element of power. He writes with the delicate shadings of a woman's pen. But though vigour is not his characteristic, life is. In his graceful pictorial style, groups are presented with such distinctness of outline, and vividness of colouring, that they actually seem present with us, like beloved realities.
Jenny Lind, the Swedish vocalist, who is making for herself a world-wide reputation, is peculiarly distinguished by simplicity of manner. Trained with rigourous thoroughness in the science of music and with a voice naturally pure and flexible, she is said to owe her power over the audience mainly to the fact that she feels what she sings. Low in stature, and plain in person, yet in her inspired moments the inward light shines through her countenance, and makes it beautiful.
What natural, true life breathes through Fredrika Bremer's writings! They are a little falsified by contemporary models, and by contact with extreme civilization; but in their freshness, simplicity, and naturalness, what a strong contrast to French novels, wherein human nature is acted with such marvellous talent! Emilie Carlen portrays the outward forms of life and passion with as much naturalness and distinctness as Fredrika; but there are interior depths which she has not sounded, like her more spiritual contemporary. Swedenborg says there are three apartments in the soul of man:—the outer, through which the senses act on the external world, is open in all men; the second, from which the light of intellect shines through the senses, is open, in greater or less degrees, in most men; into the inmost shrine comes light directly from the spiritual world, shines through the transparent intellect, irradiates the senses, and sheds ethereal glory on all external things. According to the degree in which the veil of this sanctuary is removed, and the direction in which its rays are turned by temperament and education, men become prophets, poets, or artists. Fredrika's pen continually transmits this divine light. Hence, something of the soul's progress is contained within her faithful transcript of outward life; and this it is which gives such a peculiar charm to her writings.
Sir James Mackintosh, though learned beyond his time, wrote an article in 1807, which strikes us oddly enough, now that German intellect has assumed its rightful place among the constellations of the universe. Speaking of writers who might be considered likely to survive their own age, he says, "I comprehend even Goethe and Schiller within the scale; though I know that few, either in France or England, will agree with me."
Similar narrowness of vision has led us to underrate the nations farther north. But one after another has risen on our astonished vision,—sculptor, novelist, musician, painter, poet, and vocalist,—and compelled us to acknowledge that in those cold regions, genius, as well as nature, wears a bright auroral crown.
1. In the ancient sagas, Berserker was a hero remarkable for wild and reckless courage.
Note.—For many facts and suggestions concerning the ancient Northmen, I am indebted to Samuel Laing, in his philosophical and very interesting preface to a translation of the old sagas of Kings of Norway.