Egil’s Saga. E. Eddison R.
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had, as Egil believed, gone to Valhalla, seems clear from the references to “the way of bliss” and “the bee’s path” in the 10th and 18th staves of the Sonatorrek. Odin and His Hall of the Slain, where the lordly dead carouse after fight, having for cup-maids the Valkyries of the Lord of Hosts: these things are far off, away from “middle-earth” (Miðgarðr). But Thorolf Mostbeard believed that when he died he should fare into Holyfell, the little steep basaltic hill that stands abruptly up in the midst of the Thorsness peninsula, “and all his kindred from the ness” (Eb. 4); and the night that his son, Thorstein Codbiter, was drowned in Broadfirth fishing, his shepherd saw how Holyfell “was opened in the north side, and in the fell he saw mighty fires, and heard huge clamour therein, and the clank of drinking-horns; and when he hearkened if perchance he might hear any words clear of others, he heard that there was welcomed Thorstein Codbiter and his crew, and he was bidden to sit in the high-seat over against his father” (ibid. 11). In the same way, Gunnar of Lithend was thought to have ‘died into’ his howe. The neat-herd and the serving maid were driving cattle, and “they thought that he (Gunnar) was merry, and that he was singing inside the cairn”. Another night, Skarphedinn and Hogni “were out of doors one evening by Gunnar’s cairn on the south side. The moon and stars were shining clear and bright, but every now and then the clouds drove over them. Then all at once they thought they saw the cairn standing open, and lo, Gunnar had turned himself in the cairn and looked at the moon. They thought they saw four lights burning in the cairn, and none of them threw a shadow. They saw that Gunnar was merry, and he wore a joyful face. He sang a song…After that the cairn was shut up again” (Nj. 77). There are many other instances of this belief of ‘dying into howes’. There are also cases, throughout the old literature, of ‘howe-dwellers’: ghosts, but of no thin astral substance: rather, solid, strong and violent ghosts, ‘undead’ like the mediaeval vampire, who walk abroad, ride the roofs, and slay men and cattle. A locus classicus is the dead shepherd Glam, in Grettla. It was against such walkings that precautions were taken such as those described in ch. LVIII of our saga (see note ad loc.), and in Eb. 33, 34.
Christianity was ‘brought into the law’ in the year A.D. 1000 It is clear from the accounts given in the sagas (and this is confirmed by more general considerations referred to below) that the change of faith was primarily and in substance a political proceeding based on considerations of expediency rather than on any religious movement among the people. As soon as it became plain, at the famous meeting of the Althing in the year 1000, that religious controversy was about to split the commonwealth from top to bottom, men turned to seek an expedient that should avoid the evil of two laws in the land. Snorri the Priest was the main actor here, and by his persuasion both sides were brought to lay the matter in the hands of Thorgeir the Priest of Lightwater, who was then Speaker of the Law. Thorgeir’s award made Christianity the law, and forbade (on pain of outlawry) heathen rites and the exposure of children: but the old worship, though forbidden in public, was to be allowed in private. It is characteristic that this statesmanlike compromise, which brought Christianity into the law and preserved the cohesion of the state, was dictated by a heathen. Henceforth, though the letter of the law was Christian, the pagan spirit lived on. Its persistence, many generations after the ‘change of faith’, is seen in the persistence of the old ways of life. Christian bishops practised polygamy and rode on raiding expeditions in the Sturlung days as freely as the great men of old. Hallfred the Troublous-skald wore his new faith so lightly that his readiest threat was to cast it off and be a heathen again if the King would not listen to his poem. But perhaps the most striking evidence of the abiding life of the pagan spirit is the impartiality and lack of Christian colouring in the sagas themselves; for in no country has Christianity been a tolerant religion. In Egla, which was probably written down in final form about the middle of the thirteenth century, it is hard to find a phrase or turn of speech which betrays the point of view of a Christian telling a story of old heathen times, or which is out of tune with the mind and temper of Egil’s own generation and the heroic age.
The two essential facts about the old faith which stand out clearly amid much that is doubtful and obscure are, first, its fatalism, and secondly, the relation of fellowship between men and the Gods.
Fatalism is in the deep foundations of the old Northern mythology. Beyond death, beyond the joys of Valhalla, looms the shadow of Ragnarok—of that Dies Iræ, when the Wolf shall be loosed and Midgard’s Worm shall come, and heaven and earth and the blessed Gods themselves shall pass away in catastrophic ruin. The terrors of that Day are foretold in one of the grandest of the Eddic poems, the Völospá, from which, to show the spirit of doom and desolation that informs the ultimate things in this creed, I will quote some verses, beginning with the crowing of the cocks in the three worlds to usher in the “One fight more—the best and the last”:
Sate on the howe there and strake harp-string
The Grim Wife’s herdsman, glad Eggthér.
Crow’d mid the cocks in Cackle-spinney
A fair-red cock who Fialàr hight.
Crowéd in Asgarth Comb-o’-Gold,
Fighters to wake for the Father of Hosts.
But another croweth to Earth from under:
A soot-red cock from the courts of Hell.—
Garm bayeth ghastful at Gnipa’s cave:
The fast must be loos’d and the Wolf fare free.
Things forgot know I, yea, and far things to come:
The Twilight of the Gods; the grave of Them that conquer’d.
Brother shall fight with brother, and to bane be turnéd:
Sisters’ offspring shall spill the bands of kin.
Hard ’tis with the world: of whoredom mickle:
An axe age, a sword age: shields shall be cloven;
A wind age, a wolf age, ere the world’s age founder.
Mimir’s children are astir: the Judge up standeth,
Even with the roar of the Horn of Roaring.
High bloweth Heimdall: the Horn is aloft;
And Odin muttereth with Mimir’s head.
Shuddereth Yggdrasill’s Ash on high,
The old Tree groaneth, and the Titans are unchain’d.—
Garm bayeth ghastful at Gnipa’s cave:
The fast must be loos’d and the Wolf fare free.
What aileth the Aesir? What aileth the Elves?
Thundereth all Jotunheim: the Aesir go to Thing.
The Dwarf-kind wail afore their doors of stone,
The rock-walls’ warders.—Wist ye yet, or what?
Hrym driveth from the east, holdeth shield on high.
Jormungand twisteth in Titan fury.
The Worm heaveth up the seas: screameth the Eagle:
Slitteth corpses Neb-pale: Nail-fare saileth.
A Keel fareth from the west: come must Muspell’s
Legions aboard of her, and Loki steereth.
Fare the evil wights with the Wolf all;
Amidst them is Byleist’s brother in their faring.
Surt from the south cometh, switch-bane in hand;
Blazeth the sun from the sword of the Death-God:
The granite cliffs ciash, and the great gulfs sunder;
The Hell-dead walk the way of Hell, and the Heavens are riven.
It is against this gloomy background of fatalism and foredoom that the men and women of the sagas play out their lives. This, like a thick black shadow of darkness, shadows their every word