the gifts of the gods to answer a certain purpose. According to some, it was Thor who knit together the sinews of his frame; others gave the honour to Odin. This deity, say the legends, being anxious to destroy Wikar, a king of Norway, yet unwilling to do so openly, destined Sterkodder to this service, from his cradle. Hence his enormous size and force of mind: hence, also, his skill in poetry, which was to assist him in the great enterprise before him. Grateful for their gifts, and for the protracted existence which had been decreed him, he soon devised the means of pleasing the god. He offered his services as a champion to Wikar, who, being justly proud of such a companion in arms, was inseparable from him. After some maritime expeditions, undertaken for the sole object of plunder, he found an opportunity of effecting Wikar’s destruction. A tempest of unusual fury was still more unusual from its duration. The gods were evidently offended, and must be appeased by human blood. Lots were cast into the urn, and the king’s name was drawn as the victim. The crew, indeed, were horrified at the thought of sacrificing a king—and they wished him to be executed in appearance only; but Sterkodder, preferring the reality, strangled Wikar, then opened his body and examined his entrails, as gravely as any aruspex of ancient Rome. He then betook himself to a piratical life, and obtained even more celebrity for his admirable continence than for his exploits, superhuman as they were. He never partook, even slightly, of intoxicating liquors: he never indulged in the remotest species of luxury. His services to different kings (for he was truly a wandering champion, a knight errant of those barbarous times) are the constant theme of admiration. Throughout the whole of northern Europe, from Russia and Hungary to Iceland, his fame was spread. Probably there were several heroes of this name, and the exploits of all ascribed to one. Frode was one of his favourite masters, and one whose bravery he admired. But on the accession of Ingel, the son of Frode, whose luxury and intemperance contrasted strongly with the sobriety of the late king, and still more with his own, he would no longer remain at the court of Denmark. Yet he always bore an affectionate regard for the offspring of Frode. Thus, when he heard that Helga, the sister of Ingel, had so forgotten her royal dignity as to receive, without indignation, the addresses of a low mechanic (auri apifex obscuræ stinpis), full of zeal for the honour of her house, he hastened to her residence, killed the mechanic, and sharply upbraided her for the baseness of her inclinations. On another occasion, however, he gratified as much as he had now offended her. Her hand being sought by Helge, a king of Norway, Ingel replied that he should have it on the condition of his fighting with certain champions. He accepted the condition; but when he heard that his opponents, whom he was to fight all at once, were Angantyr and eight brothers, sons of a Zealand chief
[79], he was alarmed for the result. He consulted Helga, who seems to have had little difficulty in transferring her affections from a dead to a living suitor, what he should do; and she advised, to implore the aid of Sterkodder, then in Sweden. He hastened to the veteran warrior, who readily promised to serve the daughter of Frode. This promise he fulfilled by hastening to the court of Ingel, and killing all the nine champions. But the wounds of the victor were many and severe, being seventeen in number, and his bowels protruding from some of them. In this state he dragged himself to the banks of a river, to quench his thirst; but the water being corrupted by the blood of the combatants, he refused to drink of it; and with great difficulty he crept to a rock near at hand, and sat upon it. So huge was his bulk, that it left a deep impression on the stone. (Saxo, indeed, believes that this impression was made by human hands, and not by the body of Sterkodder.) While in this position, in the utmost need of help, the proud soul of the warrior refused to receive it from base hands. A herald, or rather spy, passed by, and offered aid. It was refused, and the man cursed for his presumption. Another passed, and being asked his condition, replied that, though he was free, he had married a slave, and to procure her enfranchisement, he laboured for her master. The hero upbraided him for his base inclination;—why did he not take a free woman to his bed?—and bade him begone. A female now approached, and being asked her condition, replied that she was a slave, and the mother of an infant child; he bade her go home and give suck to her brat, for he would have none of her help. Next passed a free-born peasant, whose good offices he received, and whose honourable calling he praised. After the lapse of some time, he repaired to the palace of Ingel, whom he resolved to upbraid for two things;—for unbecoming dissipation, and for neglecting the most important filial duties—the revenge of Frode’s death. In a mean disguise he entered the hall of feasting, and seated himself in an honourable place. He was immediately commanded, by the queen, to remove to one more becoming his fortunes. He arose, went to the other end of the hall, and seated himself on the bench with such force as to shake the building, and threaten the fall of the roof. At this moment king Ingel returned from the chase, recognised the veteran warrior, upbraided the queen for her neglect of so illustrious a guest, and endeavoured, by the best attentions, to dissipate his anger. But when he perceived at the royal table the sons of Swerting, the murderers of Frode, and the ostentatious luxury of the feast, he grew still darker. To appease him, the queen drew a coronet from her brow, and presented it to him; yet he not only rejected it, but threw it in her face. To charm him, the lute was played: he sat like a statue, scorning alike the host, the guests, the costly viands. A trumpet next sounded: he threw a bone which he was picking at the head of the musician. But his chief wrath was turned against the king, whom he apostrophised in no measured terms. At length Ingel was affected by his reproaches; he drew his sword; Sterkodder did the same; and the floor was soon covered with the blood of the murderers. After this exploit, the champion, in great joy, took leave of the king, whom he saw no more. One of his remaining actions was little worthy of his fame. By twelve conspirators of Zealand, who detested the yoke of Olo, their king, he was bribed to murder that sovereign, and he did so in the bath. The reward which he received for this inglorious deed—one hundred and twenty pounds of gold—afforded him no pleasure: remorse took possession of his soul; he sighed whenever the name of Olo was mentioned; and his days were miserable. In addition to this calamity, age and blindness visited him; and he became so weary of life, that he resolved to leave it. To die in the ordinary course of nature was not fitting a champion, still less one that aspired to the banquets of Odin.
[80] Supporting himself on two crutches, with two swords at his side, he placed himself by the highway, having round his neck the gold which he had received for the murder of Olo, and which was to be the reward of the man who should do the same friendly office for him. But he scorned to die by an ignoble hand; and when a rustic, thinking two swords were too many for an old man, asked him for one, he bade the rustic approach for it, and killed him on the spot. Two companions of a prince whose father Sterkodder had killed, one day advanced against him; but he killed both with his crutches. The prince, struck with equal admiration and fear, approached, and a conversation of some length, in which the hero boasted of his past deeds, followed between them. At the conclusion, Sterkodder, aware of the youth’s noble birth, and convinced that he could not die by a better hand, begged Hother to kill him, and held out his sword for the purpose. The prince hesitated; but being told that the act would be a pious duty towards the manes of his father, and being still more influenced by the view of the gold, he separated the head from the gigantic body of the hero.
[81]
Whatever portion of the marvellous may exist in such stories as the preceding, no doubt can be entertained of their being founded in truth. But if they were not, they could not be wholly omitted, unless we were resolved to shut our eyes to the national manners. Of such manners—the best part of history—they are the best, we may add, the only, mirrors. Nor is the state of human opinion, as modified by education, climate, and habits, a less interesting object of contemplation. For this reason, and because of the dearth of genuine events during this ante-historic period, we have drawn, and for some pages must continue to draw, more largely on the traditionary lore of Scandinavia than we should do were those events more abundant and better established. Now for another legend, wilder than any of the preceding. Gorm I., king of Denmark, a prince not mentioned in the list of Suhm, yet who undoubtedly reigned in Jutland, was exceedingly fond of exploring the secrets of nature, of visiting everything wonderful, of enlarging his knowledge. From the inhabitants of Thule he had heard of the wondrous seat of Geruth, one of the gigantic magicians who, in ancient times, had been opposed to the gods of Asheim; but the place was considered as all but inaccessible to mortals, as surrounded with dangers which would make the boldest quail. But dangers were just the things which most excited the enterprise of Gorm, and he resolved to sail in quest of the mysterious place. He was to follow the course of the mighty ocean, which, like a circle, surrounded the earth[82];
