Epics and Romances of the Middle Ages
INTRODUCTION
Legend is not history; but in legend we find embodied historical truths, manners and customs of past ages, beliefs and superstitions otherwise long forgotten, of which history itself takes no account. Legend has preserved for us, maybe in romantic dress, maybe under altered names and circumstances, stirring pictures of heroes and heroines, who once have lived and suffered, fought and conquered, or have faced death with trustful courage; pictures, too, of men of equal prowess, as strong in evil as in might, who, victorious for a time, have yet ever met a stronger power than theirs, stronger in virtue, stronger in might.
As we write, the shadowy forms of terrific Alboin raising aloft his goblet fashioned from royal skull; the noble Siegfried with his loved Chriemhild and the jealous Brunhild; brave King Dietrich; the gentle, patient Gudrun and her beauteous mother Hilde, all flit before the mind, framing themselves into a vivid picture, such as must have lived in the imagination of our early forefathers, stirring them on to noble actions, restraining them from evil working. Thus has good in all ages fought against ill, and all races of men have sung its victory in strains but slightly varying. And so will it ever fight, no matter how our more elaborate ideas of what is good or evil may vary: the nation always glorifies the great and noble according to its own unreasoning reason.
This volume contains the principal hero-lays of the six great epic cycles of the Teutonic Middle Ages, and to them we have added the great mythical Carolingian cycle, which centred round the persons of Charlemagne and his heroes. The latter is mostly of Romance origin, and was composed by court troubadours for the delight of the royal palace, wherefore it never became the true inheritance of the masses. Beside these French poems, stand the Breton ones of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, which later on took up the legend of the Holy Grail into their very heart, and at this period found their way to Germany, where they met with a more romantic and poetic treatment at the hands of the court minnesingers. But these foreign importations never found a true home amongst the German people; they never became popular. The native hero-lays on the other hand, even though less beautiful in conception and in form, lived on through centuries, and even to this day exist, though disguised and degraded. For in the market-places of Germany, and at the few old English fairs that yet remain, the pedlar bookseller gives in exchange for the farthing piece printed versions of many of these old legendary tales: Siegfried’s battle with the Dragon, the Rose-garden, Alberic and Elbegast’s adventures, and other wondrous histories of Teutonic epical origin. But this literature is fast dying out, if, indeed, it may not by this time be said to be already dead. In Iceland, however, and in the Faroe Isles, tradition still holds her throne unconquered. She yet sings to the listening greybeards, to the men and women, and to the growing youth, of Odin and his mighty rule, of Hönir and the wicked Loki, of Thor and Frey, and Freya Queen of Heaven, of the Fenris-wolf and the Midgard-serpent. In the long winter nights she still tells of bold Sigurd’s (Siegfried) deeds and battles, of Gudrun’s faithful love and dumb grief beside the body of her lord, of Gunnar’s marvellous harping in the garden of snakes, and the listeners hold it all in their memory, that they may sing and tell it to their children and their children’s children. And so do they cherish the time-old legends of their fathers, that the ardent youth may still be heard to adjure his bride to love him “with the love of Gudrun,” the master revile his dishonest workmen as “false as Regin” (the evil dwarf), and the old men to shake their heads and say of the daring lad, that he is “a true descendant of the Wolsings.” At the dance, Sigurd-songs are yet sung, at Christmastide a grotesque Fafnir takes his part in the mummery. Thus old German tradition in her wane has found an asylum, perhaps a last resting-place, in the far North, driven from their first home by strangers, the myths of Greece and Rome. Every schoolboy can tell of Zeus and Hera, of Achilles and Odysseus, every schoolgirl of the golden apples of the Hesperides, of Helen, of Penelope; yet to how many of our older folks, even, are the grand forms of Siegfried, Chriemhild, and Brunhild more than mere names?
It is true that a tendency is now springing up in England and in Germany once more to enquire into these old tales, nay beliefs, of our common ancestry. It is true that we have a Morris and they a Wagner; but we should wish to see the people of both nations take a more general interest in a subject of such intrinsic worth to them, their long-forgotten heritage. It is not the history of class-books that they will find in it—it is that of their fathers’ manners and customs, of their joys and sufferings, their games and occupations, festivals and religious observances, battles, victories and defeats, their virtues and their crimes. Such is the golden field that lies beneath our feet, which, unheeded, we have let lie fallow, till it has almost faded from memory.
In a previous volume, Asgard and the Gods, the Tales and Traditions of our Northern Ancestors, we have endeavoured to give an account of the religion of our ancient Norse parents. In this volume we are occupied with their legendary lore.
To what extent these legends formed a part of their religion proper it is impossible for us now to say. Of later origin and more poetic treatment, they stood in a similar position toward the old Teutons as the later Greek heroic legend stood to the Greeks of history. Some say, and the learned Grimm amongst them,1 that the heroes were historical men raised to the dignity of gods, others that they were humanized gods themselves; but may be neither theory is exactly true, though both contain a portion of the truth. In the hero-legends we certainly find heroes possessed of the distinctive attributes of certain gods, and we are tempted to add others to their characters, but we consider that these divine qualities were looked upon rather as divine gifts of the gods and did not thereby exactly deify the recipients. It was similar with the Greeks, and perhaps with all nations at a stage when their heroes really formed an essential element in their belief. The gods were never human heroes, the heroes never became gods, though each approached the other so nearly that we are often misled into assuming that they were identical.
PART FIRST
THE AMELUNG AND KINDRED LEGENDS
LANGOBARDIAN LEGENDS
I
ALBOIN and ROSAMUND
Untroubled by the conscientious scruples of the historian, the poet throws the glamour of his genius over the events he relates, when taking for his theme the great deeds of the past, he strives to make them live in the hearts of his hearers.
The story of Alboin and Rosamund has a strictly historical foundation, although many poetic liberties have been taken with it. For instance, it is contrary to fact that the heroes of this and the following tale were predecessors of Theoderic, for Alboin did not march into Italy at the head of his Langobards until the year 568 A.D., whereas Theoderic died in 526, and his Gothic empire was destroyed in 553. Nevertheless we give the stories in their poetical order, as the natural connection between them is thus kept up.
The Germanic Gepidæ and Langobards and the Asiatic Avars were inhabitants of Pannonia (i.e. Hungary and the neighbouring provinces) at the time this story begins. War and hunting were the occupations of the freemen, while the serfs tended the flocks and herds, and cultivated the land.
Now it happened that Alboin, son of the Langobardian ruler Audoin, conquered and slew a son of Thurisind, king of the Gepidæ, in fair fight. He then took possession of the armour of his vanquished foe, and bore it in his arms to his father’s hall, just as the warriors of his race were assembling there to hold high festival. He would have joined them, but his father forbade him, saying that it had always been held by the sages of the olden time, that no prince was worthy to sit at the table of heroes until he had been given a suit of mail by some foreign king. The young man snatched up his battle axe, but remembering in time that it was his father who stood before him, turned and left the hall. He mounted his charger, and set out with his train for the land of the Gepidæ. He arrived at the royal
“Teutonic Mythology,” translated by J. S. Stallybrass. Vol. i. p. 315.
