Chapter CXXXVI. Of Thorgeir Craggeir.
Chapter CXXXVII. Of Eyjolf Bolverk's Son.
Chapter CXXXVIII. Of Asgrim, and Gizur, and Kari.
Chapter CXXXIX. Of Asgrim and Gudmund.
Chapter CXL. Of the Declarations of the Suits.
Chapter CXLI. Now Men Go to the Courts.
Chapter CXLII. Of Eyjolf Bolverk's Son.
Chapter CXLIII. The Counsel of Thorhall Asgrim's Son.
Chapter CXLIV. Battle at the Althing.
Chapter CXLV. Of Kari and Thorgeir.
Chapter CXLVI. The Award of Atonement with Thorgeir Craggeir.
Chapter CXLVII. Kari Comes to Bjorn's House in the Mark.
Chapter CXLVIII. Of Flosi and the Burners.
Chapter CXLIX. Of Kari and Bjorn.
Chapter CL. More of Kari and Bjorn.
Chapter CLI. Of Kari and Bjorn and Thorgeir.
Chapter CLII. Flosi Goes Abroad.
Chapter CLIII. Kari Goes Abroad.
Chapter CLIV. Gunnar Lambi's Son's Slaying.
Chapter CLV. Of Signs and Wonders.
Chapter CLVII. The Slaying of Kol Thorstein's Son.
Chapter CLVIII. Of Flosi and Kari.
SIR GEORGE DASENT'S PREFACE
(Abridged.)
What is a Saga? A Saga is a story, or telling in prose, sometimes mixed with verse. There are many kinds of Sagas, of all degrees of truth. There are the mythical Sagas, in which the wondrous deeds of heroes of old time, half gods and half men, as Sigurd and Ragnar, are told as they were handed down from father to son in the traditions of the Northern race. Then there are Sagas recounting the history of the kings of Norway and other countries, of the great line of Orkney Jarls, and of the chiefs who ruled in Faroe. These are all more or less trustworthy, and, in general, far worthier of belief than much that passes for the early history of other races. Again, there are Sagas relating to Iceland, narrating the lives, and feuds, and ends of mighty chiefs, the heads of the great families which dwelt in this or that district of the island. These were told by men who lived on the very spot, and told with a minuteness and exactness, as to time and place, that will bear the strictest examination. Such a Saga is that of Njal, which we now lay before our readers in an English garb. Of all the Sagas relating to Iceland, this tragic story bears away the palm for truthfulness and beauty. To use the words of one well qualified to judge, it is, as compared with all similar compositions, as gold to brass.1 Like all the Sagas which relate to the same period of Icelandic story, Njala2 was not written down till about 100 years after the events which are described in it had happened. In the meantime, it was handed down by word of mouth, told from Althing to Althing, at Spring Thing, and Autumn Leet, at all great gatherings of the people, and over many a fireside, on sea strand or river bank, or up among the dales and hills, by men who had learnt the sad story of Njal's fate, and who could tell of Gunnar's peerlessness and Hallgerda's infamy, of Bergthora's helpfulness, of Skarphedinn's hastiness, of Flosi's foul deed, and Kurt's stern revenge. We may be sure that as soon as each event recorded in the Saga occurred, it was told and talked about as matter of history, and when at last the whole story was unfolded and took shape, and centred round Njal, that it was handed down from father to son, as truthfully and faithfully as could ever be the case with any public or notorious matter in local history. But it is not on Njala alone that we have to rely for our evidence of its genuineness. There are many other Sagas relating to the same period, and handed down in like manner, in which the actors in our Saga are incidentally mentioned by name, and in which the deeds recorded of them are corroborated. They are mentioned also in songs and Annals, the latter being the earliest written records which belong to the history of the island, while the former were more easily remembered, from the construction of the verse. Much passes for history in other lands on far slighter grounds, and many a story in Thucydides or Tacitus, or even in Clarendon or Hume, is believed on evidence not one-tenth part so trustworthy as that which supports the narratives of these Icelandic story-tellers of the eleventh century. That with occurrences of undoubted truth, and minute particularity as to time and place, as to dates and distance, are intermingled wild superstitions on several occasions, will startle no reader of the smallest judgment. All ages, our own not excepted, have their superstitions, and to suppose that a story told in the eleventh century,—when phantoms, and ghosts, and wraiths, were implicitly believed in, and when dreams, and warnings, and tokens, were part of every man's creed—should be wanting in these marks of genuineness, is simply to require that one great proof of its truthfulness should be wanting, and that, in order to suit the spirit of our age, it should lack something which was part and parcel of popular belief in the age to which it belonged. To a thoughtful mind, therefore, such stories as that of Swan's witchcraft, Gunnar's song in his cairn, the Wolf's ride before the Burning, Flosi's dream, the signs and tokens before Brian's battle, and even Njal's weird foresight, on which the whole story hangs, will be regarded as proofs rather for than against its genuineness.3
But it is an old saying, that a story never loses in telling, and so we may expect it must have been with this story. For the facts which the Saga-teller related
