at work, but have not done much except the translations as they are rather pressing now, and I want to get all my Volsung work done this week.,…Ned1 came to see me Sunday; I read him my stanzas for the Volsunga and he thought them good.”2 Morris and Magnússon’s rendering of the Vőlsunga saga was “through the press by April 1870,”3 and was published the next month.4
In the volume the two collaborators offered to the public, the translation is provided with a great deal of introductory and supplementary material for the benefit of the general reader. First we find a short Preface, in which the two translators express their admiration for the saga and their surprise that it has not hitherto been turned into English, saying that “this is the great story of the North, which should be to all our race what the Tale of Troy was to the Greeks….”5 Morris and Magnússon also call attention here to the ten heroic lays from the Poetic Edda which they have rendered wholly or in part and have added at the end of their version of the Vőlsunga saga, describing the relation of each one to the story as it is told in the saga; they also point out three cases in which they have inserted passages from the Poetic Edda in the translation proper.6 Then follows a list of “The Names of Those who are most Noteworthy in this Story.” Next comes “A Pro-
logue in Verse” by Morris, consisting of six stanzas in rhyme royal; in these lines Morris describes how this beautiful old tale, dealing only with events which brought disaster, despair, and woe to those involved, has become to us through the passage of many centuries a means of diversion and entertainment,
so we awhile
with echoed grief life’s dull pain may beguile.1
To this attitude towards the legends of old Morris gives expression again and again throughout his writings.2 Directly after this “Prologue” comes the translation of the saga itself. At the end Morris and Magnúson placed “Certain Songs from the Elder Edda, which Deal with the Story of the Volsungs,” then a few notes, and finally an “Alphabetical List of Persons, Places, and Things in the Story.”
The two translators do not state which edition of the Vőlsunga saga they used in the main part of their rendering or which text of the Poetic Edda served as the basis of their English version of the heroic lays which they added to the tale. However, a comparison of the translation with the texts available of the two works indicates that they used the edition of the Vőlsunga saga in Fornaldar Sőgur Nordrlanda and the text of the Sa͜emundar Edda issued by Svend Grundtvig.3 The rendering of the saga follows the original  very closely except for the inserted verses to which I have  already referred. It ends with the account of the slaying of Hamdfr and Sorli, who had been sent by Gudrun, their mother, to the land of King Jormunrek to avenge the death of Swanhild; it does not include the story Heimir and Aslaug, the daughter of Sigurd and Brynhild, which most editors of the Vőlsunga saga insert as the last chapter. The reason for this omission, according to a statement made by Magnússon many years later, was that he and Morris “had considered it to belong rightly to the Ragnar Lodbrok saga”;1 the two sagas are found together in the same manuscript, the Ragnars saga loðbrókar being given as a continuation of the other one.2
The heroic lays included in the rendering of the Vőlsunga saga were not the only Eddic poems translated by Morris. In the Preface to Volume VII of the Collected Works, Miss Morris prints two others, “Baldur’s Dream” and “The Lay of Thrym,” which she says were prepared at this time,3 and in her William Morris: Artist Writer Socialist, she presents an unrevised rendering of the Voluspá,” which she states she found among her father’s manuscripts  after she had prepared the Collected Works.1 Morris may have turned into English still other poems from the Poetic Edda, for according to Dr. Einarsson in his article “Eiríkr Magnússon and his Saga-Translations,” Morris wrote in a letter in 1874 that he definitely intended to publish a rendering of the Edda at some time.2 However, no other translations by Morris from this collection have ever been printed or are known to exist.3
The publication of Morris and Magnússon’s rendering of the Vőlsunga saga brought forth a variety of reviews in the periodicals of the time. In the Academy appeared a criticism by G. A. Simcox and Guðbrandr Vigfúson, which, as is to be expected, is both thorough and scholarly. At the opening of their review the critics call attention to the translators’ statement that the story of the Volsungs and the Niblungs “should be to all our rave what the Tale of Troy was to the Greeks,”4 and then they explain why this Northern 
It is probable that the Greek race was more highly gifted for artistic purposes than the northern; it is certain that the society of the Homeric age was artistically richer than the society of the Icelandic sagas, for it was more complex and more regular. These Icelandic compositions are largely influenced by a spirit of naïve “historical veracity, a desire to get as quickly as possible through all that is remembered of the traditional facts. This tendency is not without its value; it excludes inartistic loitering,” and sobriety is always impressive. But a literature of this kind is not suggestive, it does not germinate; it begins and ends in ballads, and the compilations that come between are scarcely epical – even in dimensions.1
The reviewers next point out certain inaccuracies and inconsistencies they have noted in the rendering itself; I shall refer to these later in my discussion of Morris’s style of translation.2 The second half of the article is devoted, first, to a discussion of certain “gaps and discrepancies” in the story as it is told in the Vőlsunga saga, - omissions and inconsistencies which result from the fact that the “ballads which the compiler tried, or did not try, to work into his narrative, were written at different times and places” and “sometimes represent incompatible traditions…”3 -, and, secondly, to an account of some of the beauties in the saga, “which justify the praise of Mr. Morris’s lovely Prologue in Verse.”4 The whole review is instructive and well worth reading.
Quite different are the notices of the book in the Athenaeum5 and in the Old and New;6 they were apparently written by men who  were only very slightly acquainted with the material to be discussed. The article in the Athena͜eum consists almost entirely of a very full synopsis of the story; the one in the Old and New presents rather superficial comments on some of the most important incidents in the tale. The writer of this last-mentioned review reveals his lack of familiarity with Icelandic literature by confusing Gudrun of the Vőlsunga saga with Gudrun of the Laxda͜ela saga; he says of Gudrun, the daughter of Giuki, that “readers who have fallen in love with her in Mr. Morris’s poem of her lovers will be glad to read of her in these earliest renderings.”1
Two other reviewers devote almost all of their attention to pointing out that parallels to certain elements in the Vőlsunga saga are to be found in Greek, Latin, and Oriental folk lore. The article in the Saturday Review was written by the same critic whose comments on the Morris-Magnússon translations of the Grettis saga in the same periodical I have already discussed.2 He begins by saying that just as he revealed that exact parallels of many of the incidents in the Grettis saga could be found in classical and oriental popular tales and that as a consequence the translators’ statement that the saga treated “events true in the main”3 was incorrect, he will not show in the same way that the Vőlsunga saga does not “reflect the lives of men and women of our own race in any age or in any land,”4 as the translators imply. To be sure, he is somewhat more justified in analyzing incidents in the Vőlsunga 
saga in this way than he was in subjecting the Grettis saga to a similar examination, for the Vőlsunga saga, particularly the introductory part, from which he takes almost all his examples, is distinctly legendary in nature, whereas the Grettis saga has a definite historical basis; however, just as in the earlier discussion, he frequently carries the methods of the study of comparative mythology too far, especially when he traces certain incidents in the saga back to nature myths. Moreover, it is almost certain that Morris and Magnússon, by their statement that the reader of this story “will be intensely touched by finding, amidst all its wildness and remoteness, such startling realism, such subtilty, such close sympathy with all the passions that may move himself to-day,”1 did not mean that they considered the saga an actual picture of the life of our early ancestors; the reviewer seems to interpret the statement in this way simply because he desired an excuse for attacking it and for applying to the saga the methods of comparative mythology. He writes, for example,
In the northern stories, the hero frequently dies before his son, who is to take his place or avenge him, is born; or, as the Greek story would have it, Apollôn has forsaken Korônis before her child sees the light. This is simply the legend of the birth of Vőlsung, whose father, Rerir, goes home Odin, leaving his wife sick at heart, like Lêtô, while she wandered from land to land before the birth of Phoibos….In a form still more striking, this mythical death of the parents of fatal children is exhibited in the story of Agni, the fire, whose parents are the two sticks, from which his flame is kindled, and which he devours as soon as he is born.2
A little later, in regard to the deadly worm which Sinfjotli kneads up into the bread at the command of Sigmund, the reviewer says:
This worm is almost ubiquitous in Teutonic and Scandinavian myths; and unless all the results of comparative mythology be overthrown or set aside, it is the Python of Delphi, the Aki and Vritra of the Hindu, the Crendel of Beowulf, the Chimara and dragon of Bellerōphontes,   Perseus, or Iason. Its death is the slaying of the darkness, whether of the night or of the winter….1
In only one paragraph of this review does the writer turn from his discussion of comparative mythology. Here, in regard to the translators’ insertion of certain Eddic songs at the end of their rendering of the Vőlsunga saga, the reviewer says,
Many of their readers may regret that the volume which gives them the lays of Helgi Hundingsbana, Sigurd, Brynhild, and Gudrun should not give them those of Regin, Fafnir, and Grifir, or the Greenland lay of Atli; in short, that it should not, on the mere score of convenience, give them all the Edda songs. We are still more inclined to regret that anything should be inserted into the translation of the prose Saga which is not actually found in the original.2
It would undoubtedly have been superfluous to include all the Eddic poems, but, as the reviewer suggests, there would have been a decided advantage for readers to have all those lays bearing on the story of the Volsungs and Niblungs collected in one place, so that these metrical accounts might easily be compared with the prose saga. Moreover, it may have been preferable for the translators to place all the added poems at the end instead of introducing a few of them into the rendering of the saga itself, but inasmuch as the saga-man himself incorporated a number of these songs into the body of his story, it does not seem especially improper or undesirable to have a few more inserted at the proper points.
The other reviewer dealing with the relations of certain elements in the early part of the Vőlsunga saga to the myths of other lands appeared in the London Quarterly Review; the remarks on the Vőlsunga  translation form only a part of a long article on the “Myths of the Aryans.”1 The writer of this essay points out even more absurd parallels than the Saturday Review critic, and seems still more disposed to find a nature myth as the basis of every event.
These five reviews that I have discussed show not only that Morris and Magnússon’s rendering of the Vőlsunga saga was found to be generally satisfactory and pleasing but also that it appealed to both the general reader and to the student of folk lore who was unable to read Old Norse.
In addition to his translating, Morris was occupied during 1870 with preparing the last volume of The Earthly Paradise for publication. He wrote to his mother on November 25,
I am still hard at work over the proofs; but ‘twill soon all be done…
I feel rather lost at having done my book: I find now I liked working at it better than I thought. I must try and get something serious to do as soon as may be….2
The book was published in December of this year.3 It included six tales, only one of which, “The Fostering of Aslaug,” was Scandinavian in origin.
I have already pointed out that Morris’s study of Icelandic literature in the original gradually turned him away from the style of the romance to that of the epic in his own work and that this transition is first noticeable in certain poems in Volumes Three and Four of The Earthly Paradise.4 In Volume Four the new treatment is best exemplified in the two stories “Bellerophon at Argos” and  “Bellerophon in Lycia,” upon which I have already commented.1 In “The Fostering os Aslaug,” the only Scandinavian tale in this volume, “the old and new manners are combined,” as Mackail says, “with exceptional skill and unique fascination.”2
The exact date of the composition of “The Fostering of Aslaug” is not known. In the list of poems to be included in the second half of The Earthly did not mention “The Fostering of Aslaug”; this fact makes it almost certain that he had not at that time composed the tale and had not many any definite plan to write a poem on this subject. Nevertheless, there can be no doubt that Morris was acquainted with the story of Aslaug at this time and had been for many years, for there is a very full synopsis of the legend in Thorpe’s Northern Mythology, and this book, as we have seen, Morris read while he was a student at Oxford.4 In the poem that he did write, he followed in the main Thorpe’s abstract; however, he added some details which are not in Thorpe but which are in the Old Norse original- that is, in the last chapter of the Vőlsunga saga and in the opening chapters of the Ragnars saga loðbrókar. Thus, he could not have composed the poem as we have it until he had read these works, - in fact, it was most likely his reading of this fuller account of the legend as well as the first-hand acquaintance with Old Norse literature that he had gained since the fall of 1868 that inspired him to write a poem based on this story. Now as I have already pointed out, Morris began reading the Vőlsunga saga in the summer of 1869, put it aside for a time,  and then completed it during the winter of 1869;1 very likely he read with Magnússon the Ragnars saga loðbrókar also at this time, although he never published any translation of this saga. In the Fornaldar Sőgur Nordrlanda, the edition of the Vőlsunga saga that Morris and Magnússon seem to have used, the story of Aslaug is begun in the last chapter of the Vőlsunga, and the Ragnars saga, in which it is completed, is placed directly after the Vőlsunga.
The poem “The Fostering of Aslaug” must then have been written at some time between the late autumn of 1869 and the late summer of 1870. Now Mackail says, speaking of The Earthly Paradise, that by the end of 1869 “the whole cycle was practically complete, and for Part IV, though it was not issued till a year later, little remained to be done beyond revision and selection of poems already written.”2 Unfortunately he does not state on what evidence he bases this remark, and he does not indicate whether his assertion that by the close of 1869 “the whole cycle was practically complete” includes “The Fostering of Aslaug.” On the whole, however, it seems safe to assume that the poem was composed before the end of 1869, for the semi-romantic manner in which Morris treated his original indicates that he wrote the story before he had read the Eddic poems dealing with the Sigurd story in the winter of 1869 to 1870; as Miss Morris says,
“The Fostering of Aslaug” in “The Earthly Paradise,” and still more, perhaps, the unpublished romantic tale of Swanhild, the sun-bright daughter of Sigurd and Brynhild, seem to have been my father’s first reachings-out towards the realization of the Matter of the North before he became fully alive to the splendour of the Sigurd legend.3
The realization of Morris’s tale to its sources has been very  fully analyzed by T. B. Thompson in Chapter III of his Skandinavischer Einflusschauf William Morris in den ersten Stadien (The Earthly Paradise).1 Thompson points out, as I have already done, that Morris seems to have followed in the main the abstract in Thorpe’s Northern Mythology but that he added some material given only in the fuller version of the story in the Vőlsunga saga and the Ragnars saga. The details and incidents in “The Fostering of Aslaug” which Morris did not find in Thorpe but seems to have inserted on the basis of the sagas are Grima’s suggestion to Heimir that it would be better for him to sleep outside than inside the house,2 her leading him to the barn for the night,3 the difficulty of Grima and Aki in opening the harp after they have slain Heimir,4 Grima’s statement that “Crow” was her mother’s name,5 Crow’s bath,6 her discovery of Ragnar’s ships anchored off the shore,7 Grima’s assertion to Ragnar’s men that she is too old to help them bake but that her daughter Crow will soon be home and will be able to aid them, and the sailors’ doubt that Crow is Grima’s daughter.9 Al- though Morris could have made one or two of these additions without the use of any source, there can be no doubt that he was here drawing on the Vőlsunga saga and on the Ragnars saga.1
In the course of his study Thompson very carefully lists all Morris’s changes, omissions, and additions. Most interesting are the cases in which he shows that Morris added Norse allusions which he did not find in his immediate sources but drew from his reading of other Scandinavian books. Thus, Thompson calls attention to Morris’s allusions to Odin,2 Freyia,3 and Baldur.4 He also points out that in representing Ragnar as making a vow over his cup at Christmas, Morris was referring to a custom common among the Scandinavians though by no means restricted to them.5 Furthermore, he suggests that the fact that Ragnar
nach Myckklegard wollte, ist…dem Krakamál (83) enthommen, woe s heist:
“Unnun atta jarla
Austr fyr Dynu mynnl.”
Dies hat Morris in der Übersetzung von Percy (Five Pieces of Runic Poetry) gelesen.6
 A little later he writes, R.1 schlen den Leuten des Nordens ein überaus herrlicher Held zu sein, so dass viele Elaubten, England hätte für seinen Tod in dem Schlandenz…inger in Northumbria nicht Sühne renur bezahalt, bis Harald Godwineson erschlegen und getőtet wurde, und die gesőttigten Raben űber dem Schlactfeld zu genlac in Sussex schweòten. In selner Einleitung zu “the Dying Ode of Ragnar Lodòrok” (2. 23, 24) glòt Percy einen Kurzen Überlich űber diese Geschicte.2
These last two statements, it seems to me, are open to question. In the first place, it is certainly not necessary to suggest that Morris was drawing on Percy’s Five Pieces of Runic Poetry for his knowledge of the death of Ragnar in a snake-pit at the hands of Ella, for there is a very detailed account of the end of Ragnar in England in the Ragnars saga3 and, as I have already shown, there can be practically no doubt that Morris had read this saga. Moreover, it seems to me extremely unlikely that Morris represented Ragnar as going to Micklegarth because he had read now remembered the lines
Unnun atta jaris
Gustr fyr Dynu mynnl
in the “Krakamba,” as Thompson suggests. This statement in the Old Norse poem is of course exceedingly vague, and it certainly does not indicate with any definiteness that Ragnar ever visited Constantinople. Very likely Morris introduced this reference to Micklegarth without having any definitive source in mind,4 merely because he had not read in the Ragnars saga that Ragnar was a great sea-rover and he felt that an allusion to a voyage to Micklegarth would give the  poem greater verisimilitude.
In a few other cases also the sources Thompson suggests seem extremely improbable. The following remark, for example, seems entirely unnecessary: “Die Zeile, And smitten or unsmitten, still erinnert an die Zeile in Peer Gynt (Akt I, Szene 1): ,Om man hamrer eller hamres.’” 1 Again, the similarity Thompson points out in the following quotation between a passage in “The Fostering of Aslaug” and two stanzas in the “Eiriksmál” is so slight that it is scarcely justifiable to suggest that Morris’s account was influenced by the Old Norse verses:
2.“Hvat prymir bar, Bragl,
sem pusund bifisk
eðr mengl til mikit?
Braka oll bekkoili,
sem munl Baldr koma
aptr I Oðins sali.
“Heimsku mala skalatu,
enn horski Bragl,
pvít pú vel hvat vitir
fyr Eiríkl glymr,
es hér mun inn koma
jofurr í Odins sall.”3
 On the whole, however, what Thompson has to say about Morris’s use of his Scandinavian sources seems to be correct.
In most of the contemporary reviews of Volume IV of The Earthly Paradise, very little mention was made of “The Fostering of Aslaug,” the critics usually focusing their attention on the two tales dealing with Bellerophon. Most of the brief remarks made about the Scandinavian story are, however, commendatory. Sidney Colvin in the Academy said that the poem was “full of the brightest grace and freshness….”1 The Spectator stated that the tale showed “what a fair structure Mr. Morris can build up on a very slight foundation of incident.”2 The London Quarterly Review called it a “charming poem,” and went on to remark, “To English Saga-lovers not sufficiently erudite to read the Saga of Ragnar Lodbrok in the original, this poem will have an interest beyond its intrinsic interest, when taken as an episode connected with the Volsung tale, which the author has so finely translated into prose….” The Saturday Review considered it “the gem of this volume.” The reviewer in the Athenaeum was the only one to justify his praise. He said that the story was “full of beauty,” but he also felt that the “dreams at the end, and some other passages, might perhaps be called surplusage.”5 Aslaug’s  and Ragnar’s dreams do not seem to me to be at all superfluous, for both these visions, with their allusions to Aslaug’s distinguished ancestry and to Ragnar’s great fame, definitely serve to heighten the climax of the story, the wedding of the hero and heroine, by calling attention to the importance of the union. Moreover, both dreams are described with a great deal of beauty and imagination.
Before leaving the last volume of The Earthly Paradise, I should like to point out that Morris made a brief allusion to Brynhild and Sigurd in another poem included here- namely “The Hill of Venus”; in the course of a description of a procession of the world’s immortal lovers, he wrote,
A loveless waste of ages seemed to part,
And through the cloven dullness BRYNHILD came,
Her left hand on the fire that was her heart,
That paled her cheeks and through her eyes did flame,
Her right hand holding SIGURD’S; for no shame
Was in his simple eyes, that saw the worth
So clearly now of all the perished earth.1
It is clear that the great story of Sigurd was very much in Morris’s thoughts at this time.
Among the tales which, according to Mackail, Morris wrote for The Earthly Paradise but decided not to include in that collection, there is one of Scandinavian origin which is called “The Wooing of Swanhild”;2 this poem is based on the story told un Chapters Thirty-Nine and Forty of the Vőlsunga saga concerning the marriage of Hermanaric and Swanhild, the daughter of Sigurd Fafnir’s-bane and Gudrun. It is clear from the argument at the head of the poem that  Morris had originally intended to retell the whole story of the visit of Rnadver and Bikki to Swanhild, Bikki’s inciting of Randiver to make Swanhild his own, Hermanaric’s discovery of his son Randver’s love for the maiden, and the slaying of Randver and Swanhild; however, Morris did not complete his poem carrying the tale only up to the point where Randver and Bikki are granted their request that Swanhild be given in marriage to Hermanaric, and Randver finally meets Swanhild. As it is, the poem extends to 159 stanzas in rhyme royal. It was not published during Morris’s life, but it was included by Miss Morris in the last volume of the Collected Works.1
The exact date of the composition of “the Wooing of Swanhild” is not known, but, like “The Fostering of Aslaug,” it seems to have been written at the very end of 1869 or at the very beginning of 1870. Morris must, however, have been acquainted with the story of Swanhild long before this time, for there is an abstract of it in Thorpe’s Northern Mythology2 and brief reference to the tale are found in the Poetic Edda.3 There is not much in the poem which he  could not have gotten from Thorpe’s synopsis…
… two details in the story indicate that he was drawing directly on the account in the Vőlsunga saga. Most important of these, perhaps, is the reply that Randver gives his father when he is ordered to go and woo Swanhild, for his statement,
“Meet it is that I, O father, on thine errands still should wend,”1
is almost exactly the same as Randver’s answer in the saga, which, in Morris’s translation, reads, “Meet and right, fair lord, that I should go on thine errands.”2 Another indication that Morris was not following Thorpe in his poem is the spelling of three personal names; in his postical version of the tale he uses the forms “Swanhild,” “Randver”, and “Bikki,” as he does in his translation, but Thorpe spells these names as “Svanhild,” “Randve,” and “Biki.”3 Morris seems, then, to have read the Vőlsunga saga when  he composed his poem. Very likely, just as the case seems to have been with “The Fostering of Aslaug,” it was his reading of the whole story of the Volsunga and the Niblunga late in 1869 that inspired him to produce a poetical version of the legend of Swanhild, although he had been familiar with the tale for many years before that time.
I state above that Morris seems to have written the poem at the very end of 1869 or at the very beginning of 1870. That he composed it later seems improbable, because it is very unlikely that he could have treated his theme in such a romantic manner if he had produced his story after he had read The Eddic lays in the original in the winter of 1869 to 1870. As Miss Morris says in a passage I have already quoted in part,
“The Fostering of Aslaug” in “The Earthly Paradise,” and still more, perhaps, the unpublished romantic tale of Swanhild…seem to have been my father’s first reachings-out towards the realization of the Matter of the North before he became fully alive to the splendour of the Sigurd legend…. It is possible that his more intimate knowledge of the originals changed the current of his thoughts and made it difficult for him to complete this tale in the spirit in which it was begun. It was certainly written before his Northern studies had replaced the earlier background of medieval romance by the simpler and more heroic setting of the Edda fragments. Such lines as
In tilt and pageant and high feast went by
The next few days…
could not have been written by my father coming fresh from the “Lay of Hamdir.”1
Morris’s poem represents a tremendous expansion of his original. In his translation of the Vőlsunga saga, the story up to the point where King Jonakr grants Randver his request for Swanhild occupies twenty-six lines; the poem, dealing with the same incidents, is 1106 lines long. In the course of this expansion Morris changed  completely the nature of the original tale. Miss Morris has described well the striking difference in spirit and tone between the Old Norse account and her father’s version; she says,
…the wild splendour of the legend- itself but a fragment- is dimmed by the poet’s translation into a comparatively modern atmosphere full of introspection, of hesitancies and dreams within dreams: it is indeed a far cry from the grimly-worded broken record of Sigurd’s daughter preserved in the Edda Songs to this detailed narrative in a suave rhyme-royal. But it is all “part of the story”- part of the growth and development of The Earthly Paradise tales, and a link too between the frame of mind of the time and that of the later handling of the Volsung epic.1
In order to show in some detail how freely Morris dealt with his source, I shall discuss briefly his expansions and additions.
secure as his wife Swanhild, the daughter of Sigurd and Gudrun, who was now living in the land of King Jonakr, Gudrun’s third  husband. The King immediately acquiesced, and all the people shouted for joy, except Randver, who sat quiet and moody. In answer to the King’s inquiries regarding Swanhild, Bikki explained that when Sigurd was burned on his pyre, his young son perished with him, but that at this time Gudrun was pregnant and later gave birth to a girl, who was Swanhild. The King then recalled the story of Gudrun’s marriage to Atli, the slaughter of the Niblunga by Atli, Gudrun’s murder of Atli and his two children and her burning of the hall in revenge, and finally Gudrun’s journey to King Jonakr. The day after the feast King Hermaanaric summoned Randver to him, and bade the young man go together with Bikki to King Jonakr to woo Swanhild for him.
For the references Morris added in this passage to death of Sigurd’s son on the funeral pyre of Sigurd and Brynhild and for his account of Gudrun’s marriage to Atli, the poet was of course indebted to the earlier part of the Vőlsunga saga.1 His description of Hermanaric as the King of the Goths was most likely based on information supplied to him by Magnússon, for there is no such statement in the original.
In the saga Randver agreed at once to perform the mission commanded by his father, but in the poem he was with difficulty persuaded to do so. In reply to the King’s command, he stated that although he considered it proper that his father should send him to woo Swanhild, he had decided to sail at once with an armed band in order to win glory. The King granted him permission to do as he wished, and Randver departed in joy. Bikki, however, learned  of Randver’s intentions, and although he commended the King for Randver’s determination to gain fame, he went directly to Randver on the quay in an attempt to dissuade him from this expedition. It is obvious that Bikki earnestly desired Randver’s presence on the journey to King Jonakr, and we begin to suspect that he had some sinister motive for doing so. Bikki succeeded in convincing Randver that he must join in the wooing of Swanhild by saying that he, Bikki, had had a vision of Swanhild in a dream and had at once fallen in love with her, so that he could not now trust himself to bring Swanhild home alone. Randver suspected that Bikki was lying, but he finally resolved to accompany him to King Jonakr. That night at the farewell feast, Randver announced his decision to his father.
The second part of the story, the account of the proceedings at King Jonakr’s court, Morris has not altered so radically. The saga says that Randver and Bikki arrived in the land of King Jonakr and met Swanhild, whom they found marvelously fair. One day Randver explained to Jonakr the object of their visit, saying that Jormunrek wished to become his brother-in-law by marrying Swanhild. Jonakr looked with favor on the request at once, but Gudrun said, “A wavering trust, the trust in luck that it change not.”1 The demand, however, was granted, and Randver, Bikki, and Swanhild departed. In Morris’s poem the journey of Randver and Bikki to Jonakr is described in detail. We are told that when they arrived, Bikki tried to awaken thoughts of love in the young man; and Randver, to whom the idea of love was becoming very welcome, reddened. The next morning  The two visitors were brought before Jonakr and Gudrun; and Randver delivered his message, saying that in return for the granting of Swanhild to Hermanaric, the Goths would aid Jonakr in case of any need. Jonakr was pleased with the request, but Gudrun frowned and seemed unhappy. Later that day Gudrun bade Randver meet her alone in the garden. There she fervently begged him to depart at once with one of her men, Ulf the Red, who was just ready to leave on a plundering expedition, the reason for her request being that she knew that Randver would fall in love with Swanhild when he met her that night, and that then nothing but woe and disaster would ensue for all concerned. In a passage that recalls Chapter forty-two of the Vőlsunga saga and the second half of the “Guórunarnvot,” she bewailed the hardness and cruelty of her life, and lamented that Sigurd, the one man she had loved, had never returned her affection. In spite of her pleas, Randver found himself unable to leave the country, for he was drawn on by a strange desire to meet Swanhild. That night at the feast Swanhild was ushered into the hall by a host of fair maidens. Straightway she and Randver fell deeply in love with each other, and the rest of the world ceased to exist for them both. During the next few days they saw each other frequently, but were never alone so that they could kiss and embrace. At this point the poem ends.
This summary shows clearly that Morris’s poem preserves only the bare kernel of the original saga story. In his poetical version Morris has freely added new scenes and new incidents, changed the nature of his main characters, and introduced and involved motives; and as a result his work is entirely different in spirit from
 the Old Norse tale. Even the central idea is altered in Morris’s poem. In the saga Jormunrek decides by himself to woo Swanhild, and the evil counsellor Bikki does not seem to conceive of his plan to tempt Randver and Swanhild to betray Jormunrek until on the way home from Jonakr. In Morris’s story, however, Hermanaric’s marriage is only a scheme by which Bikki aims to do away with Randver and establish his own power more firmly. It is Bikki who makes the suggestion that Hermanaeric should marry Swanhild; he carefully arranges that Randver should accompany him to King Jonaky, even being willing to cast aspersions on his own character in order to persuade the young man to give up his intended military expedition; and before they meet Swanhild, Bikki strives to turn Randver’s thoughts to love. Morris’s tale is thus superior in the development of the plot and in the motivation of the action, but on the other of the plot and in the motivation of the action, but on the other hand it lacks entirely the vigor, directness, and color of the Old Norse story. Much of the poetry is dull and uninspired; the tale as a whole seems to suffer from diffuseness, and it looks completely the deep emotion, feeling, and tenderness with which Morris treated his other Scandinavian stories. We need not regret too deeply that he failed to complete it.
Among the other unfinished poems which Morris seems to have composed at this time is one called “In Arthur’s House.”1 As the title shows, it is not a Scandinavian story, but it contains a number of Norse allusions which are especially interesting. The poem tells how once, when Arthur and retinue of knights and  ladies were riding through the forest, they met a very old man who said that he had been a king many years before, and that his castle had stood on the very spot where they now were. The sword that this man carried is described in great detail:
Right great it was: the scabbard thin
Was fashioned of a serpent’s skin,
In every scale a stone of worth:
Of tooth of a sea-lion of the north
The cross was, and the blood-boot stone
That heals the hurt the blade hath done
Rung down therefrom in silken purse:
The ruddy kin of Niblung’s curse
O’er tresses of a sea-wife’s hair
Was wrapped about the handle fair;
And last a marvelous sapphire stone
Amidst of the great pommel shone,
A blue flame in the forest green.
The old king recalled the night when the castle was burned, and related that his grandmother then
Betwixt the foemen’s spears the last
Of all the women, wrapping round
This sword the gift of Odin’s ground.”2
He showed the sword to Arthur, Guenevere, and Lancelot, and exclaimed,
“E’en as the sun arising wan
In the black sky when Heimdall’s horn
Screams out and the last day is born,
This blade to eyes of men shall be
On that dread day I shall not see-“3
Then he took Guenevere’s hand and laid it upon the hilt, saying
“Hold this, O Queen,
Thine hand is where God’s hands have been,
For this is Tyrfing: who knows when
His blade was forged? Belike ere men
Had dwelling on the middle earth.
At least a man’s life it is worth
So draw it out once: so behold
 These peace-strings wrought of pearl and gold
The scabbard to the cross that bind
Lest a rash hand and heart made blind
Should draw it forth unwittingly.”1
A little later in the poem the grandson of the old king began to relate a story told to him by his grandmother of the days of old; at that time, he said,
… there were folk who had to tell
Of lyngworms lying on the fell,
And fearful things by lake and fen,
And manlike shapes that were not men.
Then fay-folk roamed the woods at noon,
And on the grave-mound in the moon
Faint gleamed the flickering treasure-flame.”2
Just as the young man’s tale is becoming interesting, the poem breaks off, uncompleted.
It is impossible ascertain definitely the source of the information regarding Tyrfing that Morris reveals in the first four of these quotations. The fullest account of the long history of this famous sword is of course found in the Hervarar saga ok Heidreks konungs. However, this saga had not been translated into English by 1870- in fact, has not yet been turned into English. Moreover, there is no record that Morris read it in the original, though he may possibly have done so at this time. It was included in the volume of the Fornaldar Sőgur Nordrlanda which he seems to have used for his rendering of the Vőlsunga saga,3 and he had other editions of the work in his library at his death.4 However, for the knowledge he shows of Tyrfing, it is not necessary to assume that he had read the Hervarar saga, for there were other sources of infor-mation, in English, available at the time. Thus, as Frank E. Farley points out in his discussion of the poem “The Waking of Angantyr” in his Scandinavian Influences in the English Romantic Movement,1 Scott gave a brief abstract of the saga-story concerning the forging of Tyrfing and the curse of the dwarfs in his essay “On the Fairies of Popular Superstition” in his Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, 2 first published in 1802. Moreover, in 1842 William Herbert in his notes to “The Combat of Hialmar and Oddur with Angantyr and his Elven Brothers” in his Horae Scandicae translated Chapters II and III of the Hervarar saga – the chapters which describe the origin of the sword.3 Finally, William Taylor retold the whole story of the making of Tyrfing and the battle on Samsey, with many additions and alterations, in his Tales of Yore in 1810.4 The first of these accounts Morris had almost certainly read,5 and there is reason to believe that he knew Herbert’s work also;6 with the last book it is somewhat less likely that he was acquainted.7 I should also like  to point out that the story of Tyrfing is told briefly in Thomas Keightley’s Fairy Mythology, 1 a work which Morris may very well have known.
However, although Morris must have been drawing upon the saga itself or upon one of these other works for his knowledge of Tyrfing – if he was indebted to a written source -, he did not in certain respects follow these accounts in his description of the sword. Thus, in the first passage quoted above, Morris says that the scabbard was made “of a serpent’s skin” and that the hilt was formed of the “tooth of sea-lion”; but the saga, Scott, and Hervert describe the sheath and hilt as being of gold,2 and Taylor omits any reference to these details. Morris further says that the blade was provided with a “blood-boot stone,” that a sapphire was set in the pommel, and that “peace-strings” bound the hilt to the scabbard; none of these facts are mentioned in any of these four accounts. Of course, Morris may very likely have read the story several years before he wrote the poem, and so he may have forgotten the details in the description of the sword. However, he departs from the accounts given in these fur works even in the matter of the origin of Tyrfing, and the interesting tale of Svafrlami and the two dwarfs Dýrinn and Dvalinn it does not seem likely that Morris could have not forgotten if he had ever read it. Thus, he represents the old man as saying, in the fourth passage quoted above, that no one knows when the sword was forged but that it most likely was made before the time of man. Of course, it is possible that Morris himself knew that the two dwarfs  produced the weapon at the command of Svafrlami, and that he deliberately attributed ignorance of this matter to one of his characters in the interest of the story he was about to tell, of which we know very little since only the opening scene was written out. On the whole, however, Morris’s information regarding Tyrfing seems to have been rather slight. Perhaps he was not drawing on any written account, but was merely basing his remarks on something Magnússon had told him concerning the sword.
In addition to the references to Tyrfing,1 there are a number of other Norse allusions in the poem. Thus, in the third passage quoted above, Morris mentions Heimdall; with this Norse god and the part he is to play at the time of Ragnarók, we have already seem that Morris was familiar.2 Again, as I have just pointed out, in his account of Tyrfing he represents the sword as having a “healing –stone” and as being fastened to its sheath by “peace-strings,” although these details were not mentioned in the references to Tyrfing in the originals he seems to have used. Magic swords which could heal the wounds they had made were of course fairly common in the folk lore of the past.3 In most cases, however, they exercised this power when the flat of the blade was applied to the wound; only in Norse legends, it seems, were magic swords provided with a stone in the hilt for this purpose. With such “lyfensteinar,” as they were called, Morris may have become acquainted through references in  Thorpe’s Northern Mythology1 and from the account of “Skőfnung” in the Laxda͜ela saga.2 Similarly, “peace-strings” or “friðbnd” seem to have been used only on Scandinavian swords. Morris’s source of information regarding them was probably the Gísla saga, which he is said to have known through Dasent’s translation.3 Again, his allusions to “lyngworms” and to “treasure-flames” were both very likely the result of his early Scandinavian studies.4 With the term “lyngormr,” of which the word “lyngworm” is obviously a rendering, Morris had met in his translation of the Vőlsunga saga5 and also, perhaps, in the opening chapter of the Ragnars saga loðbrókar.6 The belief that lights were to be seen at night over buried treasure was very common among the early Northmen, and it was evidently the references to this tradition that he had met in his Scandinavian reading7 that led Morris to mention “treasure-flames” here. Similarly, his use of the term “middle earth” in the fourth passage quoted was very likely due to his studies in Old Norse,8 although the work was of course common in Old English also and he may have known it from non-Scandinavian sources.
Finally, it should be noted that Morris introduced in this poem three metaphors of the type common in early Germanic poetry  and usually called “kennings.” Thus, in the first of the five passages quoted above Morris says, in describing Tyrfing, that
The ruddy kin of Niblung’s curse
O’er tresses of a sea-wife’s hair
Was wrapped about the handle fair;
and in the second passage he relates that he old king’s grandmother bore Tyrfing from the burning hall,
This sword the gift of Odin’s ground.”
The figures “the ruddy king of Niblung’s curse,” “tresses of a sea-wife’s hair,” and “the gift of Odin’s ground” were obviously formed in direct imitation of the Old Norse kennings. None of these metaphors, so far as I know, actually occur in Old Norse poetry.1 That the first one stands for “gold” is of course obvious, but the meaning of the other two is not clear. Karl Litzenberg, commenting on the first of these two passages in his article “Allusions to the Elder Edda in the ‘Non-Norse’ Poems of William Morris,” suggest that be the term “sea-wife” Morris may have meant to refer to Ran, the wife of the Norse sea-god Aegir, and that Morris may have used the figure “tresses of a sea-wife’s hair” to indicate “gold.”2 This interpretation of the kenning does not seem to me satisfactory, for it would make the passage as a whole mean that gold placed on gold was wrapped around the handle. Perhaps Morris used the expression simply to indicate “seaweed,” thinking fancifully of the “peace-strings,” which he later describes as being made of gold and pearl, as consist- ing of seaweed covered with gold. The meaning of the kenning “the gift of Odin’s ground” is equally uncertain. The context seems to indicate that the king’s grandmother hid the sword with something, such as cloth, as she carried it past the foemen; there seems to be no reason, however, for calling cloth “the gift of Odin’s ground.”
The date of the composition of the fragment “In Arthur’s House” is not known. Miss Morris says in one of her Introductions that the tale, “though the subject suggests the earlier conceived Arthurian poems, is of a rather later period, and may be one of the projected stories for The Earthly Paradise.”1 It seems to me that Morris’s use of the three kennings just discussed almost definitely places the poem well after the fall of 1868, for although Morris was of course familiar with kennings before this time from the Scandinavian works he had read in translation, it was when he began turning sagas into English that he first came into direct contact with these elaborate figures. As I shall make clear later in Chapter IV, 2 Morris always showed a fondness in his own writings for using metaphorical expressions in place of the common name of an –object- even before he began studying Icelandic; but the three figures just considered are the first ones he used of this type which seem definitely to have been formed in imitation of Old Norse kennings, and two of these three – “the ruddy kin of Niblung’s curse” and “the gift of Odin’s ground” – are the first, so far as I know, which involves Norse characters. It is most  natural to assume that it was the experience, often undoubtedly unpleasant, that he had in analyzing Old Norse kennings and in turning them into English in the course of his saga-rendering that led him to imitate the Icelandic kennings in his own figures. Moreover, although the Arthurian setting of the poem seems at first to indicate that the tale was an early composition, the background does not prevent us from dating the fragment after 1868, for according to Mackail, Morris developed a fresh, but transitory, interest in the Arthurian story in 1870. Mackail says of Morris that during the summer of 1870, when The Earthly Paradise was practically completed, the “Arthurian legend once more attracted him, not now filling his mind, but making in it something of a counterpoise to the Northern sagas…”;1 he further states that Morris thought of writing a long poem on the story of Tristram and another on the tale of Balin and Balan, but that nothing was ever produced. Possible the fragment we have just been considering was a result of this renewed interest in the Arthur story.2
The year 1870 brings to a close what may be considered the first period of Morris’s interest in the history, literature, and general culture of the early Scandinavians. During the years 1834 to 1870, as we have seen, Morris’s acquaintance with the North grew from the general information he derived from Thorpe’s Northern Mythology while a student at Oxford to a first-hand acquaintance with  some of the greatest of the Icelandic sagas and with the main part of The Poetic Edda; and his early interest in Old Norse literature, which seems merely to have been a part of his passion for everything medieval, was supplanted by a genuine understanding and appreciation of the great art of the sagas and the Eddic verse. The real impetus to his interest in the North was of course his meeting with Magnússon in 1868. The knowledge of the Icelandic language that he gained from his studies with Magnússon and the first-hand acquaintance that this knowledge gave him with the literature he had hitherto known only through English translations or through general accounts of early Scandinavia awakened in him a deep love for the North, so that in the two years immediately followings his introduction to Magnússon he seems to have turned into English at least six sagas, three of which he published, and he composed three poems based on Norse stories. During these last two years he became more and more absorbed in his Scandinavian studies, but up to the end of 1870 it cannot be said that his Icelandic work was his prime interest. In the period 1874 through 1876, however, which I shall consider in Chapter II, he gave himself up almost exclusively to his interest in medieval Scandinavia.
The Culmination of Morris’s Interest in the North: 1871-1876
During the years 1871 to 1876 Morris’s interest in early Scandinavia reached its height, and during this period he devoted practically all of his time and energy to his Scandinavian work. He not only continued to translate Icelandic sagas, turning at least twelve of these works into English, either wholly or in part, but he also prepared renderings of a number of Icelandic, Danish, and Swedish ballads. He made two prolonged trips to Iceland, one in 1871 and the other in 1873, visiting the scenes of his beloved sags and drawing fresh inspiration from the country, its people, and its literature. He wrote a great number of minor poems which were a direct result either of his visits to Iceland or of his growing acquaintance with Old Norse literature. And at the very end of this period he produced his long poem Sigurd the Volsung, which is considered by most critics to be without question the greatest English work – if not the only truly great work in English – inspired by a Norse legend.
In the case of the Scandinavian work Morris produced before 1871, we know, or can ascertain fairly definitely, the exact time at which the various translations or original poems were written out: in the case of the Norse works he prepared during the period 1871 to 1876, however, we are generally not aware of the precise date of composition. Hence I shall not be able to discuss the renderings and poems belonging to this period in their chronological order, as I have done with his earlier productions, but I shall  treat them instead by groups.
I have already called attention to the fact that Morris translated a number of Scandinavian ballads, and I have pointed out that he began turning Northern folk songs into English at least as early as the beginning of 1870, for his rendering of “Hafbur og Signy,” the first of those that are dated, was composed on February 4th of that year.1 In all, Morris translated ten Scandinavian ballads – namely, “Habfur and Signy,” “Hildebrand Hellelil,” “Agnes and the Hill-Man,” “Knight Aagen and Maide Else,” “The Mother under the Mold,” “Axel Thordson and fair Walborg,” “The Lay of Christine,” “The Son’s Sorrow,” “Den Lillas Testamente,” and “Herr Malmstens drőm.” Only four of these renderings are dated or can be fairly definitely dated, - “Hafbur and Signy,” which, as I just pointed out, is marked “February 4, 1870” in the hologram manuscript, “The Lay of Christine” and “The Son’s Sorrow,” which must have been prepared before August 26, 1870 because they are included in an illuminated manuscript finished at that time,2 and “Hildebrand and Hellelil,” which is dated “March 1, 1871.”3 Although the date of the compositions of the other six is not definitely known, it is generally assumed that all these ballad translations were written out in the early 1870’s.4  period 1871 to 1876, when Morris was most absorbed in his Norse work and was most familiar with the Scandinavian languages.
Morris printed none of his ballad renderings until 1891, when he included in Poems by the Way “Hafbur and Signy,” “Hildebrand and Hellelil,” “Agnes and the Hill-Man,” “Knight Aagen and Maiden Else,’ “The Lay of Christine,” and “The Son’s Sorrow.”1 The first four Morris described – and correctly so – as translations from the Danish: the last two, as he indicated, are renderings from the Icelandic. “The Mother under the Mold,” also Danish, was first published by Miss Morris in 1915 in the last volume of the Collected Works.2 Morris’s trnaslations of “Den Lillas Testamente” and “Herr Malmstens drőm,” two Sweedish folk songs, were not put into print until 1936, when Miss Morris included them in her William Morris: Artist Writer Socialist.3 the rendering of the famous Danish ballad “Axel Thordson and Fair Walbrog” has never been published; Miss Morris, in the book just mentioned, merely states that the manuscript is in her possession, describing it as a “long ballad in four-line verse, from the Danish.”4 She does not indicate whether the translation is complete.
In the case of the five Danish ballad renderings by Morris that have been published, I find that for four of them he followed the versions given in Abrahamson, Nyerup, and Rahoek’s Udvalgte Danske Viser fra Middelalderen; for only one did he use the text in Grundtvig’s Danmarks Gamle Folkeviser.5 It is rather surprising that for 
four of these folk songs Morris preferred the versions in Udvalgte Danske Viser to those in Danmarks Gamle Folkeviser; - Grundtvig’s texts always reproduce the ballads exactly as they are found in the old manuscripts or in contemporary recordings, without an y alterations or additions, and hence present the songs in their original form, with all their crudities and inconsistencies as well as with all their vigor and color, whereas Abrhamson, Nyerup, and Rahbek in their edition frequently make changes, additions, and deletions in accordance with modern taste and sometimes combine  several ballads to form their own version, in this way giving the songs a literary finish which is really foreign to them. For his Icelandic ballad translations, Morris followed the texts given in Svend Grundtvig and Jón Sigurðsson’s Íslenzk Fornkva͜eðl.1 One of his renderings from the Swesish, “Dan Lillas Testamente,” he based on the version of this ballad in Adolf I Arwidsson’s Scenska Fornsånger;2 for the other, “Herr Malmstens drðm,” he used the text in Geijer and Afzelius’s Svenska Folk-Visor.3
Most of the ten ballads Morris translated had previously been turned into foreign languages. Five of the six Danish ones were very well known in English, German, and French versions, and the sixth had appeared in English once;4 the two Icelandic songs, how-ever, so far as I know, had never before been rendered into 
English or French, and only one of them had ever been turned into German;1 of the two Swedish ballads, one had been printed in English, German, and French, and the other had appeared in German and French but never in English.2
“The Mother under the Mold,” and the Swedish ballad translations call for special comment. As I have already stated, none of these pieces were published by Morris himself, the Danish folk song appearing first in 1915 in the Collected Works and the Swedish  ones in 1936 in William Morris: Artist Writer Socialist. When Miss Morris printed these works, she did not indicate that they were translations, but presented them as original compositions of her father.1 However, the three poems follow so closely to the Scandinavian ballads designated above – namely, “Den Dødes Igjenksomst” in Abrahamson, Nyerup, and Rahbek’s Udvalgte Danske Viser, “Den Lillas Testamente” in Arwidsson’s Svenska Fornsánger, and “Herr Malmstens drőm” in Geijer and Afzelius’s Svenska Folk-Visor- that there can be practically no doubt that they are direct translations of these Scandinavian pieces. In the case of the first one, the rendering is so exact that there is not room for any uncertainty whatsoever.2 In the other two poems Morris departs occasionally from the Swedish ballads just cited, but although some of these differences are surprising, they are really not great enough to justify any serious doubts that Morris’s compositions are translations. Moreover, these discrepancies are almost certainly not the result of Morris’s having followed some other version of these songs, as it seems at first that they might be, for an examination of all the European folk songs on these two themes that are recorded or mentioned in the ballad collections of F.J. Child, S. Grundtvig, and Geijer and Afzelius shows, as I shall make clear in a moment,  that of all these versions the two Swedish ones referred to above are by far the closest to Morris’s poems; evidently the differences between these Swedish pieces and Morris’s translations were simply the result of his incomplete knowledge of the Swedish language or of the demands of the metre and rhyme.
The ballad theme embodied in “Den Lillas Testamente” is extremely widespread, being found throughout almost the whole of Europe, in the introductory remarks he gives in his English and Scottish Popular Ballads to “Lord Randall,” the English equivalent of this folk song, Professor Child cites 18 versions of this ballad in English, 12 in Italian, 6 in German, 1 in Dutch, 2 in Swedish, 2 in Danish, 2 in Magyar, and 1 in Wendish.1 A comparison of all these texts with Morris’s reveals, as I just stated, that the one called “Den Lillas Testamente” in Arwidsson’s Svenska Fornsánger offers by far the closest resemblance to Morris’s piece and must almost certainly have been Morris’s source. Not only does this Swedish folk song correspond more closely in general form and substance to the poem in question than do any of the other versions, but it also contains certain details found in this work which are not given in any of the other numerous ballads on the same subject. For example, it is only in Arwidsson’s version that the poisonous food of which the central figure in the folk song has partaken and is now dying is described as fried eels and pepper. In regard to the medium of the poisoning Child says,
There is all but universal consent that the poisoning was done by serving up snakes for fish. The Magyar says a toad, English M. a four-footed fish, and German D a well-peppered broth and a glass of red wine. English L adds a drink of hemlook stocks to the speckled trout; F, H have simply poison. The fish are distinctively eels in the Italian versions, and in English A, D, E, G, T, Swedish B,2
Thus, although some of the versions state that the poison was eels and one mentions pepper, it is only in Arwidsson’s ballad that we find the combination fried eels and pepper. Furthermore, it is in Arwidsson’s version alone that the list of bequests made by the victim of the poisoning is given in exactly the same order and form as in Morris’s poem; in fact, I believe this Swedish folk song is the only one in which the dying person refers in his will to barns filled with wheat.1
I stated above that Morris’s poem differs in some respects from Arwidsson’s ballad and that these discrepancies are evidently the result either of deliberate changes or of failure on the part of Morris to understand the Swedish. Thus, in the first stanza of the original the girl who has been poisoned says,
“Jag har vát i bänne
Hos broderen min!”2
but in Morris’s poems she states,
“To my brother’s house I went to play.”3
The reason for Morris’s incorrect rendering of the Swedish here was very likely that he was unacquainted with the word “bänne,” meaning “prison,” which is now obsolete. Again, in the third and fourth stanzas the Swedish says that after the girl had eaten the eels, she gave the bones to the dogs, and they as a result burst into fifteen pieces; but Morris states that it was the broken meat that the girl threw to the dogs, and that when they had eaten of this food, their
[ Please note pg. 156 is missing]
 third with 7, and fourth with 1; that there is 1 in Norwegian, which has been collected in 3 different forms; that there is 1 in Romaic, with 9 versions; that there is 1 in Catalan, with 2 variant forms; that there is 1 in Italian, with 6 versions; that there is 1 in French, with 8 different forms; and that there is 1 in Finnish, 1 in Wendish, 1 in Dutch, and 1 in Faroese.1 An examination of all these forms of this ballad-them shows that here again, although the theme and situation are similar in many of the others, none of them by any means resemble Morris’s poem so closely in subject matter and form as one of the Swedish ones – namely, “Herr Malmstens drőm” in Geijer and Afzelius’s Svenska Folk-Visor. Besides, it is only in this version that the lover is given the name “Malmsten” and that the young man learns of the death of his sweetheart from a woman in blue and a woman in red.
To be sure, in this ballad also, Morris departs from his original in a number of cases. Thus, he completely omits the double refrain,
Så lustelig locker man liljorna
Főr älskogsfullt han sőrjde’na,2
and in several passages he renders the Swedish freely. For example, the exclamation
“Gud nåde er, Herr Malmsten, hvad sorg I får,”3  Morris turns into the question,
“My lord Malmston, what aileth you?”1
For the lines
Herr Malmsten så hastigt af gångaren sprang;
Han lyfte så lätt under bare-stång,2
He let his horse loose hastily,
And by the dead corpse quick stood he.3
The Swedish says that the young man, on meeting the pier of his beloved, took off his six gold rings, and
Det gav han åt den, som skulle grifta och ringa,4
but Morris simply states that the youth pulled off the rings
And gave them to the clerks to hold.5
In none of these cases, however, is Morris following other versions of the ballad. Most likely it was simply his lack of complete familiarity with the Swedish that led him in these passages to reproduce the original incorrectly or with undue liberty. Perhaps, also, the exigencies of metre and rhyme were sometimes responsible.
All the ballad translations that Morris produced he apparently prepared by himself.6 The only external evidence bearing upon the  question of authorship that we have is the remark “translated from the Danish (by poor little me)”1 in the holograph manuscript of one of the copies of “Hafbur and Signy” and the statement at the end of the illuminated manuscript A Book of Verse to the effect that ‘I made the verses; but the 2 poems, the ‘Ballad of Christine’ and the ‘Son’s Sorrow,’ I translated out of the Icelandic.”2 That Morris should have been able in the early 1870’s to render Icelandic ballads into English unaided is of course not surprising, for his study of the sagas with Magnússon had undoubtedly made him by this time well acquainted with the Icelandic language, but that he should also have been capable of translating Danish folk songs by himself is rather unexpected. However, strange as it seems, we must, I believe, for various reasons that I shall present below, interpret these two statements literally, and also assume that Morris rendered not only these three ballads by himself but all ten that have come down to us. Evidently it was his intimate knowledge of Icelandic and the slight familiarity with German that he is known to have possessed3 that enabled him, with the aid of dictionaries, to read the Danish and Swedish although he had never made a formal study of these languages.
Morris sometimes surprises us by the literalness of his ballad translations, even occasionally rendering correctly a difficult word or phrase which other translators of the ballad in question misunderstood; but, as I just stated, he apparently prepared his  renderings by himself, for there is no reason to suspect that he received aid from anyone acquainted with the Scandinavian languages. In the first place, if the translations had been the result of collaboration, Morris would almost certainly have stated this fact when he published them; with only one exception,1 he acknowledged the assistance of Magnússon in every saga-rendering he printed. Secondly, if he had sought help in this work, it would most likely have been from Magnússon, who was acquainted with all the Scandinavian languages,2 but Dr. Einarsson in his recent biography of Magnússon3 says nothing of any collaboration by Morris and Magnússon on ballad translations, although he quotes and refers to a great many letter relating to their work together on the sagas. Thirdly, if he had received help from Magnússon, his renderings would have undoubtedly have been far more accurate than they are; very rare indeed are the errors in the saga-translations they produced together. It is thus almost certain that in turning these eight folk songs into English, he was not aided by Magnússon or by anyone else who was proficient in reading Danish and Swedish.
There is one other probability that must be considered: in rendering these Danish and Swedish ballads into English, Morris may  have been aided by previous English, or even German and French, translations. However, it seems extremely unlikely that Morris went to the trouble of locating English, German, or French renderings of the folk songs he wished to turn into English and that he then followed these in reading the Danish and Swedish; such a procedure would be entirely inconsistent with what we know about Morris’s usual methods of work. Moreover, when we compare the previous English, German, and French translations with Morris’s versions, we find, as I shall show, not only that there is never the slightest verbal similarity between Morris’s work and that of his predecessors, but also that sometimes Morris correctly interprets a passage which was misunderstood by the others and that he occasionally mistranslates a phrase or word which is correctly rendered in all the other translations.
Thus, in “Agnes and the Hill-Man” Morris correctly renders the Danish “tøyse”1 as “twice,”2 but Prior, the only other translator of this particular version, interprets it as “thrice.”3 Later in the same ballad Morris renders the lines
“Og naar du kommer paa Kirkegulv,
saa maa du ej gaa med din kjaer Moder I Stol”4
much more closely that Prior does, for Morris translates them as
“So that when thou standest the church within
To thy mother on bench thou never win,”5
but Prior says, 
Similarly, in “Hafbur and Signy” Morris’s version is in several cases more exact than the six previous translations that were based either on the text in Danske Viser or on the very similar text in Tragica.2 For example, in the account of Hafbur and Signy’s arrival in Signy’s chamber and their preparation for sleep, Morris renders correctly the lines which Danske Viser read,
“And when thou kneelest at church to prayer
Apart from thy mother place the chair.”1
Saa ta͜endte de op de voxlys,
Saa herligt vare de snoed’,3
and in Tragica appear as,
Saa tendte de op de voxxe Lius,
Saa herlig vare de snaa,4
For he says,
Then kindled folk the waxlights
That were so closely twined;5
but most of the other translators seem to have been troubled by the word “snoed” or “snaa” in the second of these lines. Thus the rendering of this ballad in Fraser’s Magazine departs entirely from the original at this point:
Hafbur and Signy took the light,
And their room they lovingly sought.6
 Grimm, also, completely misunderstood the line:
Sie zeundeten de Wachslichter an, so freudig waren die zwel.1
In his Old Danish Ballads in 1856, Prior,2 following Grimm’s translation, says,
The tapers all they lit so bright,
Grew friendly more and more;3
and in 1860, in his Ancient Danish Ballads also, Prior seems to have relied on Grimm for this line, although he says that his rendering is based on the text of this ballad in Tragica, for here he translated the two lines thus:
The cheerful tapers there they lit,
And were se well inclined.2
Narmier’s French version is likewise incorrect at this point: “Le flambeau de cire est allumé. Tous deux étaient bien joyeux.”5 The only other translator besides Morris to understand the word was Sander, who says,
Das kunstgedrehte Licht von wachs,
Das leuchtet ringsumher.6
A few stanzas later in the ballad we are told that when Hafbur and Signy were in bed together, Signy discovered the identity of Hafbur, who had come to her disguised as a maiden, and that she chid him for having thus deceived her and put her to shame. She asks,
 In Danske Viser,
“Hvi rider ej til min Faders saard
Med Hund, og Høg paa Ha͜ende?”1
and in Tragica,
“Hvi rider I icke til min Faders Gaard
Med Høg of Hund I hende?”2
There is nothing difficult about these two lines, and Morris translates them correctly as
“Why ridest thou not to my father’s garth
With hound, and with hawk upon glove?”3
Moreover, Grimm and Sander render them correctly in their German versions of this ballad, and Marmier, though not so exact, keeps the main idea of the original.4 Prior, however, departs from the Danish in the second line both in his Old Danish Ballads in 1856 and in his Ancient Danish Ballads in 1860:
“Why ride not in with hawk and hound
In court my hand to claim.”5
The third English translation follows the original more closely than Prior does, but is still not so exact as Morris:
“With hawk and hound to my father’s hall,
Ah, if you only came!”6
 In Morris’s rendering of the ballad “The Mother under the Mold” occurs another very striking example of his independence of previous translators.1 In this song we are told that one night a dead mother begged the Lord for permission to arise from her grave in order to visit her children, who were being maltreated by their stepmother; the Lord yielded to her entreaties, whereupon,
Hun skjød op sine modige Ben,
Der revnede Mur og Marmorsten.2
The Danish word “Ben” can of course mean either “bone” or “leg”; in this passage it almost certainly is used in the sense of “legs.” However, Morris is the only English translator to give it this interpretation:
Then forth her weary feet put she.3
The rendering in the London Magazine reads,
Then up she raised her weary bones;4
Robert Jamieson gives the translation
With her banes sae stark a bowt she gae;5
Fraser’s Magazine has
She lifted up her weary bones;6
 Prior in his Ancient Danish Ballads renders the line as
Out from the chest she stretch’d her bones;1
and Longfellow, presenting this ballad as the Musician’s third story in his Tales of a Wayside Inn, gives the translation
She girded up her sorrowful bones.2
In his Old Danish Ballads Prior translates the passage very loosely, omitting the word entirely:
In coffin then no longer pent
Her corpse its marble tombstone rent.3
Three of the German renderings use the collective noun “Gebein,” which of course cannot refer to “legs.”4 besides Morris, Grimm and Marmier are the only translators who definitely give the word the meaning “legs”: “Da hob sie auf ihre můden Bein,” and “Elle se lève sur ses jambs fatigues.”5
Finally, I should like to point out that in his rendering of “Hafbur and Signy” Morris includes the refrain, as do Grimm and Sander, but that all the three other English translators, as well as Marmier, omit it.6
That Morris was not dependent upon the work of his predecessors is indicated not only by passages, like those just cited, in which his renderings are more exact than the previous translations, but also by cases in which Morris mistranslates the original and all  the other renderings are correct. I should now like to give a few examples of such mistakes by Morris.
Thus, in “Agnes and the Hill-Man,” when Agnes has escaped from the mountain and the Hill-man tries to induce her to return by telling her that her children are crying for her, Morris completely misunderstands Agnes’s exclamation
“Lad dem gra͜ed’, lad dem gra͜ed’, lad dem gra͜ed’, med de vil:
jeg n ej mere hører dem til,”1
“Let them greet, let them greet, as they have will to do;
For never again will I hearken thereto!”2
Prior, the only other translator of this Danish ballad, is much more exact though not absolutely literal:
“The children may wail, as they will, and cry,
with them nothing more to do have I,”3
In his “Knight Aagen and Maiden Else” Morris likewise makes two mistakes which are not found in the other renderings of this folk song; these errors, however, seem to be the result of carelessness, rather than of a failure to understand the Danish. Thus he incorrectly translates stanza three,
Det var Jomfru elselille,
Hun var saa sorrifuld;
Det hørte Ridder Herr Aage
Hen under sorten Muld,4
It was the maiden Else,
She was fulfilled of woe
When she heard how the fair knight Aagen
In the black mould lay alow.1
All the seven earlier renderings, however, state correctly that it was Aage who heard Else crying, not that Else wept because she learned that Aage was in his grave.2 Later in the same ballad we are told that Aage arose from his grave one night in order to go and comfort Else, and that after she had welcomed him into her chamber, she took her comb and smoothed his hair:
Saa tog hun den guldkam
Saa kja͜emte hun hans Haar.3
Morris, however, says,
O, she’s taken up her comb of gold
And combed adown her hair.4
Here again all the other translations are correct.5
Similarly, in his “Hafbur and Signy” Morris makes a very serious mistake, failing to understand the old Danish word “axle,” meaning “to put on”; thus he misinterprets the lines 
Midt udi den Borgegaard
Der axler han sit Skind.1
Now out amid the castle-garth
he cast his cloak aside.2
All the other translators render it in the right way.3
Finally, I should like to point out that one of the mistakes I discussed above in Morris’s rendering of the Swedish ballad “Den Lillas Testamente” – namely, his translation
The flesh fell from them that they died
Remna I femton stycken, -
is not found in Marmier’s rendering, the only other version based on the same text, for Marmier says, “Leur corps s’est brisé en morceaux”;4 similarly, the errors I noted above in Morris’s translation of the other Swedish ballad are not in the other renderings of this song.5
It is not necessary to cite further examples of this type. The ones I have already pointed out, like the specimens of previously quoted cases in which Morris gives correct renderings but the earlier translators misunderstand the original, show clearly that  there is not the slightest reason for believing that Morris was guided in any way by the work of his predecessors. Moreover, it should be noted that the mistranslations which were made by Morris but not by the others indicate not only that Morris was not following other renderings but also that he could not have collaborated with Magnússon or with anyone else who was thoroughly familiar with Danish and Swedish.
In order to make this last point clearer – namely, that the lack of accuracy in Morris’s translations tends to prove that he could not have prepared them with the aid of some friend who was well versed in the Scandinavian languages -. I should like to show that Morris’s mistakes are by no means rare by briefly calling attention to a few more cases in which he failed to understand his original. So far I have mentioned only those passages which Morris renders incorrectly but others translate in the right way, but there are of course words and expressions which not only Morris but others failed to comprehend.
Thus in “Hildebrand and Hellelil,” he misunderstands the line
“Min Fader lod mig saa haederlig somme,”1
rendering it rather absurdly as
“He taught me sewing royally.”2
Moreover he seems to have been unfamiliar with the word “svige,”
meaning “to deceive,” for in “Hafbur and Signy” he mistranslates the line
Kong Sivards Datter at svige1
King Siward’s daughter to woo.2
He fails to understand the line
Der Dug drew over de Spange,3
and renders it incorrectly as
O’er the meads the dew drave down.4
He confuses the word “stodte” with “stod,” ad thinks that the lines
De stødte paa Døren
Med Glavind og med Spyd5
So there anigh the high-bower door
They stood with spear and glaive.6
Like all but three of the other ten translators of “The Mother under the Mold,” he misinterprets “udi Sky” as “under the sky”; the phrase means, of course, “in terror.”7 For the Danish
De Hunde de tuded saa højt udi Sky,1
Under the sky the hounds they bayed.2
Thus, as I have already stated, there is absolutely no reason to believe either that Morris relied on previous translations in preparing his ballad renderings or that he had the aid of anyone acquainted with the Scandinavian languages.
Finally, before closing my discussion of Morris’s ballad translations, I should like to point out that in spite of occasional errors, the renderings are on the whole very pleasing and highly successful. Morris always took pains to imitate the form of the originals as closely as possible; and as far as his knowledge of Icelandic, Danish, and Swedish permitted him to do so, he reproduced faithfully the substance of his texts. For example, he always retained the metre and rhyme scheme found in the originals, and often, though of course by no means always, imitated their metrical irregularities. Moreover, unlike many of the previous translators, he as a rule kept the refrain, which is such an integral part of the Scandinavian folk songs; in only one ballad rendering – that of “Herr Malmstems drőm” – did he omit the refrain. It should also be noted that he frequently introduced feminine rhymes, in this way reproducing the melodious quality of the original ballad poetry; in “Agnes and the Hill-Man,” for example, Morris’s first and fifth stanzas run thus:
Agnes went through the meadows a-weeping,
Fowl are a-singing.
There stood the hill-man heed thereof keeping.
Agnes, fair Agnes!
 There she sat, and lullaby sang in her singing,
Fowl are a-singing.
And she heard how the bells of England were ringing.
Agnes, fair Agnes!
Equally striking is his insistence on reproducing, as far as his knowledge of Icelandic, Danish, and Swedish and the demands of metre and rhyme allowed him to do so, exactly what is given in his originals, and nothing more. Never was Morris guilty of trying to improve his texts. In only one or two cases did he add a single image or descriptive detail of his own, although many of his predecessors enlarged upon the originals when the expressions in the ballads were bald or crude. One or two examples of Morris’s close adherence to his sources will suffice. Thus the opening stanza in “Hildebrand and Hellelil,”
Hellelil sidder I Bure –
Min Sorrig veed ingen uden gud.
Hun syer sin Søm saa prude.
Og den lever aldrig, jeg vil for klage min Sorrig,2
Morris renders faithfully as
Hellelil sitteth in bower there,
None knows my grief but God alone,
And seweth at the seam so fair,
I never wail my sorrow to any other one;3
but Robert Buchanan in his Ballad Stories of the Affections translates this stanza very freely:
Helga sits at her chamber door –
God only my heart from sorrow can sever!
She seweth the same seam o’er and o’er.
Let me tell of the sorrow that lives for ever!4
And a rendering of this ballad in Fraser’s Magazine for January, 1865, departs even further from the original:
 She sat in her bower, with eyes of flame,
(My sorrow is known to God alone.)
Bending over the broidery frame,
(And oh there liveth none to whom my sorrow may be told)1
Later in the same ballad Morris translates the lines
“Aldrig var det saa dyb en Dam,
Min Broders Hest jo over svam.”2
“No deepest dam we came unto
But my brother’s horse he swam it through”;3
but Robert Buchanan and the translator in Fraser’s Magazine take great liberties with the text, for one says,
“Through deep fords the horse can swim;
He drags me choking after him,”4
and the other relates that
“The deep ice-rivers were red with gore,
As over them we and the wild horse tore.”5
Finally, at the opening of “Knight Aagen and Maiden Else,” in a stanza already commented upon in another connection, the original says,
Det var Jomfru Elselille,
Hun var saa sorrigfuld,6
and Morris translates
It was the Maiden Else
She was fulfilled of woe;7
but George Borrow in his Romantic Ballads states,
In her bower sat Eliza;
Rent the air with shriek and groan.8
Morris’s ballad renderings make it clear that he keenly appreciated the quiet beauty, simplicity, pathos, and reticence of the Scandinavian folk songs. This understanding of the art of the ballads together with his inherent ability as a poet enabled him to produce translations which are remarkably close in spirit and tone to the originals and which at the same time possess real poetic value of their own.
During the period 1871 to 1876, which we are now considering, Morris prepared not only the ballad renderings just discussed by also a great number of saga translations. Very few of these renderings, however, were ever published at this time. In 1871, in the March and April issues of the Dark Blue, he presented to the public an English version of the Friðpjófs saga hins fra͜ekna;1 in 1875 he republished this saga, together with five other short Old Norse tales, in a volume called Three Northern Love Stories, and other Tales.2 These are the only saga translations that he printed from 1871 to 1876, - in fact, from 1871 to 1891.
In his “Story of Frithiof the Bold” Morris followed the longer and better known of the two recensions of the saga. He does not state on which edition of this form of the tale he based his rendering, but very likely he used the first of the two texts in volume II of Fornaldar Sőgur Nordrlanda;3 this volume, as I have already…
pointed out, was in his library at his death.1
When Morris printed this translation in the Dark Blue, he presented it as entirely his own work; but when he republished it with only a few changes together with five other sagas in Three Northern Love Stories, he stated on the title page that the renderings in this volume were the result of collaboration between Magnússon and himself, and made no special comment on the authorship of the translation of the Friðpjófs saga. It is not known whether the rendering was originally produced by Morris alone and was later revised by Magnússon when it was republished in 1875, or whether the earlier translation also was the work of both men and the absence of Magnússon’s name in the Dark Blue is entirely without significance. That Morris received aid from Magnússon in preparing the first version as well as the second seems, on the whole, very likely, for when we compare this translation with the Old Norse, we find that it is remarkably close and exact. Very few alterations, as I just stated, were made when the story was printed again in 1875, and in only three cases were actual mistranslations corrected;2 most of the changes simply introduce archaic words of forms, or  offer slightly more exact renderings.1 It seems extremely improbable that Morris could have produces this very literal translation entirely unaided in 1871. Very likely Magnússon prepared the first draft as usual and Morris afterwards wrote out his own rendering on the basis of Magnússon’s version, making a few minor errors which Magnússon may never have had a chance to correct or which he overlooked if he actually did revise the work.
As in the case of the ballad translations, there is of course a possibility that Morris produced this rendering without Magnússon’s aid but was guided by some previous translation. The Friðpjófs saga had already been turned into English by George Stephens, his rendering of the saga appearing in 1839 in the same volume as his English version of Bishop Tegnér’s poetical version of the tale.2 We know that Morris was familiar with this work for H. Buxton Forman, speaking of another matter in his Books of William Morris, refers to a letter he received from Morris in the winter of 1873 ‘returning a copy of George Stevenson’s Frithiof which I had borrowed for him….”3 Morris may easily have seen  this book as early as 1871. However, a comparison of Morris’s translation with Stephens’s shows that Morris was almost certainly not dependent upon the work of his predecessor in any way. In the first place, Stephens’s rendering, as he himself states, is based mainly on the text in Bjorner’s Nordiska Kämpa Dater,1 which. As I have already said, differs in many cases from the text Morris used.2 Furthermore – and this fact is much more important – several passages which are the same in the Kämpa Dater and in the Fornaldar Sőgur are given entirely different interpretation by Morris and Stephens, sometimes Morris, sometimes Stephens, being the more exact.3 Finally, I should like to point out that none of the mistranslations which occur in Morris’s version in the Dark Blue but were corrected in the Three Northern Love Stories are found in Stephens’s rendering, or, as a matter of fact, in any of the Swedish, Norwegian, Danish, and German translations.4  Very likely Morris did not borrow Stephen’s book because he wanted to use it as a guide in his rendering of the Icelandic saga, but because he wished to become acquainted with Tegnér’s poem on the same subject. We know that Morris was familiar with this work, for in a note at the opening of his translation of the Friðpjófs saga in the Dark Blue he says, “This tale is the original of the Swedish Bishop Tegnér’s ‘Frithiof Saga,’ a long modern poem, which has a great reputation, but bears little enough relation, either in spirit or matter, to its prototype.”1 It is almost certain that Morris was not so proficient in Swedish that he could read this long narrative poem in the original; there were of course many English renderings of the work available at this time, but inasmuch as we know that he borrowed Stephens’s translation in the early seventies, it is fairly safe to assume that it was on the basis of this rendering that he formed the opinion expressed in this note.
Although no saga translations were published from the spring of 1871 to 1875, we know that Morris was extremely active during these years in turning Icelandic sagas into English. Almost all our information regarding this work, except for a few references in letters, comes from the illuminated manuscripts he used to produce recreation at this time. I have already on several occasions referred to Morris’s activity as an illuminator.2 As I have stated before, he began this work as early as 1856, but did not complete any painted book until 1870; from that year until 1875 or
 1876, however, he spent all his leisure time in writing out and decorating manuscripts, and produced during these years an astonishingly large number of such books. Many of them are copies of sagas he had rendered out of the Icelandic.
On the basis of one of these manuscripts we know that by the end of 1871 Morris had translated the Kormáks saga Øgmundssonar and had begun his English version of the Heimskringla. This manuscript, which is now in the private library of Sir Sydney Cockerell of Cambridge, England, and which I have had the privilege of examining, contains, in translation, the whole of the Kormáks saga, one page from the opening of the Heimskringla, eighteen stanzas of “Hafbur and Signy,” and two pages of the Friðpjófs saga; according to a note by Sir Sydney Cockerell at the beginning of the book, the “paper on which everything in this volume is written bears a watermark dated 1870 and the date of the skript[sic] is not later than 1871.”1 The last two selections in this book are not important  for the purposes of this study, for we know from other sources that Morris had translated “Hafbur og Signy” and the Friðpjófs saga by the end of 1871 and both renderings in their entirety have been published; the first two selections, however, are of special interest.
Morris’s translation of the Kormáks saga was never printed; in fact, it is only through this illuminated manuscript and a few waste leaves1 that we know that he prepared a rendering of this tale. The basis for his version must have been the Kormaks saga sive Kormaki OEgmundi dilii vita, published in Copenhagen in 1832, for this was the only text printed at this time. His translation covers the whole of the saga, but does not include any of the “Fragmenta carminum” found at the end of this edition. I have compared the rendering with the original, and find that it is accurate and similar in style to Morris’s other saga translations.
 It is likewise very interesting to learn that Morris had begun his rendering of the Heimskringla as early as 1871, as the illuminated page of the opening of the Yngling saga included in Cockerell’s manuscript indicates. This very lengthy work, which he was not to complete until more than twenty-five years later, seems to have occupied his attention throughout this period; in a letter dated February 11, 1873, he writes, “My translations go on apace, but I am doing nothing original….I certainly enjoy some of the work I do very much, and one of these days my Heimskringla will be an important work.”1 Other illuminated fragments of the Heimskringla rendering also exist. In the private library of the late Sir Emery Walker of Hammersmith, London, there is an illuminated manuscript which contains various short selections, among them nineteen pages of the opening of the Heimskringla, covering “The Preface of Snorri Sturluson” and almost twenty-five chapters of the Ynglinga saga; those pages that bear a watermark are dated 1870, and the script is similar to that in Cockerell’s manuscript, so that very likely these leaves also were written out in 1871.2 At the time of her death Miss May Morris had in her posses- sion two vellum leaves which bear no title but contain part of Chapter XXI, the whole of Chapter XXII, and the opening of Chapter XXIII of Morris’s translation of the Haralds saga hárfagra.1 There is writing on both sides of the pages, and the leaves are numbered 35, 36, 37, and 38; evidently they were originally part of an illuminated manuscript of the whole of the Haralds saga hárfragra. The script used here is larger than in the other two Heimskringla manuscripts, and is somewhat different in character; probably these leaves were prepared at a later date.
Although his work on the Heimskringla must have occupied much  of his attention during the years 1871 to 1872, he nevertheless found time for several other saga-renderings. We learn from a letter written December 8, 1873 that by that time he had read the Viglundar saga, the Heðins saga ok Hőgna, the Hróa páttr heimska, and the porsteins páttr stangarhőggs; in the letter, just mentioned, Morris describes the material he intended to include in the volume of translations which he was then planning to publish but which did not appear until 1875 under the title Three Northern Love Stories, and says,
It [the book] stands thus now as I intended at first: the Story of Gunnlaug the Worm-tongue, printed in the Fortnightly some years back; the Story of Frithiof the Bold, printed before in the Dark Blue; the story of Viglund the Fair, never before printed: these ‘three Northern Love Stories’ will give the name to the book, but to thicken it out I add three more short tales; Hrol the Fool, Hogni and Hedin, and Thorstein Staff-smitten; the first of these three a pretty edition of a ‘sharper’ story and the same as a tale in the Arabian Nights. The second a terrible story; a very well told, but late version of a dark and strange legend of remote times. The third simple, and not without generosity, smelling strong of the soil of Iceland, like the Gunnlaug.1
Moreover, an illuminated manuscript shows us that three months later – namely, by the end of February, 1874 – he had translated three more fairly long sagas, - the Ha͜ensa-póris saga, the Sandamanna saga, and the Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings. His rendering of these three tales is written out and decorated in a very beautiful script of 224 pages, which is now in the Fitzilliam Museum, Cambrdige, England; Morris did not date the work, but a note at the end, evidently in the hand of Sir Sydney Cockerell, points out a “letter to Mr. C. Fairfax Murray shows that this book was finished in February 1874.” The sheets that are watermarked all bear the  date 1870.1 None of these translations were published until 1891, when all three appeared in the first volume of The Saga Library.2
The last of these three tales, the Hávarðar saga, it should  be noted, was one of the Scandinavian works which Magnússon and G. E. J. Powell had intended to publish in an English form before Magnússon began collaborating with Morris. As I have already pointed out, Magnússon wrote out a renderings of this tale and handed it over to Powell for revision in 1863, but the latter never completed his share of the work so that it could be printed; even as late as 1869 and 1870 references in letters show that they were still planning to publish it.1 Probably Magnússon by that time realized that it was useless to wait longer for Powell, and so put his literal translation in the hands of Morris.
The story of Haward became one of Morris’s favorites among the shorter Icelandic tales; he once wrote to Theodore Watts-Dunton, in a letter which evidently accompanied a presentation copy of Volume One of the The Saga Library, “Seriously I hope you will like it. The Howard Saga, I think the best short saga after G…2. and the other 2 are very good.”3 In the Fitzwilliam Museum illuminated manuscript of “The Story of Hen Thorir,” “The Story of the Banded-Men,” and “The Story of Haward the Halt,” we find at the end “A gloss in rhyme on the story of Haward, by William Morris.” In this gloss, which consists of fifty-eight lines in heroic couplets, Morris briefly retells the main events of the tale; the comments that he makes on the characters and their deeds in the course of this poetical summary show that he was deeply moved by this old story of wrong made  right even in the face of overwhelming odds, and reveal that he sincerely sympathized with old Haward in his troubles and weakness. Note, for example, the following passage towards the end, in which he compares the change in Haward’s fortunes to a beautiful dream:
A dream methinks all this by someone told,
Of many griefs in all defeat grown old;
A dream of lying down unloved, alone,
Feeble, unbeauteous, but by mocking known,
And waking up a famous man and fair,
Well-loved, most mighty, bold all deeds to dare;
Happy to bring the hardest thing to pass;
Nought left save longing of the wretch one was:
Of lying down most loth to wake again,
And waking up to wonder what was pain –
A dream of wrong in one night swept away
And Baldur’s kingdom come with break of day.1
Another Icelandic work which Morris seems to have translated by the end of 1874 is the Haldórs páttr Snorrasonar. Three pages of an illuminated manuscript of his rendering of this story, called by him “The Tale of Haldor,” are now in the private library of Sir Sydney Cockerell; as is pointed out in a note on the inside of the front cover of the book in which these pages are bound, this selection is written out in the same script as that used in the Fitzwilliam Museum manuscript just discussed.2 There are two “pa͜ettir” concerning this Haldor, one dealing with Haldo and Einar pambarskelfir, the other with Haldor and King Harald Harðráði;3 it is the first of these that Morris translated. He wrote out only about forty lines  in the illuminated manuscript, and so it is difficult to determine which text of this “páttr” he was following in his rendering;1 however, even this short passage shows that he certainly did not use the version in Volume III of the Flateyjarbók2 and that very likely he did not base his English version on the text in the Saga Ólafs Tryggvasonar published in 1689,3 but it does not indicate whether he followed the version in Volume III of Fornmanna Sőgur or that in Volume I of Flateyjarbók.4 All these books, it should be noted, were in his library at his death.5 This translation was never published and is not mentioned in any of the studies of Morris. I should also like to point out that Morris’s knowledge of Old Norse literature must have been very extensive, since he read and translated such minor and very slightly known tales as this one and the last three included in Three Northern Love Stories; probably he read this account of Haldor because this man was the son of Snorri the Priest, with whom Morris had become acquainted in the Eyrbyggja saga at an early date.
Another illuminated manuscript which was likewise probably produced in the early 1870’s contains about one-fourth of Morris’s rendering of the Vápnfirðinga saga. This translation, like that of the  Halldórs páttr, was never published, and is not mentioned in any of the Morris studies. The manuscript is now in the private library of the late Sir Emery Walker of Hammersmith, England.1 The rendering, as usual, is very literal, with an archaic coloring. Evidently the translation was based on the text in Nordiske Oldskrifter, the only version printed at that time.2 The Porsteins páttr stangarhőgga, which we have already seem that Morris had read by the end of 1873,3 is a continuation of this saga; very likely he had translated the saga proper also by that time.
Finally, I should like to point out that three other saga translations that we know Morris prepared – namely, his renderings of the Heiðarvíga saga, of the Egils saga Skallagrímssonar, and of the Norna-Gests páttr – may have been produced during the period 1871 to 1876. The first of these works was not published by Morris until 1892, when it appeared in the second volume of The Saga Library.4 The other two Morris himself never printed, but manu- scripts of parts of both these translations are extant,1 and one of these manuscript renderings, comprising forty chapters of the Egils saga, Miss Morris published in 1936 in her William Morris: Artist Writer Socialist.2 All of these translations are undated, but, as I stated above, there is reason to believe that they were prepared in the early 1870’s. In the first place, various allusions to Norse customs that Morris introduced in his poem “Anthony,” which, as I shall show later, he seems to have written shortly after 1870, indicate, though they by no means definitely prove, that he was familiar at that time with the Heiðarvíga saga and the Egils saga.3 Moreover, as I shall make clear in Chapter IV, the verse form Morris uses for his English versions of the “vísur” in The Story of the Heath-Slayings points to its being an early work.4 Finally, it should be noted that, as we shall see in the next chapter, Morris did no translation work from the late 1870’s until  1890, and when he resumed his translating at that time, he seems to have devoted all his attention to finishing or revising renderings he had begun in the 1870’s; with the exception of The Story of the Heath-Slayings, all the translations he printed in The Saga Library are works we definitely know he had prepared or at least begun in the period 1868 to 1876. None of this evidence is of course conclusive, but it all indicates that these saga-renderings were produced in the period now under discussion.1
 Although Morris translated so many sagas in the early 1870’s, he published only one small volume of Icelandic tales during these years; this was Three Northern Love Stories, and other Tales, which appeared in June, 1875.1 The first two sagas which he included here, “The Story of Gunnlaug the Worm-Toungue and Raven the Skald” and “The Story of Frithiof the Bold,” he had already printed in periodicals, as I have pointed out before;2 both these tales he and Magnússon now carefully revised before republishing them in book form.3 I have already commented in detail upon these two translations. The third tale of love is “The Story of Viglund the Fair,” a rendering of the Víglundar saga, a late fictitious narrative. Morris almost certainly based his translation of this work on the text in Nordiska Oldskrifter.4 However, the melody which he introduced in Chapter Eleven for the song that Ketilrid sings when she thinks that Viglund has drowned5 is not found in this edition or in the only other text available in 1873; this tune he evidently inserted because, as he notes in his Journal of his first visit to Iceland in 1871, he had heard it played on an Icelandic violin at one of the farms at which  he stayed on this trip.1
These three tales of love, “The Story of Gunnlaug,” “The Story of Frithiof,” and “The Story of Viglund,” make up more than three-fourths of the book; the remainder consists of three very short tales or “pa͜ettir.” “The Tale of Hogni and Hedinn” is a translation of Sőrla páttir, or Heðins saga ok Hőgna; Morris seems to have used the text given in Fornaldar Sőgur Nordrlanda.2 “The tale of Roi the Fool” is an English rendering of Hróa páttr heimska; the two texts of this story existing in 1873, one of which is found in Fornmanna Sőgur and the other in the Flateyjarbók, differ so very slightly that it is impossible to determine with certainty which one served as the basis of Morris’s work, but it seems that he followed the former.3 The last story is “The Tale of Thorstein Staff-Smitten,” a translation of porsteins páttr stanagarhőggs, which is a continuation of the vápnfirðinga saga; the text given in Nordiske Oldskrifter of this “páttr” was the only  one published by 1873.1 In the case of the last four sagas, Morris’s renderings are the only English versions ever printed.2
At the beginning of this collection of six short Icelandic tales we find a very brief Preface with comments on the general nature of each story, and also a chronological table of the main events in “The Story of Gunnlaug.” At the close of the book are two notes; in one of them Morris presents a two-page translation of the story of Hogni and Hedinn as it appears in Chapter L of the “Skáldskaparmál,” thus giving his readers an opportunity to compare this short account with the much more detailed version given in the Sőrla páttr, which he had translated in the text. There are also at the end two indexes of characters and places mentioned in these six sagas.
The book met with almost unqualified approval in the contemporary reviews. All the critics were loud in their praises of the accuracy and general style of the rendering, and freely recommended the volume to their readers.3 As was to be expected, most of the reviewers, recognizing the superior merits of “The Story of Gunnlaug,” placed this tale far above any of the other sagas in the book, and hailed it as one of the treasures of the world’s literature. One critic even devoted his whole article to this saga, merely mentioning the names of the other five tales.4 Edmund Gosse, whose review is by far  the most scholarly and acute, says of this story.
…it claims admiration for a rounded and finished form, a passionate perfection of style, a fullness of detail without an iota of triviality or thinness, which distinguish it above all its fellows. Without the grandeur of “Njála,” the romantic verve of “Grettis,” the fullness of humanity of that “Laxdaela” which we can only hope Mr. Morris may yet find time to render for us, the “Gunnlaug” has a concise picturesqueness, a purely artistic perfection, which place it at least as high as these, perhaps higher.1
“The Story of Frithiof” also was warmly praised, but “The Story of Viglund” was generally described as being distinctly inferior to the first two “love stories.” Mr. Gosse even went so far as to say, “With all deference to Mr. Magnússon’s learning and Mr. Morris’s taste, we feel doubtful whether they were justified in occupying so much time and space with a saga so late and so poor as this.”2 However, both Gosse and one of the other critics took pains to point out that the songs in this story were particularly beautiful; Gosse wrote, “The ‘Viglundarsaga’ is understood to be inelegant and unclassical in language….The best parts of the work are the passages in verse, which bear marks of an earlier and a far more gifted hand….We would take this opportunity of pointing out how especially beautiful are Mr. Morris’s versions of these short poems.”3 The other three tales in the book were dismissed by the reviewers with only a few words. It is of course not surprising that this collection of stories, unlike the other two saga translations that Morris and Magnússon had published in book form, was highly praised by the critics, for these six short tales, especially the first three, in view of the fact that the characters and action portrayed in them were much  closer to modern life, were much more easily understood by the nineteenth century Englishman than the Vőlsunga saga or the Grettis saga.
During the period of Morris’s life which we are now considering, when Morris was devoting himself almost entirely to Scandinavian studies, he became so intensely interested in Iceland and its literature that he determined to make a tour of the country even though he realized that such a trip would be accompanied by severe hardships and real dangers. Early in July, 1871, Morris left England for Iceland in the company of Eiríkr Magnússon, C.J. Faulkner, and W.H. Evans. The party first sighted land at Berufjőrðr in the southeast, and then sailed along the southern coast to Reykjavík. After spending a few days in the capital city, they set out to the southeast for the purpose of visiting Bergthorsknoll and Lithend; then they headed north proceeded through wild, rugged territory up to the northern coast; at Hnausar they turned south, riding back to Reykjavík along the western shore of Iceland, through the district richest in saga-associations. Morris and his friends returned to England early in September.
Even this extended trip, however, did not completely satisfy Morris’s longing for the land which was the main scene of the sagas he loved so well, and he soon began planning for a second visit. Two years later, in February, 1873, he wrote to a friend, “Iceland gapes for me still this summer: I grudge very much being away from the two or three people I care for so long as I must be, but if I The hero and “landnáms-man” of the vale is Ingimund the Old and most of the steads Thorstein shows us have reference to him; at the first we come to Ás[where] lived Hrolleifr, the rascal he protected, and who slew him; … Thorstein points out a sandy spit running into the river which is the traditional place of the deadly wounding of Ingimund….3
As Miss Morris points out in a footnote, these incidents are described in the Vatnsda͜ela saga.4 It is still more surprising to discover a few pages later that he is familiar with the Finnboga saga ramma: he describes Borg as “the place of the Saga of Finnbogi the Strong; in its present condition rather a poor characterless story; but with one touching part in it where the wife of Finnbogi dies of grief for the slaying of her favourite son by a scoundrel.”5
Undoubtedly the two tours increased Morris’s knowledge of the  can only get away in some sort of hope and heart I know it will be the making of me….”1 In July of that year he set sail again for Iceland, accompanied this time only by C.J. Faulkner. Morris and his friend landed at Reykjavík, made a brief visit again to Njál district, and then set off in a northeasterly direction through the heart of Iceland; at Dettifoss, far up in the northeastern corner of the island, they turned west, and when they reached the Blandá they began travelling south, passing between Longjőkull and Arnarfellsjőkull on their way back to Reykjavík. On this second journey they visited very few saga-steads, most of their time being spent in wild, uninhabited country. They returned to England early in September.
During both his trips Morris kept a diary. The first one he rewrote when he came home, turning it into a finished, literary account of his experiences and impressions; the second diary he never revised. Neither the journal of the first journey nor the diary of the second was published during Morris’s lifetime, but they were both printed by Miss May Morris in 1911 in Volume VIII of the Collected Works.2 Both accounts- but particularly the first one- are very well written and are extremely interesting; they have a special importance for the present study because of the light they throw on the extent of Morris’s acquaintance with saga-traditions at this time.
 Thus, very frequently in his description of the places that he and his friends visited, Morris shows in a striking manner that he knew the sagas very thoroughly and that he clearly remembered incidents and even details mentioned in these narratives. For example, when he is writing of their journey in the northeastern part of Iceland near Midfirth and is telling of their approach to Midfirth Neck, he notes, “Just as we turn out of the valley on to the neck, we come on a knoll, the site of Swala-stead, where Vali of the Bandamanna Saga was murdered….”1 A few pages later, when he is describing the district around Ramfirth, he refers to Thorodd-stead as “the dwelling-place and death-place of Thorbiorn Oxmain, who slew Atli Grettir’s brother and was slain by Grettir in his turn.”2 In his account of their ride past the head of Swanfirth, he says, “ …we rode down the other side of the firth till we came to Vadil’s-head where Arnkel the Priest, the good man of Erybyggia, is buried; … down here also Thorolf Lamefoot, Arnkel’s father was burned and so partly got rid of.”3 Of Swordfirth he writes,
Then we all rode away together passing by a little creek that Thorlacius pointed out to us as Sword-firth (Vigrafiőrðr) the scene of that ueer fight in Erybyggia where Freystein Rascal is killed, and often mentioned in that Saga: I remembered what a much bigger place I had always thought of for that place, where the very skerry in the middle is named after the fight, and called Fight-skerry.4
 He even remembers the family relationship of various characters: he refers in one passage to Áseirgsá as “the home of Ásgeir Madpate, father of Hrefna and uncle of Grettir’s father,”1 and in his account of Burgfirth he reminds his readers that “Egil lived at Borg, and his son Thorstein, father of Helga the Fair….”2
Moreover, he not only reveals an intimate familiarity with the more famous sagas, which we already know that he had read, but he also shows that he was acquainted with some of the less important tales, which we should hardly expect him to have studied. Thus, when he and his friends are travelling in the northwestern part of Iceland, on their way from Grímstunga to Hnausar, Morris writes,
[gap pp. 200-207]
 saga-traditions considerably. On several occasions we are told that the guides supplemented the stories in the sagas by local traditions. For example, in describing Swala-stead, to which I have already referred, Morris says, “Víðalin told us of it that many stories were current of it and of Swala’s witchcraft, and repeated a rhyme that says how the day will come when the big house of Swala-stead shall be lower than the cot of Víðidalstongue.”1 A few pages later he says that when they were riding at the head of Hvammfirth, an old parson at whose home they had made a brief stop pointed out the places of interest in that locality:
Then we went out and he showed us above the house Auð’s thing-stead and doom-ring, and close by the temple of those days; though Auð herself was a Christian, and would have herself buried on the foreshore between high and low watermark, that she might not lie wholly in a heathen land: they show you a big stone on the beach that they call her gravestone: but ‘tis covered now by the tide.2
Moreover, in many cases Morris’s visits to the scenes of the sagas seem to have changed his conception of tales he already knew and to have helped him to understand the characters and their actions more fully. Thus, when he is describing the horrible aspect of the mountains as they are passing Skialdbreið on their outward journey in 1871, he writes that “…just over this gap is the site of the fabulous or doubtful Thorisdale of the Grettis-Saga; and certainly the  sight of it threw a new light on the way in which the story-teller meant his tale to be looked on.”1 Much later in the Journal he says of Fagraskógarfiall, one of the haunts of Grettir, in the Mires, “It is as such a savage dreadful place, that it gave quite a new turn in my mind to the whole story, and transfigured Grettir into an awful and monstrous being, like one of the early giants of the world.”2
It is clear from remarks that Morris made in the accounts of both trips that he was deeply moved by his visits to the scenes of the sagas. As he describes the approach to Thingvellis he writes, “My heart beats, so please you, as we near the brow of the pass, and all the infinite wonder, which came upon me when I came up on the Neck of the Diana to see Iceland for the first time, comes on me again now, for this is the heart of Iceland that we are going to see nor was the reality of the sight unworthy….”3 A few lines later, as he draws closer to the place, he remarks, “Once again that thin thread of insight and imagination, which comes so seldom to us, and is such a joy when it comes, did not fail me at this first sight of the greatest marvel and most storied place of Iceland.”4 When he is writing of the his second visit to Lithend in 1873, he states,
It was the same melancholy sort of day as yesterday and all looked somewhat drearier than before, two years ago on a brign evening, and it was not till I got back from the howe and wandered by myself about the said site of Gunnar’s hall and looked out thence over  the great grey plain that I could answer to the echoes of the beautiful story – but then at all events I did not fail.1
A short time after he had returned to England, at the close of his second tour, he wrote to a friend,
The journey has deepened the impression I had of Iceland and increased my love for it. The glorious simplicity of the terrible and tragic, but beautiful land, with its well-remembered stories of brave men, killed all querulous feeling in me, and has made all the dear faces of wife and children and love and friends dearer than ever to me…! surely I have gained a great deal, and it was no idle whim that drew me there, but a true instinct for what I needed.2
Morris’s intense interest in everything Scandinavian during the years 1870 to 1876 – an interest which, as we have seen, led him to translate a number of Icelandic sagas and several Northern ballads and induced him to make two trips to Iceland- is reflected also in several original poems which he wrote at this time. All but one of these, Sigurd the Volsung, are minor works or fragments; I shall discuss these shorter poems first, for all of them seem to have been composed at an earlier date than the Sigurd.
Three of these short pieces – “Iceland First Seen,” “Gunnar’s Howe above the House at Lithend,” and an unnamed fragment dealing with Gunnar and Njál- were directly inspired by his visits to Iceland. All three are undated, but although two of them were not published until 1891, when they appeared in Poems by the Way,3 and the third was first printed by Miss May Morris in 1936 in her William Morris: Artist Writer Socialist,4 the subject matter of these poems  makes it almost certain that they were written in the early 1870’s.1 In “Iceland First Seen,”2 a short piece consisting of six seven-line stanzas in anapestic hexameters rhyming ababacc, Morris represents himself as asking, as he catches his first glimpse of the bleak, mountainous country, what it is he has come to see in this desolate land, and he answers that it is Iceland’s glorious past which has drawn him thither; he goes on to say that even when Balder returns to the earth and all sorrow and pain come to an end, it will be pleasant to dream of the days of old, when men lived nobly and courageously, although faced with inevitable defeat and ruin. According to his Journal of his first visit to Iceland, he obtained his first glimpse of the country when the “Diana” sailed into Berufjőrðr in the Journal, so that this must have been the spot which inspired him to write these lines.
The second poem occasioned directly by his visit to Iceland, “Gunnar’s Howe above the House at Lithend,” is rather brief, consisting of only twenty hexameter lines.4 Here Morris describes his feelings as he stands at dusk one day, while the moon is shining feebly in the Northern summer sky, before the mound in which lies the famous Gunnar of the Njáls saga; he laments that noble 204] deeds of the past can be so quickly forgotten that a man can now stand in this spot
with unbated breath,
As I name him tha Gunnar of old, who erst in the haymaking tide
Felt all the land fragrant and fresh, as amidst of the edges he died.
Too swiftly fame fadeth away, if ye tremble not lest once again
The grey mound should open and show him glad-eyed without grudging or pain.
Little labour methinks to behold him but the tale-teller labored in vain.
Little labour for ears that may hearken to her his death-conquering song,
Till the heart swells to think of the gladness undying that overcame wrong.1
In these lines Morris is obviously referring to the account given in Chapter LXXVII of the Njáls saga of how one night shortly after his death Gunnar’s mound opened and Skarphedinn and Hőgni, Gunnar’s son, saw and heard Gunnar singing within.2 Morris records in the Journal of his first trip to Iceland in 1871 that he visited Lithend on July 21st, and says that he saw Gunnar’s mound first in the early evening and again, the same day, just before midnight.3 It was almost certainly this second visit that provided the setting for this poem; in his Journal he writes of it as follows: “… it must have been about eleven at night as we passed the howe again: the moon was in the western sky, a little thin crescent, not shining at all as yet, though the days are visibly drawing in, and the little valley was in a sort of twilight not: so to camp and into our tents away from the heavy dew: the wind  north-west and sky quite cloudless.”1 According to his account of his second journey to Iceland, he saw Lithend again in the summer of 1873 on his way from Reykjavík to Steppafil. On the outgoing trip the party passed by without stopping, but when Morris and his friends returned, they halted for a rest at that farm and Morris revisited Gunnar’s howe; he says, however, that the day was dreary and that he did not at all feel moved by the associations of the spot as he had been two years before.2 Undoubtedly it was the visit in July, 1871, that inspired the poem under consideration, and very likely Morris wrote the piece at this time or shortly thereafter. The third poem on Iceland, as I have already stated, is only a fragment.3 After expressing his longing for the days of old when men lived bravely and nobly and even in defeat gained fair fame, Morris says he will try to sin of these past days while waiting for their return, and he then abruptly begins to describe the site of Gunnar’s home at Lithend, with Fleetlithe to the north and Eyiafell to the east, pointing out to his imaginary companion the path of green on the hill where Gunnar lived and died and telling his friend that it is impossible from this spot to see Bergthorsknoll, where Njál and Sharphedinn4 lie at rest. At this point the poem ends,
 The fragment that we have gives little indication of what Morris originally intended to do in this piece; it is possible that he had planned to retell briefly the story of Gunnar and Njál, using the actions of these men to exemplify the way of life that he had praised at the opening of the poem. Both this piece and the one discussed just before it reveal the deep impression that the Njáls saga, which he first read in Dasent’s translation,1 had made on Morris; undoubtedly his visits to the scenes of the tale had made the story even more vivid. For the metrical form of the poem Morris chose seven-line stanzas rhyming ababacc, each line containing seven accents; in this use of fourteen-syllable lines, as Miss Morris points out,2 Morris foreshadows the choice of metre he was to make for his Sigurd the Volsung.Three other poems which were printed for the first time in Poems by the Way in 1891 were the result of Morris’s Scandinavian studies.3 Only one of these, “The Raven and the King’s Daughter,” can be definitely placed in the period 1871 to 1876, the manuscript of this work being dated August, 1872,4 but the other two also, “Of the Wooing of Hallbiorn the Strong” and “The King of Denmark’s Sons,” for reasons which I shall state in a moment, were very likely composed in the early 1870’s, and are usually assigned to those years by critics.1
All three of these poems are written in the ballad style,2 and are furnished with a double refrain. Two of them deal definitely with Scandinavian material; and the third also, “The Raven and the King’s Daughter,” although its subject matter cannot be traced directly to Norse sources, seems to have been influences by the author’s Scandinavian studies. Very likely, as I just stated, Morris wrote all three poems during the period now under consideration, when his mind was full of Scandinavian matters and he was translating Danish, Swedish, and Icelandic ballads. Of course, the use of the ballad form with the double refrain cannot be ascribed definitely and solely to the influence of his study of the Scandinavian folk songs, for Morris was also well acquainted with the English and Scottish ballads; however, double refrains are much more usual in the Norse ballads than in the English and Scottish ones, and, besides, some of the refrains Morris introduced distinctly recall Scandinavian refrains, whereas none of them are at all closely paralleled in the English and Scottish ballads, so that  it seems very likely that these three ballad-imitations were, in form at least, the direct result of Morris’s interest in Scandinavian folk songs in the years 1870 to 1876.
“The Raven and the King’s Daughter” tells of a princess who has been shut up by her father in a tower and who seeks information about her lover Olaf from a raven. On its first visit the bird relates that it has seen Olaf sailing to battle in the company of Steingrim, and it says that he was then singing a song, promising to return and win his love. For this information the girl gives the raven a ring. A short time later the bird comes back to tell the princess that Olaf distinguished himself in the battle, and that he is now lying asleep on his ship; it adds that before the fight Steingrim promised to unite Olaf with his love. The next day at daybreak Steingrim brings Olaf, dead, to the bed of the princess, and she dies at once.
The names “Olaf” and “Steingrim” indicate that this story deals with Scandinavian characters, but so far as I know, the poem is not a translation of any Norse ballad and is not based on any immediate Scandinavian source.1 However, although the story as a whole is apparently Morris’s own, he seems to have drawn some of its details at least from the Scandinavian and English  ballads. For example, in several of these folk songs, as in Morris’s poem, birds are represented as carrying messages or news;1 in regard to Morris’s selection of a raven for this purpose in his tale, it is interesting to note that in the English and Scottish ballads the birds which play the part of messengers are described as hawks, parrots, starlings, magpies, popinjays, nightingales, larks, cocks, or simply as birds, but never, it seems, as ravens, whereas in the Scandinavian folk songs they are regularly given the name “ravens.”2 Moreover, the account at the close of Morris’s poem of the death of the princess upon the lifeless body of her lover is paralleled, roughly at least, in a great many ballads.3 Finally, the refrain which Morris uses in this ballad-imitation,
Fair summer is on many a shield
Fair sing the swans ‘twixt firth and field,4
may very likely have been suggested to him by the refrains in the  Icelandic ballads “Vallara kva͜eði” and “Draumkva͜eði,” for in the first of these the refrain is
-skín á skildi –
-sol og sumarið fríða -,
and in the second it runs
um sumarlánga tíð:
mín liljan fríð:
fagurt syngur svanrinn-
Both these ballads are printed in Grundtvig and Sigurðsson’s Íslenzk Fornkva͜eði,1 with which we have already seen that Morris was acquainted.2
“Of the Wooing of Hallbiorn the Strong” bears the subtitle “A Story From the Land Settling Book of Iceland, Chapter XXX.”3 In this poem Morris follows fairly closely the story told in the Landnámabók of Hallbiorn’s visit to Odd of Tongue, his marriage to Odd’s daughter, Hallgerd, the slaying of Hallgerd by Hallbiorn because of her refusal to accompany him home in the spring, the death of Hallbiorn at the hands of Sna͜ebiorn, and the end of Sna͜ebiorn on Gunnbiorn’s skerries. As is to be expected, Morris makes the tale somewhat longer and fuller, adding descriptive details, dialogue, and a little sentiment; but he does not depart from the main facts of his original, and the ballad style in which he writes the poem helps him to preserve much of the terseness, restraint,
and directions of the Icelandic account. The most striking change that he makes in the story concerns the part played by Sna͜ebiorn in the tragedy. In the Landnámabók we are not told directly that Sna͜ebiorn is a lover of Hallgerd, but we are led to suspect that he has some particular interest in the girl, for when the news of her slaying are brought to Odd, her father, the latter refuses to pursue Hallbiorn but immediately sends word to Sna͜ebiorn, and it is this man who carries out the revenge on Hallbiorn and his followers. Morris, however, makes it clear from the outset that Sna͜ebiorn is a rival lover, and he uses this character to render the situation more tense throughout the poem.
Very interesting is Morris’s insertion into the story of a number of place-names which are not given in his original; apparently he introduced these names in order to make the setting more vivid. Thus, he mentions Deildar-tongue, Whitewater, Brothers’-Tongue, Whitewater-side, Olfus mouth, Helliskarth, Oxridges, Shieldbroad-side, and the Wells. In the Landnámabók the references to the scenes of the action are extremely vague; in order to give the tale such a definite setting Morris almost certainly must have drawn upon some other account of these incidents. However, so far as I know, there is no other written version of the story. In fact, with the exception of Whitewater and Whitewater-side, both of which are frequently referred to in the sagas,1 the
- See, for example, Collected Works, VII, 33, 11.3 and 4; 112, 11.4 and 32; and 143, 11.2-25; and ibid., IX, 12, 1.33 and 117, 1.34.
place-names that Morris inserted are very rarely indeed mentioned in any of the sagas; only two of them occur in the Icelandic works which we know Morris had read at this time.1 Most likely Morris had acquired the knowledge he reveals here of the setting of the story in the course of his trip to Iceland in 1871. According to the Journal he kept during his first visit, he and his friends travelled through the region in which the tale is laid, and he mentions all but one of these places in his account of this part of his trip.2 Although he does not make any reference to this tale in the Journal, it is not at all unlikely that Magnússon, or some of the other Icelanders in the party, told or referred to the story as they were riding though this district, pointing out the places concerned, and that it was on this oral account, as well as on his own familiarity with the region and his acquaintance with the story in the Landnámabók, that Morris drew when he wrote his poem. In this connection it is interesting to note that a slight mistake that Morris makes in the poem in regard
to the setting is also found in his account of this district in the Journal of his tour. In both descriptions he states that Odd lived at Deildar-tongue, but as Magnússon points out in the Notes to the Journal, Odd did not live here but at Breiðabólstaðr.1
In this poem Morris uses the refrain
So many times over comes summer again,
What healing in summer if winter be vain?2
So far as I know this is not a translation of any Scandinavian refrain, nor does it seem to have been directly inspired by any Scandinavian ballad. There are, however, a great many references to summer in the Scandinavian folk songs; as examples of refrains expressing a somewhat similar idea I should like to cite the following:
Nu är sommaren kommen;3
I år så blir de ten sommar;4
I år så få vi en sommar;5
Ty nu går sommaren in;6
-Sumarið mun líða-.7
The ballad entitled “The King of Denmark’s Sons” deals with Knut and Harald, the sons of King Gorm and Queen Thyrre.8 According
to Morris’s story, Harald, who was hot-headed, reckless, and given to fighting, grew up in jealousy and hatred of his brother Knut, who was kind-hearted, just, and fair, and who consequently won the love of his father and of all the people. In fact, Knut was so dear to his father that the King made a vow that whoever brought him news of his son’s death should himself lose his life at once. One Christmas as the young men were returning home for the Yule-feast, Harald came upon Knut in Lima-firth, the former having ten ships, the latter only three. The two parties fought, and Knut was killed. On his return home the following morning, Harald went at once to the Queen’s bower, and remained there the whole day. In the evening, evidently following the counsel of his mother, he strode into the hall where his father was drinking, and in answer to the King’s request for news, said that he had seen a white and a gray falcon battling together, and that after a long fight the gray one killed the white one. Gorm failed to realize the significance of the story. During the following night, however, while the King slept, Thyrre and her maidens draped the hall in black, and in the morning, as Gorm marched to his high-seat, he noticed the change. He asked the Queen whether Knut was dead, and she replied,
“The doom on thee, O King!
For thine own lips have said the thing.”1
Before noon old Gorm himself lay dead.
It is interesting to note that in his poem Morris did not follow the more usual form of the story, according to which Knut was slain not by his brother but by the enemy, when the two brothers were fighting side by side in Great Britain; this is the version given in Saga Ólafs Konúngs Tryggvasonar,1 in the history of Saxo Grammaticus,2 in C. C. Rafn’s Nordiske Ka͜empe-Historier,3 and in most of the modern histories which deal with the incident.4 Morris’s story is of course far superior to the other from a literary point of view: it has greater unity, it is much more dramatic, and the sense of tragedy is far deeper. For this form of the tale Morris very likely drew upon the account found in the opening chapters of Jómsvíkinga saga.5 This version is given by Torfa͜eus
also in hs Trifolium Historicum,1 and by J. B. Des Roches in his Histoire de Dannemarc,2 the passages in Des Roches which deal with these incidents being virtually a translation of Torfa͜eus’s account. However, although we know that Morris could read both Latin and French, and although there is nothing in his poem which he could not just as easily have drawn from Torfa͜eus or Des Roches as from the Jómsvíkinga saga, it seems most likely that it was the Icelandic version which served as the basis of the poem, for this account is the longest and most fully developed and is by far the most readily accessible. In retelling the story, Morris made only a few relatively unimportant changes.
The refrain that Morris uses in this ballad imitation,
So fair upriseth the rim of the sun.
So grey is the sea when the day is done,3
is not, so far as I know, either directly translated from, or even closely paralleled by, the burden in any Scandinavian folk song. I have not found anything resembling the second half of Morris’s refrain in the Scandinavian ballads; the first part may possibly
have been suggested by such lines as,
För dagen dagas upp under östan;1
Det dagas intet än;2
Men det dagas likväl under tiden;2
In der dagenn opliust!3
In addition to the fragmentary poem on Iceland which I discussed above, Miss Morris printed in 1936 in her William Morris: Artist Writer Socialist two other unfinished poems on Scandinavian subjects which seem to have been composed during the period we are now considering.
The first one,4 which consists of only twenty-one and a half lines, tells, in rather humdrum verse, how the sailors aboard a trading-vessel which had passed from Ghent to Norway and was now skirting the coast in sight of the “Thrandheimers mountains,” suddenly became aware of a longship bearing down upon them, its drake-head flashing in the sun; at this dramatic moment the story comes to and end. This fragment, like the uncompleted poem about King Harald and the unfinished drama “Anthony,” both of which I shall discuss in a moment, was evidently an attempt on the part of Morris to tell and original story laid in the Viking Age. It
is rather surprising that during these years when he spent so much time reading and translating sagas he did not compose a tale of his own depiciting life in the saga-times; not until fifteen years later, when he began writing his prose romances, do we find him using the institutions, beliefs, and customs he found in the sagas to build up a background for an original narrative.1 The fragmentary story under consideration is told in rolling anapestic hexameter lines, which are grouped in seven-line stanzas rhyming abcbabc.2
The second fragment is somewhat longer, consisting of twenty heroic couplets.3 These lines also, as I have already indicated above, seem to be the beginning of an original narrative poem dealing with events supposed to have taken place in early Scandinavia. The fragment opens with a description of the skald Hornklofi singing in a Norse hall at night, when suddenly
from hollow of the horn
A formless dreadful note of war is born
Such as we heard it when the day was new
And the light wind across our raven blew
Drifting the sailless ships in Hafursfirth
While yet our glory was but come to birth.4
After a short account of this memorable victory at Hafursfirth the scene shifts back to the Norse hall, and the poem tells how Earl Ragnvald stands by the high-seat where sits King Harald, whose golden hair, now cut.
Lies either side his face in tresses fair.1
For the familiarity Morris reveals here with the skald Hornklofi, with Harald’s important victory at Hafursfirth, and with the clipping of Harald’s hair by Earl Ragnvald after the King had made himself sole ruler of Norway, he was obviously indebted to the Haralds saga hárfagra.2 However, there is no incident recorded in this saga between the time of Harald’s battle at Hafursfirth and the death of Ragnvald to which the poem as a whole can refer; apparently Morris was planning to treat the material in this part of the Heimskringla in an entirely original way.
The longest of these minor poems which Morris seems to have written during the period now under discussion and which bear the mark of his Scandinavian studies is the dramatic fragment “Anthony,” which he left unpublished but which his daughter printed in 1915.3 There is no external evidence, so far as I know, which dates this work. When Miss Morris published it in the last volume of the Collected Works, she included it in the group of compositions headed “Poems of the Earthly Paradise time (About 1865-1870)”; however, it seems to me almost certain that it was written well after 1870, for not only does Morris seem to allude to episodes in sagas which we know he did not read until after this year, but his very extensive references to the customs, beliefs, and history of the early Norse-men indicate that he was exceedingly well informed about these matters and that he was literally steeped in the stories of the sagas, and such was not the case before 1870. To be sure, Miss Morris
seems to have had no definite reason for ascribing the poem to this early period, and very likely she had no intention of placing it definitely before 1870; she evidently assigned it to this group because she could not include it in either of the other two sections, the first one being “Early Poems,” written while Morris was at Oxford or directly thereafter, and the last one being “Late Poems,” most of which are compositions resulting from his Socialistic activities. For the reasons stated above, I have decided to consider the fragment a product of the central period of Morris’s interest in Scandinavia; and I have accordingly felt justified in suggesting as possible sources of Morris’s Scandinavian allusions sagas which he seems first to have read during the years 1871 to 1876.
The leading figure in this drama is Anthony, a wealthy man of “noble Southland kin.”1 When the play opens, Anthony is sailing with Wulfstan, an English Shipmaster, to the home of Rolf on the coast of Norway, for the purpose of seeking revenge upon this Northman for having many years before attacked his ancestral castle in the south, slain his father, and carried off his sister Margaret. Just after Anthony has arrived in Norway and has been reunited with his sister, the poem ends. Morris does not state the time of the action, but various allusions in the fragment indicate that the story is laid in the tenth century. We are told, for example, that Iceland has been settled2 and that Icelandic
skalds are visiting in Norway;1 these remarks fix the time of the action well after 872. On the other hand, inasmuch as Norway is described as still being heathen,2 we can safely assume that we are dealing with the period before the reign of Olaf Tryggvason, who died in 1000, or at any rate before the death of Olaf the Holy in 1030.
Unlike most of Morris’s other Scandinavian works, this poem does not seem to have any definite historical or literary basis. I do not know of any similar situation in the sagas. However, two of the characters may have had historical prototypes. There is a possibility that in the case of Rolf, the Viking who plundered and burned Anthony’s castle, Morris had in mind Rolf Ganger, who, according to the Heimskringla, frequently harried in the South – Baltic lands, once made a raid in the Vík contrary to the command of Harald Fairhair and was consequently outlawed, went plundering in the Hebrides and later in northwestern France, and finally became earl of what is now called Normandy. Rolf Ganger came to Normandy in 911 and died in 931. Morris was undoubtedly familiar with the history of this Rolf not only from the account in the Heimskringla but also from the story in Mallet’s Northern Antiquities.3 However, Morris never applies the picturesque name of Rolf ganger to his character, as it seems very likely that he would have done if he had intended that his poem should refer to the historical Rolf.
Moreover, in his poem Morris says that Rolf fought at York, Scarborough, and Dunwich,1 but none of the sagas, so far as I know, mention battles by Rolf Ganger at these places. On the whole, in spite of a certain similarity between the two, it is perhaps unsafe to assume that Morris intended to identify his character with Rolf Ganger. On the other hand, it is very probable that in the case of Earl Sigurd, who is depicted in the poem as the ruler of these Northmen, Morris is referring to Earl Sigurd of Ladir, who held practically supreme power over the Thrandheim district from the time of the death of his father Earl Hakon until he himself was murdered by the sons of Gunnhild, an event which, according to Laing, occurred in 962.2 the career of this Earl Sigurd is described at great length in the Heimskringla.3 However, in Morris’s poem Earl Sigurd is said to have visited the English king,4 but none of the sagas, so far as I know, mention any journey of Earl Sigurd of Ladir to England. Again, Morris says that Rolf was the foster-father of Earl Sigurd,5 but the sagas do not indicate where Earl Sigurd of Ladir was fostered. Nevertheless, in spite of these departures from the saga account; it is not at all unlikely that Morris meant to refer directly to the historical Earl Sigurd. The other Norse characters in the poem, Thora, Thorgerd, and Eric, are obviously entirely Morris’s own creations.
Although the story as a whole appears not to be based on any situation described in the sagas, it is clear that Morris drew directly on the sagas for many of his details; we find in the poem a number of references to early Scandinavian customs and beliefs, and there are several passages which distinctly recall episodes in the sagas.
Thus, at the opening of the drama, when Wulfstand and Anthony are on their way to Norway, the English shipmaster describes for Anthony the character of the Northmen, and imparts to him some sound advice as to how he must act in this new land. He says,
A second warning: try your mocks on them,
They will not laugh belike or say a word
Though the hall roars around them; you shall think
Them dull and go on piling jeer on jeer;1
But two hours thence, two hours or days or months,
As time serves, you shall find they understood.2
Similar situations are found frequently in the sagas. In the Heiðarvíga saga, for example, Bardi is ridiculed and jeered at for being slow in seeking revenge for his brother Hall; but although he seems to pay little attention to these remarks, he carefully plans his actions with the help of Thorarin, and when the opportune moment arrives, he takes a revenge about which there is nothing mean.3 In the Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings old Howard is grievously insulted on two occasions when he seeks atonement from Thorbiorn for the slaying of his son Olaf, but although Howard must submit to these outrages at the time, he does
not rest until he succeeds in killing Thorbiorn. Again, towards the close of the Vőlsunga saga Atli slays the brothers of Gudrun, his wife, and then mocks her; Gudrun pretends to be appeased, but some time thereafter she kills Atli’s two sons, murders him, and sets fire to the whole hall.1
few lines later Wulfstan says,
-Take this by the way that they may well deal thus,
Sell you a sword and thrust you through therewith,
Sell you a house and burn it o’er your head,
Sell you a horse and steal it the next morn,
Sell you a wife and bid her loose her tongue
Until you make a red mark on her face –
And then the district-court and her tall kin
And point and edge, or clink of the King’s sweet face
Outside you purse – Well all that by the way.2
Nothing exactly like this is related in any of the sagas, so far as I know. Very likely Morris is deliberately exaggerating the actual facts, because Wulfstan, into whose mouth he puts this statement, is obviously in a facetious mood as he characterizes the Norsemen for his friend Anthony. However, there is of course a certain element of truth in the description. For example, we frequently read in the sagas of the burning of people in their houses. The most famous account and the most likely source for Morris’s remark is, needless to say, the description given in the Njáls saga.3 The Ha͜ensa-Dóris saga describes much more briefly a similar act,4 and the Eyrbyggja saga tells of an attempt at burning which was frustrated.5 Moreover, the last part of the passage
quoted – the account of the rights of married women – recalls the divorce of Thordis from Bork in the Eyrbyggja saga because of the blow he had give her when she tried to murder Eyolf.1 The account in the Laxda͜ela saga of Gudrun’s separation from her first husband Thorvald is perhaps even more similar; in that saga we are told that when Thorvald struck Gudrun because he had become impatient at her incessant demand for jewels, she replied that he had now given her what all women highly esteem, “en pat er litarapt gótt,” and when she was later divorced from him, she received half his property.2
In his account of the Northmen Wulfstan goes on to say to Anthony that
all women here –
Yea how you start – are marked and known and named
Duaghter of this goodman, sister of that.3
Evidently Morris inserted this remark here because the Scandinavian system of nomenclature, which he of course met with in all the sagas he read, interested and amused him.
As the ship rounds a ness and they come in view of Rolf’s hall, Wulfstan describes the scene in the following words:
lo there the hall
Big enough for a king, the water deep
Up to the garth-gate; there on the round hill
Thor’s temple – may Christ curse it! the ship-stocks,
One, two, three cutters, one great merchant-ship
Just newly pitched – the long-ships neither there.4
A little later in the conversation, Wulfstan, having discovered the purpose of Anthony’s visit to Norway, exclaims,
I do not know of any exactly similar situation in the sagas; but so-called “holmgangs” are frequently mentioned,2 and the description of one of these may have been the basis of Morris’s remark. In the Egils saga we learn that Egil Skallagrimsson at one time visited a friend called Friðgeirr at his home in Norway.
Why, [had] I said to Rolf thou wishedst him dead
He would laugh somewhat – drink nightlong with thee
And call thee to the ring of hazel wands
Wherein they fight next morn….1
After being detained there for three days by inclement weather, he prepared one morning to depart, and was then told that Ljótr the Pale, a famous beserk, had challenged Friðgeirr’s sister in marriage. Egil at once gladly assented to fight in his place and returned into the hall. The sagaman seems especially eager to show how unconcerned Egil was over such a fight, for he states that they drank all that day and arranged a great feast in the evening for a host of guests; the next day Egil killed Ljótr.3
Wulfstan tries further to frighten Anthony from seeking revenge by extolling Rolf’s prowess in battle; he describes vividly his skill in handling a sword, concluding with the remark,
So say his own men, and our English folk
Have e’en such tales to tell of him at York
And Scarborough and Dunwich.1
I have already referred to this passage in my discussion of the possibility that Morris intended to identify his character Rolf with Rolf Ganger, and I have pointed out that the sagas do not state that Rolf Ganger ever fought at these places. However, Morris shows that he is familiar with the history of the Norse incasions of England in ascribing battles here to his character, for the Northmen were very active in this part of England. York and Scarborough are frequently mentioned in the sagas.2
The second scene of the drama is laid in Rolf’s home, where Thora, his wife, is talking with Margaret, Anthony’s sister. It is interesting to note how Morris utilizes his knowledge of the early history of Scandinavia by inserting allusions thereto in order to make his story more vivid and more realistic. Thus Thora remarks,
day by day,
For a year past, I thought of sending thee
Unto my mother’s brother in the North
Or out to Iceland to my father’s kin.3
Thora babbles on, and recalls her wedding-feast five years earlier, at which Earl Sigurd, then a fair young man, was present; she exclaims that he was so handsome that
Baldur come back to life again he seemed.1
With Balder and the story of Ragnarők we have already on several occasions seen that Morris was acquainted.2
After Wulfstan and Anthony have arrived, we learn that Icelandic skalds are being entertained at Rolf’s house, for Thora checks Wulfstan’s rather florid praises of her with the words,
Nay Wulfstan, we shall get to verses soon;
Content thee, man, two Icelanders we have
To set the big words going….3
We read repeatedly in the sagas of Icelandic poets who lived as honored guests on the large estates in Norway and received noble gifts as reward for their compositions; in fact the majority of the Norwegian court poets were Icelanders. Some of the most famous of the Icelandic skalds who visited Norway were Gunnlaug and Rafn in the Gunnalgus saga ormstungu, Kormák in the Kormáks saga, and Halfred Ottarson Vandra͜edaskald, Sigvat Thordarson, and Thiodolf Arnarson in the Heimskringla.4
After Thora has welcomed her guests and has asked for the news, she leads the men into the hall to the feast, saying,
Come, whatso things tomorrow’s sun may bring,
Tonight at least shall see us somewhat glad
Drinking the grave-ales of our joys bygone.
Our hopes too bright to bear three noonday suns.1
There are numerous accounts in the sagas of the drinking of “grave-ales.” Perhaps the best known ones are the description in the Laxda͜ela saga of the feast that Olaf Pá gave in memory of Hőskuld, at which about a thousand friends were present,2 and the account in the Heimskringla of the funeral-banquet held by King Swand of Denmark for this father Harald, when Swend vowed either to kill King Athelstane of England or drive him away, and the chieftains of the Jomsburg Vikings pledged themselves to treat Earl Hakon of Norway in the same way.3 With both of these accounts Morris was undoubtedly familiar.
The last scene of this fragment shows us Anthony and Margaret conversing secretly in the forest near the hall; they recall the events of the day when their father’s castle was sacked, and Margaret relates how, while they were all standing huddled together in the courtyard, the captain cried out,
“Eric the skald, good skill thou deemst thou hast
In ways of women, choose thou ten of these
That like thee best besides this noble may.”4
By this reference to Eric the skald, Morris shows that he was familiar with the fact that skalds were often present in the battles of the Norsemen and sometimes even took an active part in the fighting. We
often meet with references to this custom in the sagas. The Heimskringla, for example, tells us that Olaf the Holy took three skalds with him into the battle at Sticklestead so that they might by eyewitnesses of the events they would later be called upon to describe.1
Finally, I should like to point out that Margaret relates that when Eric facetiously selected an old hag for Rolf, the captain cried out,
“Nay, for this Valkyria here
Shall be my darling some four summer hence.”2
It is of course unnecessary to seek for a definite source for Morris’s information about the Valkyries; he probably first became acquainted with these mythological figures through Thorpe’s Northern Mythology.3
It is unfortunate that Morris failed to finish this poem, for it is by far the most promising of all the attempts that he had made up to this time to write an original poem with a Scandinavian background. As my discussion has shown, he seems to have been extremely well acquainted with life in early Scandinavia by this time, and he could undoubtedly have made the whole story historically accurate and very realistic. Moreover, the fragment that we have is entirely free from the romantic, sentimentalized attitude toward the past that we find in his portrayal of medieval life in the prose romances that he wrote in the last eight years of his life.
Before passing on to a discussion of the greatest of all the original poems that Morris wrote on a Scandinavian theme – The Story of Sigurd the Volsung -, I should like to point out that the work called Love is Enough; or, The Freeing of Pharamond, which was published in November, 1872,1 shows traces of Morris’s Norse interests although the poem as a whole is definitely no-Scandinavian. This piece tells of a king named Pharamond, who went in search of a beautiful maiden he had seen in a vision; after many hardships he found her, and he was so happy and contented in her love that when he returned to his kingdom and found that his people had chosen a new king in his absence, he gladly renounced all claim to the throne. This story is told in the form of a play, which is represented as being performed before an emperor and empress, recently married, and a host of their subjects. Morris presented the main action of the drama in alliterative unrhymed verse. Some critics have pointed out that Morris’s use of this form may have been the result not only of his acquaintance with Old and Middle English alliterative poetry but also of his study of the Poetic Edda.2 However, Morris’s alliterative verse does not at all conform to the rather strict rules of alliteration which govern Old Norse poetry; it seems likely that in introducing this verse from here Morris was not directly inspired by the Eddic lays, but rather, as Professor Mackail suggests, but the alliterative verse of the early English drama.3
In commenting upon this poem, Mackail also points out that “touches of landscape here and there show that the author’s mind was still full of Iceland”;1 he cites no examples, but in making this statement he evidently had in mind such passages as the following:
Girthed about is the vale by a grey wall of mountains,
Rent apart in three places and tumbled together
In old times of the world when the earth-fires flowed forth;2
It was gone when I wakened – the name of that country –
Nay, how should I know it? – but ever meseemeth
‘Twas not in the southlands, for sharp in the sunset
And sunrise the air is, and whiles I have seen it
Amid white drift snow….3
Finally, I should like to call attention to one passage in the poem in which Morris alludes briefly to the three main figures in the story of the Volsungs. In the introductory speech of Love, who appears at regular intervals throughout the play to interpret the action, the god speaks of the various symbols of his power that he has collected through the ages, and mentions, among others,
My Sigurd’s sword, my Brynhild’s fiery bed,
The tale of years of Gudrun’s drearihead.4
With the material to which he refers here Morris had of course become acquainted through the Vőlsunga saga and the heroic lays in the Poetic Edda.
The period 1871 to 1876, when Morris reached the peak of his interest in early Scandinavia, closes fittingly with the publication in 1876 of The Story of Sigurd the Volsung and the Fall of the Niblungs,1 which not only ranks first among Morris’s Scandinavian works but is also, in the opinion of most critics, the greatest of all his poetical undertakings. In fact, Morris himself considered this poem his best, and it was on this production that he wished the final estimate of his literary ability to be based. Miss May Morris says of it,
It is the central work of my father’s life, his last long and important poem, and in it sustained poetic inspiration culminates – and closes. It is the work that, first and last – putting aside the eagerness of the moment which sometimes gives all precedence to the work in hand – he held most highly and wished to be remembered by. All his Icelandic study and travel, all his feeling for the North, led up to this, and his satisfaction with it did not waver or change to the last.2
The history of this poem carries us back to the years 1869 and 1870, when Morris was translating the Vőlsunga saga and the heroic lays of the Edda. As I have already pointed out, Morris was repelled by the story of Sigurd when he first came into contact with it, but became more and more impressed with the dignity and grandeur of the tale as he proceeded to turn it into English;3 and in his preface to the published translation of the Vőlsunga saga he speaks of it as “the Great Story of the North, which should be to all our race what
the Tale of Troy was to the Greeks.”1 Morris revealed his deep admiration for the saga in an unrestrained manner in a letter he wrote to Professor Charles Eliot Norton of Harvard on December 21, 1869; commenting upon his work, he stated,
I have also another Icelandic translation in hand, the Volsunga Saga viz. which is the Ice: version of the Nibalungen, older I suppose, and, to my mind, without measure nobler and grander: I daresay you have read abstracts of the story, but however fine it seemed to you thus, it would give you little idea of the depth and intensity of the complete work: here and there indeed it is somewhat disjointed, I suppose from its having been put together from varying versions of the same song; it seems as though the author-collector felt the subject too much to trouble himself about the niceties of art…; the scene of the last interview between Sigurd and the despairing and terrible Brynhild touches me more than anything I have ever met with in literature; there is nothing wanting in it, nothing forgotten, nothing repeated, nothing overstrained; all tenderness is shown without the use of a tender word, all misery and despair without a word of raving, complete beauty without an ornament, and all this in two pages of moderate print. In short it is to the full meaning of the word inspired; touching too though hardly wonderful to think of the probable author; some 12 century Icelander, living the hardest and rudest of lives, seeing few people and pretty much the same day after day, with his old religion taken from him and his new one hardly gained – It doesn’t look promising for the future of art I fear. Perhaps you think my praise of the work somewhat stilted, but I has moved us one and all in the same way, and for my part I should be sorry to attempt reading aloud the scene I have told you of before strangers. I am not getting on well with my work, for in fact I believe the Vőlsunga has rather swallowed me up for some time past, I mean thinking about it, for it hasn’t taken me long to do. I had it in my head to write an epic of it, but though I still hanker after it, I see clearly it would be foolish, for no verse could render the best parts of it, and it would only be a flatter and tamer version of a thing already existing….2
In the Preface to Volume VI of The Saga Library, in a passage which I have already quoted in another connection, Magnússon tells us that it was he who suggested to Morris that he should retell the story of the Vőlsunga saga in a narrative poem of his own; he states
that at first Morris definitely rejected the idea, even going “so far as to say that these matters were too scared, too venerable, to be touched by a modern hand…,” but a month of two later he found Morris one day “in a state of fervid enthusiasm,” determined to make an epic poem out of the story of Sigurd.1 However, although the tale of Sigurd was very much in Morris’s thoughts all through the early seventies,2 he did not actually begin writing the poem until October 15, 1875.3 By March of the following year, according to a letter quoted by Miss May Morris, he had reached the end of Part II, having finished his account of the death of Sigurd and Brynhild;4 in November, 1876, he had completed the whole work, and presented it to the public.5
The relation between Morris’s poem and his sources is very fully and competently discussed by Heinrich Bartels in his William Morris, The Story of Sigurd the Volsung and the Fall of the Niblungs, Eine Studie über das Verhältnis des Epos zu den Quellen, published in Műnster in 1906. Bartels points out that in the main Morris followed the Vőlsunga saga, but that he used his original very freely, making numerous changes, additions, and omissions. Thus, for example, in order to give the work greater unity, Morris omitted several episodes
 in the Vőlsunga saga, such as the opening account of Odin, Sigi, and Rerir, Sigurd’s avenging of his father, and the story of Swanhild in the last three chapters; he tried to make the tale more acceptable to nineteenth century readers by omitting or altering the details of particularly savage episodes, such as the killing of Sigurd’s nine brothers in the woods by the she-wolf and Sigurd’s murder of the first two children of Siggeir and Signy; in several cases, for reasons difficult to ascertain, he failed to include references given in the saga to early Germanic customs, such as the burning of Brynhild on a pyre together with four men, two hawks, and ten slaves; in order to give his story a vague and mystical background, he substituted colorful but indefinite names for the more or less specific place-names mentioned in the original, as, for example, “Midworld’s Mark” for “Húnaland”; on several occasions he seems to have endeavored to render the tale less bewildering to modern readers by refraining from mentioning minor characters by name; greatest in number, as is to be expected, are the alterations that he made in the characters themselves, degrading some and elevating others for the purpose of improving the motivation and plot structure of the story from the modern point of view.1 Bartels also points out that in several cases Morris departed from the version of the tale given in the Vőlsunga saga and introduced instead material from the Sigurd lays in the Poetic Edda. Thus, he shows clearly
that for many details and even incidents Morris drew upon “Reginsmál,” “Fáfnismál,” “Sigdrdrífomál,” “Guðrúnarkviða I,” “Sigurðarkviða in skamma,” “Atlakviða in gro͜enlenzka,” “Atlamál in gro͜enlenzko,” and “Frá dauða Sinfiǫtla.”1 He also finds that for some of his material Morris was indebted to the non-Sigurd poems in the Edda, such as “Vǫlospá,” “Hávamál,” Grímnismál,” “Alvíssmál,” and “Helgakviða Hiǫrvarzsonar”;2 these examples are especially interesting, because they are not the only clear proof we have that Morris read not only the heroic lays which he printed at the end of his translation of the Vőlsunga saga in 1870 but also the non-Sigurd poems at the beginning of the Edda. In a few cases, Bartels also notes, Morris seems to have followed the brief account of the Volsungs given in the “Skáldskaparmál” in the Prose Edda.3 Finally, he proves clearly that contrary to the statements generally made by critics and reviewers, the poem was considerably influenced by the Nibelungenlied, especially in the account of Gudrun after the murder of Sigurd by her brothers and in the whole description of the fight in Atli’s hall.4
In the foregoing synopsis I have pointed out that Bartels calls attention in his study to a few cases in which, in developing
the background of his tale, Morris departed from the stories of Sigurd that he was following and inserted details drawn from other Norse works that he had read. In addition to the material of this nature to which I have already referred, Bartels notes at the beginning of his study1 that the account in the poem of the swearing of oaths over the “Boar of Sôn” at the wedding feast of Sigurd and the description of the ritual connected with the swearing of the oath of brotherhood were inserted by Morris, but he does not indicate the source of Morris’s information regarding these matters. Both these episodes demand further consideration than Bartels has given them.
In the Vőlsunga saga there is no detailed account of the wedding-feast of Sigurd and Gudrun; the Old Norse tale merely states that “a noble feast was holden, and endured many days, and Sigurd drank at the wedding of him and Gudrun….”2 Morris, however, tells us that in the midst of the feast the “Cup of daring Promise” and the “hallowed Boar of Sôn” were borne into the hall by servants,3 that Sigurd drew his sword, placed it on the “hallowed Wood’beast,” swore that he would live bravely and nobly, and then drank the “Cup of Promise,” and that afterwards Gudrun’s brothers, Gunnar and Hogni,
did likewise.1 This custom – which, by the way, was usually restricted to the Yule-feast among the early Scandinavians – is mentioned in a number of works that Morris is known to have mead – namely, in one of the prose passages in “Helgakviða Hiǫrvarsonar,”2 in Thorpe’s Northern Mythology,3 and in De la Motte Fouqué’s Sintram.4 It is only in the first of these accounts, however, that the term “Sonargőltr,” which Morris renders in his poem as the “Boar of Sôn,” is used. The description in the poem of the procedure followed in the swearing of brotherhood is likewise almost entirely an addition by Morris. In the Vőlsunga saga, when Sigurd marries Gudrun, we are simply told that he and Gudrun’s brothers swore oaths of brotherhood;5 later in the story there is a brief allusion to the blending of blood on this occasion,6 but there is no reference in the original tale to the so-called “turf-yoke.” Morris, however, presents a detailed account of the procedure,7 very likely drawing upon the description in the Gísla saga8 for his information. He states that Sigurd, Gunnar, and Hogni went to the “Doom-ring,” loosened a strip of turf, raised it on two spears, crawled under it, cut open a vein in their
arms, let their blood drip and mix on the soil beneath the cut turf, and then swore oaths of eternal loyalty and friendship.
The additions that Bartels shows were made by Morris are by no means the only steps Morris took to develop in greater detail the early Scandinavian background of his story. Especially numerous are the allusions he seems to have added for this purpose to the mythology of the early Norsemen. Throughout the poem we find references, not in his immediate originals, to Balder,1 Thor or Vingi-Thor,2 Mimir,3 the Allfather, the Father of the Slain,4 Fenris-
 Wolf,1 the Midworld’s Serpent,2 Odin’s Choosers,3 the Uttermost Horn,4 God-home,5 the House of Gold,6 the Midworld,7 and the Day of Doom or Ragnarők.8 With all this material Morris had undoubtedly become acquainted through Thorpe’s Northern Mythology and Mallet’s  Northern Antiquities. Moreover, the references found in the poem to the use of “peace-strings” on swords,1 to the fighting of duels on “the hazelled field,”2 and the passing of judgment in the hallowed “Doom-rings”3 are not in the original versions of the Vőlsung story, but were added by Morris. With the “peace-strings” or “friðbőnd” found on Norse swords and with the custom of fighting “holmgangs” we have already seen that he was acquainted.4 With the term “doom-ring” and the plan of the Old Norse courts which gave rise to this name he had very likely become familiar through the account of the early Scandinavian “doom-rings” given in Mallet’s Northern Antiquities5 and through the allusions to “doom-rings” in some of the sagas he had read with Magnússon.6 Finally, I should like to point out that Morris introduced into his poem two proverbs which are not in his originals but which he had  met with in the Grettis Saga – namely, “Best unto babe is mother”1 and “Old friends are last to sever.”2 It should also be noted that the descriptions of mountain scenery found throughout the poem were almost certainly influenced by Morris’s travels in Iceland.3
Bartel’s work is not the only study that has appeared of the relation of Morris’s Sigurd the Volsung to the Old Norse prose and poetical versions of the tale of Sigurd. In February, 1923, Geroge T. McDowell published an article on the same topic in Scandinavian Studies and Notes, 4 which, though it is accurate5 and well-written, adds little or nothing to the subject. He compares Morris’s poem with the Vőlsunga saga, and finds, as Bartels did, that Morris made numerous omissions, additions, and changes. The most important difference between Morris’s tale and the original is, he feels, the manner in which Morris sentimentalized and romanticizes his characters, and throws a “golden haze” over many of his scenes; on the basis of this consideration he concludes that “William Morris can  hardly be termed a just or wholly trustworthy interpreter of the spirit of the Icelandic sagas of the Volsungs.”1
In the British Museum, London, are deposited three manuscripts of Morris’s Sigurd the Volsung: two of them, Add 27497 and Add 27498, are quarto notebooks, presenting approximately the last third of the first version of the poem, together with numerous revisions at the close of the last volume; the third, Eg 866, is a folio volume, containing the final draft of the complete work, with several revised passages at the end.2 The greater part of the poem appears in these  manuscripts in the same form as in the printed text, except of course for occasional minor, verbal changes; there are seven passages, however, each one dealing with one of the crucial moments of the story, which have been extensively revised and in pars even completely rewritten in the manuscript. In her Preface to Volume  Twelve of Collected Works,1 and in her William Morris: Artist Writer Socialist,2 Miss Morris refers briefly to some of these revisions and discusses one - the rewriting of the account of the final meeting between Sigurd and Brynhild – in detail, quoting the greater part of the early version of this scene. The other revisions also, it seems to me, are very interesting and deserve careful consideration, for they all throw light on the steps in the evolution of the poem in Morris’s mind and on the aims he kept before himself in writing the tale.
The first of these revisions, the reworking of the account of the birth of Sigurd, is chiefly interesting because it shows in a very striking manner the extent to which Morris improved the poem, from a literary point of view, in the course of rewriting certain sections.3 One of the loveliest passages in the whole work, as we have it in printed text, is the dialogue between King Elf and the women who come to show him the new-born babe;4 this scene, with its very effective suspense and climax, is entirely missing in the original version. There the child is presented to Kind Elf without any introductory comment, and he arises and delivers a long speech  summarizing the early history of the Volsung family; the account given here of Sigi, Rerir, and the birth of King Volsung is found at the very beginning of the Vőlsunga saga,1 but Morris had omitted it at this point in his own version of the tale. When Morris rewrote this scene, he struck out this speech of King Elf; the only mention of the early Volsungs in the revised version occurs in the twelve-line account, at the end of this section, of the songs of the minstrels, in the course of which Sigi and Rerir are merely named.2 Perhaps Morris felt that this long speech with its indirect references to the early Volsungs would not only be unintelligible and therefore tedious to the majority of his readers, who would very likely be unacquainted with the Vőlsunga saga itself, but would also retard the action of the story too much at this significant moment. There can be no doubt that the dialogue which replaced it, with its air of unrestrained joy mingled with wonder and awe at the event which has just taken place, is far more effective.
In Manuscript Eg 2866 there is also found an early version of Sigurd’s fight with Fafnir on the Glittering Heath;3 in revising this description, Morris not only improved the passage as poetry but he also completely altered the details of the story itself. In the  revised account Sigurd meets Odin as soon as he arrives on the glittering Heath, and Odin instructs him to dig a pit in the path of the serpent and to conceal himself therein; Sigurd follows the directions, and when Fafnir glides over the pit, the hero thrusts his sword into the monster’s heart, giving him his death wound; then ensues a dialogue between Sigurd and Fafnir, in which the latter foretells the future. In this version Morris follows substantially the story given in the Vőlsunga saga.1 In the earlier account, however, there is no mention of Odin; Sigurd does not construct a pit, but fights with Fafnir entirely on the surface of the ground; and the serpent dies without speaking. It is difficult to perceive what reason Morris could have had for originally presenting the story in this form. It seems almost impossible that he could have forgotten the method in which Sigurd killed the dragon and the conversation which he had with Fafnir that morning, for both these features are unusual and they are found not only in the Vőlsunga saga but also in “Fáfnismál”2; on the other hand, it seems very unlikely that Morris  could have remembered these details, and that he could have omitted them deliberately. Miss May Morris, speaking of this passage, says that in the early form Fafnir is “a blind force of Hatred, dying without speech”; that Morris seems to have been afraid that if he left the scene in this form his readers might misunderstand the significance of this episode and might “attribute the slaying of Fafnir to small human things, as the hatred of Regin”; and that he therefore rewrote this section, introducing Odin and “the wonderful death-dialogue.”1 That the version in the printed text is superior is obvious; Morris’s motives for presenting the episode in the first form are, however, by no means clear.
The account of Sigurd’s drinking of Grimhild’s magic potion, as a result of which he forgets Brynhild and marries Gudrun, also appears in a different form in one of the manuscripts.2 The early version of this episode differs considerably from the revised account, but in rewriting this scene Morris in the main simply expanded his original description without changing the actual facts of the story. In only two cases, in fact, do the two passages disagree in the details  of the action itself, and neither one of these two changes is significant: in the original version, Sigurd, after drinking Grimhild’s cup, broods in silence for a moment, and then strides out of the hall while the feasters sit bewildered, but in the printed account Sigurd remains in the hall throughout the evening, his silence throwing a hush on the rest of the company, and he does not set out on his ride until the others are departing from the feast and going to bed; moreover, at first Morris represented Sigurd as visiting Brynhild’s home twice during his ride, once during the night and again the following morning, but in the rewritten account he mention only one visit to the burg of Brynhild. Both these changes, as I have already stated, are without importance. Moreover, the question whether the first or the revised description follows the original account more closely in these respects does not arise, for both versions are entirely Morris’s own; the Vőlsunga saga, the only one of his sources that mentions Grimhild’s potion of forgetfulness, merely states that Sigurd drank the cup Grimhild offered him and then forgot Brynhild.1 As I stated above, the main difference between the original and the revised account of this scene lies in the length of the two, but  this difference in length is important, for in the additional material found in the later version Morris seems definitely to be striving to impress upon his readers the significance of the event he is describing. He first presents a long Homeric simile, in fourteen lines, comparing the silence that came over the Niblungs after Sigurd had drunk Grimhild’s cup and his face had become stern and moody to the hush that might fall on a group of feasters on a beautiful summer day when the eastern sky suddenly becomes murky with an approaching thunder-storm. He then relates that a short time after Sigurd drained the cup, marvelous flames leaped up around the hall where Bryynhild sat dreaming of the Volsung hero. Finally he describes how Grimhild called for music to drive away the melancholy and gloom that had settled on the Niblung warriors, and how the music of the harp went unheeded by the men who could do nothing but gaze upon the face of Sigurd and long for the sunny morning. Very likely Morris rewrote the scene, keeping Sigurd in the hall throughout the feast and introducing this additional material illustrating the intensity of his gloom because he felt that if he left the scene in its original form his readers might fail to realize the tremendous influence Grimhild’s magic potion was destined to have upon the remaining days of Sigurd and the Niblungs.
The fourth important revision, that of the scene between Brynhild and Sigurd after the quarreling of Brynhild and Gudrun, has been fully discussed by Miss May Morris in the Preface to Volume  Twelve of the Collected Works.1 She there points out that the most striking difference between the first and the revised version is the elimination in the latter of “the note of human tenderness and suffering” that Morris had originally introduced into the scene; she thinks that her father rejected the first version of this episode because it was out “of scale with the epic place” of the whole poem.2
In my summary of Bartel’s study of the sources of Morris’s Sigurd the Volsung, I have already pointed out that the last part of the poem shows the influence of the Nibelungenlied to a marked degree.3 In the Vőlsunga saga Atli, soon after his marriage to Gudrun, begins to long to possess the treasure of the Niblungs, and he invites Gunnar and Hogni to a feast in his hall in order that he may have an opportunity to fall upon them with a superior force and overcome them and so gain the gold; Gudrun, suspecting her husband’s designs, ties to warn her brothers against accepting the invitation.4 In Morris’s poem, however, the destruction of the Niblung kings by Atli is the deliberate work of Gudrun; even after she has been married to Atli, she does not forget her brothers’ murder of Sigurd, and in order to obtain revenge, she stirs up her second husband’s desire for the Niblung gold and induces him to bid Gunnar and Hogni come and  visit him, so that he may bring them into his power.1 Morris’s Gudrun, therefore, shows a closer resemblance to Kriemhild of the Nibelungenlied than to Gudrun of the Vőlsunga saga.2 That Morris is to depart from the Norse story in his portrayal of Gudrun is first revealed to us in the scene in which Grimhild, Gunnar, and Hogni come to the home of Queen Thora for the purpose of inducing Gudrun to accept Atli’s suit for her hand in marriage.3 In the Vőlsunga saga and in “Guðrúnarkviða II” we are told that when Gudrun drank the magic cup of forgetfulness she lost all memory of Sigurd’s murder;4 but in Morris’s Sigurd the Volsung we read that
many a thing she forgat
But never the day of her sorrow, and of how o’er Sigurd she sat.5
In one of the manuscripts, Add 37498,6 is found an early version of this scene which is very interesting, for in this account Morris places much greater stress on Gudrun’s recollection of the slaying of her husband, and he seems to hint that it was simply because of the possibility that she might receive aid from Atli in obtaining  revenge that Gudrun finally accepted his suit. In writing this first account Morris may have definitely had in mind the corresponding scene in the Nibelungenlied; there Kriemhild is at first utterly opposed to Etzel’s offer, but consents when Rűedegêr swears that he and his men will do their utmost to help her obtain revenge for the loss of Siegfried if she marries Ezel.1 It is also interesting to note that in this early version Gudrun does not make her decision on the first day, as she does in the Vőlsunga saga, but thinks about it during the night and decides on her answer the next morning, just as in the Nibelungenlied.
Perhaps the early version of this scene, with its resemblances to the Nibelungenlied, may be taken as an indication that Morris originally intended to make the whole ending of his poem much more like the German epic than it actually is. He may at first have planned to make Gudrun more like Kriemhild, - a cruel, heartless woman who would stop at nothing in her craving for revenge; as he proceeded with his story, this portrayal of Gudrun may have become distasteful to him, and he may also have come to realize that it was not necessary to make Gudrun such an inhuman woman as Kriemhild in order to bind the conclusion of the tale into closer unity with the preceding episode, than was the case in the Vőlsunga saga, by making the death of Gunnar and Hogni in the land of Atli the result  of Gudrun’s desire for revenge for Sigurd’s death. In the description of the fight in Atli’s hall, Morris’s Gudrun of course shows a closer resemblance to Kriemhild than to the Norse Gudrun, but she is far from being the fiendlike creature that Kriemhild is; in Morris’s poem Gudrun watches the capture of her brothers but remains a passive spectator throughout the scene;1 in the corresponding passage in the Nibelungenlied, however, Kriemhild passionately urges her men to attack her brothers again and again, and when Hagen and Gunther are finally captured and brought before her, she slays Hagen with her own hand.2 Perhaps it was in order to make the scene in Queen Thora’s home more consistent with this later softening of Gudrun’s character that Morris rewrote his first version of the fetching of Gudrun, removing the emphasis on her undying hatred for her brothers and omitting any hint that, like Kriemhild, she consented to marry Atli merely because of her hope of thereby securing her revenge.
Very interesting also is the early version of Gunnar’s song in the snake-pit, found in manuscript Eg 2566.3 Both the original and revised accounts are entirely Morris’s invention, for his Norse  sources merely state that Gunnar sang so sweetly in the pit that he lulled to sleep all the adders except one, this one stinging him to death.1 Nevertheless, Morris’s two descriptions of the scene differ radically. In the early version, the first part of Gunnar’s song consists of rather vague and colorless allusions to his past life; in the second half the Niblung hero sings of his approach to Valhalla as he dies. In the second version, however, when Gunnar is thrown into the snake-pit, he breaks the silence of this last night that he is alive by raising his voice and singing of the glory of the creation of earth and of man. As he feels his end approaching, he sings in a more subdued tone of his own life on this earth, not, however, referring to past events, as in the first version, but dwelling upon the joy he has always felt in this glorious world, and solacing himself, as he dies, with the thought that he has always lived nobly and bravely, without complaining and without questioning the plans of the gods. In the original version Gunnar is clearly much more human than in the second: having come face to face with death, he lingers lovingly on the happy scenes of his past. In the revised account, the personal element is minimized: Gunnar’s thoughts turn away from himself and go back to the dawn of the world, and he deals with the vast conceptions of the origin of the universe; when he speaks of himself, it is the god-like, not the human, side of his character that he shows. Certainly this second account harmonizes  much more fully than the first with the nobility, dignity, and sustained grandeur of the poem as a whole; it is not at all unlikely that Morris cancelled the first version and substituted in its place the passage in the printed text for the very purpose of making this scene contribute to the heroic tone he was trying to impart to his whole tale.
Less interesting but demanding a few words of comment is the last revision, which comes at the very close of the whole poem. The original conclusion, found in manuscript Add 37497, is somewhat longer, more diffuse in its effect, and considerably weaker than the ending given in the printed text;1 in this first account, after Gudrun has thrust a sword into Atli and fled, the poem runs on for forty-nine lines, but in the revised version there are only twenty-six lines from that point to the end. The additional material in the earlier description consists mainly of an account of the glorious time that is to come when Balder returns to the earth; then it will be known, says the poet, what happened after Gudrun leaped into the waves, and then men will tenderly recall the whole tragic story of the Volsungs and Niblungs as well as the tragedy of other men who fought nobly and bravely though doomed to defeat. The whole passage seems particularly lacking inspiration; it was apparently composed very hurriedly, for some of the lines are metrically faulty, and  others, because of omissions and other mistakes Morris made in writing out his thoughts, are unintelligible as they stand. Much more effective is the terse account given in the revised version: here the poet merely states that Gudrun leaped into the sea, and he professes ignorance of what happened thereafter; he concludes the whole work with a brief summary, in eight lines, of the theme of his tale, emphasizing the divine origin of his hero, Sigurd the Volsung.
An examination of the major revisions that Morris made in writing out Sigurd the Volsung throws much light then, as I have indicated in the foregoing discussion, on the principles that he had in mind in composing the poem. In the first place, his alterations make it clear that he was very eager to impart to the tale, as far as possible, a tone of dignity, grandeur, and majesty, - in short, to give it true epic proportions. Sometimes, in the course of writing out the story, he was so deeply moved by the suffering and tragic fate of his characters that he momentarily forgot the heroic atmosphere for which he was seeking, and introduced into the poem a sympathetic and tender portrayal of their sorrow; two of the major revisions which I have discussed, one treating the final meeting of Brynhild and Sigurd and the other dealing with the death of Gunnar in King Atli’s snake-pit, are devoted to the cancellation of such infusions of sentiment and to the substitution, in their place of more objective treatments.
In the case of the first of these two revisions, we find that Morris was willing to sacrifice a passage of infinite tenderness and beauty for the sake of preserving the heroic tone of  the whole. Moreover, it was evidently for the same reason that he rejected the original ending of the whole poem. In the first draft, as I have already pointed out, the conclusion is rather weak because it is unduly lengthy and lacks unity of effect; furthermore, in that version Morris introduces a personal note, for he dwells on the happy time to come, when a new world will be created and Balder will return to life, and says that then it will be pleasant to recall this and other tales of tragedy and woe. In the revised form of the poem he has completely cancelled this original ending, and has inserted in its place a passage which is characterized by terseness and conciseness and which is entirely objective in point of view.
Furthermore, the revisions Morris made indicate that he realized that the Old Norse story he was retelling had a rather complicated and involved plot, which his modern English readers would perhaps find hard to follow, for in several of the revisions which he made in the original draft of the poem he seems to striving to render the story more readily intelligible by bringing into clear relief the main incidents in the tale and by emphasizing the unity of the whole. Thus, in the first version of Sigurd’s fight with Fafnir, Morris for some unaccountable reason neglected to mention Sigurd’s conversation with the dying Fafnir, but in the rewritten form he presents a full account of this dialogue; the inclusion of this part of the scene is very important if we are to understand the later development of the story, for in this passage we are told of the curse resting on Fafnir’s gold and this curse, with its effect on all possessors of the gold, is the central theme of the whole story.
Similarly, as I have already  pointed out, the account of Sigurd’s drinking of Grimhild’s cup of forgetfulness was originally much shorter than it is in the printed text; probably Morris developed this scene more fully in the rewritten version so that his readers would not overlook the importance of this episode. It is also possible that in the scene describing the birth of Sigurd, Morris omitted in the final draft the original speech of King Elf, in which he summarized the early history of the Volsungs, for the reason that he was afraid that these brief and indirect references to events in the lives of Sigurd’s ancestors, all of whom are of distinctly minor importance for the story as a whole, would be confusing to his readers.
Finally, several of the revisions show that Morris was endeavoring to add spontaneity and vigor to his account in order to prevent the dignified and exalted style of the poem from becoming dull; two of the most effective passages in the whole poem, one containing the dialogue between King Elf and the nurses of the baby Sigurd and the other presenting the conversation between Sigurd and Fafnir, were added by Morris in revising the first draft, as I have already indicated.
As I have stated above, Morris considered the Icelandic story of the Volsungs and Niblunds one of the greatest tales in the world, and felt that it had inspired him to produce his best poem; but long before his Sigurd the Volsung was finished, he began to fear that the reading public world would not understand and appreciate his retelling of this Northern saga. In a letter written to his wife in the summer of 1876, he said, in referring to the publication of Athena͜eum of a portion of the unfinished “Tale of Aristomenes,”
 By the way the Athenaeum has been very civil to me about that scrap of poem I published in it the other day, though it was not worth publishing either, and sent me L20; it seems, such is the world’s injustice and stupidity that it was a success – never mind; I shall pay for it when my new poem comes out….1
As a matter of fact, his prophecy came true; when Sigurd the Volsung was published in November, 1876, it was received with much less enthusiasm than his preceding works, both by his friends and by the public as a whole, and the sale of the book lagged.2 Contrary to his usual attitude toward the public reception of his literary productions, Morris at first expressed impatience with the people for their failure to appreciate this poem into which he felt he had put his best work; but two months after its publication he had become reconciled to the coldness with which it had been met, and he wrote in a letter to a friend, “My ill temper about the public was only a London mood and is quite passed now: and I think I have even forgotten what I myself have written about that most glorious of stories, and think about it all (and very often) as I did before I began my poem.”3
If we examine the reviews of the work that appeared in the contemporary periodicals, we find that the critics took widely divergent views of the poem; some saw only defects in the work, others were extremely lavish in their praises, while a few of the more sober critics presented a more balanced criticism of the poem. Henry G. Hewlett, writing in Fraser’s Magazine, was especially harsh; in support of his opinion that the poem would in all probability never be very popular, he said,
 Its inordinate length alone will deter some readers even on the threshold; and the diffuseness of style which has now, we fear, become habitual with Mr. Morris, will probably weary others before they reach the end. The diction, however appropriate, is almost pedantically close in imitation to its model, the identical similes and metaphors employed by the Sagaman being often reproduced with some rhetorical amplification. Passages of novel and pictorial description are frequent, but the prevailing tenor of the narrative seldom rises above mediocrity; and beyond an occasionally nervous or graceful phrase, and a line or two exceptionally musical, the memory finds little to carry away, and the ear still less to haunt it…. The verbal archaisms are not, perhaps, in excess, considering the poet’s proclivities and the special character of his subject, but, to our thinking, are distinctly tiresome.1
The writer of the article on Sigurd the Volsung in the North American Review was somewhat less severe, but the general tone of his criticism also was adverse. The chief fault that he found with the poem was that it failed to reproduce faithfully the spirit of its source. The original tale, he said, was too savage and barbarous for modern English readers, and therefore Morris “recast it … in the forms of modern sentiment”; in dealing with his material in this way, Morris was following the fashion of his time, for to “reproduce the antique, not as the ancients felt it, but as we feel it,- to transfuse it with modern thought and emotion,- that is the method now ‘in the air,’ as the French say, among Mr. Morris’s fellow artists….” Because of this treatment of the original material, the reviewer feels that the poem “is too much the outcome of a transient vogue in sentiment to insure a very long rememberance.”2 This criticism is of course to a great extent justified; but it is also true that Morris resisted to a surprising degree the temptation to introduce a modern tone into his retelling of this ancient tale, and as a result his Sigurd the Volsung is far freer from modern sentiment than his earlier "Lovers of Gudrun" or  Tennyson’s Idylls of the King. Furthermore, the Old Norse material which Morris elaborated in his poem is far from being so primitive, rude, and barbarous as the writer of this review asserts, and Morris was not compelled to make such extenwsive alterations in remodelling it as this critic implies. The rest of the article in the North American Review was concerned with minor defects: the writer said that the “imitation of the archaic style is, indeed, carried to excess, as if to cover the lack of the antique spirit,” that in the narrative itself there was “a deficiency in rapidity and directness,” and that the metre “is flexible and musical, though it does not escape the dangers of monotony.”1
Entirely different in tone are the notices of the poem that appeared in the Saturday Review, the London Quarterly Review, and the Atlantic Monthly. The first of these periodicals stated, “We regard this Story of Sigurd as his [i.e. Morris’s] greatest and most successful effort; of all poetical qualities, strength, subtlety, vividness, mystery, melody, variety – there is hardly one that it does not exhibit in a very high degree.”2 The critic in the London Quarterly Review began his article with the assertion that “The Story of Sigurd the Volsung and the Fall of the Niblungs is probably the single book published within the last twelve months which it would be safe to set aside as the most certain of a place in the regards of the poetic readers of the next generation,”3 and he concluded his discussion in the same tone with the statement,
 Be it recorded…that the style and metrical qualities are surprisingly fine – that beside the clear panoramic evolution of the story we have to praise a most pure and vigorous poetic diction; and mysteries of subtle effect in rhyme and metre such as are not to be found in any work of this latter day – and of a higher quality than anything later than the best works of the Laureate – higher, that is to say, than anything published in England since 1855.1
The reviewer in the Atlantic Monthly lavished praise on the beauty and nobility of the poetry, the majesty, as well as gracefulness, of the metre, and the archaic diction, which is “so exactly suitable to the character of his [i.e. Morris’s] present work as to blend with its faultless general harmony and be hardly noticeable in it”;2 concerning the description of Sigurd’s first meeting with Brynhild on Hindfell, he exclaimed, “We may live and read long before we meet with poetry more noble in thought, more celestially sweet and satisfying in form, than the pages which describe the meeting and mutual recognition of these lovers.”3
Especially interesting are two reviews that appeared but a few weeks after the publication of the poem – one in the Athena͜eum, the other in the Academy; both these critics presented a somewhat mature attitude toward the work, for they saw both defects and virtues. The author of the article in the Athena͜eum regretted that Morris departed from his Old Norse source at the end of the tale and made the death of Gunnar and Hogni the result of Gudrun’s craving for revenge for Sigurd’s murder, as in the Nibelungenlied, for by making this change he failed to incorporate in his tale one of the chief excellences of the Vőlsunga saga – namely, the sense of unity resulting from “the  dominance of everything – from first to last – by the curse of the gold….”1 He also feels that the verse is musical, but that in a poem of this length Morris’s hexameters are apt to become monotonous.2 On the other hand he praised Morris’s sympathy with, and understanding of, the Old Norse attitude toward life, as revealed in his poem; Morris is so completely “soaked in Odinism,” he said, “that the spontaneity – real, and not apparent merely – of this reproduction of the temper of a bygone age is as marvelous as the spontaneity of the form in which it is embodied; while, for purity of English, for freedom from euphuism and every kind of ‘poetic diction’ (so called), it is far ahead of anything of equal length that has appeared in this century.”3 A few lines later he added, “On the whole, we cannot but think this poem Mr. Morris’s greatest achievement. It is more masculine than ‘Jason’ – more vigorous and more dramatic than the best of the stories in the ‘Earthly Paradise.’”4 Edmund Gosse, the writer of the review in the Academy, expressed a fear that Morris’s poem would not be popular on account of his extensive use of archaisms and Old Norse kennings.5 Like the author of the article in the Athena͜eum, but for different reasons, Gosse found fault with the conclusion Morris had given his tale. He regretted that Morris did not make clear the fact that Brynhild was the sister of Atli, for by omitting any reference to this relationship, the modern poet “deprived himself of a valuable connecting link in the chain of retribution”:6 according to one Scandinavian tradition, which we find, in the “Drap Niflunga,” Atli’s feeling of  hostility toward Gunnar and Hogni was the result of their share in the death of Brynhild.
It is true, of course, that Morris could have given his tale a certain unity by remaining faithful to his Scandinavian sources, either as the reviewer in the Athenaeum or as Gosse suggested; but it seems very probable that Morris preferred to bind the last episode to the body of the story by attributing the slaying of Gunnar and Hogni to Gudrun’s craving for revenge for Sigurd’s death for the reason that in this way he focused the attention of his readers on Sigurd throughout the tale, and it was in presenting Sigurd as a great heroic figure that his chief interest lay. Besides pointing out these defects, Gosse found much to praise. Of the poem as a whole he said, “Suffice it to say that Mr. Morris has treated it in a manner fully worthy of the heroic plan. The style he has adopted is more exalted and less idyllic, more rapturous and less luxurious – in a word, more spirited and more virile than that of any of his earlier works.”1 He praised the elevated tone which Morris maintained throughout the poem, and remarked, “In the presence of so much simplicity, and so much art that conceals its art, it is well to point out how supreme is the triumph of the poet in this respect.”2 Thus, although the reading public as a whole did not receive this poem kindly, we learn from these reviews that many of the leading critics of the time, only a few weeks after its publication, understood and appreciated the excellences of Morris’s work.
 The publication of Sigurd the Volsung in November, 1876, brings to a close, as I have already stated, the period 1871 to 1876 when Morris’s interest in early Scandinavia reached its peak. During these six years, as we have seen, Morris had devoted himself almost exclusively to his Norse studies, only two major works that were definitely non-Scandinavian in conception - Love is Enough and a translation of Virgil’s Aeneid – having been produced and published during this time, but at the end of 1876 Morris’s Norse studies came to an abrupt close. There is absolutely no reason to believe, however, that he suddenly dropped his Scandinavian work at this time because his enthusiasm for the North had become exhausted; it is quite clear that he terminated his Scandinavian studies in 1876 simply because, as I shall show in the next chapter, his attention was now for a time diverted into entirely new channels. It is not at all unlikely that if it had not been for these new interests, he would have gone on working on translations from the Scandinavian and on original treatments of Norse themes for several more years, just as he had done in the period we have been considering in this chapter.
 Chapter III
The Period of Morris’s Public Activity and Final Return to Literature: 1877-1896
After Sigurd the Volsung had appeared late in 1876, Morris did not produce or publish any adaptations or renderings of Norse material until late in the 1880’s. the reason for his failure to produce anything Scandinavian during these eleven or twelve years is that shortly after he had finished Sigurd the Volsung he was drawn into public life, and during the next decade he gave himself up to his new interests almost as completely as he had devoted himself to the literature and culture of the North in the period 1871 to 1876. The new activities that absorbed so much of his attention at this time were, in brief, the Eastern Question Association, the Society fo the Protection of Ancient Buildings, and Socialism. However, although he produced no purely Scandinavian work during these years of strenuous public life, it is clear that the Northern material with which he had been dealing was still very much in his thoughts, for when we examine the lectures, addresses, and newspaper and periodical articles that he prepared in connection with these activities, we find that even in writing or speaking on these entirely alien subjects, he fairly frequently introduced references to Scandinavian matters. I should like now to review briefly the main facts of Morris’s life during this period, calling attention as I do so to these scattered allusions that the made to the life of the North.
In 1876 Morris, along with many other Englishmen, was deeply stirred by the reports of horrible atrocities committed in  Bulgaria by the Turks as a result of the rebellion of some of the Balkan states against Turkish rule; when it became apparent that the English government would follow its usual policy of supporting Turkey and maintain her rights in Europe, even, perhaps, to the extent of going to war with Russia, who was already assuming a very hostile attitude toward Turkey and who actually declared war the following April, a number of Englishmen banded themselves together into what they called the Eastern Question Association, in order to stir up public opinion against the attitude of the English government and to rose sympathy for the Balkan rebels. In the work of this organization Morris was extremely active during this and the next year; he served as treasurer of the society, and freely gave his time to further the cause both by writing and by lecturing.1
Only one very small detail of Morris’s work for the Easter Question Association reflects his interest in Scandinavia. For the meeting of this organization in Exeter Hall on January 16, 1877, he wrote a ballad called “Wake, London Lads!” to the tune of “The Hardy Norseman’s Home of Yore.”2 The song which provided the melody is a short ballad of two stanzas, in English, describing the ancient Vikings’ love for the sea.3 Its melody, I find, is, except for very slight variations, the same as that of one of the most popular songs of Norway,- “For Norge, kja͜empers fødeland”;4 its words, however is  not a translation from the Norwegian, the Norwegian piece having three stanzas, and consisting of a toast to the glories of Norway. It is unfortunately not definitely known whether it was Morris who selected this Scandinavian air for his “Wake, London Lads!”; but it seems to me very likely that the choice of the melody was his, for if he was asked to write a political song for the meeting, he was probably permitted to select the tune to which he must adapt his words. Moreover, “The Hardy Norseman’s Song of Yore” does not seem to have been a very popular song in the Victorian Age; I have been unable to find it in any of the numerous collections of vocal music published at that time that I have examined. It is tempting, and I believe not entirely unjustifiable, to assume that it was Morris himself, his mind being at this time filled with Scandinavian material, who selected this stirring Norwegian air for a song which was intended to rouse the moral indignation of the Londoners again the foreign policy of their government.
During the time that Morris was working for the Eastern Question Association, he was also taking an active part in organizing the Society for the protection of Ancient Buildings. He had long been incensed at the ruthless demolition and at the so-called “restoration” of old buildings that was going on in England; he was finally roused to action in the beginning of March, 1877, by the report of the proposed restoration of the Minster of Tewkesbury. In response to a letter that he wrote to Athena͜eum suggesting the formation of an organization which should strive to protect old buildings from any alteration except such as was strictly necessary for their preservation, the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings, or the  “Anti-Scrape,” as it was usually called, was set up in the spring of 1877. Morris took a vital interest in the work of this Association throughout the rest of his life; although he and his friends did not succeed in saving from alteration or destruction all the monuments for which they fought, many priceless relics of the past which would otherwise have been lost were preserved for us as a result of their activity.1
On Dcember 4, 1877, Morris delivered a lecture on “The Lesser Arts” before the Trades Guild of Learning in London;2 this event was very important, for it marked the beginning of Morris’s activity as a public lecturer, first on questions of art and later on the subject of socialism,- an activity which he carried on all through the eighties and even into the nineties. He seems to have first come into demand as a lecturer on art, partly as a result of the attention he attracted as fervid supporter of the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings and partly as a consequence of the reputation he had gained for himself as a craftsman of the very highest order. That Morris was successful in his role of public speaker is clearly proved by the great number of lectures that he was asked to deliver all over England during these years; one of his biographers says, concerning Morris’s abilities as a speaker,
In the printed sentences you read the eager, persuasive accent, so convincing because so convinced. On the platform he stood, say his friends, like a conqueror, stalwart and sturdy, his good grey eyes flashing or twinkling, his voice deepening with feeling, his gesture and speech sudden and spontaneous, his aspect that of an insurgent, a fighter against custom and orthodoxy.3
 In his early lectures we find no allusions to Scandinavian history and culture, but in the addresses delivered in the eighties we frequently meet with such reference. The first one occurs in a talk dating from 1881. In speaking on “Art and the Beauty of the Earth” at Burslem Town Hall on October 13, 1881, Morris contrasted the conditions prevailing in the Middle Ages, when men took pleasure in their work and therefore produced objects of art, with the situation in the modern world, when men must labor under very unhappy circumstances and hence cannot make anything beautiful; the far-superior medieval art, he said, flourished in “the days when Norwegian, Dane, and Icelander stalked through the streets of Micklegarth, and hedged with their axes the throne of Kirialax the Greek king….”1 With the service of the Northmen in the Varangian guard at Constantinople during the Middle Ages we have seen that Morris had long been familiar.2
In a lecture on “The History of Pattern-Designing” delivered the following year, in 1882, in behalf of the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings, we meet with another Scandinavian allusion. Here, by way of introducing a discussion of the development of Persian art, Morris briefly retold the story of the revolt of the Persians from the rule of the Parthians and the subsequent birth of the Persian kingdom, and then said,
Now as to the art of these kingdoms. That of the Parthians must be set aside by treating it in the way which was used by the worth Norwegian merchant in writing of the snakes in Iceland; there was no art among the Parthians, no native art, that is to say, and scarcely any borrowed art which they made quasi-native.3
 Morris referred again to this “worthy Norwegian merchant’ who wrote of the snakes in Iceland in an article he composed for the periodical To-day the following year;1 the work that he must have had in mind in both these cases is Niels Horrebow’s Natural History of Iceland.2 He mentioned this treatise by name many years later in a remark of a similar nature in News from nowhere; in this book, which describes how a man of the late nineteenth century, evidently Morris himself, dreamt one night that he was living a hundred years later in a Socialist England, one of the members of the new nation tells the dreamer that in this reformed state there is no such thing as politics, adding, “ ‘If you ever make a book out of this conversation, put this in a chapter by itself, after the model of old Horrebow’s Snakes in Iceland.’”3 Horrebow’s Natural History of Iceland, originally written in Danish under the title Tilforladelige Efterretninger om Island med et nyt Landkort og 2 Aars Meteorologiske Observationer,4 is, as Horrebow himself states in his Preface, a careful revision, with numerous additions of his own, of that part of Johann Anderdon’s Nachrichten von Island, Grönland und der Strasse Davis5 which deals with Iceland. In his book Horrebow discusses, among other subjects, the minerals, beasts. Birds. And fishes of Iceland, devoting one chapter to each species; in the English translation of Horrebow or Anderson and not in any of the other renderings of the two books, one chapter headed “Concerning snakes”  consists of only one brief sentence: ‘No snakes of any kind are to be met with throughout the whole island.”1 It was clearly this chapter in the English version of Horrebow’s book to which Morris referred in the passage quoted above from News from Nowhere, and it was very likely this same treatment of the snakes in Iceland to which he alluded in his lecture on “The History of Pattern-Designing” and in his article in To-day. To be sure, in both earlier references Morris ascribes the account of the Icelandic reptiles to a “worthy Norwegian merchant,” and Niels Horrebow was born in Copenhagen and was a distinguished Doctor of Laws.2 The description does not fit the original author, Johann Anderson, either, for he was born in Hamburg, apparently of Swedish parentage, and, like Horrebow, was a jurist of great eminence.3 However, there is not, to the best of my knowledge, any similar account of  the snakes in Iceland by a Norwegian merchant or by anyone else, so that, in view of the fact that Morris alludes to Horrebow’s work by name in an almost identical reference in a somewhat later composition, it seems extremely likely that he had in mind the chapter on snakes in the English translation of Horrebow in his first two remarks also and simply made a mistake in his description of the author.
During the late summer and early fall of 1882 Morris’s interest in Iceland took a decidedly practical turn. As a result of a very cold, wet spring and summer that year, the Icelanders were threatened with a serious famine unless outside aid should reach them before winter; as soon as reports of this danger came to England, Morris and his friends organized an Iceland Relief Fund Committee, in order to raise money with which to buy provisions to send to those in need. During August and September Morris worked hard for the Committee by making fervid appeals to his friends and, through the medium of the newspapers, to the public for assistance; in one of these newspaper letters, which is quoted by Mackail, he paid a high tribute to the Icelanders, eulogizing them as
a kindly, honest, and intelligent people, bearing their lot, at the best a hard one, with singular courage and cheerfulness, and keeping up through al difficulties in their remote desert (for such indeed is the land in spite of tis beauty and romance) an elevation of mind and a high degree of culture, which would be honourable to countries much more favored by nature.1
By means of these activities the Committee succeeded n raising a fairly large sum of money, part of which was used to purchase grain, hay, and other supplies for the starving live stock; and early in October Eiríkr Magnússon sailed to Iceland with the money and  provisions, with permission to distribute them as he saw fit.1 Magnússon’s report to the Committee on his return shows that the assistance of the English in many cases met very pressing needs and was everywhere sincerely welcomed.2
Early in 1883 Morris took a very important step: on January 17th of that year he joined the Democratic Federation. As his biographers have pointed out, Morris’s conversion to the cause of Socialism was very slow and gradual. Even as early as 1876 he had begun to show sympathetic interest in the plight of the working classes. His work for the Eastern Question Association during that year and the next threw him into close contact with various radical groups in London; a manifesto which he issued in behalf of this organization, directed to the working men and urging them as a mass to refuse to be led into an unjust war merely to satisfy the wishes of certain classes which hated them, contain, as Mackail says, “his later socialist teaching as yet folded in the germ.”3 In the early 1880’s, when he began to lecture on art, he gradually evolved the idea that all the goods produced to-day were lacking in artistic value because they were made by men living and working under very unpleasant and unhappy circumstances, and that art could be improved only by the overthrow of the present unjust organization of society and a return to the conditions prevailing during the Middle Ages, when each man, producing a complete piece of work,  took pleasure and pride in his own labor. Little by little he began to conceive of this remaking of society as a great cause, for the furtherance of which he must give up all his other interest in life. Even before he became a member of the Democratic Federation, he considered the work of the Socialists so important that he sold a great number of his rare and well-loved books to raise money to support the movement; during the three years immediately following his definite enrollment with the Socialists, he sacrificed everything for the sake of this new interest, even neglecting his business to the extent of endangering its success. Morris joined the Democratic Federation early in 1883, as I stated above, but he did not long remain a member of this group, for late in 1864 he and some of his friends withdrew from this organization on account of internal dissension, and united in what they called the Socialist League. Morris continued to work assiduously for the cause during the next five years as a member of this new group, making liberal contributions both in poetry and prose to the Commonweal, the official journal of the League; but we find that during this period his devotion to Socialism gradually became less complete and exclusive, and that he began once again to take more than a passing interest in his business and in literature. After November, 1890, when he found it again necessary to break away from his comrades, the majority of them having become anarchists, and together with a small number of his closest friends he formed the Hammersmith Socialist Society, his Socialist activities  rapidly became less and less time-consuming, and during the last four or five years of his life, although he never lost faith or interest in the cause for which he had been working, other pursuits forced his Socialism definitely into the background.1
Karl Litzenberg, in an essay called “The Social Philosophy of William Morris and the Doom of the Gods,”2 tries to show that Morris’s ideas on Socialism were influenced by his Scandinavian studies. He first calls attention to the similarity between the Socialist doctrine of the “Great Change,” which through a brief period of slaughter was to terminate the present unfair organization of society and to usher in an era of justice and peace, and the “Ragnarok” of Old Norse mythology, which the early Scandinavians believed would destroy the existing world and give birth to a new and beautiful earth, on which even Balder would be happy to live; and he then suggests that the Old Norse conception of the Day of Doom, with which Morris had been familiar since his college days, played a part in Morris’s conversion to revolutionary Socialism, with its similar belief in the rebirth of the earth through the Great Change. That the parallelism between the two ideas is close cannot be denied, and according to Mackail, Morris himself noticed the connection;3 just how far, if at all, Morris’s acquaintance with the Old Norse Ragnarok actually influenced his adoption of the view that the social ills of the present-day world could be remedied only by a complete revolution  and affected his conception of the Great Change it is extremely difficult to say.
In view of what we do know definitely about Morris’s development as a Socialist, there seems to be little excuse for seeking for any Scandinavian influences on this phase of his life. As I pointed out above, Morris’s interest in the Socialistic cause in general grew out of his dabbling in politics and out of his work as an artist. That the reason – at any rate the immediate reason – for his conversion to revolutionary socialism in particular was likewise political seems to me to be clear from the second and fourth sentences in the following paragraph, which Mackail quotes from a letter Morris wrote in 1881:
I suppose you have seen about the sentence on Herr Most and read Coleridge’s most dastardly speech to him: just think of the mixture of tyranny and hypocrisy with which the world is governed! These are the sort of things that make thinking people so sick at heart that they are driven from all interest in politics save revolutionary politics: which I must say seems like to be my case. Indeed I have long known, or felt, say, that society in spite of its modern smoothness was founded on injustice and kept together by cowardice and tyranny: but the hope in me has been that matters would mend gradually, till the alst struggle, which must needs be mingled with violence and madness, would be so short as scarcely to count. But I must say matters like this and people’s apathy about them shake one’s faith in gradual progress.1
It was of course only natural that Morris, wo was thoroughly steeped in Old Norse mythology, should have noticed the similarity between the Scandinvain conception of “Ragnarok” and his belief in revolution as a means of winning peace and social justice. After he had for political reasons become a revolutionary socialist, his idea of the Great Change may have been colored by his acquaintance with Old Norse mythology; it seems to me dangerous, however,  to assume that there was any important connection between his socialism in general or his particular brand of socialism and his Scandinavian studies.
We have already seen that during the years that Morris was actively engaged in the work of the Eastern Question Association and the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings, even though he threw himself wholeheartedly into these causes in which he sincerely and deeply believed, he did not completely forget his earlier Scandinavian studies. When we examine the lectures and articles he prepared in connection with his new interest – Socialism -, we likewise find fairly frequent allusions to the life and culture of early Scandinavia, these references showing that even though his devotion to, and enthusiasm for, this new cause were still greater, the tales of the early Norsemen and his visits to Iceland were nevertheless very much in his thoughts.
The first allusion to anything Scandinavian with which we meet in this period occurs in a lecture called “Art and the People: A Socialist’s Protest against Capitalist Brutality,” which Morris delivered in 1883, the very year he joined the Democratic Federation; pointing out that the history of events is a history of “‘Kings and Scoundrels’” whereas “the history of art is made up of the patient many living naturally,” he remarked, “’There also shall we be free from the troubling of kings and scoundrels’ are the memorable words used by the freemen of Norway when they left their country at the end of the tenth century to find freedom among the terrible wastes of Iceland: but for them, the history and mythology of the North would have been forgotten.”1 The statement to which  Morris here referred is very likely that of Grímr in the Vatnsda͜ela saga, who, in the course of a discussion as to the advantages of leaving Norway for Iceland, said, “ ‘Er mér sagt got frá landkostum, at par gangi sjálfala fé um vetr, en fiskr I hverja vatni, skógar miklir, en frjálsir af ágangi konunga ok illra͜edismanna.’”1 With this saga we have already seen that Morris was familiar as early as 1871.2
During the next year, 1884,3 Morris prepared an autobiographical sketch for a friend, in the course of which he gave a very interesting account of his Scandinavian studies; speaking of The Earthly Paradise period, he said, “I had about this time extended my historical reading by falling in with translations from the Old Norse literature, and found it a good corrective to the maunderings side of mediaevalism.”4 A few lines later he continued,
Meantime about 1870 I had made the acquaintance of an Icelandic gentleman, Mr. E. Magnússon, of whom I learned to read the language of the North, and with whom I studied most of the works of that literature; the delightful freshness and independence of thought of them, the air of freedom which breathes through them, their worship of courage (the great virtue of the human race), their utter unconventionality took my heart by storm.5
 In July of the same year Morris submitted an article to the periodical To-day on the current exhibition at the Royal Academy; in this discussion of contemporary art, he introduced three references to Scandinavian matters. The first one is the allusion to “the good Norwegian merchant” and the snakes in Iceland which I have already mentioned: as eh is beginning his discussion of “decorative beauty,” he remarked, “I am sorry to say the task of speaking of this quality is as easy as the good Norwegian merchant found the subject of the ‘snakes in Iceland’: for in sober truth there is not one single picture (nor has been for years) which even aims at decorative beauty….”1 As I have already pointed out, the work which he seems to have had in mind in undoubtedly Niels Horrebow’s Natural History of Iceland.2 the other two Scandinavian references in this article deal with Iceland itself, both of them revealing what a deep love for this bleak land his two visits to the island and his study of its literature had awakened in him. He referred to a certain picture as one that cannot but move anyone who has visited the northern latitudes. There is a sense about it of romance and interest in life amidst poverty and a narrow limit of action and maybe of thought, which is characteristic of a port but historic country side, and reminds me of many a morning’s awakening in a country which one may call the northern limit of history as it is certainly one of its richest treasure-houses; Iceland to wit.3
 Concerning one of the artists who was exhibiting, he wrote, “I am not ashamed for instance to remind him of what a mine lies untouched in Iceland; I could tell him of places there as wild and strange as the background of a fairy story, every rood of which has a dramatic tale hanging by it. …”1
In the same month – July, 1884 – he delivered a lecture on “Textile Fabrics”; in the course of commenting on a certain kind of material that was woven in Europe in the Middle Ages he stated,
My own impression is that these tapisseries nostrez (judging by the context) were like the rudely flowered stuff traditionally made by the Italian peasants to-day, in the Abruzzi, for instance, and of which the Roman peasant women’s aprons are made. This impression is chiefly founded on the fact that exactly the same make of cloth is woven in Iceland for coverlets, saddle-cloths, and the like, the inference being that it was formerly in use very widely throughout Europe.2
A little later in the same lecture, while describing the design of a piece of tapestry dating from the beginning of the twelfth century, he remarked, “it is worth while noting that patterns of exactly the same character have been traditionally used in Iceland till within the last hundred years, only by that time they had got to be done by means of worsted embroidery upon linen.”3 These two remarks about weaving in Iceland were obviously the result of observation Morris had made on his tow Icelandic journeys in the early seventies.
Morris joined the Socialist League late in 1884, as I pointed out above, and during the next five years he made generous contributions to the Commonweal, the official journal of this organization. He did not introduce many Norse allusions in these articles, but  occasionally the topic under consideration reminded him of something Scandinavian. Thus, early in 1886, in a short note called “The Husks that the Swine Do Eat,” he related that a man had recently been sentenced to a month of hard labor for stealing food from plates that he was carrying from a soldiers’ dining hall to the garbage-tubs, and then Morris exclaimed, “Ghost of William Cobbet, here is another ‘vast improvement’ for you on the Scandinavian law that decreed a thousand years ago that he who stole from necessity was to go Scot free.”1 In the laws on stealing in Magnus Konungs Laga-Baeters Gula-Thing-Laug,2 an edition of which was found in Morris’s library at his death,3 there is a provision to the effect that if a man had been unable to find work and stole because he was hungry, he should not be punished; it was evidently this passage that Morris had in mind here. The reference that he made does not of course prove that he was acquainted with this whole work, for Magnússon or some other Icelander may simply have called his attention to this interesting provision. It should be noted that in his other works he does not reveal any acquaintance with Old Norse laws beyond what he could have gained from the sagas.
Later in the same year, in the issue for November 13, 1886, he began publishing in the Commonweal a story called A Dream of John Ball; the last installment appeared on January 22, 1887. The tale was first printed in book form early in 1888.4 In this work, in which Morris represents himself as dreaming that he is in Kent at the time of the Peasants’ revolt in 1381  occasionally the topic under consideration reminded him of something Scandinavian. Thus, early in 1886, in a short note called “The Husks that the Swine Do Eat,” he related that a man had recently been sentenced to a month of hard labor for stealing food from plates that he was carrying from a soldiers’ dining hall to the garbage-tubs, and then Morris exclaimed, “Ghost of William Cobbet, here is another ‘vast improvement’ for you on the Scandinavian law that decreed a thousand years ago that he who stole from necessity was to go Scot free.”1 In the laws on stealing in Magnus Konungs Laga-Baeters Gula-Thing-Laug,2 an edition of which was found in Morris’s library at his death,3 there is a provision to the effect that if a man had been unable to find work and stole because he was hungry, he should not be punished; it was evidently this passage that Morris had in mind here. The reference that he made does not of course prove that he was acquainted with this whole work, for Magnússon or some other Icelander may simply have called his attention to this interesting provision. It should be noted that in his other works he does not reveal any acquaintance with Old Norse laws beyond what he could have gained from the sagas.
Later in the same year, in the issue for November 13, 1886, he began publishing in the Commonweal a story called A Dream of John Ball; the last installment appeared on January 22, 1887. The tale was first printed in book form early in 1888.4 In this work, in which Morris represents himself as dreaming that he is in Kent at the time of the Peasants’ revolt in 1381 and that he is spending a  few hours with John Ball, the “mad priest,” and a group of his stalwart followers, one would scarcely expect to meet with any Scandinavian allusions, but there are two passages that show that even when he wrote on such subjects, his Old Norse reading was very much in his thoughts. Thus, when Morris, the dreamer, is requested to tell a story while he and his new friends are having supper at the “Rose,” he says,
“Now hearken a tale, since ye will have it so. For last autumn I was in Suffolk at the good town of Dunwich, and thither came the keels from Iceland, and on them were some men of Iceland, and many a tale they had on their tongues; and with these men I foregathered, for I am in sooth a gatherer of tales, and this that is now at my tongue’s end is one of them.”
So such a tale I told them, long familiar to me; but as I told it the words seemed to quicken and grow, so that I knew not the sound of my own voice, and they ran almost into rhyme and measure as I told it; and when I had done there was silence awhile, till one man spake, but not loudly:
“Yea, in that land was the summer short and the winter long; but men lived both summer winter; and if the trees grew ill and the corn throve out, yet did the plant called man thrive and do well. God send us such men even here.”1
It is significant that even in a dream vision Morris represents himself as selecting an Icelandic story when called upon for a tale. In the last paragraph of the passage just quoted we find Morris expressing – as he had already done in several of his early poems -2 his wonder at, and admiration for, the nobility, dignity, and courage that the Icelanders showed, even in their daily lives, although they were surrounded by innumerable physical hardships and privations. Somewhat later in A Dream of John Ball, when Morris and the priest are discussing the meaning of death, Morris remarks, “’…I mind me that in those stories of the old Danes, their common  word for a man dying is to say, “He changed his life”’”1 Morris is apparently here referring to the Old Norse poetical expressions “bregða fjörvi,” or “bregða lífi,” although these phrases really mean, not “to die,” but “to change, or remove from, life” and so “to kill.”2 So far as I know, there is no expression of this type in Old Norse meaning “to die.” With the metaphors “bregða fjörvi” and “bregða lífi” Morris had met several times in translating the Heimskringla and Gunnlaugs saga.3
Early in 1886, in response to a request from the Pall Mall Gazette, Morris prepared a list of his favorite books.4 Although only five of the fifty-two items are Scandinavian, these five are all of an inclusive nature, so that they actually cover most of the Old Norse literature which he had read; moreover, in the group of fifteen works or collections which he designates as “Bibles” – that is, in his own words, books which “cannot be measured by a literary standard, but to me are far more important than any literature” -, all five Scandinavian items are included. These Scandinavian works are “the Edda (including some of the other early old Norse romantic genealogical poems),” ‘Collections of folk tales, headed by Grimm and the Norse ones,” “Heimskringla (the tales of the Norse Kings),” “Some half-dozen of the best Icelandic Sagas,” and “The Danish and Scotch English Border ballads.”5 Concerning that group of books in which the Heimskringla and the Icelandic sagas are included, he said, “…almost all these books are admirable pieces of tale-telling: some of them rise into the dignity of prose epics,  so to say, especially in parts. Note, for instance, the last battle of Olaf Tryggvason in Heimskringla;1 and the great rally of the rebels of Ghent in Froissart.”2
In 1887 Morris prepared a lecture on Early England. This address was never published in its entirety, but his daughter printed a number of excerpts from it in her introduction to Volume Eighteen of the Collected Works; the passages that she quoted are of particular interest for the present study because they contain some critical remarks on the Old Norse sagas, and such utterances by Morris are comparatively rare. In the course of lamenting the influence of Rome on early England – an influence from which the Scandinavian countries were free for a much longer time-, Morris said,
As far as our early literature is concerned that [i.e. the shadow of Rome] was a great misfortune. The history and mythology of Scandinavia was enshrined in the rough casket of Ireland, and though at the time when it was written the people of that island had been converted to Christianity, yet except where the subject-matter positively demands it, there is no sign of the new religion having made any practical impression on the writers, and though monks and priests took their part in this literature, work written in Latin were rare. But in England it was different; the literature was mostly in the hands of the monks…. There are in Anglo-Saxon in short none of those pieces of local history told in a terse and amazingly realistic and dramatic style which bring back to us Iceland and Norway in the eleventh century: and what is still more unlucky, we have lost the account of the mythology of the North from the Low German branch of the great Teutonic race. It is the feeblest and slenderest branch of the Goths that have been the storytellers of the race and not the Germans or the English: Odin we know in his goings out and comings in, but Wotan and Woden are but names to us.3
The preference Morris expressed here, and also in the following quotation, for early Scandinavian literature is truly significant, for there have been few men as thoroughly acquainted with, and as  deeply appreciative of, both the Old Norse and the Old and Middle English literatures and therefore as well qualified to judge between the two, as Morris was. He went on to say in this lecture, in describing the Battle of Senlac, that he was sorry that there is no Icelandic account of this engagement, as there is of the Battle of Stamford Bridge:
And here above all things does one regret that subjection of the native writers to monkish Latin, and longs for the story now never to be written which the English saga-man might have given us of that sad field of Hastings. And this all the more as one part of the story, and that the least important part, has been told dramatically enough by an Icelander. For Tosting, Harald’s brother, having quarreled with him and being dispossessed in consequence, sailed away north and tried to get Svein the Dane-king to fall on England; and getting the cold shoulder from him went to Harald the Terrible, king of Norway, a redoubted warrior once captain of the guard of the Greek Emperor, whom he enticed into the expedition: the story-teller gives us all the usual preliminaries of a great tragedy in the tales of the North; pithy warnings of wise men, omens of the seers and the like; and dwells at length on the victories won by the Norse Harald before the English king caught him unawares, his army without their mail coats, six miles from York: the fight that follows and the parley before it are given in the usual dramatic and generous manner of the North, and make on long that such a story-teller should have told us what followed.1
The Icelandic account of the Battle of Stamford Bridge to which Morris is here referring is most likely the one given in the  Heimskringla.1 With this description, which is found in the Haralds saga harðráða, Morris could have become familiar either through Laing’s translation of the Hemiskringla,2 to which he had been introduced at an early date,3 or possibly – though much less likely – from his own rendering of the original; we do not definitely know how much of his Heimskringla translation Morris had completed when he dropped his Scandinavian work in the late 1870’s, but there is good reason to believe that he had not proceeded beyond the Ólafs saga Tryggvasonar at that time.4
 In a letter written in March of the same year – 1887 -, Morris made a casual reference to Amloði, the Scandinavian original of Shakespeare’s Hamlet; in speaking of Tolstol’s War and Peace, he said, “There seems to be a consensus of opinion in these Russian novels as to the curious undecided turn of the intellectual persons there: Hamlet (Shakespeare’s I mean, not the genuine Amloði) should have been a Russian, not a Dane.”1 This remark, casual as it is, has a certain interest for the present study, for it may possibly be an indication that Morris was familiar not only with the name of the Scandinavian forebear of Hamlet but also with one of the versions of the Norse story of this ancient hero; it is rather unlikely that he would have made such a remark unless he had known the tale told in the Ambáles saga2 or the Hamlet story as it appears in the Historia Danica of Saxo Grammaticus.3 If he was acquainted with these two works at first hand, he must have read the first in Icelandic and the second in either Latin or Danish, for neither one had been translated into English by 1888;4 this fact does not, however, preclude the possibility that he was familiar with  these works, for he was of course able to read both Icelandic and Latin at this time.1
To be sure, the acquaintance which Morris seems to reveal in this letter with the Scandinavian Hamlet may not be based entirely – if at all - on these two works; perhaps Magnússon, or someone else who was well read in the early literature of the North, called Morris’s attention to the Scandinavian stories of this ancient hero, pointed out the differences between the Norse figure and Shakespeare’s Hamlet, and, possibly, directed him to the two accounts mentioned above. In fact, the rather unusual form of the name that Morris uses makes it seems very likely that he was drawing, partly at least, on some oral source: Morris refers to the Scandinavian hero as “Amloði,” a name found neither in Saxo not in the only edition of the Ambáles saga printed in 1888, the former having “Amlethus,” and the latter, “Ambáles.”2 The Icelandic form of the name, “Amloði,” does occur in the earliest extant Scandinavian reference to Hamlet, which is found in a short poem ascribed to the Icelandic skald Sna͜ebiőrn; the second  verse of this poem, in which the phrase “Amloða molo” occurs, Morris may very likely have read either in one of the editions of the Prose Edda1 or in the Corpus Poeticum Boreale of Vigfússon and Powell.2 However, it seems very unlikely that Morris would have connected this brief and rather puzzling reference to Amloði with the stories of Amlethus and Ambáles unless someone well versed in the lore of ancient Scandinavia had discussed the matter with him.3 Some acquaintance with the story of this Norse figure must have had, in view of the distinction he makes between Shakespeare’s Hamlet and “the genuine Amloði”; the particular source of his information it is, however, impossible to ascertain.
During 1887, the year in which the letter containing this interesting reference to Amloði was written; we also find that Morris introduced two brief Scandinavian allusions in the Commonweal. In an article called “Artist and Artisan: As an Artist Sees It,” which appeared on September 10th, he pointed out that “when art is hopeful and progressive there is plenty of it for every one and every one is in some sense an artist and … all can understand” what the artist  does;1 and then, after citing Homer and Beowulf, he said, “No other authors have the splendid literature of our Scandinavian kinsmen, the best tale-tellers the world has seen, through whom we can to-day live with the people of Northern Europe in the tenth century, and know them, not as puppets of chivalry romance, but good fellows such as our living friends are to-day.”2 A month later, in the issue for October 8th, he referred to a number of Irish Socialists who had defended themselves with unusual courage in an encounter with the police as “champions after the heart of the old Norse story-tellers….”3
About a year later, on September 15tg, Morris referred again to Iceland in the Commonweal; pointing out that “life in a poor country is much more happy for a poor person than in a rich one,” he state,
I remember when I was in Iceland, whose poverty is deeper that most English people could conceive of, being much struck with this. In conversation with my guide, and intelligent and well-read man, I could not make him so much as the difference of lasses in civilization; and I say without hesitation that in that wretchedly poor country the people are generally happy, because they have not a trace of the degradation which our inequalities force upon the poor of a rich country.4
In an article called “Ducks and Fools,” which appeared in the issue of the Commonweal dated April 6, 1889, we find Morris making an interesting comparison between the way in which the elder ducks in Iceland were robbed of their down and the manner in which the poor  people, in his opinion, were deprived of their property by the rich in a capitalistic society; the article deserves to be quoted in its entirety:
When I was in Iceland, I was told about the habits of the elder ducks, which breed in great quantities in the little islets scattered about the firths there, and also of their treatment. They, of course, get their own living; they are pretty good to eat, but not very good; so they are not allowed to be shot, because they produce valuable down, which can be got at by the following process: They make their nests on the ground in the above-mentioned islets; the duck half strips her breast of the down to line her nest; this down is at once collared from the nest by those who are privileged to do so according to law. Then the duck pulls off the rest of her down, as she is anxious to sit and hatch; comes the legal owner of the down, and takes that also. Then comes the drake and half strips himself; this also the legal owner takes, grumblings because the drake’s down is coarser, and also because his game is over; for now the poor devils of ducks would not hatch their eggs unless the drake were allowed to line the nest with all that remains to him. Therefore this time the down is not taken; the eggs are allowed to be hatched, so that in due time they may fulfil the function of their lives, and produce down for others’ use. Moral: Ducks are obliged to stand this from Icelanders; but why Englishmen should stand similar usage from Englishmen is a curious question.1
A few months later Morris made some interesting comments in the Commonweal on Ibsen. Referring to the unfavorable reception that “A Doll’s House” had received from the critics, he states,
It is not difficult of explanation: whatever may be the demerits of “A Doll’s House” as an acting play (by the way, if it is different from an ordinary modern play it must be better…) – I say in any case it is a piece of the truth about modern society clearly and forcibly put. Therefore clearly it doesn’t suit the critics, who are parasites of the band of robbers called modern society. Great is Diana of the Ephesians! But if my memory serves me, her rites were not distinguished for purity.
I note that the critics say that Ibsen’s plays are pessimistic; so they are – to pessimists, and all intelligent person who are not Socialists are pessimists. But the representation of the corruption of society carries with it in Ibsen’s works aspirations for a better state of things, and that is not pessimism. Therefore Socialists recognize in them another token of the new dawn.2
In connection with these remarks on “A Doll’s House,” I should like to  call attention to the account Miss Morris gives, in one of her Prefaces, of her father’s opinion of Ibsen and his fellow-Norwegian Bjőrnson; after commenting on her father’s strong dislike of the theatre in general, she states,
My poor father! We made him go to Ibsen performances too, when Ibsen appeared on the horizon. One or two of the plays that he either read or saw acted amused him, and of others he admitted the value, but he viewed the stir and current of life around him too sanely and far-sightedly to be ever carried away by a backeddy, and Ibsen’s art (or art-lessness) left him unmoved in the long run.
Ibsen naturally calls up Bjőrnson [sic] , and in passing I will not how highly he spoke of the latter’s little story Synnové Synbakken [sic] . Something in the quality of it touched him exceedingly when he first read it, and indeed there is a certain kinship between such tales and his own latest romances. The taciturn life in constant struggle with Nature, and sober rejoicing in her not lightly yielded gifts; the sweetness of the little maid and the shy wooing under difficulties, the “queerness” of some of the minor characters, the grave spaciousness of the Northern mountain-country with its miniature patches of human mirth here and there: you can recognize in all this what it was that appealed to him and was familiar.1
In the same year that he commented upon Ibsen in the Commonweal – that is, in 1889 -, Morris delivered a lecture on “Gothic Architecture,” in the course of which he referred briefly to the institution of the Varangian Guard in Constantinople during the Middle Ages; as he is describing the way in which the Crusades carried Byzantine art to the West, he pointed out that this movement from the East to the West did not actually begin with the Crusades, for there
“was a thin stream of pilgrims setting eastward long before, and the Scandinavians had found their way to Byzantium, not as pilgrims but as soldiers, and under the name of Vo͜erings a bodyguard of their blood upheld the throne of the Greek Kaiser, and many of them, returning home, bore with them ideas of art which were not lost on their scanty but energetic populations….2
I have already called attention to several earlier allusions in  Morris’s works to the Varangian Guard.1
The most interesting lecture of all remains to be discussed; this talk, which may Morris says was delivered “to a Socialist audience,” has never been published in its entirety, but copious extracts from the address were printed by Miss Morris in her William Morris: Artist Writer Socialist.2 The date of the lecture is not known, but it must have been delivered in the eighties or early nineties, and I shall therefore discuss it at this point. It is a very important document for the present study, for it shows that Morris was extremely well acquainted with all the important Icelandic sagas; moreover, the account of the sagas given here is by far the fullest discussion of Old Norse literature by Morris that has come down to us.
At the opening of the extract from this lecture that Miss Morris printed in 1936, Morris is pointing out to his audience that in Iceland in the Middle Ages manual labor was not considered a disgrace, and that in the sagas even the chieftains are represented as working with their hands; he says,
...one chief is working in his hay-field at a crisis of his fortune; another is mending a gate, a third sowing his corn, his cloak and sword laid by a in a corner of the field: another is a great house-builder, another a ship-builder; one chief says to his brother one eventful morning: “there’s the calf to be killed and the viking to be fought. Which of us shall kill the calf, and which shall fight the viking?”3
It is of course impossible to ascertain with certainty just which character Morris is referring to in each of these cases, but some, at  least, of these figures can be fairly definitely identified. The first man referred to may be Gisli Thorgautson, whom Bardi fell upon and slew one day while he was mowing haw, as the Heiðarvíga saga tells us;1 or he may be Arnkel, in the Eyrbyggja saga, whom Snorri the Priest and his men attacked and killed one night when he was bringing home his hay in the moonlight.2 In his second example, Morris alludes to a chieftain who was mending a gate at a crucial moment of his life. I do not know of any such situation in the sagas; perhaps Morris had in mind Arnkell of the Eyrbyggja saga, who, a year before he was slain by Snorri as I have just mentioned, was attacked by Thorlief while he was busy working on the outer door of his house.3 The chief who sows his corn, with his sword and cloak laid in a corner of the field, is almost certainly Gunnar of the Njáls saga, whom Otkell rode upon and injured with his spurs while he was so engaged.4 The “great house-builder” may be Uspak of the Eyrbyggja saga, who turned his stead into an almost impregnable fortress.5 the “ship-builder” whom Morris had in mind may be either Skallagrim in the Egils saga or Thorolf, the brother of Skallagrim, both of whom were famous as makers of ships.6 Finally, the two chiefs whose conversation concerning the killing of the calf and the viking is referred to at the end of the passage quoted  are Gisli and Thorbjorn, the sons of Thorkel Goldhelm, the occasion of this remark being described in the opening chapter of the Gísla saga Súrssonar.1
Morris next discusses the position of women in medieval Iceland, calling attention to fact that Icelandic women are often considered a blow or an insult a sufficient cause for divorce.2 There are numerous accounts in the sagas of divorces for such reasons; two of the most striking cases, both of which Morris undoubtedly know and to which I have already referred in my discussion of the dramatic fragment “Anthony,” are Thordis’s divorce from Bork in the Eyrbyggja saga because of the fact that he had struck her when she tried to slay his guest Eyolf,3 and Gudrun’s separation from Thorvald, her first husband, in the Laxda͜ela saga, for the simple reason that he became impatient at her demands for expensive jewelry and boxed her ears.4
The next point that Morris considers is the courage of the early Norsemen. “Tears,” he says, ‘are not common in Northern stories, though they sometimes come in curiously as in the case of Slaying Glum, of whom it is told that when someone of his exploits was at hand he was apt to have a sudden access of weeping, the tears rattling on the floor like hail-stones; this of course was involuntary and purely physical.”5 In this passage we meet with the first definite reference in the works of Morris to the Víga-Glúms saga.6 The characteristic of Glum to which he here refers is described early in the story, shortly  before Glum slays Sigmund.1 Morris goes on to say in his account of the courage of the early Scandinavians that normally the Norsemen gave no expression to their grief or pain. When Grettir comes home from abroad, for example, and learns that his father and brother are dead and he himself outlawed, he sings a stave and continues to be merry.2 Again, “Ingiald of the Wells, when he hears of the death of Njal, falls down in a faint and the blood gushes out of his ears and nose; when he comes to himself, he reproaches himself for behaving like a weak women.”3 Here Morris makes a slight mistake, for it was Ingiald of the Wells but Thorhall Asgrimsson who acted in this way at the news of the burning of Njál.4 Finally Morris tells how a certain chief came home from a fight and bade his thrall undress him; when the boy could not pull off his master’s breeches, the youth exclaimed, “ ‘…you sons of Snorri may well be thought great dandies if you wear your breeches so tight.’ The chief bids him feel up his thigh, and lo there is a broken arrow-shaft nailing his breeches to him, of which he scorned to complain.”5 Morris here almost certainly had in mind the story told about Thorod Thorbrandson in the Eyrbyggja saga.6 According to the account given there, however, it was Snorri the Priest who dis-
 [notice about Harvard]
 very touching story of Ingimundr and Hrolleifr from the Vatnsda͜ela saga, a tale which seems to have moved him a great deal. Old Ingimundr, while acting as peace-maker, is wounded by Hrolleifr, an ungrateful wretch, but he goes home without telling his sons of his injury so that Hrolleifr may have time to escape; and he dies alone in his high-seat before the young men return to the hall.1 Morris says that he cannot refrain from relating the sequel of this story:
Ingimund had two freedmen to whom he had given land; and when the news of his death came to one of them he drew his “sax” or short sword and saying, “If Ingimund is dead, the world is not good for me,” he stabbed himself mortally, and before he died pulled out the weapon and, giving it to the messenger, said, “Take this to so and so (the other freedman), and tell him what you have seen”: and so died; and when the messenger gave the sax to the other he followed his example at once.2
Morris’s account of Eyvindy and Gautr’s reception of the news of Ingimund’s death, it should perhaps be pointed out, is somewhat more dramatic than it is in the original, for the saga merely states that Eyvindr slew himself by falling on his sword, and it does not say that Eyvindr sent his sword to Gautr.3
Morris continues his discussion of life in medieval Iceland by pointing out that the “Northmen were not above using the weapons of
deceit in their struggles for life and fortune…”;1 he refers briefly to “old Slaying Glum, who, skillful in oaths like Autolycus, swore himself off in Court.”2 Morris is here referring to the very ingenious oath which Glum swore in regard to the slaying of Thorvald; the oath was so phrased, that by a slight shift in accent, the meaning could be entirely changed. As Glum repeated it, the oath meant that he had not killed Thorvald; but he did not perjure himself, for what he really did say was that he had slain him, as he had actually done.3
At the end of the quotations that Miss Morris prints from this lecture by her father, Morris calls attention to the Norseman’s worship of fame, and translates one of the two famous stanzas on fame in the “Hávamál”:
Waneth wealth and fadeth friend,
And we ourselves shall die;
But fair fame dieth nevermore,
If well ye come thereby.4
However, he hastens to add,
…this was not the worship of success; on the contrary, success that came without valour was somewhat despised: says the Sagaman, e.g., “The Knytlinga were very lucky men, but not very valorous.”…The practiced reader of a saga always knows when he is drawing near to the death of the hero, for the style heightens, the tale-teller remembers more poetry, and a kind of halo seems to
gild the presence of a man who is now about to make his fame safe forever.1
Finally, I should like to point out that at some time during the period we have been considering, Morris seems also to have written the short poem called “State-Aided Emigration in 889” which Miss Morris thinks was the result of her father’s discussion of schemes of emigration in the Commonweal, Morris depicts the departure, evidently for Iceland or other islands in the west, of a whole family of Norwegians – grandparents, parents, young men and women, children, and thralls -, in order that they may escape the distasteful rule of King Harald. Morris is not, so far as I know, describing any specific embarkation referred to in the sagas. He tries, however, to make his imaginary scene realistic by giving all the characters mentioned typical Scandinavian names, such as Rut, Rolf, Thora, Asny, Asta, Biorn, Brand, and Gudrun. We also find him introducing into the poem a great many kennings – some of them borrowed from Old Norse poetry, some coined for the occasion; thus, he refers to the ship, ready to be launched, as “the Wood’s Daughter” and “the Maid of the Tree,” to battle as the “spear-drift,” to the ocean as “the pathless wet meadow-land,” and to the boats in the sea as “pasturing bisons oar-driven.” The poem is written in heroic couplets, four couplets making a stanza; there are five stanzas in all.
In the course of the late 1880’s, as I pointed out above,1 Morris gradually gave up his active participation in the work of the Socialist movement, and began once again to take an interest in art and literature for their own sake. The first original work he produced during this decade which was not directly inspired by his devotion to Socialism was A Tale of the House of the Wolfings and All the Kindreds of the Mark, a long story in prose and verse which appeared in December, 1888.2 The new form of literary expression that Morris tried in this work must have appealed to him considerably, for this book was followed by a series of seven stories of a similar nature, these eight prose romances, The House of the Wolfings, The Roots of the Mountains, The Story of the Glittering Plain, Of Child Christopher and Fair Goldelind, The Wood Beyond the World, The Well at the World’s End, The Water of the Wondrous Isles, and The Sundering Flood, constituting practically all of his creative writing during the eight remaining years of his life. It is well known that all these tales in varying degrees, both in regard to form and substance, were influenced by the early Icelandic literature which Morris had studied with such zeal a decade earlier and which, judging from the facts presented in the preceding pages, we can be sure he had continued to study, with less exclusive devotion undoubtedly but nevertheless with affection and admiration, during the leisure moments of the years of his public activity; Scandinavian features in the
plots and in the general form of these romances have been pointed out and discussed in all the more important treatments of Morris’s literary works, the most extensive discussion of this matter being found in Arthur Biber’s Studien zu William Morris’ Prose-Romances.1 The influence of the sagas on these tales was, however, far greater than has been indicated in these works; in my discussion of these eight prose romances in the following pages, I shall try to point out all the significant Scandinavian elements in these stories, in order to make clear how very extensive the influence of Morris’s Northern studies upon these tales really was.
The first of these works, The House of the Wolfings, which describes one of the conflicts between the Goths and the Romans in the early centuries of the Christian Era, is the romance which beats the most marks of Morris’s close familiarity with the sagas. In the first place it should be noted that the very form of this work recalls to a certain extent the Icelandic tales; as Mackail remarks, “The use, as the vehicle of the story, of a mixed mode of prose and verse, was…suggested by the Icelandic sagas, but used in a fresh and quite delightful way.”2 Even more striking is the influence of
the sagas upon the general tone of the romance; Miss May Morris, comparing this work with the one that followed – The Roots of the Mountains -, describes this saga atmosphere well:
The House of the Wolfings is entirely conceived in the spirit of the Sagas, certain phrases in it, such “and Thiodolf bore Throngplough to mound with him,” carrying one to the Northern heroic times; it belongs to the Sagas in its remoteness, its breadth of handling and absence of elaborated detail. There is more of the epic quality about it: the thread of fate weaves in and out of the human action, the men and women speak little, and that with stern high courage, about personal griefs and loves, and the Hall-Sun is a more truly heroic figure than any of the gracious women in The Roots of the Mountains.1
When we examine the romance in detail, we find that Morris not only imitated the sagas in the form and general style of his tale, but that he also introduced into his story many feature of Norse life, drawing primarily on the saga accounts for his information regarding these details. For example, many of the terms relating to the government of the Goths remind us of the sagas. As Biber points out, the Goths in the tale, like the early Scandinavians,
call their assemblies “Things”1 or “folk-motes,”2 the meeting-place of a Thing is termed a “Thing-stead,”3 and at the Thing we find a “Doomring.”4 References to “Things,” “folk-motes,” and “Thing-steads” are so common in Old Norse literature that it is not necessary to trace Morris’s acquaintance with these names to any definite source. The term “domhringr,” the name given to the circle of stones within which the judges sat at all Scandinavian Thing-steads, occurs less frequently, but, as I have previously stated, is found in several of the sagas Morris had translated.5 It should also be pointed out that at one of the Thing-steads of the Goths, as it is described in The House of the Wolfings, there is a Hill-of-Speech;6 in introducing this feature Morris very likely had in mind the Old Norse “pingbrekka,” the mound at Scandinavian Thing-steads from which speeches and announcements were made. It is not surprising that Morris was familiar with the “pingbrekka,” for it is frequently mentioned in the sagas7 and he had also seen the mound for the Speaker at Law on the Hill of Laws at Thingvellir in 1871.8 There
is also one brief allusion in the tale to the “hallowing” of the Thing;1 I shall postpone my discussion of this early Scandinavian custom until I treat the next romance, The Roots of the Mountains, where this practice is described in detail.2
Very apparent, moreover, is the influence of the sagas on Morris’s account of the large hall in which the chief men of the Wolfings lived.3 As Charles Elton in his review of the tale in the Academy points out, this building with its two rows of pillars going lengthwise down the hall dividing it into a nave and two aisles, the sleeping-places in the aisles, and the three hearths down the center of the room with a luffer or smoke-bearer above each one, resembles very closely the typical Icelandic “skali,” as it is described by Morris and Magnússon in their notes to the translation of the Grettis saga.4 Another striking Scandinavian feature not mentioned by Elton is the designation of the two doors of the hall as the Man’s door and the Woman’s door.5
We also find that Morris introduced into his story several terms relating to Norse methods of warfare. In his study Biber lists several passages containing allusions to “fighting if the hazelled field”;6 with this Norse practice we have already on several occasions seen that Morris was familiar.7 Another Norse fighting custom
which is found in The House of the Wolfings but which is not pointed out by Biber or by other scholars is the circulation of the “war-arrow” among the tribes of the Goths as a means of calling out the army;1 most likely the Heimskringla, in which the “orboð” is mentioned repeatedly,2 was the source of Morris’s information regarding this practice.
Very numerous are the allusions made in the tale to the gods and the lesser supernatural beings of the early Scandinavians. Throughout the story we find references to Odin3 or the Father of the Slain,4 Frey,5 Tyr,6 the Norns,7 the Disir,8 the Anses,9 Valhalla,10, Godhome,11
and Ragnarők;1 the names “Odin” and “Valhalla” occur usually in such Old Norse expressions for “dying” as “wending to Odin’s home”2 and “going on the road to Valhall.”3 The Valkyries are alluded to in the epithet “Chooser of the Slain,” which is applied to one character in the story.4 We also find the Old Norse term “Vala” used in one case for a seeress.5 With all this material Morris had undoubtedly become acquainted through Thorpe’s Northern Mythology and Mallet’s Northern Antiquities. I should also be noted that in his description of the sacrifices to the gods – the killing of the horses, the collecting of the blood, the sprinkling of the blood upon the people, and the eating of the flesh not given to the gods -, Morris seems to have had the sacrifices of the early Scandinavians in mind, for he follows closely the accounts given in the sagas with which we know he was familiar.6
Especially numerous and interesting are the allusions found in the tale to the god Tyr. Again and again Morris refers to the Goths as “the sons of Tyr” or “the children of Tyr.”7 In using these kennings
he may have had in mind the epithet “Týs áttungr,” which is applied to a chieftain as a mark of distinction in the Ynglingatal in a passage with which Morris was almost certainly acquainted through his translation of the early part of the Heimskringla,1 and also in the Haleygiatal,2 which it is less likely that he knew; this phrase “Týs-áttungr,” according to Cleasby and Vigfússon’s Icelandic-English Dictionary, means “the offspring of the gods,” “Tyr” being used here as “the generic name of the highest divinity.”3 It is also possible that Morris was referring to Tyr specifically as the god of war, and that he introduced the expression “sons of Tyr” as a synonym for “warriors”; as Magnússon states in one of the Indexes in Volume VI of The Saga Library, the name “Tyr” was often “used in kennings to signify a man, a warrior.”4 In one case Morris seems to be alluding definitely to Tyr as the ruler over battle, for in a song of victory that he represents the Goths as singing, we learn that the enemy came to the slaughter,
“Yeasaying the dooming of Tyr of the fight.”5
Some of the references to Tyr are not entirely clear. Thus, we read in one passage that Thiodolf, the leader of the Goths, did not want any of the Romans to escape, “but would give them all to Tyr….”6
The context makes it almost certain that Morris is employing the expression “to give them to Tyr” to signify “to slay them”; but this metaphor, so far as I have been able to ascertain, is never used in Old Norse. Extremely puzzling is the expression “the Stone of Tyr,” which occurs in a poem dealing with a victory of the Markmen, the Goths, over the Romans:
“They drew the sword in the cities, they came and struck the stroke
And smote the shield of the Markmen, and point and edge they broke.
They drew the sword in the war-garth, they swore to bring back.
God’s gifts from the Markmen houses where the tables never lack.
O Markmen, take the God-gifts that came on their own feet
O’er the hills through the Mirkwood thicket the Stone of Tyr to meet!”1
This phrase, “the Stone of Tyr,” which is not to be found in early Scandinavian poetry,2 may possibly refer to “Throng-plough,” the mighty sword of Thiodolf, the leader of the Goths, or to the weapons of the Goths as a whole.3 Interesting also is the allusion made to Tyr by Arinborn, the captain of the Bearing host, who, deeply incensed by the Romans’ burning of the Bearing hall, foolishly urges a small band of Goths to fall upon the superior forces of the enemy at once, instead of waiting for the main body of the army to arrive on the scene; he asks ironically, “Yea if the Bearing women be all slain, yet shall not Tyr make us new ones out of the stones of the waste to wed with the Galtings and the fish-eating Houses? – this is easy to be done forsooth.
of this story and that told in the opening chapter of Sorla páttr, which Morris had translated and published in Three Northern Love Stories in 1875.1 There Freyia, passing a cave, is filled with a burning desire to possess a collar on which four dwarfs are working; they agree to give her this treasure if she will lie on night with each; at this point the similarity ends, for in this tale the goddess yields fully and as a result wins the desired object without the attachment of any malediction. There is no exact Norse parallel to the second part of Morris’s story, but the uttering of curses by dwarfs upon people who have in some way mistreated them is a rather common occurrence in the semi-mythological tales of the North; in concluding this episode as he did, Morris may not only have been guided by a desire to keep the character of the Wood-Sun unspotted, but may also have had in mind the curse which the dwarf Andvari laid upon his gold when Loki forced him to give it up,2 or the curse which the dwarfs Dulin and Dvalin fastened upon the sword Tyrfing, which Svafrlami had compelled them against their will to forge.3 It should also be pointed out that in representing the Wood-Sun as rendering the dwarf helpless by het setting a “sleep-thorn” in him, Morris is likewise borrowing from Scandinavian legends; the use of a “sleep-thorn” plays a prominent part, for example, in the story of the Volsungs.4
To his study of the sagas we can also fairly safely attribute the fact that he represents one of the characters, the Wood-Sun, as possessing “the power and craft of shape-changing.”5 In the Old
Norse literature we find that one of the powers ascribed to Odin was the ability to alter his shape and to travel whithersoever he wished in this assumed form, and that he shared this gift with some of the lesser deities, who were thus also said to be “hamrammr.”1 Of course, as Morris and Magnússon state in a note regarding this subject in Volume II of The Saga Library, the belief in shape-changing “is not peculiar to the North, though few people’s literature is so full of it as the Icelandic….”2 That it was the Scandinavian accounts of this belief that led Morris to introduce it here and also in later tales seems rather likely in view of the fact that in The Roots of the Mountains he refers to a woman thought to be gifted with this power by the unusual term “skin-changer,”3 which is the name he had used for such people in his translations of saga allusions to this belief.4
Less important are the other details apparently borrowed from the sagas. Thus, on two occasions in the tale we meet with brief references to the drinking of “the Horn of Remembrance” or “the Cup of Renown”;5 in introducing these allusions Morris very likely had in mind the very common early Scandinavian custom of drinking a cup to the memory of some dead ancestor or chieftain, the draining of this cup of memory, or “minni,” being often accompanied by the
swearing of oaths.1 It was likewise undoubtedly his study of the sagas that led him to represent certain weapons of the Goths as being covered with runes,2 and that caused him to apply the term “howes” to the burial mounds of the Goths.3 It is also not at all unlikely that the song which one of the old warriors sings over the body of the hero Thiodolf4 was suggested to Morris by the “kva͜eði” which Eyvind Skald-spiller composed on the death of King Hakon the Good and which closes the Hákonar saga goða in the Heimskringla,5 for in both compositions we have a rather similar account of the death of the hero in battle, his approach to Valhalla, and his reception by the gods. Moreover, we also find Morris introducing allusions here, as he had already done in several earlier works, to the custom of swearing oaths over the Yule Boar6 and to the use of “peace-strings” on swords.7 Finally, one other very prominent Scandinavian feature of the tale,- one which is commented upon by Biber in his study – must be pointed out, and that is the nomenclature. As Biber says, in The House of the Wolfings “sind die Namen fast durchweg aus dem Altnordischen űbernommen…. Wenn sie kein altnordisches Äquivalent haben, so sind sie doch jedenfalls
in altnordischem Sinne gebildet.”1 This matter is fully discussed by Biber, and needs no further comment here, except for one name. Morris refers to a mountain as “Braodshield-fell.”2 It seems to me very likely that in giving it this name he had in mind “Skialdbreið” in Iceland, a prominent peak which he had passed both on the outward and homeward journeys during his tour of Iceland in 1871.3 In Morris’s next romance also we find a mountain named “Shield-broad.”4 There, in his first mention of it, he says that the men, as they travelled over the mountains, caught sight of “a low peak spreading down on all sides to the plain, till it was like to a bossed shield, and the name of it was Shield-broad.”5 In the Journal he kept of his first Iceland tour he describes “Skialdbreið” in very similar terms, for he says, “…we see ahead…the wide spreading cone of Skialdbreið (Broad-shield) which is in fact just like a round shield with a boss….”6
Before leaving this tale, I should like to point out that in one of the verse forms Morris used for the poetical passages which he introduced here and there throughout the story, he was almost certainly imitating the metre of early Germanic poetry. In the great majority of his verse interludes, Morris employed hexameter couplets, the verse form of his Sigurd the Volsung, but in four cases he used stanzas made up of four, six, or eight two-stress
lines followed by six four-stress lines.1 The nature of the feet varies considerably, but they are usually anapests or iambs. The rhythmical effect of this metre is a similar to that of the early Germanic four-accent lines with a definite break in the middle. This resemblance to the early poetry of the North is heightened by the free use of alliteration and by the occasional introduction of a kenning. In one respect, however, Morris departs entirely from early usage, for he rhymes every two lines, thus giving the stanza a certain smoothness which is entirely foreign to the early poetry. Finally, it should be pointed out that if in these particular verse passages Morris was imitating in a general way the form of early Germanic poetry – and there seems to be little doubt that he was so doing -, we cannot of course definitely attribute his use of this metre to his study of Old Norse poetry, for he undoubtedly was acquainted with Anglo-Saxon verse also, which employs the same metrical pattern; however, at this time he had not made any close study of Old English poetry, but, as we have seen, he had turned into English a great deal of early Icelandic poetry, so that it is much more likely that it was the Eddic and skaldic verse that he knew which led him to use this particular verse form. The following stanzas may serve as an example of this metre:
“‘Have ye not heard
Of the ways of Weird?
How the folk fared forth
Far away from the North?
And as light as one wendeth
Whereas the wood endeth
When of nought is our need,
And none telleth out deed,
So Rodgeir unwearied and Reidfari wan
The town where none tarried the shield-shaking men.
All lonely the street there, and void was the way
And nought hindered our feet but the dead men that lay
Under shield in the lanes of the houses heavens-high
All the ring-bearing swains that abode there to die.’”1
Near the end of the tale we find a short poem of six two-stress lines which resembles the early poetry even more closely, for here there is no rhyme:
“Now, now, ye War-sons!
Now the Wolf waketh!
Lo how the Wood-beast
Wendeth in onset.
E’en as his feet fare
Fall on and follow!”2
I have tried to show in the foregoing discussion that the influence of the Icelandic sagas upon The House of Wolfings, both in form and substance, was considerable. Very marked is the influence that this body of literature exerted upon Morris’s next prose romance also, The Roots of the Mountains, which was begun in January, 1889, about a month after The House of the Wolfings appeared, was completed in October, and was in the hands of the public in November of the same year.3 In this story, which is laid in an indefinite location at an equally vague time and which describes an attack made by several tribes of noble, stalwart men, the most notable being the Tribe of the Face and the Tribe of the Wolf, upon an encroaching race of a decidedly inferior nature called the dusky Men, the number of Scandinavian details is equally as great as – if not greater than – in the first; but this tale as a whole has less of the saga atmosphere, for, as compared with the first, it is less heroic and elevated in tone, the expression lacks much of the terseness and restraint that was prominent in The House
of the Wolfings, and throughout the tale we find more warmth, color, and sentiment. Mackail says of this work,
For combination and balance of his qualities it may perhaps be ranked first among his prose romances. It has not the strength of its predecessor, “the House of the Wolfings,” nor the fairy charm of its successor, “The Wood beyond the World.” But in its union of the gravity of the Saga with the delicate and profuse ornament of the romance, it may perhaps take the first place among the three as a work of art.1
When we compare Morris’s later romances with the first two, we find that this change in style from the method of the sagas to that of the romances becomes more and more pronounced, so that in the last tales that came from his pen we have pure romance. Oliver Elton in his A Survey of English Literature: 1780-1880 describes this development thus:
The tales change in character. The process from Jason to Sigurd begins to be reversed. The romances begin in a saga-like and a more heroic manner, and end in a softer and more shimmering one. The comparative precision of time, place, and trappings in The House of the Wolfings contrasts with the dateless enchanted land of the last unfinished story, The Sundering Flood. This recession from reality may be described as a movement from epic to romance.2
I shall comment further upon this change in connection with the later romances.
As I have already said, we find a host of Scandinavian details introduced into The Roots of the Mountains. As in the first romance, a number of the terms used in connection with the legislative and
judiciary activities of the people described are reminiscent of the sagas. Almost countless are the references to the “Thing,”1 the “Folk-thing,”2 the “Gate-thing,”3, the “Thing-stead,”4 the “Mote,”5 the “Folk-mote,”6 the “man-mote,”7 the “Mote-stead,”8 the “Mote-field,”9 the “Mote-hall,”10 the “Mote-house,”11 the
“Doom-ring,”1 and the “Speech-mound.”2 Furthermore, in many of the accounts that Morris gives in this tale of the procedure followed at the various “Things” and “Motes,” he draws upon Scandinavian sources. Thus, on two occasions he describes in detail the ceremony of “hallowing the Thing”; the second account, which is the longer one, runs thus:
So the Alderman fell to hallowing in the Folk-mote: he went up to the Altar of the Gods, and took the Gold-ring off it, and did it on his arm; then he drew his sword and waved it toward the four airts, and spake; and the noise and shouting fell, and there was silence but for him:
“Herewith I hallow in this Folk-mote of the Men of the Dale and the Sheepcotes and the Woodland, in the name of the Warrior and the Earth-god and the Fathers of the kindreds. Now let not the peace of the Mote be broken. Let no man rise against man, or bear blade or hand, or stick or stone against any. If any man break the Peace of the Holy Mote, let him be a man accursed, a wild-beast in the Holy Places; an outcast from home and hearth, from bed and board, from mead and acre; not to be holpen with bread, nor flesh, nor wine; nor flax, nor wool, nor any cloth; nor with sword, nor shield, nor axe, nor plough-share; nor with horse, nor ox, nor ass; with no saddle-beast nor draught-beast; nor with wain, nor boat, nor way-leading; now with fire nor water; nor with any world’s wealth. Thus let him who hath cast out man be cast out by man. Now is hallowed-in the Folk-mote of the Men of the Dale and the Sheepcotes and the Woodlands.”
Therewith he waxed his sword again toward the four airts, and went and sat down in his place.3
In the early literature of Scandinavia there are numerous references to this custom of “hallowing the Thing,”1 but there is not, so far as I know, any complete description of the ceremony, so that for his accounts Morris must have drawn to a great extent upon his own imagination. One detail, the chieftain’s wearing of the gold-ring on his arm, is frequently mentioned in the sagas; one of the best descriptions of this ring is to be found in the Eyrbyggja saga,2 which was either the first or the second work that Morris translated from the Icelandic. His account of the Alderman’s waving his sword “toward the four airts” at the beginning and at the end of the ceremony seems, however, to be his own invention, for this detail is not mentioned in the Scandinavian accounts. Moreover, the speech of the Alderman is apparently in great part Morris’s own. The formula or formulae that were used in opening the ancient Scandinavian Things are not given in the sagas or the early Scandinavian lay-books. However, there is an Old Norse formula fairly similar to Morris’s, which is called the “tyrgðamál,” or the “speech of truce”; this is presented in full in two of the sagas which we know Morris translated into English.3 It is not at all unlikely that he had this Old Norse oath in mind when he composed the speech of the Alderman, for in the “tyrgðamál” we find a rather
similar punishment promised to anyone who should break the peace, and the nature of the punishment is here graphically described, as in the passage from Morris, through the piling up of concrete, vivid images, most of which are grouped together in alliterative phrases. Thus, in Morris’s translation of the “tyrgðamál” we read,
“This is the beginning of our speech of truce, that God may be at peace with us all; so also shall we be men at peace between ourselves and of good accord, at ale and at eating, at meets and at man-motes, at church-goings and in king’s house….Knife we shall share and shorn meat, yea, and all other things between us, even as friends and not foes….But he of us who tramples on truce settled, or fights after full troth given, he shall be so far wolf-driven and chased, as men furthest follow up wolves, Christian men churches seek, heathen men temples tend, fires flare up, earth grows green, son names a mother’s name, ships sail, shields glitter, sun shines, snow wanes, Fin skates….
“He shall shun churches and Christian men, God’s houses and men’s, and every home but hell….
“Now are we at one, and at peace wheresoever we meet on land or on water, on ship or on snowshoe, on high seas or horseback:
Oars to share
Thoft or thole plank
If that be needful.
…Let him have the grace of God who holdeth the truce, but him have God’s grame who riveth rightful truce…..1
At one of the Things described in The Roots of the Mountains, a chieftain who is momentarily carried away by his ire forgets the sanctity of the assembly and draws his sword, but before he can strike a blow he is quieted by calmer spirits; for this “troubling of the Peace of the Holy Thing” he pays a fine.2 Breaking the peace of the Thing seems to have been a fairly common
occurrence in Scandinavia; there are a number of references to this offence in the sagas.1
In the description that he gives in The Roots of the Mountains of the treatment of the crime of “manslaying” in this early state, Morris also introduces several customs often mentioned in the sagas. Thus, when Folk-might, the chief of an alien tribe, is driven by the force of necessity to plunder the home of a miserly member of the House of the Face, and in so doing slays a man, he leaves his spear in the wound “so that he might be known hereafter, and that he might be said not to have murdered Rusty but to have slain him.”2 Such was the usual procedure in early Scandinavia also, according to the sagas.3 As a result of this robbery and killing, Folk-might, who is then unknown to all but one of the members of the tribe of the Face, is outlawed;4 later, when Folk-might and some of his followers come to one of the Folk-motes of the House of the Face to seek the aid of this tribe against the Dusky Men, Folk-might confesses his guilt and offers to make atonement, either by paying a fine, “handselling self-doom” to his accuser, or by accepting a challenge to “Holmgang.”5 The punishing of robbery or
manslaughter by a sentence of outlawry or by the imposition of a fine is repeatedly mentioned in the sagas,1 these being the usual penalties inflicted not only in medieval Scandinavia but among all the early Germanic tribes; definitely Scandinavian, however, are the “handselling of self-doom” and the “challenging to Holmgang.” “Hansel,” se Biber, who comments on these two expressions, points out in the section of his study called “Supren des Altnordischen,” is explained in one of the indexes to Volume I of Morris and Magnússon’s Saga Library as “the customary sign manual to a binding contract in an illiterate age,” and the term”self-doom” is defined at the end of Volume II of the same series as “a sort of legal surrender at discretion by the offender.”2 Both words, “handsala” and “sjalfda͜emi,” occur frequently in the sagas Morris knew.3 With the institution of “Holmgang” we have already seen that Morris was familiar.4
As I pointed out above, Folkmight offers to pay a fine for his slaying of Rusty; this offer being accepted, he is condemned to “pay a full blood-wite…, that is to say, the worth of three hundreds in weed-stuff in whatso goods thou wilt.”5 In stating the amount of the fine in these terms Morris is making use of one of the common early Scandinavian units of measure; as Vigfússon explains in his Dictionary, the word “hundrað” was often used to signfy “a hundred and twenty ells of the stuff wadmal, and then simply value to that amount….”6 However,
Vigfússon goes on to say, “In olden times a double standard was used,-the wool or wadmal standard…and a silver standard….It is probable that originally both standards were identical;…the wool standard is the usual one, but in cases of weregild the silver standard seems always to be understood….”1 Thus, although Morris was obviously trying to imitate the early Scandinavian custom, he departed slightly from the usual practice in expressing the amount of the fine in terms of “hundreds in weed-stuff.”2
In my treatment of Morris’s first romance I pointed out that the hall in which Morris represents the Wolfing men as living is very similar to the typical early Scandinavian hall.3 In The Roots of the Mountains he does not present any complete description of the home of the Tribe of the Face, but from the scattered regerences to “the hearth amidmost the hall,” the dais around the hearth, the “thwart-table,” the two doors “at the lower end of the hall…going into the butteries, and kitchen, and other out-bowers,” and the loft used as a sleeping chamber above these doors, it seems that he had the Norse type of structure in mind, although he introduced a few essentially non-Scandinavian details, such as stone-vaulting and stone pillars.4
One typically early Scandinavian domestic object which he mentions for the first time in The Roots of the Mountains is the “shut-bed.” Biber points out that according to one of the indexes in Volume I of The Saga Library, “shut-bed,” which occurs in The Story of Howard the Halt, is Morris’s translation of the Old Norse “lokrekkja,” which Vigfússon glosses as “a ‘lock-bed,’ a locked bed-closet, in ancient dwellings.”1 Morris represents the “shut-beds” as projecting from the sides of the hall, just as in early Scandinavian buildings.
Only one of the war-customs mentioned in The Roots of the Mountains is definitely Norse. This is the circulation of the “war-arrow” as a summons to arms,2 – a practice which I have already discussed in my comments on the Scandinavian elements in The House of the Wolfings.3 Often mentioned in the sagas, though it was by no means limited to the Scandinavian countries, is another war-custom described in this romance, - the “Weapon-show,”4 – which Vigfússon explains as “..a meeting where all the franklins had to appear and produce for inspection the arms which every man was lawfully bound to have….”5
In The House of the Wolfings we found frequent allusions to several of the deities and lesser supernatural beings of the early Scandinavians. In The Roots of the Mountains only one Norse god is men-
tioned – namely Thor; and he is always referred to by the epithet “the God of the Earth,” – never by his own name.1 So far as I know, this particular expression is never employed for Thor in the Old Norse prose and poetry.2 However, the epithet is perfectly intelligible and its use is entirely justified, for according to the Prose Edda, Thor was the son of Odin and the Earth,3 he was considered to be, as Vigfússon says, “…the friend of mankind, the defender of the earth, the ehavens, and the gods, for without Thor and his hammer the earth would become the helpless prey of the giants…,”4 and he was alluded to by early Scandinavian poets by such phrases as “Iarðar burr,” “Iarðar sonr,” “Hlóðynjar mőgr,” “Fiőrgynjar burr,” “grundar sveinn,” and “Miðgarðz veorr.”5 We also find that one of the Old Norse customs relating to the worship of Thor is imitated in this tale; Morris refers on several occasions to people making “the sign of the Earth-god’s Hammer,” over their food before beginning to eat.6 In heathen Scandinavia, as Magnússon states in Volume VI of The Saga Library, “men who confessed believing in nothing but their ‘might and main’ were in the habit, before quaffing festive cups, to make over them the sign of Thor’s hammer.”7 A particu-
larly interesting allusion to this practice occurs in the Saga Hákonar goða in the description of a blood-offering held at Ladir: when King Hakon, who has accepted Christianity ahead of his people, makes the sign of the cross over his cup, his heathen subjects grumble in disapproval, but Earl Sigurd, the faithful counsellor of Hakon, calms them by stating that it was the sign of the hammer that the king made over his drink.1
Aside from these references to Thor there are comparatively few allusions to Norse mythology in The Roots of the Mountains. Occasionally we come across the term “Chooser of the Slain,” as in the first romance.2 Moreover, in the description of the Hall of the Wolf we learn that a certain shield was “painted with the green world circled with the worm of the sea”;3 by this “worm of the sea” Morris must mean the “Miðgarðsormr.”4 In Gold-mane’s remark to his beloved that she is as beautiful as if she had “come down from the golden chairs of the Burg of the Gods,”5 Morris is apparently referring to Asgard.6 Somewhat more frequent are the allusions to the “trolls”;7 Morris’s trolls, it should be pointed out, are not the giants which the Prose Edda tells us that Thor was in the habit of combating, but the powerful, ugly, evil spirits which the early Christianized Norsemen believed inhabited the woods and mountains.8 Very interesting is the statement
 that the Dusky Men, when they were defending themselves in the Mote-house of the Wolf, even climbed up on the roof, where they “were riding the ridge and mocking like the trolls of old days”;1 in making this comparison Morris almost certainly had in mind the account in the Grettis saga of how Glam rode the house-roofs at Thorhall-stead.2
Although very few of the deities of the heathen Norsemen are mentioned, the religious background of the tale is decidedly early Scandinavian. In my comments on the ceremony of “hallowing the Thing,” I mentioned the golden ring which the Alderman wore on his arm. There a number of other allusions to this ring in the story; as in the sagas, it usually lies on the altar, but the pries or Alderman must always have it on his arm or on other holy occasions, and anyone making a particularly sacred vow or oath must take it in his right hand.3 Moreover, we are told that the men of that Tribe of the Face frequently held “…great feasts and made offerings to the Gods for the Fruitfulness of the Year, the Ingathering of the Increase, and in Memory of their Forefathers. Natheless at Yule-tide also they feasted from house to house to be glad with the rest of Midwinter, and many a cup they drank at those feasts to the memory of the fathers…”4 In ascribing these customs to the people of his story, Morris very likely had in mind some of the saga-accounts of the early Norse sacred festivals. In the chapter called “Of Odin’s Law-Making” in The Story of the Ynglings, for example Snorri Sturluson states, “Folk were to
hold sacrifice against the coming of winter for a good year; in midwinter for the growth of the earth; and a third in the summer that was an offering for gain and victory.”1 The Norse practice of drinking to the memory of one’s ancestors I have already discussed in my treatment of The House of the Wolfings.2 Another early Scandinavian custom of a sacred nature which is alluded to in the first romance3 is mentioned on several occasions in The Roots of the Mountains and is in one case described in detail: this is the custom of swearing oaths on the Holy Boar of Yule.4 Once Morris refers to the Holy Beast as the Boar of Atonement,5 evidently in imitation of the Old Norse “Sonargőltr,” this term being thus interpreted by scholars at the time.6
There remain a few Scandinavian features of a miscellaneous nature to be commented upon. The first four I shall treat are mentioned by Biber in his study. At the end of my discussion of The House of Wolfings I quoted some of Biber’s comments on the Norse character of the personal and place-names used in that tale;7 in regard to The Roots of the Mountains Biber points out that many of the names Morris introduced into this romance are likewise of Scandinavian origin, but he finds that the Norse influence on the nomenclature is not so extensive in this story as in the first.8 Moreover, Biber
notes, as most of the other critics of Morris who have dealt with this work have also done, that the descriptions of the mountain scenery in this tale – and even to a greater extent in some of the later ones – undoubtedly owe much of their vividness to the firsthand acquaintance with the landscape of Iceland which Morris had gained on his two visits to that country.1 In presenting specimens of such descriptions, Biber gives only one reference to The Roots of the Mountains, but there are several passages in this story containing pictures of typical Iceland scenery.2 Of less importance are the other miscellaneous matter I should like to mention here. In his discussion of “Spuren des Altnordischen” Biber lists the word “skids,” which occurs in the sense of “ski” several times in The Roots of the Mountain, both alone and in the combination “skid-strap”;3 Morris evidently used this word in imitation of the Old Norse term “skíð,” which he had occasionally met in his saga translations.4 The term “skin-changer,” the use of which Biber attributes to Morris’s Scandinavian studies,5 I have already discussed.6 It also seems to me rather likely that Morris’s description of a certain character as “a lucky man” because his enterprises turned out well7 is the result of his familiarity with the early Scandinavian
belief, often alluded to in the sagas,1 that every man was accompanied through life by a “hamingja,” or guardian spirit, and that in some cases the power of these “hamingjur” was greater than in others, so that some men were known as especially lucky and might even share their gift of luck with others on particular occasions. Also to be attributed to Morris’s study of the sagas is his use of the term “hundred” to signify one hundred and twenty units, as was the custom throughout early Scandinavia.2 Moreover, it is barely possible that the title of the romance, The Roots of the Mountains, which has no special significance for the tale beyond the fact that the story is laid in a mountainous country; was suggested to Morris by a phrase in The Prose Edda; in the Gylfaginning we are told that the chain with which the gods finally bound the Fenris-Wolf was fashioned by the dwarfs out of “the noise mad by the footfall of a cat; the beards of women; the roots of stones; the sinews of bears; the breath of fist; and the spittle of birds.”3 Perhaps the phrase “the roots of stones” made a special appeal to Morris’s imagination, and was in his mind when he named his second romance The Roots of the Mountains. Finally, I should like to point out that in two of the verse interludes which Morris introduces into this tale,4 he uses the verse form which I discussed in my comments on The House of the Wolfings;5 in these poetical
passages, however, he uses less alliterations and fewer kennings, so that the resemblance to early Germanic poetry is much less marked here than in the preceding romance.
Two months after the publication of The Roots of the Mountains – that is, in January, 1890,- just before he gave up his active interest in Socialism, Morris began printing in the Commonweal a tale called News from Nowhere; Or, An Epoch of Unrest, Being Some Chapters from a Utopian Romance; the last installment of this work, which was his greatest literary contribution to the Socialist cause, appeared in the October 4th issue of the Socialist League journal.1 This story presents an imaginary picture of the state of society in England at the opening of the twenty-first century, a few years after the Socialist Revolution is supposed to have taken place; the whole tale is put into the form of a dream or vision, which comes to a Londoner of the late nineteenth century, almost certainly Morris himself, after he has spent an evening of lively discussion at the Socialist League as to the conditions of life that would develop in the reformed state for which he and his comrades are working. One would scarcely expect to find Morris using any Norse material in a work of this nature, but he does introduce three Scandinavian allusions. One of these, the reference to Horrebow’s Natural History of Iceland, I have already discussed.2 The second is a brief mention of a Norwegian folktale. In the course of a discussion between the dreamer and old Hammond, a historian of the new state, concerning the changes in everyday life that have been brought about
by the Revolution, they raise the question of the position of women in this reformed society, and the dreamer expresses surprise at finding the women waiting on the men in the homes; at this point Hammond bursts out,
“…perhaps you think housekeeping an unimportant occupation, not deserving of respect. I believe that was the opinion of the ‘advanced’ women of the nineteenth century, and their male backers. If it is yours, I recommend to your notice an old Norwegian folklore tale called How the Man minded the House, or some such title; the result of which minding was that, after various tribulations, the man and the family cow balanced each other at the end of a rope, the man hanging half-way up the chimney, the cow dangling from the root, which, after the fashion of the country, was of turf and sloping down low to the ground. Hard on the cow, I think. Of course no such mishap could happen to such a superior person as yourself,” he added, chuckling.1
The tale in which Morris here indirectly shows such keen delight is obviously the one which Dasent calls “The Husband Who Was To Mind the House” in his Popular Tales from the Norse;2 it was very likely in this collection that Morris had read the story. The third allusion is of a different nature. In the course of the conversation just referred to between Hammond and the dreamer, the former refers to W.E. Gladstone, the great statesman of the Victorian age, as “one Gladstone, or Gledstein (probably, judging by this name, of Scandinavian descent)….”3 According to his biographers Gladstone was of pure Scottish descent as far back as his ancestry can be traced;4 of course the family may originally have come from Scandinavia, many of the early Norse invaders having settle in Scotland. The fact that Morris suggests “Gledstein” as a variant of “Gladstone” indicates that he knew that
in the earliest extant reference to the family, dating from the late thirteenth century, the name appears as “Gledstanes.”1 However, I can see no reason for his stating that the name suggests that the family was Scandinavian in origin, for both the first element, “glad-“ or “gled-,” which is supposed to be the same as “glede,”2 meaning “kite,” and the second element, “stone,” or “stein,” are common Germanic.3
While his News from Nowhere was appearing in the Commonweal, Morris published in another periodical, the English Illustrated Magazine, his third prose romance, called The Story of the Glittering Plain or the Land of Living Men.4 I have already pointed out that critics have noticed in the prose romances of Morris a gradual but definite movement from the style of the romance to that of the epic. The Story of the Glittering Plain reveals a distinct advance in this direction; as Mackail says of the work,
…it is…notable as marking the full and unreserved return of the author to romance. In “The House of the Wolfings,” and even to some degree in “The Roots of the Mountains” also, there had been a semi-historical setting, and an adherence to the conditions of a world from which the supernatural element was not indeed excluded, but in which it bore such a subordinate place as involved no violent strain on probability. Here the imagined world is of no place or time, and is one in which nothing is impossible. The dreamer of dreams has returned to that strange Land East of the Sun, mingled of Northern saga and Arabian tale, through which the Star-Gazer had passed two and twenty years before in the days of “The Earthly Paradise”….5
As is to be expected, as Morris reverted more and more to the style of pure romance, he introduced into his tales fewer and fewer features borrowed from the Icelandic sagas. However, in The Story of the Glittering Plain, the work in which he first returned fully to romance, there are a considerable number of Scandinavian elements. Most of these details we have already met with in the first two tales or in still earlier works. For example, we find in The Story of the Glittering Plain such terms and expressions as “mote-stead,”1 “handsel,”2 “shut-bed,”3 “the Norns,”4 “the Gloom of the Gods,”5 “skin-changer,”6 “a double share of luck,”7 and “earth-yoke.”8 As in The Roots of the Mountains there are a number of extremely vivid mountain descriptions in which Morris is undoubtedly drawing on his recollections of his tours in Iceland; one passage in which one of the characters in the story reveals his affection for his rugged land very likely expresses the devotion Morris himself felt towards Iceland and the love which he knew the Icelanders bore towards their stern home:
“Nay, I love the land. Belike thou deemest it but dreary with its black rocks and black sand, and treeless wind-swept dales; but I know it in summer and winter, and sun and shade, in storm and calm.
And I know where the fathers dwelt and the sons of their sons’ sons have long lain in the earth. I have sailed its windiest firths, and climbed its steepest crags; and ye may well wot that it hath a friendly face to me; and the land-wights of the mountains will be sorry for my departure.”1
We also find in The Story of the Glittering Plain several new allusions to Scandinavian customs, beliefs, and traditions. Thus, one of the characters in the tale remarks that if he and his companions should injure Hallblithe, who, although he is their deadly enemy, has dared to come to their hall in search for his beloved, “his head on our hall-gable should be to us a nithing-stake….”2 The raising of a “nithing-stake” was a common way for a man in medieval Scandinavia to bring evil upon an enemy. The account given in the Egils saga of how Egil set up a “nithing-stake” against King Eric and Queen Gunnhilda is one of the best saga-descriptions of the custom; the saga-man says that Egil erected a pole on a mountain peak, and set the head of a horse on the stake, uttering these words as he did so:
Morris is almost certainly referring to the opening episode of the Ragnars saga loðbrókar ok sona hans when he represents a young princess in his story, who is pining away because of unrequited love, as exclaiming,
“‘Yea, why is the earth fair and fruitful, and the heavens kind above it, if thou comest not to-night, nor to-morrow, nor the day after? And I the daughter of the Undying, on whom the days shall grow and grow as the grains of sand which the wind heaps up above the sea-beach. And life shall grow huger and more hideous round about the lonely one, like the ling-worm laid upon the gold, that waxeth thereby, till it lies all round about the house of the queen entrapped, the moveless unending ring of years that change not.’”1
The “ling-worm” referred to must be the “lyngormr” which the princess Thora, according to the Ragnars saga loðbrókar, received from her father; the little dragon, which Thora laid on some gold in a box, grew so large, we are told, that it had to be placed out-of-doors, and then it continued to grow until it encircled the house in which Thora was shut up, so that she was actually imprisoned until Ragnar killed the dragon and rescued her. With this tale Morris had undoubtedly long been familiar, for it is told in Thorpe’s Northern Mythology,2 which he read as a student at Oxford.
I should also like to point out that it is extremely likely that Morris gave to the land of everlasting youth which plays an important part in the tale the names “the Land of the Glittering Plain,”3 “the Land of Living Men,”4 and “the Acre of the Undying”5 in imitation of the
terms “Gla͜esisvellir,” “jőrd lifanda manna,” and “Ódáinsakr,” which are used for Paradise in some of the Scandinavian mythical-heroic sagas. Only one of these names, so far as I am aware, is found in a saga that we definitely know Morris had read,1 and none of the other tales in which they occur, - the Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks konungs,2 the Eiríks saga viðfőrla,3 the Hálfdanar saga Eysteinssonar,4 the Helga páttr Dórissonar,5 the Dorsteins páttr ba͜ejarmagns,6 and the Bósa saga-7 had been translated into English before 1890.8 However, Morris must by this time have attained a high degree of proficiency in reading Icelandic, and it is not at all unlikely that he had at some time read some of these sagas in the original, either by himself or with the aid of Magnússon. They were all in his library at the time of his death.9 It is also possible that he had become familiar with these terms through treatises on Scandinavian and Germanic mythology, such as R. B. Anderson’s translation of Viktor Rydberg’s Teutonic Mythology10 and theGrimm’s English rendering of Jacob Grimm0’s Deutsche Mythologie by Stallybrass.”
In regard to the personal names used in this tale, Biber points out that only one, the name of the hero, Hallblithe, is Scandinavian in character.1 Finally, I should like to call attention to the fact that in two of the poems in the story, Morris uses the metre which, in my discussion of the first two romances, I have commented upon as being slightly imitative of early Germanic poetry.2
It seems that it was in this same year -1890- that Morris resumed his work as a translator of Old Norse sagas. Before passing on to a discussion of this activity, which was to occupy a considerable amount of his attention during the next four years, I should like to mention briefly a letter which Morris wrote to the Times early in September, voicing his approval, as Secretary of the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings, of the pleas made by another correspondent in the columns of the Times for the preservation of the Hanseatic Museum in Bergen, Norway. Morris had not visited the Scandinavian peninsula, so that he knew nothing at first hand about this building; nevertheless, the concern he felt over the fate of this relic from the days of the Hanseatic League in Norway was the result not only of his love for ancient buildings in general but also of his interest in this particular structure as a monument of the Middle Ages in Scandinavia. He wrote, in part,
It ought not to be forgotten, too, that, great as the possessions of the Scandinavian peoples are in ancient literature, they have little to spare of examples of ancient art. The removal of the Hanseatic House from Bergen would be a most serious loss to the good town, and would so be felt by all visitors. As a student of
Scandinavian literature and history, as well as a lover of ancient architecture, I hope I may be excused for appealing through your columns to the citizens of Bergen and begging them to resist this perverted love of one’s neighbour’s archa͜eological wealth.1
During the period of his intense public activity and even in the first years of his return to literature Morris seems to have done no saga-translating. In his Life of William Morris the first reference Mackail makes to any such work after the time of Morris’s ardent Socialism occurs in a quotation from a letter which Morris wrote on July 8, 1890: “I have undertaken to get out some of the Sagas I have lying about. Quaritch is exceedingly anxious to get hold of me, and received with enthusiasm a proposal to publish a Saga Library….”2 As I shall show later, Morris seems originally to have planned to make The Saga Library much greater in scope than it is actually is, but the saga-translations which he did include in this collection and which we can accordingly be sure that he was referring to in the statement just quotes are “The Story of Howard the Halt,” “The Story of the Banded Men,” and “The Story of Hen Thorir,” which appeared in the first volume, “The Story of the Ere-Dwellers” and “The Story of the Heath-Slayings,” which he printed in the second volume, and The Stories of the Kings of Norway, which filled Volumes III, IV, and V. Almost all of these saga-renderings, as we have already seen, had been prepared many years before. Thus, the first three of these works were translated by Morris and Magnússon in the early seventies.3 The Eyrbyggja saga was one of the first, if not the very first, of the Icelandic tales that the two collaborators turned into English.4
The exact date of the translation of the Heiðarvíga saga is not known, but, as I have explained above, it was very likely prepared during the period 1871 to 1876.1 Morris’s English rendering of the Heimskringla was begun as early as 1871,2 but was not completed in 1890, when he resumed his saga-translating.3 Evidently his work on the Icelandic sagas during the years 1890 to 1895 consisted in revising and preparing for publication the tales already translated and in finishing his English version of the Heimskringla. As I have previously stated, his translation of the Eyrbyggja saga seems to have been subjected to a very extensive revision before it was published in 1892, for the printed text differs considerably from the holograph manuscript of 1868; in fact, the whole rendering must have been rewritten, for the original manuscript could not have been the immediate source of the published work.4 I have not seen the holograph manuscripts of the other tales in the first two volumes of The Saga Library, so that I cannot determine how thoroughly they were revised for publication; probably Morris found less to alter in these translations, for at least three of them,-and very likely the rendering of the Heiðarvíga saga also, were produced after he had become an experienced translator.
Morris’s rendering of the Heimskringla demands a few words of special comment. As I pointed out above, he had no completed this translation when he gave up his literary activities in the late 1870’s and turned to public life, but none of the studies of Morris state
how much of this work he had finished when he dropped it at that time. So far as I know, the only available information bearing upon this question is found in two manuscript catalogues of Morris’s library, both of which are now in the private collection of Sir Sydney Cockerell of Combridge, England. One of them is a holograph manuscript in two hands;1 according to a note on the inside of the front cover, evidently written by the present owner, this “Catalogue of the library of William Morris at Kelmscott House, Upper Mall, Hammersmith was begun in 1890 by his elder daughter Jenny and was continued in the same year and in 1891 (H 72-91) by Morris himself….”
In this work item 837 on page 62 is described as “Heimskringla translation by W. Morris down to the end of Olag Tryggvason 2 vols autograph MS.” This page belongs to that part of the catalogue which, according to Cockerell’s note, was prepared by Miss Jenny Morris; the handwriting is clearly not Morris’s. If this page was the work of Morris’s daughter, it must, according to the note just quoted, have been written out in 1890. The other manuscript is an illuminated book, containing only the beginning of a catalogue of Morris’s library and a fragment of a saga-translation.1 According to a note, apparently in the hand of Sir Sydney Cockerell, on the inside of the front cover, this catalogue was “probably made above 1890.” In this list of Morris’s books the Heimskringla rendering is likewise described as “two vols” reaching down to the end of the saga of Olaf Tyrggvason.” On the basis of these two references it seems fairly safe to assume that in 1890, when Morris resumed his saga-translating, he had turned into English only the “Preface” and the first six sagas of the Heimskringla; in other words, in the late 1870’s when his interest in public life finally led him to give up his literary activities, he had completed only about one-third of his English version of Snorri’s great history of the early kings of Norway.
It is of course possible that Morris had begun his translation of the next saga in the series – the Ólafs saga Helga Haraldssonar-, but had not finished it; if he had completed only a small portion of this section of the Heimskringla rendering in the 1870’s, it would
most likely not have been kept in his library and would therefore not have been entered in a catalogue of his books in 1890. In the holograph manuscript of the Magnússon-Morris translation of the Ólafs saga helga1 we find a very interesting situation which is perhaps to be explained by assuming that the two collaborators had begun their work on this tale in the 1870’s but had put it aside during the years of Morris’s public life, and that when they decided to finish their rendering of the Heimskringla in 1890, they at first forgot their earlier work on the Ólafs saga and began anew on this story. In this manuscript Magnússon has written out the original translation, using only one side of each sheet; Morris has made his alterations in the prose between the lines of Magnússon’s version, but has put his verse translations of the “vísur” on the verso of the preceding page or on an inserted sheet. The translation runs along in the usual way up to page twenty-four. Here we find the closing lines of Chapter XX and the opening of Chapter XXI; after the first “visa” in this chapter Magnússon has left five lines blank and has then written, “All this I have done before and sent you, or I am dreaming.” Nothing more is found on this page. Next comes an inserted sheet with Morris’s verse rendering of the “visa.” On the following pages we meet again with Magnússon’s translation; here, however, he does not continue from the point he had reached at the bottom of page twenty-four, but goes back to the middle of the fourth sentence of Chapter XXI, presents a slightly different rendering of the second half of the prose passage and the “visa” found on page twenty-four, and then proceeds in the
normal way. On this page and on the following ten and a half pages, he has written his translation of the Icelandic prose on every other line; then he reverts to his usual manner of using each line. Evidently Magnússon had produced a version of this part of the Ólafs saga at some previous time, but had now forgotten this work and therefore began a new rendering; when he reached the bottom of page twenty-four, he realized his mistake, found his earlier translation, and introduced it at this point, beginning with that page which continued the passage he had just translated although it repeated a short section. In other words, if my interpretation is correct, page twenty-six and some of the sheets following it are part of an earlier translation which Magnússon inserted here when he remembered that the translation he was now producing of the Ólafs saga was his second. Of course, we do not know how much earlier the first translation was produced. The manuscript under consideration, as I stated above, was very likely as a whole written out during the period 1890 to 1894. The first translation may have been begun more than ten years earlier –in the 1870’s- or the second rendering may have been made late in the period 1890 to 1894 and the first beginning only a year or two earlier. It seems rather unlikely, however, that Magnússon would have forgotten his earlier work, if a fairly long time had not elapsed between the two versions; in all probability he had begun a translation of the Ólafs saga in the late 1870’s, and it was this rendering he forgot when Morris resumed his translation-work more than ten years later and decided to finish his English version of the Heinskringla.
The first volume of The Saga Library, the collection of saga translations which Morris had agreed to prepare for Bernard Quaritch, appeared early in 1891.1 The translations proper are preceded by a Preface of forty-three pages, the first seven and a half pages of which, according to Magnússon’s statement in Volume VI of The Saga Library,2 were prepared by Morris. In this section Morris has presented a few facts relating to the history and literature of Iceland in order to aid the general reader in understanding the sagas to be presented in this collection; he has described briefly the events leading to the settlement of Iceland by Norwegians, the wide-spread maritime expeditions of the Icelanders and other Scandinavians, the conditions of life in Iceland which contributed to the production of an extraordinarily rich medieval literature in that country, and the outstanding qualities of the saga-style of narration.3 At the end of the discussion he has divided the Icelandic medieval literature into five groups on the basis of the subjects treated. These five divisions are, first, works dealing with mythology, such as the Prose Edda and the Poetic Edda; secondly, romances “founded on the mythology,” such as the Vőlsunga saga; thirdly, “histories of events foreign to Iceland,” such as the Heimskringla; fourthly, “histories of Icelandic worthies, their families, feuds, etc.”; and fifthly, fiction sagas.
Certain remarks that Morris makes in the course of this classification are extremely interesting because of the information
they give concerning his original plans for The Saga Library. Thus, in commenting on the fourth group, the “histories of Icelandic worthies,” he states that “our Library will include all the most important of them”; in discussing the last division he refers to “the story of Viglund the Fair, included in the Saga Library.” At the end of his classification he remarks, “There are other important works that do not come within the scope of the Saga Library; of these are the Sturlunga Saga, the Bishops’ Saga, the Annals, religious poems like Lilja, codes of law like Grágás, and translations of medieval romances….”1 It is obvious from these statements that if Morris had lived longer, The Saga Library would have extended far beyond the five volumes that we have; it is likewise clear that to find time to translate and publish all the works which his consideration fell “within the scope of the Saga Library” Morris would have need another lifetime. There can be little doubt, for example, that he planned to print in this collection those sagas which we know he had translated during the years 1868 to 1876 but had never published,-namely, the Egils saga,2 the Kormáks saga,3 the Vápnfirðinga saga,4 the Halldórs páttr Snorrasonar,5 the Norna-Gests páttr,6 and, perhaps, the Laxda͜ela saga.7 Moreover, the mention of the Víflundar saga as being included in The Saga Library seems to indicate that he intended to republish some, if not all, of the translations from the Icelandic he
had already issued; if the Three Northern Love Stories, in which “The Story of Viglund the Fair” had appeared, was to become a part of this series, it seems to me almost certain that he planned to revise and republish both his rendering of the Vőlsunga saga, which he refers to specifically in his comments on the second group, and his English version of the Grettis saga, which he had produced when he was a very inexperienced translator. In connection with this discussion of the question of Morris’s original plans for The Saga Library, I should like to call attention to certain remarks on the subject that were made by an American critic in a review of the first volume in The [New York] Nation for September 17, 1891:
Mr. Bernard Quaritch has reverted to an old-time interest of his in undertaking the publication of a “Saga Library,” to consist of fifteen or more volumes, containing the leading Icelandic mythological and historical sagas….Of the works selected for publication in the new form, all but the three narratives making up the first volume of the series have been put into English before, several of them by Mr. Morris himself. That there is room for a new edition cannot be doubted, and the editors, whose previous work in popularizing Icelandic literature has secured them a well-earned reputation for brilliant translation, should find a ready welcome for their new venture.1
The writer does not indicate where he received this information, but in order to feel justified in making such definite statements, he must have drawn upon some other source than Morris’s remarks in his Preface. However, one must hesitate to give and full and unqualified credence to this account of Morris’s intentions, for one of the statements made above is obviously incorrect: the reviewer says that of “the works selected for publication in the new form, all but the three narratives making up the first volume of the series have been put into English before…,” but Morris and Magnússon’s translations of the Eyrbyggja saga and of the Heiðarvíga
saga in Volume II were the first English renderings to be printed of these tales,1 and one of the stories in Volume I – the Bandamanna saga – had already been translated into English.2 Moreover, it seems very unlikely that, except for the first volume, Morris would ever have planned to include in this collection only sagas which had already been translated. The rest of the account may perhaps be accepted; Morris probably originally expected to issue about fifteen volumes in this series, and it is not at all unlikely that he intended to make his own version of such sagas which had already been translated and published as the Víga-Glúms saga, the Dórðar saga hreðu, the Hrafnkels saga Freysgoða, and the Eiríks saga rauða.3
The rest of the Preface to Volume I of The Saga Library, this part being the work of Magnússon, consists of introductory remarks relating to the three saga translations appearing in this book. The main part of the volume is made up of “The Story of Howard the Halt,” “The Story of the Banded Men,” and “The Story of Hen Thorir,” each saga being preceded by a one-page map of the section of Iceland in which the story is laid. There is an Appendix, in which is presented “An Adventure of Odd Ufeigson with King Harold Hardradi.” Then follow fifteen pages of Notes and three Indexes, the first of Persons, the second of Places, and the third of Subject Matter. Of the three sagas translated in this volume, only the second had ever before been printed in an English form.4
In regard to the texts used, I should like to point out that for their “Story of Howard the Halt” Morris and Magnússon chose the version of the Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings which is presented in Volume XXVIII of Nordiske Oldskrifter,1 for “The Story of the Banded Men” they followed the text of the Bandamanna saga given in Volume X of the same series,2 and for “The Story of Hen Thorir” they used the only
edition of the Ha͜ensa-Dóris saga then in existence,- the one prepared by Jon Sigurdsson for Volume II of Íslendinga Sőgur.1 The story translated in the Appendix deals with Odd Ufeigson, one of the main characters in the Bandamanna saga. Magnússon says in the Preface that the tale is an extract from the Morkinskinna,2 but a comparison of the translation with the version of the Odds páttr Ófeigssonar which is given in this work shows that Morris and Magnússon did not use this text exclusively; in fact, they do not seem to have limited themselves to any one of the four editions then available, but to have followed now one, now another, keeping closest perhaps to the Morkinskinna account.3
This volume of translation seems to have attracted comparatively little attention among contemporary reviewers. The longest discussion of the book was the article in the Nation to which I have already
referred;1 this critic praises both Morris and Magnússon’s choice of tales and their style of translation, saying,
These stories have the robust quality of the air of the country that gave birth to their heroes. Their great dramatic power, combined with simplicity and directness of narration, has kept them fresh and virile through centuries….Boldly drawn, and characterized by keen insight into human nature, these pictures, though of a rude age, are yet free from coarseness, and the translators have happily preserved enough of the original quaint phraseology to lend a peculiar charm to this English version….2
The rest of the review consists mainly of brief synopses of the tales. Another discussion of the book appeared in the Academy two months later, after the second volume of The Saga Library had been published.3 The author, Charles Elton, finds little either to praise or to blame in the work; he devotes most of his article to a brief description of the three tales, calling attention to those features in each one which Magnússon in his Preface had pointed out as being most noteworthy. He does find fault, however, with Morris’s praise, in the Preface, of the modern Icelanders’ lively interest in the historical past of their country; Elton points out that this interest does not go directly back to the time of the events described in the historical or family sagas, for during several centuries the Icelanders neglected their native literature in favor of the far inferior metrical romances that were imported from Europe proper. Another contemporary discussion of this book that should be mentioned is that of Valtýr-Guðmundsson, which appeared in Tímarit Hins Íslenzka Bókmenntafjelags for 1892.4 Guðmundsson gives a brief account of the contents of the volume, praising particularly the index of subject matter which Magnússon had prepared.
Most of the article is given up to a short attack on Morris and Magnússon’s use of archaic English words and constructions in their saga translations; this criticism I shall consider later, in my discussion of Morris’s style of translation.1
The second volume of The Saga Library was published in the fall of 1891.2 In this book we find first a scholarly Preface of thirty-eight pages, in which Magnússon discusses the two sagas translated in this book;3 then follow several chronological lists of events described in the stories, this material being drawn, as the editors state, partly from Vigfússon’s edition of the Eyrbyggja saga and partly from his “Um tímatal í Íslendinga sőgum.”4 In the main part of the volume is presented The Story of the Ere-Dwellers; the tale is preceded by a one-page map if the district of Iceland involved. In Appendix A there is a description of “The Children of Snorri the Priest,” a translation of an Icelandic account printed in the edition by Vigfússon already referred to; Snorri, of course, figures prominently in the Eyrbyggja saga. Appendix B is devoted to The Story of the Heath-Slayings, this tale being closely connected in subject matter with The Story of the Ere-Dwellers; as usual there is a one-page map of the scene of the action. At the end of the volume we find forty-two pages of notes,5 a number of genealogical tables, and three Indexes, the first of Persons, the second of Places, and the third Subject
Matter, part of the last one being given up to a list of kennings occurring in the verses included in the two sagas.
Neither one of these sagas had ever been published in an English form before.1 As their texts the translators used Vigfússon’s edition of the Eyrbyggja saga, which was published as a separate volume in 1864, and Jon Sigurdsson’s edition of the Heiðarvíga saga in Volume II of Íslendinga Sőgur.2
The second volume of The Saga Library, like the first, received very little attention from contemporary reviewers. The best discussion of the work appeared in the Saturday Review; this critic bestowed praise on the editing of the book, on the choice of sagas, and, in general, on the style of translation. He writes,
In respect to workmanship, the second volume of the Saga Library is worthy of the first. The stories, indeed – the Eyrbyggja Saga and the Heiðarviga Saga – are not among the best for personal interest and epic unity of narrative. But the “Story of the Heath-Slayings,” a fragment, is extremely ancient, and few sagas are richer than the
Eyrbyggja in curious details of law, custom, and belief. As for the style of translation, it is that which Messrs. Morris and Magnússon think the best representative of old Icelandic; and, though to others it may seem affected, it is perfectly intelligible.1
He concludes his review by describing the volume as “a book which is a delightful gift to English literature and the study, not only of the North, but of the heroic age all over the world.”2 This volume was also reviewed by Charles Elton in the Academy;3 in his very brief discussion he merely calls attention to the prominent part played by superstition in this tale and to the value of the account given there of the temple of Thor.
Before proceeding to the remaining volumes of The Saga Library, I should like to point out that in the fall of 1891 Morris also published a book of verse called Poems by the Way.4 Most of the pieces appearing in this volume had been written several years earlier – some of them even in the 1860’s and the 1870’s. Several Scandinavian poems, all but one of them previously unpublished, were included in the book; all of them have already been discussed in detail in this study. These Scandinavian pieces, in the order in which they appear in this collection, are “Of the Wooing of Hallbiorn the Strong,”5 “To the Muse of the North,”6 “Iceland First Seem,”7 “The Raven and the King’s
Daughter,”1 “The King of Denmark’s Sons,”2 “Gunnar’s Howe above the House at Lithend,”3 “The Lay of Christine,”4 “Hildebrand and Hellelil,”5 “The Son’s Sorrow,”6 “Agnes and the Hill-Man,”7 “Knight Aagen and Maiden Else,”8 and “Hafbur and Signy,”9 the last six being Scandinavian ballad translations.
The Norse poems in the volume are discussed in only two of the contemporary reviews that I have seen of this book. The critic in the Saturday Review praises these pieces in rather general terms, saying,
…There are more of those Northern romances, paraphrased or invented, which Mr. Morris loves so untiringly and does so well – “The Wooing of Hallbiorn the Strong,” “The Raven and the King’s Daughter,” “Hildebrand and Hallelil” [sic], “Hafbur and Signy,” and a fine Geste in miniature of “The King of Denmark’s Sons.”10
These same poems are criticized adversely by Mr. C. Elton in his review of the book in the Academy; he is quick to recognize the good effects that Morris’s Scandinavian studies had upon his style in general, but Morris’s imitations of Norse ballads in this volume he considers less successful than some of the original pieces, for, although they are
graceful and charming, all attempts to revive past literary forms are bound to fail. He says, in part,
…the Norse influence, just like that of Socialism, is certainly one that has given additional vigour and glory to the poet’s verse; yet…it is no contradiction to say that the actual ballads he has written expressly on Norse subjects are by no means his best and most characteristic work. There is, after all, something hopeless about the attempt to revive a literary form nearly as it flowered in a set of circumstances now extinct. The experience that gave the form breath and power cannot really be lived over again by the most searching and tender imagination, or by any process of “steeping the mind” in books; and the result is something like that which attends the efforts, all meritorious and all failures, to write Greek plays. The failure is due, not to lack, but to misapplication, of poetic gift. Therefore, with whatever zeal and grace these revivals are conducted, we cannot help coming back from them and asking what the poet has to tell us concerning his more personal and direct message.1
Mr. Elton is of course correct in placing these poems on a lower level than more serious work such as “The Message of the March Wind” and “Mother and Son” and more inspired pieces such as “Hope Dieth: Love Liveth” and “Love Fulfilled”;2 yet it cannot be denied, it seems to me – and Mr. Elton makes no attempt to do so – that these ballad imitations, even though they are somewhat artificial, are skillfully done, show here and there true poetic taste, as succeed in imparting to the reader some of Morris’s keen relish for the stories of the North.
The last three volumes of The Saga Library that appeared in Morris’s lifetime were devoted to the translation of the Heimskringla; these volumes are numbered three, four, and five, and are dated 1893, 1894, and 1895 respectively, and, as far as I have been able to ascertain, they actually appeared in these years. The work of turning this
long history into English, which had been begun in the early 1870’s, was not actually completed until April, 1895;1 the task of editing this Icelandic masterpiece was not finished by Magnússon until 1905, nine years after Morris’s death.
The first volume contains Morris and Magnússon’s translation of Snorri Sturluson’s Preface and of the first six sagas of the Heimskringla; at the end of the book we find thirty pages devoted to the explanation of the more obscure kennings found in the “visur” in these tales, and neatly folded in a pocket on the inside of the back cover there is a large map of Norway, measuring 27 ½ by 17 ½ inches. The second volume – that is, Volume IV of The Saga Library – is given up entirely to the rendering of The Story of Olaf the Holy, the Son of Harald; the explanations of the kennings occupy the last fourteen pages. The third volume gives us Morris and Magnússon’s English version of the remaining nine sagas, together with their interpretations of the metaphors. Except for these sections on the kennings, there is no explanatory matter in these books; all this material was reserved for the last volume, which, as I have stated above, was prepared entirely by Magnússon and therefore does not really concern this study. I should like to say, however, that this final volume is an excellent piece of work; it includes a Preface, in which Magnússon gives much valuable information regarding his meeting with Morris and their method of translating the sagas, a 73-page discussion of Snorri Sturluson, first as a chief and secondly as an author, a 238-page index of persons and peoples, a 54-page index of places, a 223-page index of subjects, and 15 genealogical tables.
The last four volumes of The Saga Library met with a distinctly favorable reception in the contemporary reviews. Morris’s choice of diction was of course adversely criticized, but most of the reviewers seem by this time to have become convinced of the utter hopelessness of attempting to induce Morris to give up the use of an archaic style for his translations and to have grown tired of finding fault with his peculiar language, for most of them passed over this matter with little more than a word of censure. As a rule they praised the translators for the accuracy fo their rendering and for their choice of material; the critics considered the making of a new literal translation of the Heimskringla definitely worth while, not only because of the pleasure English readers would derive from a work of such literary excellence but also because of the valuable information Englishmen would find in this history concerning the early days of their own nation and the origins of their own race.
The reviewer of the first volume of the Heimskringla in the Nation says of it,
The present translation is noteworthy, wholly apart from other considerations, in that it is the first English version directly from the original Icelandic, Laing’s having been made at second hand from Danish. With all its idiosyncrasies of diction (and they are, after all, but that), this is a distinct gain in fidelity to the original text, and after the dialect has been mastered the value of the ‘Heimskringla’ as history, and the charm of its telling, appeal to one with renewed force. From either point of view, there is nothing at all comparable to it in matter and manner in the early literature of any of the kindred nations. Chronicles there are in plenty, but this, subsequent to the mythical Ynglinga Saga at the beginning of the work, is real history written with precision and a rare degree of feeling and finish. 1
A few lines later this critic says, “…Snorri makes his Sagas read like an historical novel, only without the exaggerated phraseology and melodramatic action characteristic of that class of works.” 1 Although he praises the book in this enthusiastic manner, the writer of this article is not blind to the faults of Morris and Magnússon’s work. Besides criticizing the type of diction used, he points out that “there are some few instances of infelicitous translation”; these matters I shall discuss later in this study. 2
Other discussions of the volumes under consideration appeared in the Saturday Review for March 11, 1893, 3 September 1, 1894, 4 and May 19, 1906. 5 The first two articles, which deal with Volumes I and II, are given up almost entirely to an enumeration of the most interesting and colorful incidents described in these parts of the Heimskringla. Apart from the archaic style of the translation, which is discussed very briefly, the only defect pointed out in these two reviews is the lack of any guide to the historical background of the sagas. In the first article the writer says, “It would be well if Messrs. Morris and Magnússon would head their pages with dates, when dates are known”; 6 in the second we read, “We have no maps and no dates. 7 A brief preface might readily have supplied the reader with dates and recognizable historical landmarks; but he is left to wander darling amon the family traditions which are the
writer’s materials.” 1 It cannot be denied that the average reader would better able to follow the Heimskringla account if a few dates, or at least approximate dates, were given here and there, so that he could connect the events here described with other historical incidents known to him. The last review mentioned above was written in 1906, shortly after Magnússon had published his volume of explanatory matter; the writer, however, devotes very little attention to this particular volume, discussing instead the importance and the value of the Heimskringla to modern readers. Calling attention to the striking similarity in temperament between the early Norsemen and the Englishmen of to-day, he says,
In these stark Northmen we see the source of one of the noblest if most unprofitable traits in our national character, the refusal to the point of perversity to admit the existence of treachery in a friend, and utter recklessness in the conduct of a point of honour…. Again when the man sins he knows his iniquity and does not repent, but drains the cup and take s the punishment when it comes without complaint. Something of the special character of the English gentlemen, for good and for evil, has come to our race from the Northmen. 2 He points out that frequent references to early England are found in the Heimskringla, and says that to read “The Story of Harald the Hardredy,” “who fought for the Miklegarth Emperors in Sicily and Africa, who fell in conflict with the other Harald, Godwinson, at the fatal battle of Stamforth Bridge, but for which there might have been no Norman Conquest, is to gain a new sense of the unity of history.” 3
He forcefully sums up the main points of his article in the last paragraph:
The Heimskringla and its kindred Sagas should be part fo the liberal education of every boy, not only for their racial connexion and historic value, but because they provide the finest story-telling
in the world-noble literature instinct with art and enjoyment, besides which the Morte d’Arthur, the stories of Charlemagne, or the Tale of Troy itself, seems thin and artificial.1
From 1890, when The Story of the Glittering Plain appeared, until 1894, when he issued The Wood Beyond the World, Morris published no prose romances. During these years he devoted by far the greater part of his time and energy to the work of the Kelmscott Press, which he had begun early in 1890 after he had become seriously interested in the making of beautiful books and had become convinced that he would never get books produced according to the high standards he demanded unless he printed them himself. 2 Nevertheless, although this new undertaking, expecially during the first year or two, left him very little time for his literary work, he did succeed not only in finishing his Heimskringla translation for The Saga Library but also in carrying on his romance writing; in addition to The Wood Beyond the World, which, as I just stated, he published in 1894, he wrote during these years The Well at the World’s End, the longest by far of all his tales, and began several others. The Well was composed in 1892 and 1893, and a cheap edition of the work was printed at the Chiswick Press at the end of 1893; this issue was not distributed at this time, however for it was to be preceded by a Kelmscott Press edition, and this work was not finished until 1896.3 I shall postpone by discussion of the few Scandinavian elements found in this story until later, when I deal with Morris’s activities in 1896; I should like to state here, however, that this tale is a pure
romance and marks a definite advance in the movement, already noted in these prose narratives, from the style of the epic to that of the romance.
Before passing on to The Wood Beyond the World, I should like to point out that in 1893 Morris and Ernest Belfort Bax collected and republished with extensive revisions and numerous additions the articles they had printed in the Commonweal under the title “Socialism from the Root Up,” and that in this book, which they called Socialism: Its Growth & Outcome, we find in the material added to the original essays two brief Scandinavian allusions, both of which are almost certainly to be credited to Morris. In one of the first chapters the collaborators illustrate their statement “that the earlier stages of a new social development always show the characteristic evils of the incoming system” by pointing out that “in all early civilised communities…usury and litigation are rampant, as, smongst other instances, the elaborated account of the life of the time given in the Icelandic sagas shows us”; 1 towards the end of the book, in a discussion of money, they explain in a footnote that there are transitional stages between barter pure and simple and exchange operated by a universal equivalent, which only partly fulfilled this office: e. g. cattle, in the primitive ancient period, from which the name for money (pecunia) is derived; or ordinary woolen cloth, as in the curious and rather elaborate currency of the Scandinavians before coin was struck in Norway: which currency, by the way, has again, in the form of blankets, been used even in our own times in the Hudson Bay Territory.2
References to lawsuits are of course extremely common in the sagas, and Morris must have met with accounts of prosecutions at the Thing in almost every saga he had read; allusions to the lending of money
at interest are less frequent, but there is at least one reference to this practice in sagas with which we know Morris was familiar. 1 With the early Scandinavian use of cloth as a unit measure he had already in The Roots of the Mountains shown himself acquainted, as we have seen above. 2
The Wood Beyond the World, which was published in 1894 and is the fourth in order of publication but actually the fifth in order of composition in the series of eight prose romances which Morris produced between 1888 and 1896, is, like The Well at the World’s End, a pure romance. Nevertheless, we find in this story, just as we did in The Glittering Plain and shall do in The Well, a few details that Morris seems to have borrowed from his Icelandic reading. Thus, there is one allusion to the custom of “hanselling”; 3 one of the tribes described holds a “Mote”4 or, as it is once called, a “Man-mote”; 5 and at the Mote-stead there is a “doom-ring.” 6 These matters I have already discussed in detail in my treatment of the earlier romances. 7 Furthermore, just as in the previous tales, there are several very vivid descriptions of mountain-scenery which, though to a less striking degree than in The Roots of the Mountains and The Story of the Glittering Plain, recall the mountainous country through which Morris travelled on his tours of Iceland. 8 In this story we
also find a reference to an interesting early Scandinavian custom which had not been mentioned in the first three romances. When Walter, the hero of the tale, has slain the hideous, evil dwarf who guarded the Queen of the enchanted land into which he had wandered, the heroine, who is well versed in the black art, tells Walter to cut off the dwarf’s head and place it by his buttocks before burying him, in order to prevent his ghost from walking. 1 This device was one of the common methods in early Scandinavia of “laying a ghost”; Morris had long been acquainted with this custom, for in the Grettis saga, one of the first Icelandic stories he translated, Grettir follows this procedure in putting a definite end both to Karr the Old and to the fiend Glamr. 2 Beyond these matters there is nothing in this tale which can be traced to Morris’s Scandinavian studies.
In the summer of 1895, at the same time as the last volume of Heimskringla translation appeared in The Saga Library, Morris published another prose romance, this one being called Child Christopher and Goldilind the Fair. 3 As had been pointed out, 4 the central theme of this tale is the same as that of the Middle English metrical romance The Lay of Havelok the Dane; 5 however, Morris has treated this theme in an entirely new manner, so that his finished story is
completely different from the original romance. He has even altered the nationality of his hero, making Christopher the son of the king of Oakenrealm instead of the son of the King of Denmark as Havelok was, and as a consequence of this change he has been forced to discard entirely the Danish setting found in parts of the Middle English romance. 1
In telling this story, Morris has adopted the style of the romance, as he did in The Story of the Glittering Plain, The Well at the World’s End, and The Wood Beyond the World, instead of the method of the epic, towards which he tended in The House of the Wolfings and The Roots of the Mountains. However, in the tale under consideration he has given a perfectly realistic background to his narrative, completely excluding the supernatural element which plays a very important part in the third, fourth, and fifth of his romances; it is consequently not surprising to find that in his descriptions of the life of the people about whom he is here writing, he has introduced many of the same details which he borrowed from the Icelandic sagas and inserted into his first two romances.
Thus, just as in The House of the Wolfings and The Roots of the Mountains, the people of this new tale meet in public gatherings called “Motes” 2 or “Folk-motes”; 3 at the Mote-stead there is a hill or mound for the speaker; 4 and before the business of the assembly is
begun, the Mote is “hallowed in.” 1 When the leaders of the people want to raise an army, they summon the able-bodied warriors by “shearing up the war-arrow” and circulating it among the tribes. 2 On one occasion, when two hostile armies are about to engage in battle, the leader of one host challenges the captain of the other to single combat on a “hazelled field” on an island. 3 Two of the houses described recall the halls of the early Norsemen; 4 definitely Scandinavian are the “shut-beds” referred to in the account of one of them. 5 At one point in the tale we find an alliterative formula, similar in nature to some of the formulae given in The Roots of the Mountains and The Story of the Glittering Plain, used as a vow. 6 Finally, as Biber points out in his Studien zu William Morris’ Prose-Romances, some of the place-names Morris uses show Scandinavian influence. 7 There are no new Norse features introduced into this romance.
In the same year as Child Christopher appeared. Morris wrote his seventh romance, The Water of the Wondrous Isles, but this tale was not published until 1897, a few months after his death. 8 It should also be noted that in 1895, when the Kelmscott Chaucer, the masterpiece of the new press, was rapidly nearing completion, Morris
began thinking of printing at the Kelmscott Press an elaborate folio edition of his Sigurd the Volsung, with a number of pictures by Burne-Jones; 1 this work, however, was barely begun when the end came to Morris early in October, 1896.
Before passing on to my discussion of The Well at the World’s End, which appeared early in 1896, I should like to call attention to an interesting remark Morris made in a letter dating from August, 1895; he writes,
I was thinking just now how I have wasted the many times when I have been ‘hurt’ and (especially of late years) have made no sign, but swallowed down by sorrow and anger, and nothing done. Whereas if I had but gone to bed and stayed there for a month or two and declined taking any part in life, as indeed on such occasions I have felt very much disinclined to do, I can’t help thinking that it might have been very effective. Perhaps you remember that this game was tried by some of my Icelandic heroes, and seemingly with great success. But I admit that it wants to be done well.2
The “Icelandic heroes” to whom Morris is here referring are evidently Egil Skallagrimsson and Howard the Halt. When Egil’s son Boðvar was drowned, it will be remembered, Egil buried him in Skallagrim’s howe and then took to his bed, refusing to get up or to eat for three days, until his daughter Dorgerðr tricked him into drinking mild and then induced him to compose a poem on Bőðvar and to arrange a funeral feast for him.3 Howard the Halt, however, far outdid Egil in this respect, if we are to believe the Hávarðar saga Ísfirðings, for that tale relates that Howard went to bed after the slaying of his son Olaf and stayed there for three years, except for the two days on
which he made unsuccessful attempts to secure atonement from Thorbiorn Thiodreksson, his son’s slayer.1 A few lines later in the same letter we find Morris quoting an Icelandic proverb; after lamenting the ruthless destruction of beauty that was going on all around him, he exclaims, “The world had better say, ‘Let us be through with it and see what will come after it.’ In the meantime I can do nothing but a little Anti-Scrape – sweet to eye while seen.” 2 He here clearly had in mind the Icelandic proverb “unir auga meðan á sér,” which occurs in the Völsunga saga3 and which he had rendered, in his translation of this tale, in exactly this form; 4 the proverb is not found outside Scandinavia, so far as I have been able to ascertain.
The Well at the World’s End, which, as I have already pointed out, was written during 1892 and 1893, was published in the spring or 1896.5 As I have previously stated, this story is a pure romance, a tale of wonderful lands and marvellous adventures, of fair ladies, sturdy knights, wandering minstrels, walled towns, perilous forests, and a magic spring. A few of the details which we have found that Morris borrowed from his Scandinavian reading and introduced into his other romances appear in this story also, but as in the other “pure romances” these features do not really form an integral part of the
which he made unsuccessful attempts to secure atonement from Thorbiorn Thiodreksson, his son’s slayer. 1 A few lines later in the same letter we find Morris quoting an Icelandic proverb; after lamenting the ruthless destruction of beauty that was going on all around him, he exclaims, “The world had better say, ‘Let us be through with it and see what will come after it.’ In the meantime I can do nothing but a little Anti-Scrape – sweet to eye while seen.” 2 He here clearly had in mind the Icelandic proverb “unir auga meðan á sér,” which occurs in the Völsunga saga 3 and which he had rendered, in his translation of this tale, in exactly this form; 4 the proverb is not found outside Scandinavia, so far as I have been able to ascertain.
The Well at the World’s End, which, as I have already pointed out, was written during 1892 and 1893, was published in the spring or 1896. 5 As I have previously stated, this story is a pure romance, a tale of wonderful lands and marvellous adventures, of fair ladies, sturdy knights, wandering minstrels, walled towns, perilous forests, and a magic spring. A few of the details which we have found that Morris borrowed from his Scandinavian reading and introduced into his other romances appear in this story also, but as in the other “pure romances” these features do not really form an integral part of the
the pair, he greets them, and the old carle sings a song, recalling the days of old when he was young, revelling with his companions; at the end of the stanza occur the lines
Though the wild wind might splinter
The oak-tree of Thor,
The hank of mid-winter
But beat on the door. 1
In calling the oak the tree of Thor, Morris is making a slight error, for it was not the oak but the rowan, or mountain-ash, which was sacred to Thor. Of course, the oak was considered by the early Scandinavians to be a holy tree, 2 and it was probably this fact that led Morris to make the mistake of referring to it as the tree of Thor in particular. I should also like to point out here that the dimeter couplets used in this quotation are employed in all the poetical passages in this romance; however, Morris does not introduce so much alliteration nor so many kennings in these verses as in some of the poems in The House of the Wolfings and The Sundering Flood, so that the resemblance to the Old Norse poetry is here not so great. After a short pause the old man sings again, this time boasting of his and his companions’ prowess in battle; of his men he says that
…for Tyr’s high-seat,
Were the best full meet. 3
To Tyr, the Old Norse god of war, Morris refers in The House of the Wolfings also, as I have already pointed out. 4
The King then invites the old man and woman to sit beside him,
and they do so. At this point the little baby boy is borne into the hall and given to the King; he places the child on the table before him, takes his spear, and draws the point of it across the child’s face so that it just grazes the flesh and the blood appears, saying as he does so, “Here I mark thee to Odin even as were all thy kin marked from of old from the time that the Gods were first upon the earth.” 1 The custom of “marking a man to Odin” is occasionally mentioned in the sagas, 2 but according to these references a man was “marked to Odin” just before he died, not when he was born; in describing the ceremony as he does in The Folk of the Mountain Door, Morris must either have forgotten the saga accounts or have deliberately changed the details so that he could introduce the rite at this dramatic moment. When the child has been thus dedicated to the chief of the gods, the King places him in his high seat, and exclaims, “This is Host-lord the son of Host-lord King and Duke of the Folk of the Door, who sitteth in his father’s chair and shall do when I am gone to Odin, unless any of the Folk gainsay it.” 3 On the Old Norse expression “going to Odin” for “dying,” which Morris uses in two other works also, I have already commented. 4 Just as the King finishes speaking, an armed warrior bursts into the hall and rushes up to the high-seat, offering to fight anyone who “gainsays” the Folk of the Mountain Door; then “a man one-eyed and huge” 5 rises from his seat
far down the hall, and calms the young man, bidding him eat and drink and forget warfare this night. Of this one-eyed carle Morris goes on to say that “it is told that no man knew that big-voiced speaker, nor whence he came and that presently when men looked for him he was gone form the hall, and they knew not how.” 1 This figure is of course Odin, who is always represented in the sagas as appearing to mortals as a huge, ancient, one-eyed man; in one of his earliest poems, as I have already pointed out, Morris pictures Odin as appearing to one of his characters in this form. 2
As the night passes, the feasters leave or lie down to sleep in the hall; just before dawn the old man and woman announce to the King that they must depart, and they ask him to accompany them out of the city. They walk quietly over the moon-lit, snowy streets, and pass through the gates unchallenged, the walls being unguarded since “there was none to break the Yule-tide peace.” 3 When they reach the Mote-stead 4 of the Folk of the Mountain Door, the three ascend the mound 5 in the center of the field, and there they stop; the old carle explains to the King who he and the woman are, and he speaks to the King of the baby’s future. He warns him that between the ages of fifteen and twenty-two the boy will be beset by evils of all kinds, and he bids him guard the lad especially well during these years, “lest when his time comes and he depart from this land he wander
about the further side of the bridge that goeth to the Hall of the Gods, for very fear of shaming amongst the bold warriors and begetters of the kindred and fathers of the sons that I love, that shall one day sit and play at the golden tables in the Plains of Ida.” 1 The bridge referred to in this quotation is obviously “Bifröst,” which, according to Old Norse mythology, spanned the space between Midgarth, the earth, and Asgard, the home of the gods. The “Plains of Ida” are of course “Iðavöllr,” which lies in the middle of Asgard. The playing “at the golden tables” is evidently an allusion to the gods’ playing at draughts, which is mentioned twice in the Völuspá. With all these early Scandinavian mythological beliefs and conceptions Morris had long been familiar, for they are described in Thorpe’s Northern Mythology. 2 The conversation between the king and the aged couple lasts but a little while, for presently the two visitors vanish from sight, at the king goes back to the hall alone in the quiet winter night. At this point the tale ends. As I have already stated, the fragment that we have gives promise of a story with a definite Scandinavian background; it is not at all unlikely that, if completed, ti would have bene even more Norse both in subject matter and spirit than The House of the Wolfings.
As I indicated at the beginning of this discussion, there is nothing Scandinavian about the other three unfinished romances that Miss Morris published for the first time in 1914; however, for the sake of completeness I wish to state that in one of them, Kilian of the Closes, there is a reference to “land-wights” 3 and also an allusion
to a “mote.” 1
The years 1878 to 1896, which we have been considering in the present chapter, constitute what may be called the third period or stage in the influence of Old Norse literature upon Morris’s creative imagination. During the years 1834 to 1870, as we have seen, Morris’s knowledge of medieval Scandinavia and its effect upon his work was relatively slight. It was during this period that he made his initial acquaintance with the history, literature, and general culture of the early Norsemen, first through second-hand accounts in English, and later, when he had acquired the rudiments of the language, through a few of the sagas themselves; as a result of the slight familiarity with the North that he obtained in this way he introduced a few Scandinavian allusions in his poetry and wrote two long poems which were based on Norse themes but which owed little or nothing in spirit and style to the sagas. In the second period – 1870 to 1876 – he steeped himself in the literature of early Scandinavia, gaining an extensive and thorough first-hand knowledge of the sagas and Eddic poetry; during these years he translated almost a score of sagas and composed a number of poems directly inspired both in subject-matter and spirit by Norse works, one of these compositions, Sigurd the Volsung, being considered by most critics to be his masterpiece. Shortly after 1876, however, he dropped his Scandinavian studies, and although the sagas and other early Northern literature continued to color his thinking and writing, the influence that this material now exerted upon him was not only decidedly less complete but also almost entirely indirect
or secondary. During the years 1877 to 1896 – especially during the last eight or nine years of this period – he undoubtedly extended his acquaintance with early Scandinavia, but the Icelandic work he did carry on during this time was on the whole very limited, being almost entirely a pastime of his leisure moments; and instead of producing works which were based directly on Norse stories and which reproduced, in a general way at least, the style of the sagas, he now used his knowledge of medieval Scandinavia merely to provide a background for his tales or to furnish illustrative material for his lectures on entirely alien subjects. In short, instead of being his chief, or even his sole, interest, as it had been between 1870 and 1877, Old Norse became now only one of a number of secondary interests.
It is difficult to foretell just what the course of the influence of the Icelandic sagas upon Morris’s literary work would have been if he had lived longer and had continued to write. As I have already pointed out, there is in the eight tales he wrote between 1888 and the year of his death a general movement from the style of the epic back to the style of the romance, this change being accompanied by a rather steady decrease in the extent of the Scandinavian element in all but the last of these stories. If he had lived and had extended the scope of The Saga Library, as we have seen that he intended to do, the renewed contact with the sagas that this works would have involved might have led to an increase in the Norse material in his tales; but he was so absorbed in his chief interest of the time – the Kelmscott Press – and in his creative writing he had for several years showed
such a decided predilection for the style of the romance – the form with which he began and which seems to have been most natural to him – that it is extremely unlikely that he would ever have produced any more works directly inspired in matter and style by the sagas. In all probability he would simply have gone on composing prose romances for several years, the extent of the influence of his Scandinavian studies varying in each one according to the fluctuations in his interest in the sagas but never becoming great enough to give a definitely Norse tone to the tale as a whole.
Morris’s Style of Translation
Part I: Methods Used by Morris and Magnússon in Preparing their Translations
In the chronological survey which I have just completed of Morris’s Scandinavian studies, I have not, except for a few, brief, passing remarks, described the method of work with Morris and his collaborator, Eiríkr Wagnússon, followed in turning the Icelandic sagas into English, nor have I described and discussed the style of translation which Morris adopted for his English version of these tales. Both these matters are questions of great importance. Morris’s style of translation has been a subject of discussion among critics ever since his renderings began to be published, and it has exerted a wide influence upon later translators of Old Norse and Old English works; it is consequently essential for us to determine as definitely as possible just what part each of the two collaborators played in producing these English versions, Morris’s aims as a translator, the steps in the evolution of his style of translation, and, finally, the merits and defects of his method of translation.
As I have already stated in Chapter I, 1 Morris first met Eiríkr Magnússon, his collaborator, late in the summer of 1868, and he immediately decided to take lessons in Icelandic from his new friend so that he would be albe to read the sagas in the original, some of which he had already come to know through translations. In the Preface to Volume VI of The Saga Library Magnússon
 presents a very vivid account of the beginnings of Morris’s Scandinavian studies:
His [Morris’s] first taste of Icelandic literature was the story of ‘Gunnlung 1 the Snaketongue.’ I suggested we had better start with some grammar. ‘No, I can’t be bothered with grammar; have no time for it. You be my grammar as we translate. I want the literature, I must have the story. I mean to amuse myself.’ I read out to him some opening passages of the saga, in order to give him an idea of the modern pronunciation of the language. He repeated the passus as well as could be expected of a first beginner at five-and-thirty, naturally endowed with not a very flexible organ. But immediately he flew back to the beginning, saying: ‘But, look here, I see through it all, let me try and translate.’ Off he started, translated, blundered, laughed; but still, he saw through it all with an intuition that fairly took me aback. Henceforth no time must be wasted on reading out the original. He must have the story as quickly as possible. …In this way the best of the sagas were run through, at daily sittings, generally covering three hours, already before I left London for Cambridge in 1871. And even after that much work was still done, when I found time to come and stay with him. 2
Some of the sagas which Morris and Magnússon thus read together they decided to publish in an English form; the procedure which they followed in producing such translations was described by Magnússon in a letter he wrote to Miss Morris in the early years of the twentieth century when she was preparing her edition of the Collected Works of her father:
We went together over the day’s task as carefully as the eager-mindedness of the pupil to acquire the story would allow. I afterwards wrote out at home a literal translation of it and handed it to him at our next lesson. With this before him Morris wrote down at his leisure his own version in his own style, which ultimately did service as printer’s copy when the Saga was published. 3
To this account should be added the statement by Magnússon, in the Preface to Volume VI of The Saga Library, regarding their method of work in preparing the translations included in that
The work on it [The Saga Library] was divided between Morris and myself in the following manner: Having read together the sagas contained in the first three volumes, Morris wrote out the translation and I collated his MS. with the original. For the last two volumes of the Haimskringla the process was reversed, I doing the translation, he the collation; the style, too, he emended throughout in accordance with his own ideal. 1
These statements by Magnússon present a fairly definite account of the way in which the tow collaborators produced their English version of the sagas. Still further details are furnished by the holograph manuscripts that have survived of these renderings. Man of these manuscripts will be discussed in great detail later in this chapter, and in some cases specimen pages will be presented in the Appendixes; here I shall simply comment on those features of these works which thrown light on Morris’s and Magnússon’s procedure. One of the most interesting of these manuscripts is that of the translation of the Grettis saga, 2 which was one of the first Icelandic tales Morris and Magnússon read together. Here Morris has written out the English rendering, Magnússon has corrected it, and Morris has in turn passed judgment on Magnússon’s revisions. The resulting version, in part at least, served as printer’s copy. Moreover, occasional differences between the final manuscript form and the published text show that still more changes, evidently to be attributed to both Morris and Magnússon, were made in the proofreading. In the manuscript of the Eyrbyggja saga translation, 3 the rendering is again in the hand of Morris, but here there are no corrections by Magnússon.
Evidently, when the two collaborators read this saga in the late 1860’s, they at first planned to publish a translation of it, and then decided not to do so, Magnússon therefore not taking the trouble to revise Morris’s draft. When they did print a translation of the Eyrbyggja saga in 1892 in Volume II of The Saga Library, Morris apparently wrote out an entirely new rendering, for the manuscript under consideration almost certainly was not the immediate source of the printed text; not only are the differences between the published form and the manuscript version so extensive that they cannot be the result of changes made in the course of the printing, but there are no notes and directions to the printers in this manuscript, such as we find in some of the others. Also in the hand of Morris are the manuscripts of the translation of Three Northern Love Stories, Hogni and Hedinn, Roi the Fool, and Thorstein Staff-smitten, of The Story of Howard the Halt, of The Story of King Harald Greyfell and of Earl Hakon the Son of Sigurd, and of The Story of King Olaf Tryggvason; these manuscripts I have not had an opportunity to examine, but brief descriptions of them in a bookseller’s catalogue reveal their nature. 1
Of an entirely different type are the manuscripts of the later part of the Heimskringla translation. In the manuscripts of The Story of Olaf the Holy, the Son of Harald and The Story
of Sigurd the Jerusalem-farer, Eystein, and Olaf, 1 both of which I have seen, Magnússon has written out the original translation, using only the right-hand page; in the case of the “vísur,” he has copied out the Icelandic in the prose order and has given the English rendering underneath, word by word; Morris has revised the prose directly on the right-hand page, making extensive changes, and has placed his verse translation of the “vísur” on the left-hand page, opposite Magnússon’s prose rendering. In this form the manuscript was sent to the printer. Finally, still further alterations were made, evidently by both Morris and Magnússon, in the proofreading, for we find a number of differences between the final manuscript version and the published test, just as in the case of the Grettis saga translation. Occasionally on the left-hand page we find notes in Morris’s hand, querying renderings by Magnússon or suggesting different interpretations; a letter written by Morris to Magnússon, which is quoted by Miss May Morris in one of her works, indicates that after Morris had revised Magnússon’s English version, the two collaborators were in the habit of meeting and discussing their work, 2 and it was evidently with these discussions in mind that Morris made the notes just mentioned. Finally I should like to point out that the manuscripts of The Story of Magnus the Good and The Story of Harald the Hard-redy, the sagas immediately following the Ólafs saga hins helga in the Heimskringla, are also in the handwriting of Magnússon, with
alterations by Morris; I have not seen either one of these manuscripts, but the first is thus described in a bookseller’s catalogue 1 and the nature of the second is revealed in a remark made by Miss May Morris in one of her discussions of her fahter’s Scandinavian work. 2
On the basis, then, of Magnússon’s accounts and of these manuscripts, we can make a fairly definite statement as to how Morris and Magnússon proceeded in preparing their translations. In the early years of this work they first read together the saga selected; then Magnússon wrote out a translation, and on the basis of this draft Morris produced a new rendering; this version was revised by Magnússon, and Morris in turn passed judgment on Magnússon’s alterations; the manuscript then went to the printer; finally a few more changes were made while the work was being printed. When they prepared their later translations, Morris took Magnússon’s literal draft and made the changes he wanted directly on these sheets, instead of writing out an entirely new version; during this stage of the work the two collaborators met for discussion of troublesome passages; Magnússon’s original draft with Morris’s alterations was sent then to the printer, but before the text was put into final form, a few more changes were made. Inasmuch as all the manuscripts of Icelandic translations that are in Morris’s hand are of sagas that were turned into English in the late 1860’s and the 1870’s, and all the manuscripts in which the original rendering has been written out by Magnússon and the changes
have been made by Morris are of sagas that were translated in the 1890’s, it seems fairly safe to assume that the first method described above was used in preparing all the translations that were produced from 1868 to the time when Morris gave up his literary activities for public life late in the 1870’s, and that the second procedure was followed in all the saga-translating done in the 1890’s, after Morris’s return to literature. 1
Part II: Morris as a Mature Translator of Old Norse
Far more important and much more complex than the question of Morris’s and Magnússon’s method of translation, is the question of Morris’s principles of translation. So far as I know, Morris never wrote out any direct statement of his aims as a translator; however from those manuscripts in which Magnússon produced the original rendering and Morris made his alterations directly on the same sheets, we can ascertain fairly definitely, by analyzing these changes, just what he was striving for. With this purpose in mind I have examined very carefully all the alterations that Morris made in the first half of Magnússon’s translation of the Sigurðar saga Jórsalafara, Eysteins ok Ólafs, one of the last of
the Heimskringla sagas. 1 The manuscript containing this rendering consists of forty-six folio leaves, with Magnússon’s original draft on the right-hand page and with Morris’s revisions of the prose on the same side and his verse renderings of the “vísur” on the left-hand page, just as I have described above. My reason for choosing this manuscript as the basis of my investigation of Morris’s principles of translation is that it is extremely well suited for such a study, in view of the fact that the rendering contained in this manuscript was prepared in the 1890’s, when Morris was a mature translator of Old Norse, thoroughly acquainted with the language and with fully developed ideas as to the form which he considered proper for an English version of the Icelandic sagas. 2 In fact, the manuscript of the translation of that part of the Heimskringla in which this saga is included was once cited by Magnússon as “a particularly safe, indeed an indispensable basis” for a study of Morris as a translator of Old Norse; Magnússon wrote,
Among the literary remains of Willaim Morris the MS on which the second and third vols. of Snorri Sturlusion’s Heimskringla (being the fourth and fifth vols of the Saga Library) are based forms a particularly save, indeed an indispensable basis whereon the future criticism of the great man’s relation to old northern literature is to be based….
The interest of this record of Morris’ literary activity lies in the method adopted by him for the purpose of putting his own stamp on the style of the translation of Snorri Sturluson’s work. 3
The complete results of this study of the first part of the
manuscripts translation of the Sigurðar saga Jórsalafara, Eysteins ok Ólafs are presented in Appendix I. I have there first reproduced the test of the translation, placing on the left-hand page Magnússon’s original draft and on the right-hand page Morris’s revised version. I have then listed, first all the changes that Morris made in the prose of Magnússon’s rendering of the first half of the saga, secondly, the alterations he made in the “vísur,” thirdly, the revisions Morris and Magnússon both made in their own work, and lastly, the words and expressions which appear in the printed text in a different form from that in the final manuscript version and which must have been altered in the proofreading; in each case I have classified the changes according to the reasons for which they seem to have been made.
In the vast majority of cases, the motives which lay behind Morris’s alterations in Magnússon’s draft translation can be determined with a fair degree of certainty. Thus, if we analyze the changes Morris made in the prose of Magnússon’s rendering, as I have done in Part B of Appendix I, we find that it is clear that in a large group of alterations Morris was striving to bring the translation closer to the original, in another group he was aiming to give the rendering a suitable tone, and in a third group he was simply endeavoring to improve the quality of the language, correcting minor mistakes and awkward constructions which were the result either of Magnússon’s too close adherence to the text or of his lack of complete familiarity with English usage. We also find that in an number of changes Morris altered the form of proper nouns, the reason for these changes evidently being, as I shall show later, that he sometimes disagreed with Magnússon as to how
an Old Norse namany certainty Morris’s exact motive; in other cases it is impossible even to suggest likely reasons. These alterations I have listed in the Appendix under the heading “Miscellaneous Changes.”
The largest and by all means the most important group of alterations that Morris made in the prose of Magnússon’s translation of the first half of the Sigurðar saga Jórsalafara, Eysteins ok Ólafs is the first one mentioned above – namely, the group of changes in which Morris seems to be seeking to bring the rendering closer to the original; in the work examined, 1007 alterations – more that sixty per cent of the total 1582 – can be safely ascribed to this motive. These 1007 changes fall into three classes. In the first one, consisting of 401 alterations, Morris seems to have been solely or primarily concerned with reproducing more literally the meaning or substance of the Old Norse; in the second class, which is made up of 232 changes, he was apparently endeavoring to imitate important features of the style of the sagas; in the third class, to which 374 alterations belong, he appears to have been trying to reproduce more closely the character of the diction of the original.
I shall first discuss those changes which fall into the first of these three classes. The great majority of these revisions, it must be admitted, are comparatively unimportant, for, as is to be expected, Magnússon’s rendering is very literal and mistakes
in translation are extremely rare in his work. Morris seems to have been possessed with a passion for reproducing the substance of his original as exactly as possible, and he appears to have been tireless in making alterations for this purpose even though his changes in many cases had no perceptible effect on the meaning of a passage and did not reproduce the form of the Old Norse more faithfully. In a number of these revisions little or nothing seems to be gained, and his effort appears to be wasted. In order to show how painstaking Morris was in his desire for fidelity to the substance of the original, I have divided these alterations into two groups, the first one consisting of revisions of this type which involve major sentence elements and the second one being made up of changes which deal with minor parts of speech, such as articles, prepositions, demonstratives, and connectives.
As I have already stated, of the 1007 alterations in which Morris was apparently striving to bring the translation closer to the Old Norse, 401 or about forty per cent of the total, are devoted primarily to the more exact reproduction of the sense or substance of the original. 1 Of these 401 changes, 294 involve major sentence elements. 2 Perhaps the most important of these are the 36 alterations in which he inserted words or phrases that Magnússon had omitted. Nine of these revisions, however, consist simply of the insertion of the adverb “then” in imitation of the Old Norse use of “pá” at the beginning of the main clause of a sentence when an inverted clause stands first; 3 note, for example,
the following changes:
XIV, 16-7, And when King Sigurd came to 670, 22-4, En er Si-
Sleswick in Denmark Earl Eilif gave him a gurðr konungr kom í
glorious banquet: And when King Sigurd Slésvík á Danmörk, pá
came to Sleswick in Denmark then Earl Eilif veitti Eilifr jarl
gave him a glorious banquet 1 honum dýrliga veizlu
XXII, 23-4, Now when things had come to 676, 34-677, 1, Ok
such a pass…, he went to see King Ey- er í pat efni var komit
stein: Now when things had come to such a …, pá ferr hann á fund
pass…, then fares he to find King Eystein Eysteins konungs
This use of “pá” is of course entirely normal in Old Norse, but the use of “then” in English in such a position is considered redundant and therefore undesirable. The other 27 alterations of this type are devoted to the insertion of more important sentence elements, such as nouns, adjectives, verbs, and even phrases, as in the following cases: 2
XVIII, 17, What the matter is I may not tell: What it is, lord, I may not tell out
XXIII, 98-9, at the Thing of Ere: at the Ere-Thing in Nidoyce
672, 2930, pat sem er, herra! má ek ekki frá segja
678, 29, á Eyrapingi í Niðarósi
These revisions, unlike the ones just considered, are entirely justified, and they are on the whole not objectionable, for in only a few cases is the resulting translation awkward; in none of these changes, however, does Morris’s insertion have an important effect upon the meaning of the passage involved.
In 10 of the alterations that Morris made for the sake of greater exactness he revived an Old and Middle English construction – namely, the use of an active infinitive with the verb “to let” in the sense of “to cause.” 3 This construction occurs frequently in the Old Norse, but Morris’s use of it in the English translation
is extremely awkward, as the following examples show:
IV, 6-7, he should let market be holden: 662, 29-30, skyldi jarl
the earl should let set market láta setja…torg
XII, 13, then the kaiser had pall spread 668, 28-9, pá lét kei-
over all the streets: Then let the kaiser sarinn breiða pell um
spread pall over all the streets öll stra͜eti
A very large number of the changes that Morris made in order to render more literally the substance of his text are concerned with the reproduction of the word order found in the original. As I shall show later, Morris made a number of revisions in which he imitated the Old Norse order of words when the normal word order had been disrupted for the purpose of giving emphasis to certain words or phrases: such alterations are extremely important, for they serve to reproduce a feature of the style of the original. The changes that are not to be considered, however, are of little significance, for the word order imitated in them has no stylistic value. About half of them, for example – 51 of the total 100, to be exact – are devoted to the imitation of the Old Norse inversion of subject and verb in sentences in which adjectival or adverbial modifiers or the object are placed first. 1 Old Norse usage demanded the inversion of the subject and verb in such sentences, but this departure from the normal word order in English is very awkward. In fact, Morris’s careful reproduction of this peculiarity of Old Norse word order is to a large extent responsible for the artificiality and very un-English character of the translation. Note, for example, the following alterations:
III, 2-3, Four winters after the fall of King Magnus, King Sigurd went with his company away from Norway, having sixty ships: Four winters after the fall of King Magnus, fared King Sigurd his folk away from Norway; then had he sixty ships
662, 6, Fjórum vetrum eptir fall Magnús konungs, fór Sigurðr konungr liði sínu or Noregi; pá hafði hann 60 skipa
VI, 22, Then King Sigurd cast about for a stratagem: Then sought King Sigurd a rede thereto
664, 30, pá leitaði Sigurðr konungr sér ráða
Some of the changes even make the translation misleading:
IX, 9-10, Another daughter of King William the Duke of Cyprus had for wife: Another daughter of King William had the Duke of Cyprus
666, 23-4, Aðra dóttur Vilhjálms konungs átti hertogi af Kípr
In the Old Norse the case endings make it clear that “hertogi” is the subject of the verb and “aðro dóttur” the object even though the order of words is inverted; in Morris’s English rendering, however, “daughter” appears to be the subject.
In the other 49 alterations in which he reproduced more exactly the word order of the original, he did not imitate any special Old Norse usage; 1 here he simply rearranged the words in Magnússon’s translation in order to conform to the order of words found in the saga, even though that order had no particular significance. On the whole these revisions neither impair nor improve the rendering. In only a few cases are the results of these alterations awkward. The following changes may serve as examples:
XI, 17-8, And when the kings had besieged 667, 30-1, Ok pá er
the town for a little while : And when the peir konungarnir hőfðu
kings had a little while set before the litla hríð setit um
XXII, 95-6, I bring forward with witnesses 678, 26-7, flyt ek
the fact : I bring forth that case with mál pat með vitnum
The remaining 148 revisions in which Morris reproduced more literally the substance or form of the Old Norse are of a miscellaneous nature.2 Most of them are unimportant, but in two cases he corrected translations by Magnússon that were inaccurate. In one passage Magnússon had failed to notice the particular sense
The final sections of Anderson's manucript, which consist of four appendices, are available in pdf form:
pp. 551 - 625 1st half of Morris and Magnússon's translation of Sigurd the Jerusalemfarer, pp. 623-884
pp. 626 - 700 Sigurd the Jerusalemfarer
pp. 701 - 775 Sigurd the Jerusalemfarer
pp. 776 - 850 Sigurd the Jerusalemfarer
pp. 851 - 866 Sigurd the Jerusalemfarer
pp. 867 - 1008 Eyrbyggia Saga, manuscript compared with 1892 version, pp. 885-925, 949-55; Grettissaga, pp. 926-41; style of Morris's illuminated mss., pp. 942-91; Prologue to Heimskringla, 956-66; Haralds saga, pp. 967-76; Haward the Halt, pp. 977-91; Old Icelandic usages in Morris's poetry, pp. 993-98; Scandinavian works in Morris's library, pp. 999-1010
pp. 1009 - 1032bibliography, pp. 1011-32