The Story of Siegfried | Page 2

things, living
and inanimate, joined in weeping for the bright god, until Hela (death)
should permit him to revisit the earth for a time.
So, too, when the sun arose, and drove away the darkness and the
hidden terrors of the night, our ancestors thought of the story of a noble
young hero slaying a hideous dragon, or taking possession of the
golden treasures of Mist Land. And when the springtime came, and the
earth renewed its youth, and the fields and woods were decked in
beauty, and there was music everywhere, they loved to tell of Idun (the
spring) and her youth-giving apples, and of her wise husband Bragi
(Nature's musician). When storm-clouds loomed up from the horizon
and darkened the sky, and thunder rolled overhead, and lightning
flashed on every hand, they talked about the mighty Thor riding over
the clouds in his goat- drawn chariot, and battling with the giants of the
air. When the mountain-meadows were green with long grass, and the
corn was yellow for the sickles of the reapers, they spoke of Sif, the
golden-haired wife of Thor, the queen of the pastures and the fields.
When the seasons were mild, and the harvests were plentiful, and peace
and gladness prevailed, they blessed Frey, the giver of good gifts to
men.
To them the blue sky-dome which everywhere hung over them like an
arched roof was but the protecting mantle which the All-Father had
suspended above the earth. The rainbow was the shimmering bridge
which stretches from earth to heaven. The sun and the moon were the
children of a giant, whom two wolves chased forever around the earth.
The stars were sparks from the fire-land of the south, set in the heavens
by the gods. Night was a giantess, dark and swarthy, who rode in a car
drawn by a steed the foam from whose bits sometimes covered the
earth with dew. And Day was the son of Night; and the steed which he
rode lighted all the sky and the earth with the beams which glistened

from his mane.
It was thus that men in the earlier ages of the world looked upon and
spoke of the workings of Nature; and it was in this manner that many
myths, or poetical fables, were formed. By and by, as the world grew
older, and mankind became less poetical and more practical, the first or
mythical meaning of these stories was forgotten, and they were
regarded no longer as mere poetical fancies, but as historical facts.
Perhaps some real hero had indeed performed daring deeds, and had
made the world around him happier and better. It was easy to liken him
to Sigurd, or to some other mythical slayer of giants; and soon the
deeds of both were ascribed to but one. And thus many myth-stories
probably contain some historical facts blended with the mass of
poetical fancies which mainly compose them; but, in such cases, it is
generally impossible to distinguish what is fact from what is mere
fancy.
All nations have had their myth-stories; but, to my mind, the purest and
grandest are those which we have received from our northern ancestors.
They are particularly interesting to us; because they are what our
fathers once believed, and because they are ours by right of inheritance.
And, when we are able to make them still more our own by removing
the blemishes which rude and barbarous ages have added to some of
them, we shall discover in them many things that are beautiful and true,
and well calculated to make us wiser and better.
It is not known when or by whom these myth-stories were first put into
writing, nor when they assumed the shape in which we now have them.
But it is said, that, about the year 1100, an Icelandic scholar called
Saemund the Wise collected a number of songs and poems into a book
which is now known as the "Elder Edda;" and that, about a century
later, Snorre Sturleson, another Icelander, wrote a prose-work of a
similar character, which is called the "Younger Edda." And it is to
these two books that we owe the preservation of almost all that is now
known of the myths and the strange religion of our Saxon and Norman
forefathers. But, besides these, there are a number of
semi-mythological stories of great interest and beauty,--stories partly

mythical, and partly founded upon remote and forgotten historical facts.
One of the oldest and finest of these is the story of Sigurd, the son of
Sigmund. There are many versions of this story, differing from each
other according to the time in which they were written and the
character of the people among whom they were received. We find the
first mention of Sigurd and his strange daring