Capitals of the Northlands: Tales of Ten Cities — Text and Context
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This digital edition of Capitals of the Northlands: Tales of Ten Cities — Text and Context is described by source-level measurements including 67,372 words, 4 hr 53 min estimated reading time, and 8 detected text sections.
The text analysis averages about 23.7 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.
Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Scandinavia -- Description and travel,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.
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- Description quality20 pts
- Title & short description10 pts
- Source metadata20 pts
- Text length15 pts
- Chapters / structure15 pts
- EPUB file integrity20 pts
Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.
Read the Text
The dead body of Heor-leif was found by Ingwolf's thralls, who had been sent to search for the porch-pillars, and when they told their master he was very angry. And when he saw his brother dead he said, "It was a pitiful death for a brave man that thralls should slay him, but I see how it goes with those who will never perform sacrifice."
"Then Ingwolf went up to the headland and saw islands lying in the sea to the south-west. It came into his mind that the thralls must have run away thither, for the boat had disappeared. So he and his men went to seek the thralls, and found them there at a place called Eith (the Tarbet) in the islands. They were sitting at their meat when Ingwolf fell upon them. They became fearful, and every man of them ran off his own way. Ingwolf slew them all. The place is called Duf-thac's Scaur, where he lost his life. Many of them leaped over the rock, which was afterwards called by their name. The islands were afterwards called the Westmen Isles whereon they were slain, for they were Westmen" (or Irish).
Heimaey (or Home Isle), the largest of these Westmen Isles, consists of two great jagged masses of igneous rock, presenting wild cliffs to the ocean and a wild fretted outline to the sky. Between the two mountains is a rolling stretch of grass-land, and upon it stands the scattered little town of Kaupstadr. The cliffs are covered with sea-birds' nests, most of them filthy fulmars. And some of the other islands of the group, among which modern cruising steamers thread their way, are sea-worn into caves and caverns by the much contorted rocks along the shore.
At last, in the third winter, Ingwolf's thralls, Weevil and Carle, found the porch-pillars, and at the spot where they came to land he made for himself a homestead. He dwelt in Reek-wick, and the _Land-nama-bok_, or Icelandic _Domesday_, from which nearly all the above facts are taken,[11] says that the pillars are still to be seen in his fire-house, or temple.
In the _Eyrbyggja Saga_ we read of the building of another temple that stood on the north side of Faxefjoth. Somewhat similar, no doubt, was the shrine that incorporated the porch-pillars at Reykjavik. "There he let build a temple, and a mighty house it was. There was a door in the side-wall, and nearer to one end thereof. Within the door stood the porch-pillars and nails were therein; they were called the Gods' nails. There within was a great frith-place. But of the inmost house was there another house, of the fashion whereof now is the quire of a church, and there stood a stall in the midst of the floor in the fashion of an altar, and thereon lay a ring without a join that weighed twenty ounces, and on that must men swear all oaths; and that ring must the chief have on his arm at all man-motes."
A gold ring that Olaf Tryggvison took from the Temple of Lade (p. 69), and presented to a lady whom he admired, turned out to be only plated copper, and much trouble resulted from that gift. The gods had in all probability never discovered the fraud, for, like the Chinese to-day, the pagan Norse had a most mean opinion of the intelligence of the objects of their worship (p. 106). Some of the temples of Iceland were of considerable dimensions: in the _Vatzdaela Saga_ we read of one at Thordisholt a hundred feet in length.
Ingwolf, the founder of Reykjavik, was the most famous of all the fathers of Iceland, for he came to a desolate country, and was the first to build a house and to cultivate the ground. His son "was Thorstan, who let set the Thing at Keel-ness, before the Allthing was established. His son was Thor-kell Moon, the Law-speaker, who was one of the best conversation of any heathen men in Iceland, of those whom men have records of. He had himself carried out into the rays of the sun in his death-sickness, and commended himself to that God which had made the sun. Moreover, he had lived as cleanly as those Christian men who were of the best conversation or way of life." (_Landnama-bok._)
Ian C. Hannah opens his account of ten northern capitals not with a panoramic survey but with a pointed contrast: southern cities have been amply chronicled, while northern ones remain neglected. The preface frames the book as a corrective, yet the author immediately qualifies his project—England, like Scandinavia, was 'formed by the dwellers on the land,' not by city-builders. This tension between the catalog subject 'Capitals (Cities)' and the author's own insistence on rural roots runs throughout the text. Hannah draws heavily on the Icelandic sagas, which he praises as 'matchless,' and on medieval chronicles, but his method is associative rather than systematic. The result is a work that often feels like a series of historical digressions anchored to specific urban sites.
Sagas as Source, Not Decoration
The catalog subject 'Scandinavia — Description and travel' suggests a straightforward travelogue, but Hannah's primary evidence is literary. He repeatedly invokes the sagas—'in them we may read of all these ten towns'—and treats them as historical documents. For Visby, he cites a 'Franciscan chronicler of Lübeck' and the medieval code of laws that was 'to Northern Europe very much what that of Rhodes was to the Mediterranean.' The author does not simply quote; he evaluates sources, dismissing a local legend about a walled-in woman as 'foolish tales' while crediting the chronicler's account of King Waldemar's sack. This critical approach distinguishes the book from a mere collection of picturesque stories, though the excerpts show that Hannah often prioritizes narrative drama over geographic description.
The Hanseatic Lens
Hannah's treatment of Visby reveals a recurring preoccupation: the Hanseatic League. The catalog subjects do not mention trade or economic history, yet the excerpts devote sustained attention to the League's conflicts with Danish kings. The author describes the 1361 sack of Visby, the ransom of 'three largest vats' filled with gold, and the subsequent wreck of the Danish fleet. He then traces the League's retaliation—Copenhagen captured in 1362, the Treaty of Stralsund—and Visby's decline into a 'pest to the shipping of that sea.' The language is vivid ('encumbered with loot as no doubt the Mayflower was with furniture'), and the moral judgment is clear: Waldemar is 'not wholly a bad King,' but his 'unchivalrous action' provoked a war that reshaped the Baltic. This economic-historical thread, absent from the catalog, is one of the book's most consistent analytical frameworks.
Ruin and Resilience in the Northern City
Despite the catalog's generic 'Description and travel' label, Hannah's cities are not static destinations. Visby 'slipped so low' as to become a pirate haven, then was 'plundered and sacked' by its former ally Lübeck. Yet the author notes that even in decline, the town retains 'the vigorous life of an older day'—a railway, a factory, a market-place amid ruins. This pattern of fall and partial recovery appears elsewhere: Trondhjem's cathedral is a frontispiece, but the excerpts do not reveal whether Hannah treats it as a living church or a relic. The book's structure—ten chapters, each on a single city—implies completeness, but the excerpts suggest that Hannah is less interested in comprehensive urban portraits than in moments of historical rupture. Readers expecting a systematic guide will find instead a meditation on how northern capitals have been shaped by violence, trade, and memory.
Hannah's book resists easy categorization. It is not a travel guide in the modern sense, nor a strict history, but a hybrid that uses place as a springboard for narrative. Readers will benefit from familiarity with the sagas and medieval Baltic politics, as the author assumes some knowledge of figures like Waldemar Atterdag and Margaret I. The illustrations by Edith B. Hannah, though not excerpted here, likely complement the text's emphasis on architecture and landscape. Approach the work as a series of linked essays rather than a reference work, and the digressions will feel less like flaws than features of a personal, erudite voice.
There’s something about Hannah’s old book, the way he lingers on a Hanseatic legend rather than a street plan, that feels like a postcard from a slower mind. It reminded me of another quiet companion, In to the Yukon — Reading Companion, whose pages hold a similar patience. I keep both near my chair now, not for facts, but for their unhurried company.
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