Every people find some one means of expression
which more than all else suits their mood or their powers, and
this the Icelanders found in the saga. This was the life of a
hero told in prose, but in set form, after a regular fashion that
unconsciously complied with all epical requirements but that of
verse -- simple plot, events in order of time, set phrases for
even the shifting emotion or changeful fortune of a fight or
storm, and careful avoidance of digression, comment, or putting
forward by the narrator of ought but the theme he has in hand; he
himself is never seen. Something in the perfection of the saga
is to be traced to the long winter's evenings, when the whole
household, gathered together at their spinning, weaving, and so
on, would listen to one of their number who told anew some old
story of adventure or achievement. In very truth the saga is a
prose epic, and marked by every quality an epic should possess.
Growing up while the deeds of dead heroes were fresh in memory,
most often recited before the sharers in such deeds, the saga, in
its pure form, never goes from what is truth to its teller.
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