derns. For Nature is still
our mother and mistress, no less now than she ever was--and that's a
good thing for the story-reader as well as for the story-teller.

Out of the Saga of Thorgils, which is a tale of Greenland's
exploration, I hope that I drew a portrait of a good Icelander. Out of
Eric's Saga and Karlsefne's Saga combined I believe there is a no less
faithful picture of a good Icelandish woman. Gudrid was wise as well
as fair, if I have read her truly; she was a good woman, wife and
mother. The discovery of Wineland is to my own feelings quite beside
the mark where she is involved; but I have put it all in, and wish
there had been more of it. Psychology and romantic imagination will
not help us much there. We want the facts, and they fail us. All that
can be made out is that Karlsefne sailed up the Hudson. His Scraelings
were Esquimaux. But who was the black-kirtled woman who appeared to
Gudrid and gave herself the same name? And where was the Maggoty Sea?
And what goaded Freydis to her dreadful deeds? I admire Freydis
myself; I think she was a _femme incomprise_. I have taken pains with
Freydis, though personally I had rather been Gudrid's fourth husband
than Freydis's first.

I am not afraid of the accusation of vulgarising the classics. It is
good that they should be loved, and if simplification and amplification
humanise them I can stand the charge with philosophy. Of all classics
known to me the sagas are the most unapproachable in their naked
strength. Their frugality freezes the soul; they are laconic to
baldness. I admire strength with anybody, but the starkness of the
sagas shocks me. When Nial lies down by his old wife's side with the
timbers roaring and crackling over his head, and Skarphedin, his son,
says, "Our father goes early to bed, but that was to be expected, as he
is an old man," Professor Ker, exulting in his strength, finds it
admirable. I say it is inadequate, and not justified to us by what
else the saga tells us of the speaker. I am sure that Skarphedin had
more to say, or that if he had not the poet could have expressed him
better. It recalls the humorous callousness of our soldiers, which,
nakedly rendered, is often shocking. This is, however, not really the
point. Terseness may be dramatic--it often is, as in "Cover her
face--mine eyes dazzle--She died young"--but in narrative it may check
instead of provoke the imagination. But if it provoke, is it not
r