etorical
impulse carries you along; and the external effectiveness of the
situations keeps the interest on the alert. For all that "Limping
Hulda," like its predecessors and its successors, tended to stimulate
powerfully the national spirit, which was then asserting itself in every
department of intellectual activity. Thus a national theatre had, by the
perseverance and generosity of Ole Bull, been established in his native
city, Bergen; and it was almost a matter of course that an effort should
be made to identify Bjoernson with an enterprise which accorded so well
with his own aspirations. His connection with the Norwegian Theatre of
Bergen was, however, not of long duration, for though your enthusiasm
may be ever so great it is a thankless task to act as "artistic
director" of a stage in a town which is neither artistic enough nor
large enough to support a playhouse with a higher aim than that of
furnishing ephemeral amusement. From Bergen he was called to the
editorship of _Aftenbladet_ (The Evening Journal), the second political
daily of Christiania, and continued there with hot zeal and eloquence
his battle for "all that is truly Norse."

But a brief experience sufficed to convince him that daily journalism
was not his _forte_. He was and is too indiscreet, precipitate,
credulous, and inconsiderately generous to be a successful editor. If a
paper could be conducted on purely altruistic principles, and without
reference to profits, there would be no man fitter to occupy an
editorial chair. For as an inspiring force, as a radiating focus of
influence, his equal is not to be encountered "in seven kingdoms round."
However, this inspiring force could reach a far larger public through
published books than through the columns of a newspaper. It was
therefore by no means in a regretful frame of mind that he descended
from the editorial tripod, and in the spring of 1860 started for Italy.
Previous to his departure he published, through the famous house of
Gyldendal, in Copenhagen, a volume which, it is no exaggeration to say,
has become a classic of Norwegian literature. It bears the modest title
"Smaa-stykker" (Small Pieces), but it contains, in spite of its
unpretentiousness, some of Bjoernson's noblest work. I need only mention
the masterly tale "The Father," with its sobriety and serene strength. I
know but one other instance[3] of so great tragedy, told in so few and
simple words. "Arne," "En Glad Gut" (A Happy Boy),