was translated into all
civilized languages, and everywhere, in spite of the translators'
shortcomings, it was hailed with delight. Not only England, France, and
Germany hastened to appropriate it, but even in Spain, Greece, and
Russia tears were shed over "Ingeborg's Lament," and tender bosoms
palpitated with sympathy for Frithjof's sorrows. I know a dozen English
translations of "Frithjof's Saga" (a friend of mine, who is a
bibliophile, assures me that the exact number is at present twenty-one),
and of German versions the number is not very much less. A Norwegian (or
rather Danish) rendering was presented to me on my twelfth birthday; and
the sentiment which then most forcibly appealed to me was, as I vividly
remember, embodied in the following verse, in which Bjoern chides his
friend's grief for the loss of his beloved:

"Frithjof, 'tis time for your folly's abating;
Sigh and lament for a woman's loss:
Earth is, alas, too full of such dross;
One may be lost, still a thousand are waiting.
Say but the word, of such goods I will bring
Quickly a cargo--the Southland can spare them,
Bed as the rose, mild as lambs in the spring;
Then we'll cast lots, or as brothers we'll share them."[37]

[37] Holcomb's translation.

It was not the unconscious humor of this proposition which struck me the
most in those days; but it was the bluff frankness of the gruff old
viking which then seemed truly admirable. In fact, I am not sure but
that Bjoern appeared to me a more sympathetic figure than Frithjof. But a
little later it dawned upon me that his utter lack of chivalry was
rather revolting; and I began to marvel at my former admiration. At
fourteen the following verse (which at twelve was charmingly heroic)
caused me to revise my opinion of Bjoern:

"Good! to King Ring it shall be my glad duty
Something to teach of a wronged viking's power;
Fire we his palace at midnight's still hour,
Scorch the old graybeard and bear off the beauty."

For all that, Bjoern with his rough speech and hearty delight in fighting
and drinking, is far truer to the spirit of the old heroic age than is
Frithjof with his sentimentality and lovesick reveries. This verse, for
instance, is replete with the briny breath of the northern main. The
north wind blows through it:

"Good is the sea, your complaining you squander,
Freedom and joy on the sea flourish best.
He never knoweth effeminate