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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SAN DIEGO 
 
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 NOETHERN STUDIES 
 
[The following chapters appeared iu their original form in 
 the Corn/all Magazine, the Forlnightly Review, the New Quarterly 
 Magazine, and Fraser's Magazine, and are now reprinted with 
 the kind permission of the proprietors.] 
 
Tesselschade at Alkmaar. 
 
STUDIES IN THE LITERATURE 
 OF NORTHERN EUROPE 
 
 EDMUND W. GOSSE 
 
 AVTHOH OF 'ilN VIOI, AND FLUTE' A\D ' KIXG ERIK' 
 
 WITH A FRONTISPIECE DESIGNED AND ETCHED DY 
 L. ALMA TADEMA, A.R.A. 
 
 LONDON 
 C. KEGAN PAUL & CO., 1 PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
 
 1879 
 
[The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved) 
 
TO 
 
 D^ GEORG BRANDES 
 
 or BERLIN 
 
 THE MOST DISTINGUISHED OF SCANDINAVIAN CRITICS 
 
 I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK 
 
 WITH ADMIRATION AND AFFECTION 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 In selecting subjects for this book, I have been led by 
 two considerations, choosing first what has charmed my- 
 self, and next what seems likely to amuse the reader. For 
 in wandering unaccompanied through a new literature, the 
 student is drawn by instinct to those epochs and those 
 figures which are personally most attractive to him. He 
 cannot assert that they have more general importance 
 than others, but at least they have more individual im- 
 portance to himself: he likes them better, they stimulate 
 his imagination more than their compeers; and what has 
 pleased him he is apt to conceive will please his friends. 
 Tliis is my excuse for the inequalities of my method, for 
 the accidental character of the selection. 
 
 A few studies of salient points, prominent peaks and 
 chains upon the map of literature, are more likely to 
 arrest attention than a general survey of the whole, 
 which might be tedious. But if I am happy enough to 
 have a reader who cares to follow the connecting links and 
 to glance over the historical plan, I may be allowed to 
 refer him to my sketch of the literature of Denmark in 
 
Viii PREFACE. 
 
 the new edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, and to 
 forthcoming articles in the same work on the literatures 
 of Norway and of Sweden. 
 
 There would be little instruction to be found in the 
 study of foreign poetry, if it did not throw side-lights 
 upon our own poetic history. It is singular that this 
 aspect has been very generally disregarded by literary 
 historians, and that in treating the nations of the North 
 of Europe, it has been entirely disregarded. I have 
 striven always to remember this, and to view these foreign 
 poets by a Em-opean and not a local light. We see Arrebo 
 imitating Du Bartas and Eosenhane paraphrasing Konsard 
 like veritable Elizabethans. We see Huyghens frankly 
 borrowing from John Donne, and Milton, in return, deign- 
 ing to become indebted to Vondel. We see Oehlenschlager 
 and Steffens, in 1800, taking long walks, with Schelling 
 in their pockets and the revival of Danish poetry in their 
 minds, precisely as Coleridge and Wordsworth were doing 
 at the very same time at Grrasmere. We gain by learning 
 that the dew is not on the fleece for us alone, but that we 
 form a part of a wide field of European culture over the 
 whole expanse of which the rains descend in their season. 
 
 On the question of the formation of the mind by classic 
 study I strongly hold the faith of our fathers. There is no 
 road, I am sure, to poetic excellence in taste except through 
 Greek, and what nature does not give us it is vain to seek else- 
 where than in antiquity. I am inclined, indeed, to claim for 
 the authors of the ancient sagas something of the intensity 
 
PREFACE. ix 
 
 and catholicity of the best Greek and Roman writers, and 
 something, too, of their bracing effect upon the mind. But 
 in all the modern literatures with which I deal, no one can 
 be more conscious than I am how rarely perfection is ap- 
 proached, how cloudy and flickering is the light of imagi- 
 nation, and how great a part affectation and barbarism take 
 even in the brightest periods of national vitality. In the 
 sagas, however, there is none of this oscillation between ex- 
 cellence and bathos. If I should retain both health and 
 leisure, it is my hope to follow Sir George Dasent and the 
 translators of the Greitlssaga in their admirable labours. 
 To write a history of Icelandic literature is a thing un- 
 attempted yet in any tongue. I do not know that I have 
 the audacity to essay such a work, but I have the greatest 
 inclination to do so. 
 
 For the sake of those who may care to compare my 
 versions with the originals, I have printed in an appendix 
 the text of all the poems and portions of poems translated 
 in the body of the book. 
 
 My very cordial thanks are due to all the friends in 
 various countries who have so kindly volunteered to make 
 these studies as free from errors of detail as possible. I 
 cannot mention the names of all to whom I am indebted, 
 but I must not fail to express special recognition of the 
 kindness of the distinguished writer to whom this volume 
 is inscribed, who has read through the proofs for me, and 
 to thank Overlserer Lokke in Christiania, Professor C. R. 
 Nyblom at Upsala, and Professor J. A. Alberdingk Thijm 
 in Amsterdam for their very kind help. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PREFACE - vii 
 
 NORWAY : 
 
 norwegfan poetey since 1814 1 
 
 Hexrik Ibsen 35 
 
 The Lofoden Islands 70 
 
 SWEDEN : 
 
 Runeberg 98 
 
 DENMARK : 
 
 The Danish National Theatre 134 
 
 EouR Danish Poets ■ • 157 
 
 GERMANY: 
 
 Walther von der Vogelweide . ... 197 
 
 HOLLAND : 
 
 A Dutch Poetess of the Seventeenth Century . . 230 
 
 VONDEL AND MiLTON 278 
 
 The Oera Linda Book 313 
 
 APPENDIX 335 
 
2 THE LITERATUKE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 shall endeavour to show that such is the case among the 
 Norwegians. 
 
 It would be hard to point out any country in Europe 
 whose condition at the present moment presents a more 
 satisfactory aspect than Norway. It is not perhaps univer- 
 sally known that its constitution is the only one that 
 survives out of all those created or adapted to suit the 
 theories of democracy that prevailed in the beginning of 
 the century. Though accepting the King of Sweden as 
 titular monarch, Norway really rules itself, sends to Christi- 
 ania a parliament (the Storthing), elected from all classes 
 of society, and has not scrupled, on occasion, to overrule the 
 King's especial commands, even at the risk of civil war. 
 There is no hereditary nobility in Norway ; no political 
 restriction on the press ; hardly any class distinction ; and 
 yet, so conservative, so dignified, is the nation, that free- 
 dom hardJy ever lapses into licence, and the excesses which 
 larger republics permit themselves would be impossible 
 here. It is necessary to preface my remarks on the poetry 
 of Norway with this statement, because the poets there, 
 where they have been poets worth considering, have been 
 also politicians ; and I shall be obliged, on this account, to 
 refer now and again to political developments, though I 
 shall hope to make these references as short as possible. 
 The pohtical life of Norway would be in itself a fertile 
 subject to dwell upon. 
 
 It is no more than an arbitrary dictum that fixes the 
 rise of Norwegian literature at the date of the Declaration 
 of Independence of 1814. For two centuries past the 
 country had been producing eminent writers, who had at- 
 tained distinction both as poets and as men of science. 
 
THE NORSKE SELSKAB. 3 
 
 The great naturalists of Norway require, and deserve, an 
 abler pen than mine ; it is with the poets that I propose 
 to deal. A few of these, such as Peder Dass and Dorthe 
 Engelbrechtsdatter, had preserved in the old days their na- 
 tional character, and sung to the Northmen only ; but for 
 the most part the writers of Norway looked to Denmark 
 for their audience, and are to this day enrolled among the 
 Danish poets. Holberg, Wessel, Tullin, Frimann, and a 
 score of others, were as truly Norwegians as Welhaven and 
 Ibsen are, but Copenhagen was the scene of their labours, 
 and Danes were their admirers and patrons, and it is in 
 Danish, not Norwegian, literature that tliey find their 
 place. Hence it has been the habit of the Scandinavian 
 critics to commence their histories of Noi"wegian biblio- 
 graphy with the demonstration at Eidsvold, when Norway 
 asserted her independence, and finally separated from 
 Denmark. 
 
 The Norske Selskab ('Norwegian Society '), that evil 
 genius and yet, in a measure, protector of the literature it 
 presumed to govern, had now for more than forty years 
 scattered thunderbolts from its rooms at Copenhagen, and 
 ruled the world of letters with a rod of iron. But this 
 singular association, that had nourished Wessel, snubbed 
 Edvard Storm, and hunted Ewald to the death, no longer 
 possessed its ancient force. The glory was departing, and 
 when the rupture with Denmark came about, the Norske 
 Selskab began to feel that Copenhagen was no longer a fit 
 field of action, and, gathering its robes about it, it fled 
 across the sea to Christiania, where it dwindled to a mere 
 club, and may, for aught I know, still so exist, a shadow 
 ■of its former self. But though the Selskab, once dreaded 
 
 B 2 ■ 
 
4 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 as the French Academy was, no longer had fangs to poison 
 its opponents, its traditions of taste still ruled the public. 
 Accordingly the aspect of affairs in the literary world of 
 Christiania in the proud year of 1814 is at this distance 
 of time neither inspiriting nor inviting. Newspapers 
 hurriedly started and ignorantly edited, a theatre where 
 people went to see dull tragedies of Nordal Brun's, or, 
 worse still, translations of tawdry dramas of the Voltaire 
 school, a chaos of foolish political pamphlets : these meet 
 us on every hand, and every sort of writing seems to 
 abound, save that which is the result of fine criticism and 
 good taste. The Selskab admitted but two kinds of 
 poetry — the humorous and the elegiac. Everyone knows 
 what elegies used to be, what a plague they had become, 
 and how persistently ' elegant ' and ' ingenious ' writers 
 poured them forth. And, indeed, according to the journals 
 of that time in Christiania, every verse-writer was inge- 
 nious and every tale-writer elegant. There was a total want 
 of discrimination ; every man wrote what was pleasing in 
 his own eyes, and had it printed too ; for the newspapers 
 were open to all comers, and no poems were too stupid to 
 be admitted. The whole country went wild with the new- 
 found liberty ; like an overdose of exhilarating tonic, free- 
 dom threw Norway into a sort of delirium, and all was 
 joyous, confused, and irrational. Out of all this arose a 
 new class of poetry that ran side by side with tlie elegiac, 
 and after a while overwhelmed it. This has been called 
 ' Syttendemai-Poesi,' or poesy of the 1 7th of May — the day 
 on which Christian was proclaimed King of Norway, and 
 the Storthing was finally instituted. This poesy, of course, 
 was intensely patriotic, taking the form of odes to Eids- 
 
THE TREFOIL. 5 
 
 void, hjmns to Old Norway, and defiance to the world at 
 large. It is tedious, and sometimes laughable if read 
 now ; but then it had its significance, and was the inar- 
 ticulate cry of a young, unsatisfied nation. 
 
 Out of the froth and whirl of the ' Syttendemai-Poesi ' 
 the works of three poets rise and take a definite shape. 
 These claim particular notice, mainly because of their real 
 worth, but they gained it at the time, perhaps, more by 
 the extraordinary zeal with which they stood l)y and puffed 
 one another. They have been called the Trefoil, so im- 
 possible is it to consider them separately ; and in this 
 triplicity of theirs they formed a considerable figure in 
 their day. I speak of Schwach, Bjerregaard, and M. C. 
 Hansen. The first-mentioned was the most admired then, 
 and is the least regarded now. C. A. Schwach was born 
 in a village by the shores of Lake Miosen in 1793, and, 
 after holding a high official position at Trondhjem for a 
 great many years, died at Skien in 1860. His jDoems, 
 originally printed in stray newspapers, were collected in 
 three great volumes. They are very dull, being for the 
 most part occasional verses called forth by events which 
 are now entirely forgotten. Schwach, once the idol of the 
 clubs and the popular poet of the day, is now seldom read 
 and never reprinted ; he exists mainly as the author of one 
 or two popular songs that have not yet lost their charm. 
 Bjerregaard was a man of far higher talent than Schwach ; 
 there was more melody in his heart than on liis tongue ; 
 his lyrics have still some music about them, and some 
 dewiness and sparkle. His countrymen usually class him 
 as a poet below Hansen, and if we include, as they do, 
 novels and all sorts of aesthetic writing as part of a poet's 
 
6 THE LITER ATUEE OF IsOETHEEX EUEOPE. 
 
 vocation, they are doubtless right, for Hansen won great 
 fame as a writer of romances ; but in poetry proper I 
 must, for my own part, set Bjerregaard far higher than his- 
 friends as a master of the art. He had greater reticence 
 than they, and a brighter touch ; he even had some desire 
 for novelty in the matter of versification, and wrote in 
 terza rima and other new metres. He produced a tragedy, 
 too, ' Magnus Barfods Sonner '('Magnus Barefoot's Sons'),. 
 which, I am bound to say, I have found wonderfully dreary. 
 He was happiest in lyrical writing ; I may point in pass- 
 ing to his pretty verses * Vinterscener ' (' Winter Scenes ')^ 
 in the small collected edition of his works. He was born 
 in the same village as Schwach was, but a year earlier, 
 and died in 1842. M. C. Hansen, a prolific writer of 
 novels, published exceedingly little verse, of an artificial 
 and affected kind. Glancing down his pages, we notice 
 such titles as ' The Pearl,' ' The Eainbow,' ' Nature in 
 Ceylon,' and we easily gather the unreal and forced nature 
 of the sentiment he deals in. His romances are said to 
 be of a far better character, and he led the van of those 
 happy innovators who turned to the real life of their 
 humbler countrymen for a subject for their art. For thi& 
 discovery, the beauty that lies hidden in a peasant's life^ 
 we must thank Hansen, and forgive his poetical sins. He 
 died a few days before his friend Bjerregaard, and Schwacb 
 collected his works in eight huge volumes. 
 
 If there were nothing better in Norwegian poetry than 
 the writings of these three friends, it would not be worth' 
 while to catalogue their tedious productions, and the 
 reader might wisely turn away to more inspiriting themes. 
 But it is not so ; this early period of Syttendemai-Poesi is- 
 
WEEGELAND. 7 
 
 but the ridge of light-blown sand over which the traveller 
 has to toil from his boat till he reaches the meadows and 
 the heathery moorlands beyond. We come now to a poet 
 whose genius, slowly developing out of the chaotic ele- 
 ments around it, took form, and colour, and majesty, till 
 it lifted its possessor to a level with the noblest spirits of 
 his time. 
 
 Henrik Arnold Thaulov Wergeland was born at 
 Christianssand in 1808, and was the son of a political 
 pamphleteer who attained some prominence in the ranks 
 of the popular party. The father was one of the original 
 members of the Storthing, and consequently the earliest 
 years of the poet were spent at Eidsvold, in the very 
 centre of all the turmoil of inexperienced statesmanship. 
 Eidsvold was the vortex into which the bombast and false 
 sentiment of the nation naturally descended, and it is 
 impossible to doubt that the scenes of his boyhood dis- 
 tinctly infused into Wergeland's nature that strong 
 political bias that he never afterwards threw off. By-and- 
 by the lad went up to the University of Christiania, and 
 entered heart and soul into the caprices of student life ; 
 his excesses, however, seem to have been those of eccen- 
 tricity and mischievousness, for neither at this time nor 
 ever after through his chequered life did he lose that 
 blameless character, the sweetness of which won praise 
 even from his enemies. It was about this time that he 
 fell in love with a young lady, whom he had seen once 
 only, and that in the street. He named her Stella, and, 
 being unable to find her address, wrote daily a letter to 
 her, tore it up and threw it out of window. His landlady 
 remarked that the apple-blossom was falling early that 
 
8 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 year. This ideal love for * Stella ' woke the seeds of 
 poetry in him ; he began to versify, and soon, forgetting 
 Stella, worshipped a still less tangible but more important 
 mistress, the Muse Thalia herself. 
 
 The first work published by the afterwards eminent 
 poet was ' Ah ! ' a farce. It is usual with his admirers to 
 pass over this and his other boyish productions in silence, 
 but it is undoubtedly a fact that after tlie appearance of 
 * Ah ! ' in 1827, he wrote a great number of farces in quick 
 succession. These farces were successful, too, and the boy 
 dramatist began to be talked of and admired ; there were 
 not wanting those even who called him ' The Holberg of 
 Norway,' forgetting, it would seem, that Holberg himself, 
 the inimitable, was a Norwegian. That Wergeland him- 
 self did not prize these trifles very highly would seem 
 from his publishing them under an Arabic pseudonym — 
 ' Siful Sifadda.' Those who have read them speak of them 
 as not altogether devoid of fun, but founded principally 
 on passing events, that have lost all interest now. But in 
 1828 he wrote a tragedy — ' Sinclairs Dod' ('Sinclair's 
 Death') — and in 1829 issued some lyrical poems that 
 showed he had distinct and worthy aims in art. These 
 poems had an immense success; they were brimful of 
 tasteless affectations and outrages of rhythm as well as 
 reason, but they were full, too, of Syttendemai enthu- 
 siasm, and they spread through the country like wild-fire. 
 Wergeland became the poet of the people ; his songs were 
 set to music and sung in the theatres ; they were re- 
 printed in all the newspapers, and sold in halfpenny leaf- 
 lets in the streets. Every 17th of May the people 
 gathered to the poet's house, and shouted, * Hurrah for 
 
WEKGELA^^D. 9 
 
 "Wergeland and Liberty I ' His mild face, beaming behind 
 great spectacles, his loose green hunting coat and shuffling 
 gait, were hailed everywhere with applause. There are 
 real and great merits about these early poems ; they show 
 some true knowledge of nature, some lyrical loveliness ; 
 but it was not for these, it was rather for the defiance of 
 all laws of authorship, that the people of Christiania 
 adored him. In 1 830 he published ' Skabelsen, Mennesket 
 og Mesias ' (' The Creation, Man and the Messiah '), a 
 drama of elephantine proportions. This portentous poem 
 caused great diversion among the poet's enemies, and was 
 the actual cause of an attack upon him, which ultimately 
 divided the nation into two camps, and revolutionised the 
 literature of Norway. 
 
 In 1831 there appeared in one of the papers a short 
 anonymous poem, ' To H. Wergeland,' which was chiefly 
 remarkable for the sharpness of its satire and the extreme 
 polish of its style. It was not in the least degree bom- 
 bastic or affected, and consequently was a novelty to 
 Norwegian readers. It lashed the author of ' Skabelsen ' 
 with a pitiless calmness and seeming candour that were 
 almost insufferable. 
 
 For years past a section of society had been developing 
 itself in Christiania whose interests and aims lay in a very 
 different channel from those of the great bulk of the 
 populace. These persons, of conservative natm'e, saw with 
 regret the folly of much of the noisy mock-patriotism 
 current ; they sighed for the old existence, when the 
 cliques of Copenhagen quietly settled all questions of 
 taste, and if there was little fervour there was at least no 
 bathos. The leading spirit of this movement, which may 
 
10 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 be called the Critical, was J. S. Welhaven, a young man 
 who, born at Bergen in 1807, but early a student at the 
 capital, liad watched the career of Wergeland and had 
 conceived an intense disdain for his poetry and his friends. 
 It was he who, at last, had let fly this lyric arrow in the 
 dark, and who had raised such consternation among the 
 outraged patriots. Wergeland replied by another poem, 
 and a controversy insensibly sprang up. In 1832 
 Welhaven published a thin book — ' H. Wergeland's 
 Poetry ' — which at once raised a howl from all the popu- 
 lar journalists, and marks an era in literature. It consists 
 of a calm and exasperating anatomy of the poet's then 
 published writings, as withering and quite as amusing as 
 Lord Macaulay's Essay on Eobert Montgomery. It is 
 even more bitter than this, and far more unjust, since the 
 subject of it was a real poet and not a mere charlatan in 
 verse. Still, with all his absurdities extracted and put 
 side by side, Wergeland does cut a pitiable figure indeed, 
 and one is tempted to forgive the critic when, throwing all 
 mercy to the winds, he pours forth a torrent of eloquent 
 invective, beginning with the words, ' Stained with all the 
 deadly sins of poesy,' and ending with a consignment of 
 the author to the ' mad-house of Parnassus.' Among the 
 numerous replies called forth by this attack, the most 
 notable was one by the poet's father, N. Wergeland, but 
 his pamphlet, though doubtless able in its way, has no- 
 thing of the brilliant wit of Welhaven's little brochure. 
 Meanwhile the outraged poet himself, who throughout the 
 controversy seems to have behaved with great discretion,, 
 continued to attend to his own affairs. In 1831 he 
 published ' Opium,' a drama, and in 1833 ' Spaniolen, a 
 
'NORGES DiEMRING.' 11 
 
 charming little poem, which shows a gTeat improvement 
 in style, and proves the beneficial effect of the criticism 
 brought to bear on him. Still the mild-eyed man 
 sauntered dreamily about in his loose green coat, but now 
 he was less often seen in the streets, for, having bought a 
 small estate just out of Christiania, he gave himself up to 
 a passion for flowers, and to a grotto of great size and 
 ingenuity. Poetry was the business of his life, and his 
 spare hours were given to his grotto and his flowers. The 
 great controversy began to take a national character, and 
 when, in 1834, Welhaven published his polemical poem of 
 'Norges Dsemring' ('Norway's Twilight') there was no 
 longer any personal character in his attacks. In that 
 exquisite cycle of sonnets he laid bare all the roots of evil 
 and folly that were deadening the heart of the nation, 
 and with a pitiless censure struck at the darling institu- 
 tions of the national party. He called for a wider patriot- 
 ism and a healthier enthusiasm than the frothy zeal of 
 the Syttendemai demonstrations could show, and in verse 
 that was as sublime as it was in the truest sense patriotic, 
 he prophesied a glorious future for the nation, when it 
 should be led by calmer statesmen, and no longer beaten 
 about like an unsteady ship by every wind of faction. 
 Then Norwegians would estimate their own dignity justly ; 
 then poetry and painting, journalism and statesmanship, 
 all the arts and sciences, would join to form one harmoni- 
 ous whole, and the young nation grow up into a perfect 
 man. Then, winding up his argument, he cries — 
 
 Thy dwelling, peasant, is on holy ground ; 
 What Norway was, that she again may be, 
 By land, by sea, and in the world of men ! 
 
12 THE LITERATUKE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 The publication of ' Norges iJsemring ' naturally 
 enough called forth a still louder protestation from the 
 popular leaders, and the battle raged more fiercely than ever. 
 No longer was it the principal champions who led the 
 fight ; these retired for a while, aud their friends took up 
 the cause. Sylvester Sivertson, a poor imitator of 
 Wergeland, frantically attacked ' Norges Dasmring,' and 
 Hermann Foss, a new convert to the critical party, as 
 stoutly defended it ; and so matters went on till about 
 1838. 
 
 From this time misfortunes fell upon Wergeland in 
 ever increasing severity. One by one the lights all faded 
 out of his life, and left it wan and bare. First of all he 
 lost an official position which brought him in a consider- 
 able income. The King, the unpopular John, in a moment 
 of whim, deprived him of this office. Still the profits 
 of his poems aud the sums brought in by his theatrical 
 writings were enough to keep him in comfort. The loose 
 green coat was seen wandering about his garden more 
 than ever ; but in an unlucky moment King John re- 
 pented of his haste, and ordered the poet a certain pen- 
 sion from the State. Wergeland consented to take the 
 money only on the express condition that he was to be 
 allowed to spend it all in the formation of a library for 
 the poor ; but, alas ! only half of this transaction was 
 known to the public, and in the newspapers of the next 
 week Wergeland found himself stigmatised by his own 
 friends as ' the betrayer of the Fatherland.' So intensely 
 unpopular was King John, that to receive money from him, 
 was to receive money, it was considered, from an enemy of 
 the nation, and by a sharp revolution of Fortune's wheel 
 
EUIN OF WERGELAND. 13 
 
 the popular poet became the object of general distrust 
 and disgrace. It is vain to argue against a sudden fancy of 
 this kind ; the remonstrances of Wergeland were drowned 
 in journalistic invective ; and the grief and humiliation 
 acted so injuriously on the poet's irritable nerves, that he 
 fell into confirmed ill-health, and from this time rapidly 
 sank towards death. Other sorrows followed that made 
 these inner troubles still less bearable. The poet be- 
 came involved in a tedious law-suit, which drained his 
 finances so completely that the pretty country house, the 
 grotto, and the beloved flower-beds had to be relinquished, 
 and lodgings in town received the already invalided 
 Wergeland. Shattered in body and estate, forsaken and 
 misjudged by his countrymen, it might have been ex- 
 pected that the mind of the man would have been 
 depressed and weakened, but it was not so. In a poem of 
 this very time, he says: — 
 
 My house and ground, 
 My horse and hound, 
 Have passed away and are not found ! 
 But something yet within me lies 
 That law and lawyer's touch defies. 
 
 And it was just at this very time, when he was bowed 
 down with adversity, that the singing faculty in him 
 burst forth with unprecedented vigour, and found a purer 
 and juster expression than ever before. The last five years 
 of his life saw his genius scatter all the clouds and vapours 
 that enwrapped it. 
 
 The first of these swan-songs was ' Jan van Huysums 
 Blomsterstykke ' ('J. van Huysum's Flower-piece'), a 
 series of lyrics with prose interjaculations. This is by far 
 
14 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 the most beautiful of his political poems — for such it must 
 be called, being thoroughly interpenetrated by his fiery re- 
 publicanism. No poet save Shelley has decked the bare shell 
 of politics with brighter wreaths than Wergeland ; and it 
 must be remembered that while in the mouth of an English 
 poet these principles are dreamy and Utopian, to a Nor- 
 wegian of that time they were matter of practical hope ; and 
 though Wergeland did not live to see it, there soon came 
 a time when, King John having passed away, the high- 
 minded Oscar permitted those very alterations in the 
 Constitution which the popular party were sighing for. 
 In ' Jan van Huysums Blomsterstykke ' the poet takes a 
 flower-piece of that painter's cunning workmanship, and 
 gazes at it till it seems to start into life, and the whole 
 mass — flowers, insects, and the porcelain jar itself — 
 becomes a symbol of passionate humanity to him. The 
 blossoms are souls longing for a happier world ; here the 
 poppies cry for vengeance like bubbles of Ijlood from the 
 torn throat of some martyr for liberty ; here the tulips 
 flame out of their pale-green sheaths like men who burst 
 their bonds and would be free ; roses, columbines, narcissi, 
 each suggest some brilliant human parallel to the poet, 
 and all is moulded into verse that is melody itself. We 
 rise from reading the poem as from studying some 
 exquisite piece of majolica, or a page of elaborate 
 arabesques ; we feel it never can be as true to our own 
 faith as it was to the writer's, but we regard it as a 
 lovely piece of art, shapely and well-proportioned. It was 
 presented as a bouquet to Fredrika Bremer. 
 
 The next year saw the publication of ' Svalen ' ( ' The 
 Swallow '), a poem suggested by the bereavement of the 
 
'SVALEN,' 15 
 
 poet's excellent .sister Augusta. It was 'a midsummer 
 morning story for mothers who have lost their children,' 
 and was sent to cheer the downcast heart of his sister. It 
 is one of the most ethereal poems ever written ; a lyrical 
 rhapsody of faith in God and triumph over death. A 
 short extract will indicate the profuse and ebullient 
 ananner of its composition : — 
 
 Then I lifted 
 
 Up my soul, and saw the swallow 
 
 Sinking, floating, softly fly 
 
 Through the milk-white clouds on high, 
 
 And my heart rejoiced anew ; 
 
 How she drifted ! 
 
 Through the blue I scarce could follow 
 
 Her sun-gilded body, though 
 
 Sol lay in a dai-k cloud-hollow : 
 
 How she sprang ; and turned, in flashing, 
 
 As if weaving in mid-air 
 
 With her wing-points through and through 
 
 Some strange web of gold and blue. 
 
 With my thoughts I followed, dashing 
 
 Thi'ough the light with little care, 
 
 While the balsam-drops afar 
 
 On her beak 
 
 Glittered like a double star.^ 
 
 By this time the author was himself upon his death-bed, 
 l)ut he lingered a few years yet, long enough to see his 
 popularity slowly return, and to hear again tlie vivats of 
 the people on the 17th of May. It was not his own 
 troubles, but the grievances of a down-trodden people, that 
 filled his last thoughts. By the laws of Norway no Jews 
 "whatever, under heavy penalties, might settle in the realm, 
 and the hearts of high-minded men were exercised to put 
 
 ' Appendix A. 
 
16 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN" EUROPE. 
 
 an end to this injustice. In 1842 Wergeland published 
 * Joden ' (' The Jew '), an idyllic poem ' in nine sprays of 
 blossoming thorn,' or cantos, in which the cause of the 
 Hebrew outcasts was eloquently pleaded. The work 
 created a great deal of excitement, and, to clinch the nail 
 he had struck in, the poet produced in 1844 ' Jodinden 
 (' The Jewess '), in ' eleven sprays of blossoming thorn. 
 These powerful poems, accompanied by prose writings 
 of a similar tendency, produced the desired effect, 
 and the restriction was, in the course of a few years, re- 
 moved. 
 
 But it was not for Wergeland to watch this consum- 
 mation. Already the darkness of death was gathering 
 round his bed, though the strong brain lost none of its 
 power and the swift hand increased in cunning. A few 
 months before the end his last and greatest poem appeared 
 — 'Den engelske Lods' ('The English Pilot') — in which 
 all his early life of travel and excitement seems to have 
 passed before his eyes and to have been photographed in 
 verse. There is no trace of depression or weakness ; it is 
 not the sort of book a man writes upon his death-bed ; it 
 is lively and full of incident, humorous and yet pathetic. 
 The groundwork of the piece is a reminiscence of the 
 poet's own visit to England many years before. Kent, 
 Brighton, the Isle of Wight, and the 'Hampshire Fjord ' 
 are drawn in rose-colour by an only too enthusiastic pen, 
 and the idyllic story that gives title to the whole — namely 
 the loves of Johnny Johnson and Mary Ann — is inter- 
 woven skilfully enough. The final episode, the return to 
 the Norwegian province of Hardanger, is particularly vivid, 
 and the descriptions of landscape singularly true and 
 
'THE ENGLISH PILOT.' 17 
 
 •charming. Here is a fragment from the close of the 
 poem, describing the native scenes : — 
 
 Where in pale blue ranks arise 
 
 Alps that rim the mountain valley ; 
 Where ahove the' crystal spring 
 
 Blooms the snow-white apple-tree, 
 
 And in tracks of snow you see 
 WUd white roses blossoming ; 
 Where a stream begins its song 
 
 Like a wind-harp low and muffled, 
 Murmuring though the moss and stones ; 
 Then among the alders moans, 
 
 Rushes out, involved and muffled, 
 By a youthful impulse driven, 
 
 Foaming, till it reach the vale, 
 And, like David with his harp, 
 
 From a shepherd made a king"" 
 
 By the songs that it can sing, 
 Triumphs through the listening dale.^ 
 
 The only mistake is that the poet, whose English was 
 -defectivej must needs preserve the local colouring by haul- 
 ing bits of our language, or what he supposed it to be, 
 bodily into his verse. Such a passage as this, coming in 
 the middle of an excited address to Liberty in England, 
 breaks down one's gravity altogether : 
 
 Ho ! Johnny, ho ! how do you do ? 
 
 Sing, Sailor, oh ! 
 Well ! toddy is the sorrows' foe ! 
 
 Sing, Sailor, oh ! 
 
 It should be a solemn warning to those who travel and 
 then write a book, not to quote in the language of the 
 country. 
 
 He sank slowly but steadily. His death was in some 
 
 ' Appendix B. 
 C 
 
18 THE LITEEATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 respects very singular. \11 through life he had enjoyed 
 the presence and touch of flowers in a more intimate way 
 than even most lovers of such sweet things can understand ; 
 and as he became unconscious of the attentions of his 
 friends, and inattentive even to his wife's voice, it was 
 observed that he watched a wall-flower, blossoming in the 
 window, with extraordinary intensity. The last verses 
 which he composed, or at least dictated, were addressed to 
 this plant, and form as remarkable a parting word of 
 genius as any that has been recorded. These beautiful 
 stanzas I have attempted to render as follows : — 
 
 Wall-flower, or ever thy brig-ht leaves fade, 
 My limbs will be that of which all are made ; 
 Before ever thou losest thy crown of gold 
 
 My flesh will be mould, 
 
 And yet open the casement ; till I am dead, 
 Let mv last look rest on thy golden head ! 
 My soul would kiss thee before it flies 
 To the open skies. 
 
 Twice I am kissing thy fragrant mouth, 
 And the first kiss wholly is thine, in truth ; 
 But the second remember, dear love, to close 
 On my fair white rose. 
 
 1 shall not be living its spring to see, 
 
 But bring it my greeting when that shall be, 
 And say that I wished that upon my* grave 
 It should bloom and wave. 
 
 Yes, say that I wished that against my breast 
 The rose should lie that thy lips caressed, 
 And, Wall-flower, do thou into Death's dark porch 
 Be its bridal torch. ^ 
 
 At last, on July 12, 1845, as his wife stood watching^ 
 
 • Appendix C. 
 
DEATH OF WERGELAND. 19 
 
 him, his eyes opened, and he said to her, ' I was dreaming 
 so sweetly ; I dreamed I was lying in my mother's arms ; ' 
 and so he sighed away his breath. His funeral was like 
 that of a prince or a great general ; all shops were shut, 
 the streets were draped with black flags, and a great mul- 
 titude followed the bier to the grave. When the coffin 
 was lowered a shower of laurel crowns was thrown in from 
 all sides. So passed away the most popular of northern 
 poets in the thirty-eighth year of his life. 
 
 Welhaven's poetical activity reached its climax during 
 the ten years that followed the death of Wergeland. His 
 poems were exclusively lyrical pieces of no great length ; 
 ' Norges Dsemring ' being the only long poem he attempted. 
 He is singular, too, among Norwegian writers for having 
 never at any part of his life written for the stage. His 
 prose is as carefully elaborated as his verse, and is pro 
 bably the most brilliant and finished in the language, or 
 at least in Norwegian literature. His great mission seems 
 to have been, like that of Lessing in Grermany and Heiberg 
 in Denmark, to revolutionise the world of taste, and to 
 institute a great new school of letters, less by the produc- 
 tion of fine works of art from himself than by the intro- 
 duction of sound canons of criticism for the use of others. 
 In 1840 Welhaven became professor of philosophy at the 
 University, and between 1839 and 1859 published a series 
 of volumes of poetry, chiefly romances and those small 
 versified stories that are called ' epical ' poems in Scandi- 
 navia. These verses are very polished and correct in form, 
 and they move with dignity and a certain virile power 
 characteristic of their author, but they are lacking in 
 the highest forms of imaginative originality. His prose 
 
 *c2 
 
20 THE LITEKATUKE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 writings were of a more positive excellence ; they have not 
 been approached by any of his countrymen, and one of 
 them, a study of the Dano-Norwegian poetry of the last 
 century, ranks high in the critical literature of all Scan- 
 dinavia. 
 
 Welhaven had the personal attractiveness that marks 
 most great movers of men ; his grave and handsome figure, 
 not unallied with a certain arrogance, usually retained 
 a dignified reserve which melted into a geniality all the 
 more charming by contrast, when he found himself in the 
 circle of his intimate friends. He died October 21, 1873, 
 after a long period of shattered health. In him the critical 
 spirit comes to perfection, as in Wergeland the spontaneous ; 
 the latter had much of the flabby mental texture of 
 Coleridge — a soft woollen fabric shot through with gold 
 threads — the former is all cloth of silver. Of the volu- 
 minous writings of Wergeland, only his death-bed poems 
 (forming the latter half of the third volume of his collected 
 works) may be read in future times ; the sparse words of 
 Welhaven will all be prized and enjoyed. The former will 
 inspire the greatest enthusiasm and the latter the deepest 
 admiration. 
 
 An individual who deserves a few moments' attention 
 before we pass on is M. B. Landstad, who was born as long 
 ago as 1802, in a remote cluster of houses just under the 
 North Cape. We regard the little town of Hammerfest as 
 the most hyperborean place in the world, but to young 
 Landstad in his arctic home Hammerfest must have 
 seemed a centre of southern luxury. One needs to have 
 glided all day, as I have done, among the barren creeks 
 and desolate fjords of Finmark, to appreciate the vast ex- 
 
LANDSTAD. 21 
 
 panse of loneliness — a very Deadman's Land — that lay 
 between the lad and civilisation. I wish his poems were 
 better, for the sake of the romance ; but in fact he is a 
 rather tame religious poet, and would in himself claim no 
 notice at all, were it not that he has undertaken two great 
 labours which have had a bearing on the poetical life of 
 the country. From 1834 to 1848 Landstad was pastor of 
 a parish in the heart of Thelemarken, the wildest of all 
 the provinces of Norway, and he occupied his spare time 
 in collecting as many as he could of the national songs 
 (Folkeviser) which still float in the memories of the 
 peasantry. He^published a very large collection, in rather 
 a tasteless form, in 1853 ; but though the work is too 
 clumsy for common use, it has proved of the greatest 
 service as a storehouse for more critical students of the old 
 Norse language. Too much praise, however, must not be 
 accorded to him even on this score, for Asbjornsen and 
 Moe were in the field ten years earlier, as we shall see 
 farther on in our history. Another great labour of Land- 
 stad's was the compilation of a psalm-book for general use 
 in churches, to supersede the various old collections. Our 
 arctic poet, whose fault ever is to be too diffuse, produced 
 his psalm-book, at Government expense, on a scale so huge 
 as to be quite unfit for the use for which it was intended. 
 Still, like the ^Folkeviser, it forms a useful storehouse for 
 others to collect what is valuable from, and still continues 
 to be the standard edition of religious poetry. 
 
 In Cowley's comedy of ' The Guardian ' a poet is intro- 
 duced, who is so miserable that everything he sees reminds 
 him of Niobe in tears. ' That Niobe, Doggrell, you have 
 used worse than Phoebus did. Not a dog looks melancholy 
 
22 THE LITEKATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 but he's compared to Niobe.' So it is with the person that 
 meets us next upon our pilgrimage. Nothing ever cheers 
 or enlivens him ; at the slightest excitement he falls into 
 floods of genteel grief, and when other people are laughing 
 he is thinking of Niobe. Andreas ]\Iunch, a son of the 
 poet-bishop of Christianssand, was born in 1811, and 
 through a long life has been the author of a great many 
 lyrical and dramatic volumes. After the turmoil of Sytten- 
 demai-Poesi and the rage of the great critical controversy, 
 it was rather refreshing to meet with a poet who was never 
 startling or exciting, whose song-life was pitched in a minor 
 key, and whose personality seemed moist with dramatic tears. 
 If he had no great depth of thought, he had at least con- 
 siderable beauty of metrical form, and was always ' in good 
 taste.' Andreas Munch basked for a while in imiversal 
 popularity. He was called 'Norway's first skald,' but 
 whether first in time or first in merit would seem to be 
 doubtful. It was not till 1846 that he published any work 
 of real importance, and in that year appeared ' Den Een- 
 somme (' The Solitary '), a romance founded on the morbid 
 but fascinating idea of a soul that, folding inward upon 
 itself, ever increasingly shuns the fellowship of mankind, 
 while the agonies of isolation rack it more and more. 
 The scene of the story is laid in modern times, and an 
 additional horror is by that means given to an idea which, 
 though it would hardly have presented itself to any 
 but a sickly mind, is carried out with skill and effect. 
 Shortly upon this followed another prose work of consider- 
 able merit — ' Billeder fra Nord og Syd (' Pictures from 
 North and South') — which had a great success. In 18o0 
 he printed 'Nye Digte ' ('New Poems'), which are the 
 
ANDEEAS MUNCH. 23 
 
 prettiest he has produced, and mark the climax of his 
 literary life. The melancholy tone of these poems does not 
 reach the maudlin, and goes no farther than the shadowy 
 pensiveness of which Ingemann had set the example. All 
 through life Munch has been strongly influenced by the 
 works of Ingemann, whose most consistent scholar he is. 
 Even here, however, we feel that there is want of power and 
 importance; these are only verses of occasion. 'Miscel- 
 lany Poems,' as our great-grandfathers called them, the 
 ■world has seen enough of; it is a grave error for an 
 eminent writer to add to their number. 
 
 With the year 1852 begins Munch's period of greatest 
 volubility. It would be a weariness to enumerate his works, 
 but there are two that we must linger over, because of their 
 extreme popularity, and because they are the very first 
 works a novice in Norwegian is likely to meet with; I 
 mean the dramas ' Solomon de Caus ' and ' Lord William 
 Russell.' The first of these was published in 1855, and 
 caused a sensation not only in Scandinavia, but as far as 
 Germany and Holland. De Caus was the man who discovered 
 the power of steam, and who was shut up in a mad-house 
 as a reward for his discovery. There is decidedly a good 
 tragical idea involved in this story, and Munch deserves 
 praise for noticing it. But his treatment of the plot leaves 
 much to be desired, and a religious element is dragged in, 
 which is incongruous and confusing. The poem is fairly 
 good, but when so much has been written about it, praising 
 it to the skies, one is surprised, on a closer inspection, to find 
 it so tame and unreal. Of a better order of writing is 
 * Lord William Russell,' 1857 — on the whole, perhaps, the 
 best work of Andreas Munch's — well-considered, carefully 
 
24 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 written, and graceful. But there is, even here, little pene- 
 tration of character, and the worst fault is that the noble 
 figure of Eachel Eussell is drawn so timidly and faintly, 
 that the true tragical heart of the story is hardly brought 
 before us at all. Lady Russell, it is true, constantly walks 
 the stage, but she weeps and sentimentalises, describes the 
 landscape, and cries, ' Fie, bad man ! ' — does everything, in 
 fact, but show the noble heroism of Eussell's wonderful wife» 
 The dialogue is without vigour, but it is purely and grace- 
 fully written; and, to give the author his due, the play is 
 a really creditable production, as modern tragedies go. But 
 no one that could read Ibsen would linger over Munch;, 
 we are about to introduce a dramatist indeed. 
 
 We have still a little way to go before we reach the 
 real founder of the Norwegian drama. We must follow 
 Niobe a little farther. Andreas Munch has continued to 
 the present date to issue small volumes of lyrics in smart 
 succession. Gradually he has lost even the charm of form 
 and expression, and liis best admirers are getting weaiy of 
 him. In truth, he belongs to the class of gracefvd senti- 
 mentalists, that Hammond and L. E. L. successively re- 
 presented with us, and but few of his writings can hope to- 
 retain the popular ear. One of his latest labours has been 
 to translate Tennyson's ' Enoch Arden ' very prettily. In- 
 deed, in pretty writing he is unrivalled. 
 
 Andreas Munch fills up the interval of repose between 
 the old political poetry and the new national school. For 
 all their loud talk about patriotism, Wergeland and the rest 
 had never thought of taking their inspiration from the 
 deep well of national life around them, or from the wealth 
 of old songs and sagas. But everything that was healthy 
 
ASBJOENSEN. 25 
 
 and rich in promise was to come from the inner heart 
 of the nation, and the real future of Norwegian art 
 was to be heralded not by Munch's love-sick sonnets, but 
 by the folk-songs of Moe, the historical dramas of Ibsen, 
 and the peasant romances of Bjornsterne Bjornsen. The 
 man that opened the eyes of students and poets, and 
 heralded this revolution in art, was not a poet himself, 
 but a zoologist — P. C. Asbjornsen. 
 
 This gifted man was born at Christiania in 1812; he 
 early showed that bias for natural history which is so com- 
 mon among his countrymen, and, being of a brisk tempera- 
 ment, has spent most of his life in wandering over shallow 
 seas, dredging and investigating. On this mission he 
 sailed down the Mediterranean Sea, and has spent a long 
 time in exploring the rich fields that lie before a zoo- 
 logist on the coasts of Norway itself. But some part of 
 every man's life has to be spent on shore, and these months 
 Asbjornsen dedicated to investigations of a very different 
 kind; he searched among the peasants for stories. Just 
 about that time there was a wide-spread desire to save the 
 remnants of popular legend before it was too late. The 
 Finnish scholars were collecting the Kalewala ; the Eussians 
 were hunting up those wild songs of which Mr. Ealston 
 has lately given us an English selection; Magyar and 
 Servian poetry was being carefully amassed. It occurred to 
 Asbjornsen to do the same with the mythology of Norway, 
 Starting from Bergen, he strolled through the magnificent 
 passes of the Justedal and the Komsdal, drinking in the 
 wild beauty of the scenery till it became part of his being, 
 and gossiping with every peasant he could meet with. 
 When a boatman ferried him across the dark fjord, he 
 
26 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 would coax a story from him about the spirits that haunt 
 the waters ; the postboys had fantastic tales to tell about 
 the trolls and the wood spirits; the old dames around the 
 fire would murmur ancient rites and the horrors of bye-gone 
 superstition. When the peasant was shy and would not 
 speak, Asbjornsen would tell a story himself, and that never 
 failed to break the ice. When he had wandered long enough 
 in the west, he crossed the Dovrefjeld, and explored the 
 valleys of Osterdal, lying along the border of Sweden. The 
 results of his labours, and those of the poet Jorgen Moe, 
 were piiblished jointly in 1841, as ' ^orske Folkeeventyr ' 
 ('Norwegian Popular Tales'), a book that made little im- 
 pression at the time, but which has grown to be one of the 
 bulwarks of Norwegian literature, and which, besides win- 
 ning for its principal author a European fame, has had a 
 profound influence on the younger poets of our day. 
 
 Dr. Jorgen Moe. now Bishop of Christianssand, whom 
 we have just seen helping Asbjornsen to collect folk- stories, 
 is himself a poet of no mean order. His nature is not 
 active and joyous like that of his associate ; he would seem 
 to be one of those diffident and sensitive natures, whose very 
 delicacy prevents their pushing their way successfully into 
 public notice. Violets, for all their ethereal perfume, are 
 easily overlooked, and Jorgen Moe's works are as small, as 
 unassmning, as exquisite as violets. The book he is best 
 known by is a thin volume of poems, brought out in 1851 ; 
 they have nothing about them to attract particular notice 
 till one falls into the spirit of them, and then one is con- 
 scious of a wonderful melody, as of some Ariel out of sight 
 — a sense of perfect, simple expression. The reader is 
 transported to the pine-fringed valleys ; he sees the peasants 
 
j(5egen moe. 27 
 
 at their daily work, he hears the cry of the waterfalls, and 
 forgets all the humdrum existence that really lies about him. 
 These verses have a power of quiet realism that is strangely 
 refreshing; if anyone would know what Norway and its 
 people really are, let them read Moe's little lyrical poems. 
 The following is far from being the best, but it is one 
 of the most imitable of the collection. 
 
 SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 Now softly, lightly tlie evening dies, — 
 
 Gold-red upon headlands and waves without number, 
 And a soundless silence tenderly lies 
 
 And rocks all nature to dreamless slumber ; 
 Meadow and dingle 
 Reflected, mingle 
 With waves that flash over sand and shingle 
 In one dim light. 
 
 Ah ! slim is the fisherman's boat, and yet 
 
 High on the glittering wave it soars, 
 The fisherman bends to his laden net. 
 
 While the girls are hushed at the silent oars. 
 The soft emotion 
 From vale and ocean 
 Has quenched the noise of the day's commotion, 
 And bound it still. 
 
 And there stands one girl in a dream and sighs, 
 While up to the clear warm sky she glances, 
 But full of longing her young thought flies 
 
 To the Christmas games and the whirling dances ; 
 The deep red blaze 
 Of the evening haze 
 Has thrown sparks farther than we can gaze — 
 She sees afar ! 
 
 Thou rich and rose-coloured summer night, 
 
 Thou givest us more than the bright days bring ; 
 O yield to Beauty the best delight, — 
 
28 THE LITER ATUEE OF NOETHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Let her dream come to her on gentle wing ! 
 While her hoat caresses 
 The low green nesses, 
 Lay the sUver crowu on her maiden tresses, 
 As a happy bride ! ' 
 
 In 1877 the Bishop of Christianssand issued his works- 
 in prose and verse, in two important volumes. 
 
 We now reach the name which stands highest among 
 the poets of the new school, a star that is still in the ascen- 
 dant, and on whom high hopes are built by all who desire 
 the intellectual prosperity of J^orway. Henrik Ibsen is a 
 man who, through all difficulties from within and without, 
 has slowly lifted himself higher and higher as an artist, 
 and is now in the full swing of literary achievement. But 
 I pass over the details of his career, since they form the 
 entire subject of my next chapter. 
 
 Let us turn instead to his great rival and opponent. 
 The name and fame of Bjornstern Bjornson have spread 
 farther over the world's sm'face than that of any of his 
 countrymen. Though he is still young, his works are 
 admired and eagerly read all over the north of Europe, 
 and are popular in America. It is as a romance writer 
 that he has met with such unbounded distinction. Who 
 has not read ' Ame,' and felt his heart beat faster with 
 sympathy and delight ? Who has not been refreshed by 
 the simple story of the ' Fisher Girl ' ? It seemed as though 
 every kind of story-writing had been abundantly tried, and 
 as though a new novel must fall upon somewhat jaded 
 ears. But in Bjornson we discovered an author who was 
 always simple and yet always enchanting; whose spirit 
 was as masculine as a Viking's and as pure and tender as 
 ' Appendix D. 
 
bjOenson. 29 
 
 a maiden's. Through these little romances there blows a 
 wind as fragrant and refreshing as the odour of the 
 Trondhjem balsam-willows, blown out to sea to welcome 
 the new-comer; and just as this rare scent is the first 
 thing that tells the traveller of Norway, so the purity of 
 Bjornson's novelettes is usually the first thing to attract a 
 foreigner to Norwegian literature. 
 
 But it is only with his poems that we have here to do, 
 and we must not be tempted aside into the analysis of his 
 novels. They have, however, this claim on our attention, 
 that they contain some of the loveliest songs in the 
 language. ' Arne,' published in 1858, is particularly rich 
 in these exquisite lyrics, full of a mountain melancholy, 
 a delicate sadness native to the lives of solitary and 
 sequestered persons. In almost all his early poems, 
 Bjornson dwells on the vague longing of youth, the hope- 
 less dream of a blue rose in life. Here is one of the lovely 
 songs that Arne sings, rendered as closely as I find it 
 possible : — 
 
 Tlirougti the forest the boy wends all day long, 
 For there he has heard such a wonderful song. 
 
 He carved him a flute of the willow tree, 
 And tried what the tune within it might be. 
 
 The tune came out of it sad and gay. 
 But while he listened it passed away. 
 
 He fell asleep, and once more it sung. 
 And over his forehead it lovingly hung. 
 
 He thought he would catch it, and wildly woke. 
 And the tune in the pale night faded and broke. 
 
 * God, my God, take me up to Thee, 
 For the tmie Thou hast made is consuming me.' 
 
30 THE LITERATUEE OF NOETHERN EUROPE. 
 
 And tlie Lord God said, ' Tis a friend divine, 
 Though never one hour shalt thou hold it thine. 
 
 Yet all other music is poor and thin 
 
 By the side of this which thou never shalt win ! ' ' 
 
 While in his stories he deals with peasant life, so in 
 his dramas he draws his afflatus from the rich hoard of 
 antique sagas. 'Mellem Slagene' (' Between the Battles ') 
 was the first of these saga-plays. It is very fine. Two 
 married folk — Halvard and Inga — once deeply in love 
 with one another, begin mutually to tire, and to long, the 
 man for the old wild, fighting life ; the woman for her 
 pleasant maiden days with her father. They get entan- 
 gled in misconceptions, and a reserve creeping in on both 
 sides parts them more and more. * Silence slays more 
 than sharp words do,' is the motto of the piece, a motto 
 very suggestive to the undemonstrative people of the 
 North. The two principal figures, and also that of King 
 Sverre, are very keenly drawn. In 1858 there followed 
 'Halte Hulda ' ('Lame Hulda'), the story of a girl who 
 has lived to be four-and-twenty, loveless and unloved, full 
 of grief and physically incapacitated by her lameness, and 
 who suddenly falls into passionate and hopeless affection 
 for a man she meets. Here again we have a dramatic 
 situation, subtly chosen, original, and carefully worked 
 out. 'Kong Sverre,' 1861, was the next of these saga- 
 dramas, wherein the King Sverre, who acted a secondary 
 part in ' Mellem Slagene,' becomes chief and centre of 
 interest. Much of the latter, however, gathers around the 
 bishop, Nicolaus, one of Bjornson's most skilful pieces 
 of figure-painting. 'Sigurd Slembe' (1862) closes the 
 list of saga-dramas. The author turned nest to modern 
 
 ' Appendix E. 
 
BJORNSON. 31 
 
 history, and published in 1864 ' Maria Stuart i Skotland ' 
 (* Mary Stuart in Scotland '), a piece which unfortunately 
 suggests comparison with Vondel, Schiller and Swinburne ;, 
 it is written in prose. It could be wished that Bjornson had 
 chosen some less hackneyed subject. His next effort was in 
 quite a different line ; 'De Nygifte ' (' The Newly-married 
 Couple '), 1865, is a little prose comedy in high life. The 
 hero, having fallen violently in love with a girl too young 
 to understand his character, finds out too late that she 
 has no notion of the responsibilities of married life, and 
 still prefers her parents to himself. He tries to cure her 
 by wrenching her suddenly from all old associations, and 
 though she is very sullen for a while, he is victorious at 
 last, and Avius her love. Bjornson has hardly allowed 
 himself enough space in this little drama ; the evolution 
 of character is hurried by the shortness of the scenes ; 
 but it is nevertheless ably written. In 1869 he published 
 a volume of Songs and Poems. 
 
 He now entered upon a second period, the end of 
 which we have not yet seen, and the influence of which 
 has, in my opinion, been extremely injurious to Bjornson's 
 reputation and to the literature of his country. He began 
 his violent and jejune experiments in 1870, with the epic 
 poem of ' Arnljot Gelline,' written in a jargon so uncouth 
 that it is sometimes almost impossible to comprehend it. 
 In the midst of its eccentricity and barbarism, however, 
 there are certainly fine passages to be found in this poem, 
 which deals with the fall of Olaf the Saint at tlie battle of 
 Stiklestad. The section, in particular, called ' Arnljot's 
 Longing for the Sea ' is of the highest order of lyric 
 poetry, and worthy of Byron at his best. In 1872 Bjornson 
 
32 THE LITEEATUKE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 tantalised and perplexed his readers with his saga-drama of 
 Sigurd Jorsalfar,' a mere hasty sketch, with one magnifi- 
 cent scene in which Sigurd the Crusader, unannounced, 
 presents himself, splendid and masculine, like a sea-eagle 
 Ijathed in sunset colour, with the gold and silk of the East 
 upon him, to Borghild, a noble woman long weary and 
 ashamed with waiting for his love. The rest of the play 
 is hurried and faulty ; this single scene is Shakspearian. 
 After a long silence, and much deplorable interference with 
 the political factions of his fatherland, Bjornson appeared in 
 1875 with two satirical comedies — ' A Bankruptcy,' a poor 
 piece, in the Grerman taste, and ' The Editor,' a powerful 
 but rabid and unjustifiable personal satire. Since then his 
 ineptitudes have culminated in a democratic drama, ' The 
 King,' a really monstrous fiasco, unworthy of a poet of 
 high reputation as a work of art, and, politically speaking, 
 Ijeneath discussion. In 1877 he produced a clever, but 
 sickly and chaotic novel, ' Magnhild.' Each step he takes 
 at present seems to land him farther into provinciality 
 .^nd to betray fresh want'of artistic tact. 
 
 Jonas Lie, whose novels of Norse life at sea rival 
 Bjomson's early mountain stories in popularity, has also 
 written, but far less abundantly, in verse. He is indeed 
 the author of a lyrical drama, 'Faustina Strozzi,' 1875, 
 which contains, with certain unfortunate irregularities in 
 form and design, some exquisite beauties of detail. He 
 was born in 1833, and first came before the public with a 
 volume of verses as late as 1867. His sea-stories take a 
 very high rank, and his most successful novel, ' The Pilot 
 and his Wife,' is perhaps the best sustained and the most 
 accomplished romance that Norway has produced. In 
 
THE PEASANT DIALECT. 33 
 
 1878 Lie published a curious and ingenious psychological 
 study, ' Thomas Ross,' which has not quite the same charm 
 as his simpler stories. 
 
 With this writer we will draw our survey of Norwegian 
 poetry to a close. Nothing has been said here about the 
 verse written in the dialect of the peasants, of which the 
 great linguist Ivar Aasen (born in 1813), by moulding 
 with the old Norse, has made a sort of new language. 
 This peasant Norse has had a galvanic life imparted to it by 
 the exertions of its inventor, and a good poet (K. Janson, 
 born in 1841) has been found enthusiastic enough to 
 wi'ite exclusively in it. The chief objection to the move- 
 ment seems to be that it would make Norwegian literature 
 more remote and undecipherable than ever ; on the other 
 hand, it is no doubt an advantage that the peasant should 
 understand when he is preached to and written for. The 
 creator of this language of the future, Aasen, is a man of 
 high and versatile genius, and has himself contributed 
 several poems to the new literature. For the rest its 
 principal cultivators have been Vinje (1818-1870), the 
 author, among other things, of a rather truculent book on 
 English life, and Janson, who is a young writer of con- 
 siderable activity. But this fancy language lies out of our 
 province ; if worth the consideration of Englishmen at 
 all, it should be studied as a branch of philology. 
 
 We have now followed the literary life of this young 
 nation for more than half a century. We liave seen how 
 the sudden political wrench, that divided it from its neigh- 
 bour, gave it power to throw off the Danish influence and 
 strike out a new path for itself. We have seen, too, how 
 bravely, in spite of much weakness, and folly, and extrava- 
 
 D 
 
34 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 gance, it succeeded in doing this, and in becoming self- 
 reliant and healthily critical; how, when the age of 
 criticism had sobered and moulded it, it ceased to look 
 outwards for artistic impressions, but sought in its own 
 heart and soul for high and touching themes. The reader 
 who has followed the history of this development will 
 hardly fail to allow that in the circumstances of this 
 thinly peopled country of magnificent resources, whose 
 youth is unexhausted by the effeminate life of towns and 
 whose language is still fresh and im rifled, there lies a 
 noble promise of intellectual vigour. 
 
HENRIK IBSEN. 
 
 There is now living at Munich a middle-aged Norwegian 
 gentleman, who walks in and out among the inhabitants 
 of that gay city, observing all things, observed of few, retired, 
 contemplative, unaggressive. Occasionally he sends a roll 
 of MS. off to Copenhagen, and the Danish papers announce 
 that a new poem of Ibsen's is about to appear. This 
 announcement causes more stir than, perhaps, any other 
 can, among literary circles in Scandinavia, and the elegant 
 Swedish journalists point out how graceful an opportunity 
 it would be for the illustrious poet to leave his voluntary 
 exile, and return to be smothered in flowers and flowery 
 speeches. Norwegian friends, expressing themselves more 
 tersely, think that the greatest Norse writer ought to come 
 home to live. Still, however, he remains in Germany, 
 surrounded by the nationality least pleasing to his taste, 
 within daily earshot of sentiments inexpressibly repugnant 
 to him, watching, noting, digging deeper and deeper into 
 the dark places of modern life, developing more and more 
 a vast and sinister genius. 
 
 A land of dark forests, gloomy waters, barren peaks, 
 inundated by cold sharp airs off Arctic icebergs, a land 
 
 D 2 
 
36 THE LITEEATURE OF NOKTHERX EUROPE. 
 
 where Nature must be won with violence, not wooed by 
 the siren-songs of dream-impulses ; Norway is the home 
 of vigorous, ruddy lads and modest maidens, a healthy 
 population, unexhausted and unrestrained. Here a man 
 can open his chest, stride onward upright and sturdy, say 
 out his honest word and be unabashed ; here, if anywhere, 
 human nature may hope to find a just development. And 
 out of this young and sturdy nation two writers have arisen 
 who wear laurels on their brows and are smiled on by Apollo. 
 Bjornson is well known, by this time, to many Englishmen : 
 he represents the happy buoyant side of the life of his 
 fatherland ; he is what one would naturally expect a 
 Norwegian author to be — rough, manly, unpolished, a young 
 Titan rejoicing in his animal spirits. Ibsen, on the other 
 hand, is a quite unexpected product of the mountain-lands, 
 a typical modern European, a soul full of doubt and sorrow 
 and unfulfilled desire, piercing downward into the dark, 
 profound. Promethean — a dramatic satirist. 
 
 Modern life is a thing too complex and too delicate to 
 bear such satire as thrilled through the fierce old world. 
 In Ezekiel we see the thunders and lightnings of the Lord 
 blasting the beautiful evil body of Aholah ; in Juvenal, 
 the iron clank of horse-hoofs is ringing on the marble 
 pavement, till, in crushing some wretched debauchee, they 
 mingle his blood with the spilt wine and the vine-wreaths. 
 But neither divine nor human invective of this sort is 
 possible now — it would not cm-e but kill. Modern satire 
 laughs while it attacks, and takes care that the spear- 
 shaft shall be covered up in roses. WTiether it be Ulrich 
 von Hutten, or Pope, or Voltaire, the same new element 
 of finesse is to be found ; and if a Marston rises up as a 
 
IBSEN. 37 
 
 would-be Juvenal, the world just shrugs its shoulders and 
 forgets him. As the ages bring in their advancements in 
 civilisation and refinement, the rough old satire becomes 
 increasingly .impossible, till a namby-pamby generation 
 threatens to loathe it altogether as having ' no pity in it.' 
 The writings of Ibsen form the last and most polished phase 
 of this slow development, and exhibit a picture of life so 
 perfect in its smiling sarcasm and deliberate anatomy, 
 that one accepts it at once as the distinct portraiture of 
 one of the foremost spirits of an age. Ibsen has many 
 golden arrows in his quiver, and he stands, cold and serene, 
 between the dawn and the darkness, shooting them one by 
 one into the valley below, each truly aimed at some folly, 
 some affectation, in the every-day life we lead. 
 
 Henrik Ibsen was born on March 20, 1828, at Skien, 
 a small market town on the sea in the south-east of Nor- 
 way. He began active life as an apothecary, with a joyous 
 and fermenting brain, a small stock of knowledge and a 
 still smaller stock of money. But poetry and scholarship 
 were dearer to him than all things, and it is easy to conceive 
 that the small world of Skien became intolerable to him. 
 He wrote a tragedy, and met with a Maecenas who would 
 publish it ; and, after some delay, there appeared at 
 Christiania, in 1850, ' Catiline,' a drama in three acts, by 
 Brynjolf Bjarme. Under this uncouth pseudonym a new 
 poet concealed himself, but the public were none the wiser, 
 and only thirty copies were sold. ' Catiline ' is the work 
 of a boy ; it is marked by ail the erotic and revolutionary 
 extravagances usual in the efforts of youths of twenty. 
 The iambic verses are very bad ; the writer has evidently 
 read little, and scarcely thouglit at all, but there is a certain 
 
38 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 vigour running through it which seduces one into reading 
 it despite one's self. With this precious production under 
 his arm, Ibsen came to the capital in 1851, and began to 
 study at the University. He never attained to a very 
 splendid career — there he began too late for that — but he 
 did fairly well, being well-grounded in Latin. ' Catiline ' 
 shows that he had read his Sallust well in the old days at 
 Skien. At the University he fell in with a clique of lads 
 of earnest mind and good intelligence, several of whom 
 have made a name in literature ; Bjornson was there and 
 Vinje, called the Peasant; Botten-Hansen, the biblio- 
 grapher ; and Frithjof Foss, the novelist. These young 
 contemporaries schemed nothing less than an entire 
 revolution in literature. They began to set about it by 
 founding a newspaper, called, I do not know why, ' And- 
 hrimner,' which professed the same critical independence, 
 and shared the same early fate, as the celebrated ' Grerm ' 
 among ourselves. ' Andliiimuer ' was published by Botten- 
 Hansen, Ibsen, and Vinje, and contained nothing but 
 original poetry, criticism, and sesthetics. After a sickly 
 existence of nine months, it went out. Among Ibsen's 
 numerous contributions was a long drama, ' Norma, or a 
 Politician's Love,' a most impertinent lampoon on the 
 honourable members of his Majesty's Storthing, of which 
 the first act is said to be in extremely witty and delicate 
 verse. But ^Andhrimner' has become a great rarity, a 
 bibliographical prize, and I have never seen it. When it 
 ceased in 1851, Ibsen was so fortunate as to meet with a 
 gifted man who at once perceived his genius, Ole Bull, the 
 great violinist. At his intercession Ibsen became director 
 of the theatre at Bergen, and held the post till 1857. In 
 
IBSEN. 39 
 
 1852 he travelled in Denmark and Grermany, met Heiberg, 
 the great poet-critie, at Copenhagen, and came back 
 mightily dissatisfied with Norway and himself. The 
 theatre was a source of constant vexation to him, and 
 during the six years he spent at Bergen his genius seems to 
 have been in some degree under a cloud. He wrote a great 
 deal while he was there, but most of it has been destroyed, 
 and what remains is unworthy of him ; he produced two 
 or three plays on his own stage, but would not print or 
 preserve them; one little piece which he did print as a 
 feuilleton to a Bergen paper in 1854 was rather flimsy in 
 texture. In 1857 the younger poet, Bjornson, took the 
 direction of the Bergen house, and Ibsen came up to 
 Christiania to direct the National Theatre there. He was 
 now almost thirty years of age, and had not written one 
 great work ; it is often the loftiest minds that attain man- 
 hood most slowly. May-flies reach perfection in a day 
 and another day sees their extinction, while great souls 
 strengthen themselves in a long-drawn adolescence. But 
 our poet had finished his chrysalis-life at last. P'or the 
 next seven years he produced several historical dramas 
 of great and increasing merit ; but I do not purpose at 
 present to speak of these, nor of his political or mis- 
 cellaneous poems, but only of his three great satires. 
 And forthwith let us pass to them. 
 
 It was not till 1863 that Ibsen discovered the natural 
 bent of his genius. Until that year no one could tell that 
 he was born to be a satirist. Now, after reading his great 
 latter poems, one can perceive traces of that lofty invective, 
 which was to be his final culmination, even in the earlier 
 and purely historical dramas. But when ' Kjoerlighedens 
 
40 THE LITEEATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Komedie ' (Love's Comedy,) a satirical play of our own gene- 
 ration, first appeared in Norway, there were very few among 
 the poet's admirers to whom it was not a great surprise to 
 find him to be a master of so entirely new a style. The 
 older pieces, being hewn out of an antique and lovely source, 
 were fittingly robed in terse prose ; this, being concerned 
 with the prosaic trivialities of to-day, needed and received 
 all the delicate finish of epigrammatic verse. The original 
 is written in rhyme, but I have translated into blank verse ; 
 a rhymed play being a shocking thing to English readers 
 since Dryden's day, whereas it is still a familiar phenomenon 
 in the classic literature of Scandinavia. The scene of ' Love's 
 Comedy ' is laid in a garden in the suburbs of Christiania, in 
 the summer-time. A Mrs. Halm, a widow, having a large 
 house, takes in lodgers, among whom are Hawk, the hero, 
 and Lind, a theological student. Hawk, a young poet 
 brimming over with revolutionary theories and revolting 
 with his whole soul against the conventionality of the day 
 with regard to amatory and sesthetic matters, has deter- 
 mined to give his life to the destruction of what is false 
 and sterile in modern society. As it happens, the present 
 moment is opportune for commencing the attack. At 
 Mrs. Halm's there is gathered a congregation of Philis- 
 tines of all sorts, and love, so-called, is the order of the day. 
 Unsuspicious of his intentions, the various pseudo-lovers 
 sport and intrigue around him in what seems to him an 
 orgy of hideous dulness and impotent conventionality. 
 His scorn is lambent at first, a laughing flame of derision ; 
 but it rises by degrees into a tongue of lashing, scathing 
 fire that bursts all bonds of decorum. The scene opens in 
 the evening, while the party sit about on the grass. Hawk 
 
' LOVE'S COMEDY.' 41 
 
 has been asked to sing his last new song, and thus he pro- 
 claims the cai^e diem that is his ideal : — 
 
 In the simny orchard-closes, 
 
 While the warblers sing and swing, 
 
 Oare not whether blustering Autumn 
 Break the promises of Spring ; 
 
 Rose and white the apple-blossom 
 Hides you from the sultry sky ; 
 
 Let it flutter, blown and scattered. 
 On the meadows by-and-by. 
 
 Will you ask about the fruitage 
 
 In the season of the flowers ? 
 Will you murmiu', will you question, 
 
 Count the run of weary hours ? 
 Will you let the scarecrow clapping 
 
 Drown all happy sounds and words ? 
 Brothers, there is better music 
 
 In the singing of the birds ! 
 
 From your heavy laden garden 
 Will you hunt the mellow thnish ? 
 
 He will pay you for protection 
 
 With his crown-song's liquid rush ! 
 
 ! but you will win the bargain. 
 Though your fruit be spare and late, 
 
 For remember, Time is flying. 
 And will shut your garden-gate. 
 
 With my living, with my singing, 
 
 I will tear the hedges down ! 
 Sweep the grass and heap the blossom, 
 
 Let it shrivel, pale and brown ! 
 Swing the wicket ! Sheep and cattle, 
 
 Let them graze among the best ! 
 
 1 broke ofi" the flowers ; what matter 
 
 Who may revel with the rest ! ^ 
 
 This song wakens a good deal of discussion. The ladies 
 are against it on the score of economy ; the gentlemen 
 
 ' Appendix F. 
 
■42 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHEEN EUROPE. 
 
 think the idea very good in theory. The first person who 
 rubs against Hawk's susceptibilities is Stiver, a dull clerk, 
 who is engaged in due form to a Miss Magpie, who is 
 present. This Stiver confesses to have written verses. 
 
 Stiver. Not now, you know ! all that was long ago, — 
 
 Was when I was a lover. 
 Hawk. Is that past ? 
 
 Is the wine-frenzy of your love slept off? 
 Stiver. Oh ! now I am officially engaged, 
 
 And that is more than being in love, I think ! ^ 
 
 Some one speaks about ' next ' Spring, and Hawk 
 -expresses his hatred of ' that wretched word ': — 
 
 Hawk. It makes the shareholders of pleasure bankrupt ! 
 If I were only Sultan for an hour, 
 A running noose about its coward neck 
 Should make it bid the joyous world good-bye ! 
 
 Stiver. What is your quarrel with the'hopeful word ? 
 
 Haxck. This, — that it darkens for us God's fair world ! 
 In ' our next love ' and ' when we marry next,' 
 In ' OUT next mealtime ' and in our ' next life,' 
 'Tis the anticipation in the word, 
 'Tis that that beggars so the sons of Joy, 
 That makes our modern life so hard and cold, 
 That slays enjoyment in the living Present. 
 You have no rest until your shallop strikes 
 Against the shingle of the ' next ' design, 
 And, that accomplisht, there is still a * next,' 
 And so in toil and hurry, toU and pain, 
 The years slip by and you slip out of life, — 
 God only knows if there is rest beyond. 
 
 Miss Magpie. How can you talk in that way, Mr. Hawk ? 
 My sweetheart must not hear a word you say ! 
 He's only too eccentric now ! [to Stiver'] My love ! 
 Come here a moment ! 
 
 Stiver \langxddly and stoo^nng to clean hispipe"] I am coming, dear !^ 
 
 From the prosaic Stiver, for whom engagement has 
 ' Appendix G. - Appendix H. 
 
'LOVE'S COMEDY.' 43 
 
 robbed love of its charm, we turn to Lind, who is in all the 
 
 delicious ecstasy of a passion returned but unproclaimed. 
 
 Keferring to Lind's temporary glamour of poetical feeling, 
 
 Hawk remarks that you can always ' stuff a prosing fool, — 
 
 As pitilessly as a Strasburg goose, 
 
 With rhyming nonsense and with rhythmic humbug, 
 
 Until his lights and liver, mind and soul 
 
 (But tui-n him inside out), are found quite full 
 
 Of lyric fat and crumbs of rhetoric.^ 
 
 The company, becoming piqued, turn upon him, and 
 
 charge him with neglecting poetry ; they suggest that he 
 
 should shut himself up in an arbour of roses, and then he 
 
 is sure to be inspired. He replies that the enjoyment of 
 
 nature unrestrained prevents the creation of poetry ; that 
 
 the imaginative beauty thrives best in an imprisonedsoul. 
 
 Cover my eyeballs with the mould of blindness. 
 
 And I will celebrate the lustrous heavens ; 
 
 Or give me for a month, in some grim tower, 
 
 A pang, an anguish or a giant sorrow. 
 
 And I will sing the jubilee of life ; 
 
 Or else. Miss Magpie, give me just a bride ! 
 
 They all cry out upon him. Love's blasphemer, for he 
 
 exclaims that he desires a bride, that — he may lose her. 
 
 For in the very Bacchic feast of fortune 
 
 She might be caught into eternity. 
 
 I need a Uttle spiritual athletics : 
 
 Who knows how such a loss might strengthen me ! ^ 
 
 At this moment the two sensible people of the drama 
 interpose — Svanhild, who is the only woman with a soul in 
 the piece, and Guldstad, a sober merchant. Svanhild pro- 
 poses a high spiritual aim for Hawk ; Gruldstad proposes 
 to drive off his ' morbid fancies ' with a little manual 
 labour. Hawk replies : — 
 
 ' Appendix I. ^ Appendix J. 
 
44 THE LITEKATUEE OF NOETHERN EUROPE. 
 
 I'm like a donkey bound between two stalls ; 
 The left hand gives me flesh, the right hand spirit ; 
 I wonder which 'twere wisest to choose first ! 
 
 Then is introduced the third pair of pseudo-lovers — the 
 
 Eev. Mr. Strawman, an uxorious priest with an enormous 
 
 family, who exemplifies the worst type of the great parody 
 
 of love. The description of his early life, romantic wooing, 
 
 disappointed aims, are most amusingly given in brisk and 
 
 witty dialogue. Hawk sneering ever more bitterly as the 
 
 description proceeds. The wooing of Mr. Strawman was 
 
 most sentimental: 
 
 He loved her to the tones of his guitar, 
 And she responded on the harpsichord, 
 And first they lived on credit. 
 
 Among the troop of old and young gathered around 
 him, it is in Lind's amour only that Hawk can take plea- 
 sure. Lind and Anna love one another, and no one but 
 themselves and Hawk have guessed it. Suddenly Hawk is 
 horrified by a suspicion that it is Svanhild that Lind loves. 
 He turns away angry, and sick at heart. True love, re- 
 served, tender, genuine, is not to be found ; the whole 
 world is old and sterile ; all good impulses and hopes are 
 dead. This he says to Svanhild when they are alone, and 
 she upbraids him with dreamy insincerity. 
 
 Svan. Last year the Faith in Syria was menaced ; 
 
 Did you go out, a warrior for the Cross ? 
 
 Oh ! no ; on paper you were warm enough. 
 
 And sent a dollar when the ' Church Times ' asked it ! 
 [Hmvk walks up and doivn.^ 
 
 Hawk, are you angry ? 
 Hawk. No, but I am musing. 
 
 See, that is all ! 
 Svan. You have two diflferent natui'es, 
 
 And each unlike — 
 
'LOVE'S COMEDY.' 45 
 
 Haiolc. Oh yes ! I know it well ! 
 
 Svan. What is the reason ? 
 
 Haiok. Reason ? That I hate 
 
 To go about with all my soul uncovered, 
 And, like good people's love, a common thing, — 
 To go about with all my heart's warmth bare, 
 As women go about with naked arms ! 
 You were the only one — you, Svanhild, you — 
 I thought so, once — but ah ! all that is past — 
 
 \She. turns and gazes.'] 
 You listen — ? 
 
 Svan, To another voice that speaks ! 
 
 Hush ! every evening when the sun goes dovra 
 A little bird comes flying — do you hear ? — 
 Ah ! see, it flits out of the leafy shade — 
 Now, can you guess what I believe and hold ? 
 To every soul that lacks the singing gift 
 God sends a little tender bird as friend, — 
 For it created and for its own garden ! 
 Ilaxvk \taTies up a ston(i\. 
 
 Then if the bird and soul can never meet, 
 The song is never fluted out elsewhere ? 
 Svan. No, that is true ! But I have found my bird. 
 I have no gift of tongues, no singer's voice, 
 But when my sweet bird warbles from its bough, 
 A poem seems to well up in my heart, — 
 But ah ! the poem fades away and dies ! 
 
 \Ilawh throws the stone. Svanhild screunis.'] 
 
 Oh God ! you struck it ! Oh ! what have you done ! 
 
 Oh ! That was wicked, shameful ! 
 Hawk, [^yassionatehj agitated'] Eye for eye, 
 
 And tooth for tooth, pure legal justice, Svanhild. 
 
 Now no one greets you longer from on hio-h. 
 
 And no more gifts come from the land of song. 
 
 See, that is my revenge for your ill deed ! 
 Svan. For my ill deed ? 
 Haxvlc. Yes, yours ! Until this hour 
 
 A singing-bird was warbling in my breast. 
 
 Ah ! now the bell may chime above them both. 
 
 For you have killed it ! 
 Svan. Have I ? 
 
46 THE LITERATUKE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Hawk. Yes, you struck 
 
 My young and joyous conquering faitli to earth 
 "SMien you betrothed yourself ! ^ 
 
 Then she explains that Anna is really Lind's beloved. 
 Hawk now is interested again in this affair, until Lind 
 declares that he will publish the news, that they may 
 be regularly engaged. Hawk shows this step to be 
 suicidal ; but Lind persists. The new couple are received 
 with acclamation by the pseudo-lovers, to Hawk's infinite 
 disgust. He cries to the company : — 
 
 Hurrah ! Miss Magpie, like a tnuiipet, tells you, 
 A brother has been born to you in Amor ! 
 
 the result being that the new couple are smothered in and 
 nauseated with congi-atulations. Here is the description, 
 of Strawman and his wife : — 
 
 He also was a man of courage once, 
 
 And fought the world to win himself a woman ; 
 
 He sacked the chm-ches of society ; 
 
 His love bui'st into flower of passionate song ! 
 
 Look at him now ! In long funereal robes 
 
 He acts the drama of the Fall of Man ! 
 
 And look, that female of gauut petticoat, 
 
 And tAvisted shoes, down-trodden at the heel, 
 
 She was the winged maiden, who should lead 
 
 His spirit into fellowship with beauty ! 
 
 And what is left of love's pure flame ? — The smoke ! — 
 
 Sic transit gloria amoris, Svanhild ! - 
 
 In utter desperation, Hawk proposes to throw every- 
 thing to the winds, and leave modern society to rot into 
 its grave. The only pure spirit he can find is Svanhild, 
 and he tries to persuade her to revolt with liim. 
 ' Appendix K. ^ Appendix L. 
 
'LOVE'S COMEDY.' 47' 
 
 We will not, like this trivial congregation, 
 Attend the cliui'ch of dulness any more. 
 The aim and scope of individual laboui* 
 Is just to stand consistent, true and free.' 
 
 But he expresses too much. Svanhild conceives the idea 
 that he is wooing her only that she may be a means to the 
 attainment of his ideal. 
 
 You look at me as children on a reed, 
 A hollow thing to cut into a flute, 
 And pipe upon awhile and throw away. 
 
 They part coldly, and the curtain goes down upon Hawk's 
 boundless depression and dismay. 
 
 The second act is a day later in time. On Sunday 
 afternoon a whole troop of friends, all intense Philistines, 
 come down to Mrs. Halm's, and hold what Hawk calls ' a 
 Bacchanalian feast of tea and prose.' Lind and Anna 
 are beginning to be weary of their love ; now that all the 
 world expects them to be ardent, the charm of the mys- 
 terious passion is gone. All the three couples — the fat 
 priest and his spouse, the clerk and Miss Magpie, and 
 those most newly betrothed — become more and more 
 ludicrously dull, and Hawk, waxing more and more angry, 
 mutters, — 
 
 See how they Irill the poetry of Love ! 
 
 But we must hurry to the close, giving only one out 
 of the exquisite and sparkling scenes. Hawk has gathered 
 everyone round him, and each person has mentioned 
 some herb or flower that is like love, and at last it is his 
 turn : — 
 
 Hmvk. As many heads as fancies ! Very good ! 
 
 But all of you have blundered more or less ; 
 ' Appendix M. 
 
48 THE LITEEATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Eacli simile is crooked ; now, liear mine, 
 Then turn and twist it any way you wish ! 
 Far in the dreamy East there grows a plant 
 Whose native home is the Sun's Cousin's garden — 
 
 All the Ladies. Oh ! it is tea ! 
 
 Hawk. It is ! 
 
 The Ladies. To think of tea ! 
 
 HaxcTi. Its home lies far in the Valley of Romance, 
 A thousand miles beyond the wilderness ! 
 Fill up my cup ! I thank you ! Let us have 
 On tea and love a good tea-table talk. 
 
 {They gather round him.l 
 It has its home away in Fablelaud, 
 Alas ! and there, too, is the home of Love. 
 Only the children of the Sun, we know, 
 Can cultivate the herb or tend it well. 
 And even so it is with Love, my friends : 
 A drop of sun-blood needs must circulate 
 Through our dull veins, before the passionate Love 
 Can root itself, or shoot and blossom forth. 
 
 Miss Magpie. But love and love are everywhere the same ; 
 Tea has vai-ieties and qualities. 
 
 Mrs. Straw7nan. Yes, tea is bad or good or pretty good. 
 
 Anna. The young green shoots are thought the best of all. 
 
 Svanhild. That kind is only for the Siui's bright Daughters. 
 
 A Young Lady. They say that it intoxicates like ether ! 
 
 Another. Fragrant as lotus and as sweet as almond ! 
 
 Guldstad. That kind of import never reaches us ! 
 
 JIawk. I think that in his nature everyone 
 
 Has got a little ' Heavenly Empire ' in him 
 
 "Where, on the twigs, a thousand such sweet buds 
 
 Form under shadow of that falling Wall 
 
 Of China, bashfulness ; where, underneatli 
 
 The shelter of the quaint kiosk, there sigh 
 
 A troop of Fancy's little China dolls. 
 
 Who dream and dream, with damask round their loins, 
 
 And in their hands a golden tulip-flower. 
 
 The first-fruits of Love's harvest were for them, 
 
 And we just have the rubbish and the stalks. 
 
 And now the last point of similitude : — 
 
'love's comedy.' 49 
 
 See how the hand of culture presses down 
 
 The ' Heavenly Empire ' out in the far East ; 
 
 Its great Wall moulders and its strength is gone, 
 
 The last of genuine mandarins is hanged, 
 
 And foreign devils gather in the crops. 
 
 Soon the whole thing will merely be a legend, 
 
 A wonder-story nobody believes : 
 
 The whole wide world is painted gray on gray, 
 
 And Wonderland for ever is gone past. 
 
 But have we Love ? Oh ! where, oh ! where is Love ? 
 
 Nay, Love is also banished out of sight. 
 
 But let us bow before the age we live in ! 
 
 Drink, drink in tea to Love discrowned and dead ! ^ 
 
 There is intense indignation among the pseudo-lovers, 
 and Hawk is driven out of their society, scarcely saved 
 from the fate of Orpheus. Svanhild comes out to 
 him, and for a little while they enjoy the exquisite 
 pleasure of true and honest love. But, to hasten to the 
 end. Hawk discovers that marriage would destroy the 
 bloom and beauty of this sweet passion. He dreads a 
 time when Svanhild will no longer inspire and glorify 
 him, and the poem ends in a most tragical manner by the 
 separation for ever of the only two hearts strong enough 
 to shake off the trammels of conventionality. The Age 
 weighs too heavily upon even them, and, to spare them- 
 selves future agony, they tear themselves apart while the 
 bond is still fresh and tender between them. 
 
 The whole poem— its very title of ' Love's Comedy ' — 
 is a piece of elaborate irony. We may believe that it is 
 rather Svanhild than the extravagant Hawk who speaks 
 the poet's mind. It is impossible to express in brief 
 quotation the perfection of faultless verse, the epigram- 
 matic lancet-thrusts of wit, the boundless riot of mirth 
 ' Appendix N. 
 E 
 
50 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 that make a lyrical saturnalia in this astonishing drama. 
 A complete translation alone could give a shadow of the 
 force of the original. 
 
 In 1864 Ibsen left Norway, and, as far as I know, has 
 only once re-entered it. For a long while he was domi- 
 ciled in Eome, and while there he wrote the book which 
 has popularised his name most thoroughly. It seemed as 
 though the poetical genius in him expanded and de- 
 veloped in the intellectual atmosphere of Eome. It is not 
 that ' Brand ' is more harmonious in conception than 
 the earlier works — for let it be distinctly stated, Ibsen 
 never attains to repose or perfect harmony — but the scope 
 was larger, the aim more Titanic, the moral and mental 
 horizon wider than ever before. Brand, the hero of the 
 book, is a priest in the Norwegian Church ; the temper of 
 his mind is earnest to the point of fanaticism, consistent 
 beyond the limits of tenderness and humanity. He will 
 have all or nothing, no Sapphira-dividings or Ananias- 
 equivocations — the whole heart must be given or all is 
 void. He is sent for to attend a dying man, but in order 
 to reach him he must cross the raging Fjord in a small 
 boat. So high is the storm, that no one dares go with 
 him : but just as he is pushing off alone, Agnes, a young 
 girl of heroic temperament who has been conquered by 
 his intensity, leaps in with him, and they safely row 
 across. Brand becomes priest of the parish, and Agnes, 
 in whose soul he iinds everything that his own demands, 
 becomes his wife. In process of time a son is born to 
 him. The physician declares that unless they move to 
 some healthier spot — the parish is a noisome glen that 
 does not see the sun for half the year — the babe must 
 
BRAND. 51 
 
 •die. Brand, believing that duty obliges liim to stay at 
 his post, will not leave it. His child dies, and the 
 mother dies ; Brand is left alone. At last his mother 
 comes to live with him, a worldly woman with a frivolous 
 heart ; she will not submit to' his religious supremacy, and 
 dies unblessed and unannealed. Her property now falls 
 into Brand's hands, and he dedicates it all to the rebuild- 
 ing of the church. The satire now turns on the life in 
 the village ; the portraits of the various officers, school- 
 master, bailiff, and the rest, are incisively and scathingly 
 drawn. All society is reviled for its universal worldliness, 
 laziness, and lukewarmness. At last the church is finished. 
 Brand, with the keys in his hand, stands on the door- 
 step and harangues the people. His sermon is a philippic 
 of the bitterest sort ; all the wormwood of disappointed 
 desire for good, all the burning sense of useless sacrifice, 
 vain offerings of heart and breath to a thankless genera- 
 tion, all is summed up in a splendid outburst of invective. 
 In the end he throws the keys far out into the river, and 
 flies up the mountain-side away into desolation and soli- 
 tude.' As a piece of artistic work, ' Brand ' is most 
 wonderful ; a drama of nearly three hundred pages, 
 written in short rhymed lines, sometimes rhyming four or 
 five times, and never flagging in energy or interest, is a 
 wonder in itself. Eight large editions of this book have 
 been sold — a greater success than any other work of the 
 poet has attained. A very great number of copies were 
 bought in Denmark, where, just now, religious writing is 
 at the height of fashion, and doubtless the subject of 
 
 ' The similarity of this plot to that of Sydney DobelFs ' Balder,' 
 published twelve years earlier, is worthy of note. 
 
 B 2 
 
52 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 ' Brand ' accounts in some measure for its extraordinary 
 popularity in that country. The verse in which it is 
 written is a finished and lovely work of a high lyrical order. 
 
 The following song has attained a special popularity 
 throughout Scandinavia : — 
 
 Einar. Agnes, my exquisite butterfly, 
 
 I will catch you sporting and winging ; 
 I am weaving a net with meshes small, 
 And the meshes are my singing. 
 
 Agnes. If I am a butterfly, tender and small. 
 
 From the heather-bells do not snatch me ; 
 But since you are a boy, and are fond of a game, 
 You may hunt, though you must not catch me 
 
 Einar. A.gnes, my exquisite butterfly. 
 
 The meshes are all spun ready ; 
 It will help you nothing to flutter andfla p : 
 You are caught in the net already. 
 
 Agnes. That I am a butterfly, bright and young, 
 A swinging butterfly, say you ? 
 Then ah ! if you catch me under your net, 
 Don't crush my wings, I pray you ! 
 
 Ei7iar. No ! I will daintily lift you up, 
 And shut you into my breast ; 
 There you may shelter the whole of your life, 
 Or play, as you love best.^ 
 
 It was among the lemon-groves of Ischia, under the 
 torrid glare of an Italian summer, that Ibsen began his 
 next, and, as I believe, greatest work. There is no trace 
 of the azure munificence of sea and sky in the luxurious 
 and sultry South, about ' Peer Grynt ; ' it is the most ex- 
 clusively Norwegian of his poems in scenery and feeling. 
 Strange that in the ' pumice isle,' with the crystalline 
 waves of the Mediterranean lapping around him, far 
 ' A pendix O. 
 
'PEER GYNT.' 53 
 
 removed from home faces and home influences, he could 
 shape into such perfect form a picture of rough Norse life 
 by fjord and fjeld. ' Peer Grynt ' takes its name from its 
 hero, an idle fellow whose aim is to live his own life, and 
 whose chief characteristics are a knack for story-telling 
 and a dominant passion for lies. It is the converse of 
 ' Brand ; ' for while that drama strove to wake the nation 
 into earnestness by holding up before it an ideal of stain- 
 less virtue, ' Peer Gynt ' idealises in the character of its 
 hero the selfishness and mean cunning of the worst of 
 ambitious men. In form, this poem, like the preceding, 
 is written in a variety of lyrical measures, in short rhyming 
 lines ; but there is a brilliant audacity, a splendour of 
 tumultuous melody, that ' Brand ' seldom attained to. 
 Ibsen has written nothing so sonorous as some of the 
 passages in * Peer Gynt.' 
 
 The hero is first introduced to us as playing a rough 
 practical joke on his mother ; he is a rude shaggy lad of 
 violent instincts and utter lawlessness of mind. We find 
 him attending a wedding, and, after dancing with the 
 bride, snatching her up and running up the mountain-side 
 with her. Then he leaves her to make her way down 
 again ignominiously. For tliis ill deed he is outlawed, 
 and lives in the caves of the Dovrefjeld, haunted by strange 
 spirits, harassed by weird sensualities and fierce hallucina- 
 tions. The atmosphere of this part of the drama is ghostly 
 and wild ; the horrible dreams of the great lad are shown 
 as incarnate but shadowy entities. He grows a man 
 among the mountains, and is introduced to the King of 
 the Trolds, who urges him to marry his daughter and 
 settle among them. Under the figure of the Trolds, the 
 
54 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 party in Norway which demands commercial isolation and 
 monopoly for home products is most acutely satirised. At 
 last Peer Gynt slips down to the sea-shore and embarks 
 for America. These events, and many more, take up the 
 first three acts, which almost form a complete poem in 
 themselves ; these acts contain little satire, but a humor- 
 ous and vivid picture of Norse manners and character. To 
 a foreigner who knows a little of Norway and would fain 
 know more, these acts of ' Peer Grynt ' are a delicious 
 feast. Through them he is brought face to face with the 
 honest merry peasants, and behind all is a magnificent 
 landscape of mountain, forest, and waterfall. 
 
 With the fourth act there is a complete shifting of 
 motive, time, place, and style. "We are transported, after 
 a lapse of twenty years, to the coast of Morocco, where 
 Peer Gynt, a most elegant middle-aged gentleman, enter- 
 tains a select party of friends on the sea-shore. He has 
 been heaping up fortune in America ; he has traded ' ia 
 stockings. Bibles, rum and rice,' but most of all in negro- 
 slaves to Carolina and heathen gods to China. In short,. 
 he is a full-blown successful humbug, unscrupulous and 
 selfish to the last degree. While he is asleep, his friends^ 
 run off with his yacht, and are blown up by an explosion 
 into thin air. He is left alone and penniless on the- 
 African shore. He crosses the desert and meets with 
 endless adventures : each adventure is a clear-cut jewel of 
 satire. Here is a subtle lampoon on the way in which 
 silly people hail each new boaster as the Man of the 
 Future, and worship the idol themselves have built up. 
 Peer — the bubble,|the humbug — appears in an Arab camp, 
 and is received as a manifestation of the divine Muham- 
 
'PEEE GYNT.' 55 
 
 mad himself. A chorus of girls do homage to him, led on 
 by Anitra, the very type of a hero-hunting woman : — 
 
 Chorus. The Propliet is come ! 
 
 The Prophet, the Master, the all-providing, 
 To us, to us, is he come, 
 Over the sand-sea riding ! 
 The Prophet, the Master, the never-failing, 
 To us, to us, is he come, 
 Through the sand-sea sailing. 
 Sound the flute and the drum ; 
 The Prophet, the Prophet is come ! 
 Anttra. His steed was the milk-white flood 
 
 That streams through the rivers of Paradise ; 
 His hair is Are and stars are his eyes. 
 So bend the knee ! Let your heads be bowed ! 
 No child of earth can bear. 
 His starry face and his flaming hair ! 
 Over the desert he came. 
 Out of his breast sprang gold like flame. 
 Before him the land was light, 
 
 Behind him was night ; 
 Behind him went drought and dearth. 
 He, the majestic, is come ! 
 Over the desert is come ! 
 Bobed like a child of earth. 
 Kaaba, Kaaba stands dumb, 
 Forlorn of its lord and light. 
 Chorus. Sound the flute and the drimi ; 
 
 The Prophet, the Prophet is come ! ^ 
 
 Another episode introduces one of those ill-advised 
 persons who strive to prevent the use of classical Danish 
 in Norway, and substitute for it a barbarous language 
 collected orally from among the peasants — a harsh, shape- 
 less, and unnatural jargon. One of these writers is intro- 
 duced to Peer in Egypt ; he is flying westwards, seeking 
 for an asylum for his theories. He tries to win Peer Grynt's 
 sympathy thus : — 
 
 ' Appendix P. 
 
56 THE LITEEATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Listen ! In tlie East afar 
 Stands tlie coast of Malabar. 
 Europe like a hungry vulture 
 Overpowers tlie land with culture, 
 For the Dutch and Portuguese 
 Hold the country at their ease. 
 Where the natives once held sway, 
 Now their chiefs are driven away ; 
 And the new lords have combined 
 In a language to their mind. 
 In the olden days long fled, 
 Th' Ourang-Outang was lord and head, 
 He was chief by wood and flood. 
 Snared and slaughtered as he would ; 
 As the hand of nature shaped, 
 So he grinned and so he gaped ; 
 Unabashed he howled and yelled, 
 For the reins of state he held. 
 Out alas ! for Progress came, 
 And destroyed his name and fame ; 
 All the monkey-men with ears 
 Vanished for four hundred years ; 
 If we now would preach or teach, 
 We must use the help of speech. 
 I alone have striven hard 
 To become a monkey-bard ; 
 I have vivified the dream, 
 Proved the people's right to scream, 
 Screamed myself, and, by inditing, 
 Showed its use in folk-song-writing. 
 Oh ! that I could make men see 
 The bliss of being apes like me ! ^ 
 
 It is said that these lines have had a greater effect in 
 stopping the movement tlian all denunciations of learned 
 professors and the indignation of philologists. 
 
 Between the fourth and fifth acts twenty years more 
 elapse. Peer wins a new fortune in California, and finally 
 comes back to Norway to enjoy it. The opening scene 
 ' Appendix Q. 
 
SATIRIC COMEDIES. 57 
 
 carries us up one of the perilous passages on the Norse 
 coast, a storm meanwliile rising and at last breaking on 
 the ship. All hands are lost save Peer, who finds himself 
 in his fatherland again, but penniless and friendless. 
 Solvejg, a woman who has ' constantly and unweariedly 
 loved him all his life, receives him into her cottage, and 
 he dies in her arms as she sings a dream-song over him. 
 
 ' Love's Comedy,' ' Brand,' and ' Peer Gynt,' despite 
 their varied plots, form a great satiric trilogy — perhaps 
 for sustained vigour of expression, for affluence of execu- 
 tion, and for brilliance of dialogue, the greatest of modern 
 times. They form at present Ibsen's principal and fore- 
 most claim to immortality ; their influence over thought 
 in the North has been boundless, and sooner or later they 
 will win for their author the homage of Europe. He has 
 also published two very successful satiric comedies, ' The 
 Young Men's Union ' in 1869, and ' The Pillars of Society ' 
 in 1877. The former is a comedy in prose, the scene of 
 which is laid in a little country town, perhaps Skien 
 being meant, to judge by certain hints ; the subject- 
 matter is taken from the ordinary political life in the 
 provinces, and a good deal of airy satire is expended on 
 the frivolity and short-sightedness of embryo politicians. 
 The interest centres around a young lawyer, gifted with 
 some brains, no tact, and boundless impudence, who builds 
 up for himself a dream of successful ambition, and has 
 it tumbled about liis ears like a house of cards in the 
 fifth act. This young man, Stensgaard, tries to win 
 the sympathy of the lower classes, and especially of 
 the turbulent youth, by denouncing the proprietary 
 class. But by an accident he gets admitted himself 
 
58 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE, 
 
 into the society of this local aristocracy, and might, if he 
 had a grain of decision or a particle of sound sense, hew 
 out a path from this higher elevation. But he must needs 
 grasp all, and loses everything. He forms a Forhund or 
 Union, a collection of young men that meet to drink a 
 health to Freedom, sing odes to Old Norway, and celebrate 
 the 17th of May, the day of the independence of Norway. 
 These absurdities were once a serious weakness to the 
 State, but now they are banished from rational society, 
 and are only cultivated in such crude assemblies as those 
 our poet satirises. But Stensgaard, with shallow cunning, 
 tries to manoeuvre for the support of both classes, and as the 
 election times are approaching, he determines to canvas for 
 a place in the Storthing. At the same time he urges a 
 love-suit on three ladies at once, or rather by turns. To 
 the least experienced playgoer it will be obvious that this 
 complicated intrigue gives opportunity for plenty of comical 
 incident, and accordingly the young lawyer builds his 
 castles in the air for awhile, till the political and amatory 
 schemes are ripe, and then in a very amusing final scene 
 all his tricks are exposed, and he himself vanishes into 
 thin air. The dialogue is everywhere sprightly, and its 
 limpid flow is seldom interrupted by those metaphysical 
 subtleties which are the poet's too great delight. In the 
 character of Stensgaard, Ibsen is more than half suspected 
 of laughing at his rival Bjornson, whose political freaks 
 were, about the time when this play was produced, exciting- 
 remark for the first time. 
 
 Not a few of the critics of the great poet ventured to 
 hope that he would select for his next work a subject less 
 local than those purely Norwegian scenes which he was~ 
 
'EMPEKOR AND GALILEAN.' 59 
 
 accustomed to draw, and which, however brilliantly painted, 
 were to the world at large of comparatively trivial impor- 
 tance. In 1873 he appeared to respond to this hope in 
 publishing a work of great ambition, the theme of which 
 had certainly a European and a universal interest. This 
 book, originally projected, according to report, as a 
 trilogy, actually consists of two dramas of unusual length, 
 and covering together the period intervening between a.d. 
 351 and a.d. 363, — -that is, from the adolescence to the 
 death of Julian the Apostate. 
 
 The subject undoubtedly is a very momentous and 
 tragical one. It concerns itself with the effort of a single 
 brain to carry into effect a kind of religious Kenaissance, 
 in opposition to that form of political Christianity which 
 had just found a firm footing in the whole Koman Empire. 
 All the great tragedies that art has known are engaged 
 with the struggle of a gifted and noble nature against an 
 invincible force to which it is wholly antipathetic. From 
 Prometheus to Faust, the great tragical figures of poetry 
 have rung the changes on this theme. Ibsen has rightly 
 judged that Julian's struggle against Christ, seen in the 
 light of his slight apparent success and final ruin, collects 
 around it ideas fit for a high philosophical tragedy. In 
 effect he has hardly hit as high as he aimed; 'Kejser og 
 Galilseer ' (' Emperor and Galilean ') is a work full of power 
 and interest, studded with lofty passages, but not a com- 
 plete poem. But before discussing the causes of this 
 partial failure, we will briefly analyse the method in which 
 one of the finest minds in Europe has chosen to bring before 
 us the story itself. 
 
 The first of the two dramas is entitled ' Julian's Apos- 
 
-€0 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 tasy.' The action opens at Constantinople. We are in- 
 troduced to one of the picturesque, vivid scenes that Ibsen 
 understands so well how to manipulate. It is Easter, and 
 outside the church-doors a great throng of citizens is wait- 
 ing to see the Emperor Constantius II. go in state to mass. 
 Before he appears, the bystanders, who have in the begin- 
 ning united in beating a few stray pagans, begin to quarrel 
 among themselves, Manichasans against Donatists, with 
 furious abuse. In this way, at the very opening, the rotten 
 state of doctrine in professing Christendom is laid bare ; 
 the chaos of raving schismatics and godless heretics that 
 grouped themselves as Christians in the eyes of men like 
 Julian is made patent to the reader. Constantius, timid, 
 morbid, and moribund, makes his way through the crowd, 
 accompanied by his courtiers, and amongst them Julian, 
 the friendless kinsman whose parents he has murdered. 
 Julian is rather suggested than sketched as a nervous, in- 
 tellectual youth, of wavering temperament and almost 
 hysterical excitement of brain. A lad of his own age, a 
 healthy young Cappadocian whom Julian in earlier years 
 has converted to Christianity, comes out of the crowd to 
 greet him. They pass away together, and in their dia- 
 logue the poet finds occasion to unveil to us the condition 
 of Julian's mind and soul. He has become conscious that 
 a kind of classic revival is being suggested around him, 
 and he is angry at being kept out of the way of it. He 
 hopes to secure his own tottering faith by arguing with 
 the men who are trying to restore the old philosophy. He 
 accidentally meets the most active of these new teachers, 
 Libanios, who is starting to found a new school at Athens. 
 Julian obtains leave to go to Pergamos, hoping from thence 
 
' EMPEEOR AND GALILEAN.' 61 
 
 to steal off to Athens, and stand face to face with the dreaded 
 Libanios. In this act Julian is still a Christian, but the 
 self-consciousness of his assertions of faith reveals the totter- 
 ing basis on which it rests. He is wavering ; circumstances 
 and the age are against him, but as yet his difficulties are 
 rather emotional and moral than intellectual. 
 
 The second act reveals Julian in the midst of the new 
 school at Athens. He has made a melancholy discovery : 
 ' The old beauty is no longer beautiful, and the new truth 
 is no longer true.' The efforts of the young apostates to 
 restore the insouciance of classic times has resulted in mere 
 bestial excess ; Apln'odite and lacchus are gods no longer, 
 and to Julian the Christ also is a god no longer. A new 
 change has come over him. He finds no rest in the scepti- 
 cal science ; the new philosophers are ambitious, greedy, 
 impure persons, and yet he cannot return to the fold of 
 Christianity. The old religion rots in its open grave, and 
 the new religion seems to him to be false and cold and 
 timid. Libanios disgusts him ; he hears of magical arts 
 practised at Ephesus, very much as we now-a-days hear of 
 spirit-rapping, and he starts off in the hope of a new reve- 
 lation and a ncAv creed. 
 
 The next act is in the highest degree theatrical, but 
 there is but little development of purpose. Julian is dis- 
 covered at Ephesus, under the influence of a new teacher, 
 Maximos the mystic. There is a great magic-scene, in 
 which, to the sound of unseen instruments and under the 
 flicker of resinous torches, a wild ceremony of incantation 
 is gone through. Strange shadows cross the scene ; the 
 figures of Cain and of Judas rise to the motions of the 
 wizard's rod; the wliole affair is prolonged to an extreme 
 
€2 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 length, and we do not see clearly the poet's purpose. The 
 result, however, is distinct enough. Julian convinces him- 
 self that spirits of the upper world have warned him to 
 restore the old Greek Polytheism. At the moment of 
 wildest cerebral excitement, the Emperor's messengers bm'st 
 in upon him, with the news that Csesar Grallos, his brother, 
 has been murdered, that Julian is nominated Cassar, and 
 that the Emperor gives him his sister Helena in marriage. 
 He reappears in Graul. After the celebrated victory at 
 Argentoratum, he returns into Lutetia to Helena. A mes- 
 sage from Constantius, accompanied by a present of fruit 
 from Italy, reaches the camp at the same time. Helena, who 
 bas received him with every display of conjugal affection, 
 -eats some peaches which have been carefully poisoned, and 
 rushes on to the scene raving. The passage which follows 
 is as revolting as powerful. English views of propriety 
 scarcely permit me to reproduce the peculiar tenor of the 
 revelations she makes in her delirium. Suffice it to say 
 that she proves her married life to have been a grossly un- 
 faithful one, and that she names as the dearest of her 
 lovers a Christian priest, who, by a not unparalleled fiction, 
 has persuaded her to regard him as an impersonation of 
 the Second Person of the Trinity. In an agony of shame 
 and horror, Julian curses the Gralilaean ; this uttermost 
 indignity was needed to give him the power of perfect 
 hatred against Christianity. But for the moment there 
 is no time for reflection. His victory has won him the 
 jealousy of the Emperor, and, threatened with the fate of 
 Oallos, he only saves his life by leaping out of the window 
 into the throng of soldiers. His appeal to their gratitude 
 turns the scale violently in his favour ; he is elected 
 
' EMPEEOR AND GALILEAN.' 63 
 
 Emperor, and marches towards Constantinople. The 
 central idea in this act is the moral force which the 
 adultery of his Christian wife and the treachery of the 
 Christian Emperor exert, in concert with circumstances, in 
 driving Julian into active enniity against their feith. 
 
 The fifth act is occupied with the march through Italy. 
 The body of Helena, by reason of her purity, forsooth ! 
 works miracles, to Julian's infinite disgust. On the other 
 hand, he makes retreat impossible by publicly worshipping 
 Helios, and marches victoriously eastward. So closes 
 ' Julian's Apostasy,' having scarcely flagged anywhere in 
 interest and power, and leaving a distinct heroic central 
 figure on the mind. 
 
 But the second drama, ' Julian the Emperor,' from the 
 very outset, is afflicted with a sense of flatness and deadness 
 that the author in vain struggles to throw off. The 
 moment we find Julian crowned at Constantinople he ceases 
 to be an heroic figure at all. The vain effort to revive the 
 Pagan cultus among the masses of the people, the trifling 
 and annoying passages at Antioch, the intellectual mean- 
 nesses of Julian, the terrible fiascos at Alexandria and 
 Jerusalem, have nothing tragical in them. These long 
 acts of Ibsen's drama are not without importance, but 
 their interest is solely historical, or perhaps philosophical ; 
 they are utterly prosaic. The dramatist has been hampered 
 by an overplus of historical and legendary material. No 
 trifle is spared us, even that slight epigram against 
 Apolinarius, ^Avsyvcov £<yv(ov Karayvcov, is dragged in, losing- 
 all force in its Norse translation. We find litle to praise 
 or blame in the first three acts of this long drama, but 
 when the fatal Persian march commences, the soul of the 
 
64 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 poet revives. His spirit remembers its august abodes^ 
 and Julian's figure recovers something of heroic dignity. 
 It is almost inconceivable that Ibsen has chosen to dwell on 
 tlie dirty habits of his hero ; he has not spared us the tra- 
 ditional inky fingers, or the vermin-haunted beard. High 
 talk about Helios and the Phrygian Mother consorts but 
 ill with such terrible details. But with the fourth act our 
 interest revives ; we forget the importance of the histori- 
 cal Julian in the lofty dreamer and great warrior, who 
 rises to the height of the occasion in the great eastward 
 expedition against Persia. The story is told finely and 
 graphically ; we see the baffled and dejected Emperor 
 pushing on unflinchingly, stung by the songs of the Chris- 
 tians, gnawed at heart with the sense of his ill-success 
 against their Master, yet through it all, determined, calm, 
 and resolute. The condition of his mind is illustrated by a 
 dialogue with the mystic Maximos, of which we translate a 
 part : — 
 
 Maximos. The vine of the world is grown old, and yet you fancy 
 to be able, as before, to ofter raw grapes to those who thirst after new 
 wine. 
 
 Julian. Ah ! my Maximos, who thirsts ? Name me one man, 
 outside om* intimate circle, who is led by a spiritual enthusiasm. 
 Unfortimate that I am, to be born into such an iron age ! 
 
 Maximos. Blame not the age. Had the age been greater, you 
 had been less. The soul of the world is like a rich man who has 
 coimtless sons. If he parts his riches equally to all the sons, all are 
 well-to-do, but none rich. But if he leaves them all penniless but one, 
 and leaves all to him, then that one stands rich in a circle of poor 
 men. 
 
 Here we find expressed Julian's hope and his despair. 
 Ever pressing like a weight upon his spirit, is the indiffer- 
 ence with which the world receives his gift of the new 
 
'EMPEROR AND GALILEAN.' . 65 
 
 wine. It is the most deadly of his reverses ; it is worse a 
 thousand times than the army of King Sapores, worse 
 even than the untiring zeal of his Christian adversaries. 
 These his persecutions have roused into martyr-heroism and 
 soldered together with brotherly love, but no passionate 
 zeal burns in the dull hearts of the worshippers of Pan 
 and Helios. Yet his one hope and consolation is that in 
 himself all that is god-like centres, that when all foreign 
 opposition is put down, the conscious divinity in himself 
 will blaze out, to the discomfiture of the Gralilseans, and, 
 above all, to the spiritual awakening of the Polytheists. 
 Then follows the burning of the ships, and even till the 
 middle of the last act, Ibsen contrives to lose again the 
 poet in the religious philosopher. But in describing the 
 last night before the final battle, his genius suddenly takes 
 fire, and he closes the poem in a white-light of imaginative 
 sublimity. By a pool of dark water, in the midst of trees, 
 Julian stands and consults with the faithful Maximos. He 
 clings more vehemently than ever to the belief in his own 
 divinity. He longs to die to become a god ; it even 
 flashes over his brain to slip into the dark pool, and take 
 his place at once ' at home in the light of the sun and of 
 all the stars.' He is haunted by the unendurable vision of 
 the Crucified. Without terror, without remorse, but with 
 maddening hatred and horror, he sees wherever he goes 
 the great figure robed in white stretching its bleeding 
 hands to stop him in his course. In the midst of this 
 weird augury the Persian army bursts at midnight on the 
 camp. In the darkness the armies meet and thunder 
 together ; Julian unarmed leaps on horseback, and plunges 
 into the foremost fighting. Through the night his 
 
 V 
 
66 THE LITEKATURE OF NOETHERN EUROPE. 
 
 unscathed figure is seen in the thickest of the battle, but 
 just at daybreak he looks eastward, and there, where other 
 men see only the crimson dawn shooting along the cold 
 sky, Julian in an ecstasy of horror sees the colossal figure 
 of Christ, robed in imperial purple, circled by singing 
 women that string their bows with the light of his hair, 
 storming down the awakened heavens to crush him into 
 nothingness. He turns to plunge again into the battle, 
 but his old foster-brother, Agathon, now becomes a furious 
 fanatic, draws his bow, and wounds him deeply in the 
 side. He falls, crying, ' Thou hast conquered, Galilsean ! ' 
 Now, to give briefly a notion of the causes that have 
 militated against the positive success of this work. First 
 and foremost, the technical imperfection of its style ; it is 
 written from first to last in prose. It is hardly credible 
 that Ibsen, a poet who has distinguished himself above all 
 recent writers by his skill in adapting lyrical and choral 
 measures to dramatic themes, should have deliberately 
 abandoned his instrument when he undertook this tragical 
 study. It is as if Orpheus should travel hellwards without 
 his ivory lyre. Every charm of harmony and plastic art 
 was needed to draw the buried figure of Julian out of the 
 shameful oblivion of the ages. I earnestly trust that no 
 idle words of that garrulous criticism which is only too 
 ready to commend the indiscretions of popular poets will 
 induce him to appear again in so serious a part without 
 his singing-robes. Rut more important than this is the 
 failure to support the heroic dignity of the principal 
 character. If Julian does not fill the scene, who can? 
 Not Gregory, not Basil, who are mere lay-figures ; not 
 Maximos, who wanes and waxes with the waxing and 
 
HISTORICAL DRAMAS. 67 
 
 waning of his master. But perhaps the ultimate reason of 
 failure is to be found in what lies out of the poet's reach — 
 the inherent quality of the theme. Julian was not the 
 voice of his time; he was an anachronism. In his brief 
 life was exemplified how much can be done by one whole- 
 hearted man in stopping the civilisation of a world, only 
 to rush on with a fiercer current when he is taken out of 
 the way. Julian attempted to restore what had been 
 tried in the balances of history and found wanting ; he 
 had nothing new to suggest. The gods of ^schylus had 
 dwindled down to the nymphs of Longus ; the ' folding- 
 Star of Bethlehem ' had glared on them, and they had 
 sickened and fled away. To resuscitate their ghosts was 
 the dream of a morbid scholar, ignorant of the hearts of 
 men, and blind to the deeper significance of all the signs 
 of the times. 
 
 I have left myself no space to do more than mention 
 the names of Ibsen's historical and national dramas. The 
 first, ' Grildet paa Solhoug' (' The Banquet at Solhoug ') 
 appeared in 1856. This was followed in 1857 by 'Fru 
 Inger til Osteraad ' (' Mistress Inger at Osteraad '), a much 
 finer poem, which Ibsen has lately revised and almost 
 rewritten. It has been Ibsen's fortune in life to rise very 
 slowly, like Dryden, into the full exercise of his powers. 
 In each successive drama we find a more ample expres- 
 sion and greater audacity of thought than in the one 
 before it. ' Hsermsendene paa Helgoland ' (' The Warriors 
 at Helgoland') followed, in 1858, with a fresh series of 
 scenes from old Norse history, given with wonderful vigour 
 and precision. But Ibsen's masterpiece in this kind of 
 writing is ' Kongs-Emnerne ' ('The Pretenders'), which 
 
 F 2 
 
68 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 appeared in 1864. It has for its theme the struggle for 
 the vacant throne of Sverre, in the first half of the thir- 
 teenth century. This epoch, the most romantic in saga- 
 history, has been a favourite with the northern poets from 
 Ohlenschlager down to Bjornson. In this case, the time 
 is chosen which immediately followed the death of King 
 Sverre. A troop of claimants clutched at the falling 
 crown, but two stood out above the rest, and drew the 
 eyes of all men upon them — Hakon Hakonsson and Skule 
 BSrdsson. Between these the choice really lay ; Hakon 
 was putative son of Sverre, and Skule brother of an 
 earlier king. Ibsen's drama begins with a scene in which 
 all the heads of the nation, gathered in front of Bergen 
 Cathedral, wait for the ordeal of hot iron to decide 
 whether Hakon is truly Sverre's son or no. The ordeal 
 declares in the affirmative, and Hakon, so assured by 
 Heaven, gains perfect confidence in himself and in the 
 justice of his cause, while Skule doubts and hesitates. 
 Thus the key-note of the poet's estimate of each character 
 is struck at once : Hakon's strength is his calm self- 
 sufficiency, as Skule's weakness is his vacillating self-mis- 
 trust. Hakon becomes king, does everything to conciliate 
 Skule, makes him duke, marries his daughter, but to no 
 avail. In Skule there is ever the same fiery craving for 
 equality with Hakon, for the name and right of king. 
 But while Hakon possesses to an eminent degree the good 
 fortune and august bearing of an old-world king, Skule, 
 as his rival says, has all the superb gifts of intellect and 
 courage, is made to stand nearest to the king, but never 
 to be king himself.' Hakon's great new idea is to make 
 Norway not a kingdom only, but a nation ; to break down 
 
'THE PKETENDEKS; 69 
 
 provincial feuds, and make the people one and indivisible. 
 How Skule plagiarises this idea, finds it gives him a 
 power over men's hearts that no thought of his own ever 
 gave him, how by its help he rises to brief kingship, 
 through much blood, and falls at last before the innate 
 power of will that makes Hakon king by every right, 
 human and divine, can only be roughly indicated here. 
 The main characters are drawn with great subtlety and 
 finish, and are relieved by the delicate portrait of Queen 
 Margaret, wife and daughter of the rivals, and by that of 
 Bishop Nicolas, a crafty and witty priest, utterly selfish 
 and unprincipled, but devoted to the interests of his 
 Chm'ch. The dramatic power displayed in this poem 
 quite raises it out of any mere local interest, and gives it 
 a claim to be judged at a European tribunal. 
 
THE LOFODEN ISLANDS. 
 
 Among the thousands who throng to the Continent for 
 refreshment and adventure, how few leave the great 
 southward-streaming mass, and seek the desolate grandeur 
 of those countries which lie north of our own land I Of 
 those who do diverge, the great majority are sportsmen, 
 bent on pitiless raids against salmon and grouse. It is 
 strange that the noblest coast scenery in Europe should be 
 practically unknown to so ubiquitous a people as we are : 
 but so it is : and as long as the thirst for summer climates 
 remains in us, the world's winter-garden will be little 
 visited. It is the old story : the Northmen yearn after the 
 Nibelungen treasure in the South. 
 
 Doubtless, for us who are supposed to shiver in peren- 
 nial fog, this tropical idolatry is right and wise. With 
 all the passion of Kosicrucian philosophers, we worship 
 the unfamiliar Sun-god, and transport om-selves to Italy or 
 Egypt to find him. But what if he have a hyperborean 
 shrine — a place of fleeting visit in the far North, where 
 for a while he never forsakes the heavens, but in serene 
 beauty gathers his cloud-robes hourly about him, and is 
 lord of midnight as of mid-day ? Shall we not seek him 
 there, and be rewarded perchance by such manifestations 
 of violet and scarlet and dim green, of scathing white 
 
THE LOFODEN ISLANDS. 71 
 
 light, and deepest purple shadow, as his languorous 
 votaries of the South knew nothing of? 
 
 With such persuasive hints, I would lead the reader to 
 the subject of this chapter. I imagine to most minds the 
 Lofoden Islands are associated with little except school- 
 book legends of the Maelstrom, and perhaps the unde- 
 sirable savour of cod-liver oil. With some they have a 
 shadowy suggestion of iron-bound rocks, full of danger 
 and horror, repulsive and sterile, and past the limit of 
 civilisation. So little has been written about them, and 
 that little is so inadequate, that I cannot wonder at the 
 indifference to their existence which prevails. With the 
 exception of a valuable paper by Mr. Bonney, that 
 appeared some time back in the ' Alpine Journal,' I know 
 of no contribution to geographical literature which treats 
 of the group in any detail ; and that paper, both from 
 the narrow circulation of the periodical, and also from 
 the limited district of which it treats, cannot have had that 
 influence which its merit and the subject deserve. 
 
 The Lofoden Islands, which I visited in 1871, are 
 an archipelago lying off the Arctic coast of Norway. 
 Although in the same latitude as Central Greenland, 
 Siberia, and Boothia Felix, they enjoy, in common with 
 all the outer coast of Scandinavia, a comparatively mild 
 climate ; even in the severest winters their harbours are 
 not frozen. The group extends at an acute angle to the 
 mainland for about one hundred and forty miles, north- 
 east and south-west. In shape they seem on the map like a 
 great wedge thrust out into the Atlantic, the point being 
 the desolate rock of Rost, the most southerly of the islands ; 
 but this wedge is not solid : the centre is occupied by a 
 
72 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE, 
 
 sea-lake, which communicates by many channels with the 
 ocean. As all the islands are mountainous, and of most 
 fantastic forms, it can be imagined that this peculiar con- 
 formation leads to an endless panorama of singular and 
 eccentric views. The largest of the Lofodens is Hindo, 
 which forms the base of the wedge ; north of this runs the 
 long oval isle of Ando ; to the west lies Lango, whose rugged 
 coast has been torn and fretted by the ocean into the 
 m^ost intricate confusion of outline ; the central lake has 
 for its centre Ulvo — thus the heart of the whole group ; 
 and from the south of Hindo run in succession towards 
 the south-west, Ost Vaago, Vest Vaago, Flakstado, 
 Moskenaeso, Vsero, and little ultimate Eost. All these, 
 and several minor satellites also, are inhabited by scat- 
 tered families of fishermen. There is no town, scarcely a 
 village ; it is but a scanty population so barren and wild 
 a land will support. 
 
 But quiet and noiseless as the shores are when the 
 traveller sees them in their summer rest, they are busy 
 enough, and full of animation, in the months of March 
 and April. As soon as the tedious sunless winter has 
 passed away, the peculiar Norwegian boats, standing high 
 in the water, with prow and stern alike curved upwards, 
 begin to crowd into the Lofoden harbours from all parts 
 of the vast Scandinavian coast. It is the never-failing 
 harvest of codfish that they seek. Year after year in the 
 early spring, usually about February, the waters around 
 these islands are darkened with innumerable multitudes 
 of cod. They are unaccountably local in these visitations. 
 I was assured they had never been known to extend 
 farther south than Vasro, at the extremity of the group. 
 
COD-FISHERIES. 73 
 
 The number of boats collected has been estimated at 3,000 ; 
 -and as each contains on an average five men, the popula- 
 tion of the Lofodens in March must be very considerable. 
 Unfortunately for these * toilers of the sea,' the early spring- 
 is a season of stormy weather and tumultuous seas : when 
 the wind is blowing from the north-west or from the 
 south-west, they are especially exposed to danger ; when in 
 the former quarter the sudden gusts down the narrow chan- 
 nel are overwhelming, and when in the latter the waves 
 are beaten against the violent current always rushing down 
 the Vest Fjord from its narrow apex. The centre of the 
 busy trade in fish is Henningsvser, a little collection of 
 huts perched on the rocks under the precipitous flanks of 
 Vaagekallen, the great mountain of Ost Vaago. I was 
 assured that in April, when the fish is all brought to shore, 
 and the operations of gutting and cleaning begin, the 
 scene on the shore becomes more strange than delightful. 
 The disgusting labours which complete the great herring 
 season in our own Hebrides are utterly outdone by the 
 Norse cod-fishers. Men, women, and children cluster 
 on the shore, busily engaged in their filthy work, and 
 steeped to the eyes in blood and scales and entrails : at 
 last the rocks themselves are slippery with the reeking 
 refuse : one can scarcely walk among it ; and such a 
 smell arises as it would defy the rest of Europe to equal. 
 The fish is then spread on the rocks to dry, and eventually 
 piled in stacks along the shore : in this state it is known 
 as klip-fish. Some is split and fastened by pegs to long 
 rods, and allowed to flap in the wind till it dries to the 
 •consistence of leather : it is then called stock-fish. 
 Before midsummer, flotillas of the swift boats called 
 
74 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 jagter gather again to the Lofodens, and bear away for 
 exportation to Spain and Italy the dried results of the 
 spring labour. Bergen is the great emporium for this 
 trade. The other industry of the islands is the extraction 
 of ' cod-liver oil : ' the livers of all kinds of fishes supply 
 this medicine, those of sharks being peculiarly esteemed. 
 Along the low rocks, and around the houses, we find 
 great caiddrons in which these painfully odorous livers 
 are being slowly stewed : a heavy steam arises and the oily 
 smell spreads far and wide. But this is not a feature 
 peculiar to the Lofodens : all over the coast of Finmark 
 the shores reek with this flavour of cod-liver oil. 
 
 It is a matter of regret to me, in my functions of 
 apologist for these islands, that truth obliges me to raze 
 to the ground with ruthless hand the romantic fabric of 
 fable that has surrounded one of them from time im- 
 memorial. The Maelstrom, the terrific whirlpool that 
 
 "WTiirled to deatli the roaring whale, 
 
 that sucked the largest ships into its monstrous vortex,^ 
 and thundered so loudly that, as Purchas tells us in his 
 veracious ' Pilgrimage,' the rings on the doors of houses 
 ten miles off shook at the sound of it — this wonder of the 
 world must, alas ! retire to that limbo where the myths 
 of old credulity gather, in a motley and fantastic array.. 
 There is no such whirlpool as Pontoppidan and Purchas 
 describe : the site of the fabulous Maelstrom is put by 
 the former writer between Moskenseso and the lofty iso- 
 lated rock of Mosken. This passage is at the present day 
 called Moskostrom, and is one of those narrow straits, so^ 
 common on the Norwegian coast, where the current of 
 
THE MAELSTROM. 75 
 
 water sets with such persistent force in one direction, 
 that when the tide or an adverse wind meets it, a great 
 agitation of the surface takes place. I have myself seen, 
 on one of the narrow sounds, the tide meet the current 
 with such violence as to raise a little hissing wall across 
 the water, which gave out a loud noise. This was in the 
 calmest of weather ; and it is easy to believe that such a 
 phenomenon occurring during a storm, or when the sea was 
 violently disturbed, would cause small boats passing over 
 the spot to be in great peril, and might even suddenly 
 swamp them. Some such disaster, observed from the shore, 
 and exaggerated by the terror of the beholder, doubtless 
 gave rise to the prodigious legends of the Maelstrom. 
 Such a catastrophe took place, I was informed, not long 
 since, on the Salten Fjord, where there is an eddy more 
 deserving the name of whirlpool than any in the Lofodens. 
 The legendary importance of the Maelstrom, as a kind 
 of wonder of the world, led to the frequent mention of 
 the Lofodens by the versifiers of the seventeenth and 
 eighteenth centuries. But a specially interesting example 
 of this kind connects with our islands the name of a 
 most extraordinary personage. Bishop Anders Arrebo, 
 the father of modern Scandinavian poetry. This great 
 genius, whose sensuous and fiery nature contended in vain 
 against the social laws of his time, and whose verse remains 
 as a monument of broken hopes and wasted powers, was 
 born at ^rseskjobing, in Denmark, in 1587, the year that 
 Shakspeare came up to London. In 1618 his brilliant 
 parts had already been rewarded by the bishopric of 
 Throndhjem, in Norway, from which he was ejected in 1622, 
 for too much love of songs and stringed instruments, for 
 
76 THE LITERATUEE OF NOETHERN EUEOPE. 
 
 amorous discourse, and for too copious joviality at wed- 
 dings and junketings. The offence seems to have been 
 venial, the disgrace was ruinous ; and Arrebo returned 
 from his brief stay in Norway a broken and dejected 
 man. He died in 1637, leaving his QnagnuTn opus, his 
 didactic epic of the ' Hexsemeron,' still unprinted. It 
 saw the light in 1661. Arrebo was a student aud disciple 
 of Eonsard and Du Bartas, and his writings partake of 
 the universal affectation that stains the European poetry 
 of his time, but they share also the love of physical 
 beauty and the joyous naturalism of that rich age of 
 fecundity and liberty. It was during his unlucky stay in 
 Norway, that he is believed to have composed the ' Hexfe- 
 meron,' which contains many passages describing Nor- 
 wegian scenery. That which deals with the Maelstrom 
 may be worth citing : — 
 
 In Loufod far to north on Norway's distant shore, 
 
 A flood is found that hath no like the wide world o'er, 
 
 Entitled Moske-flood, from that high Mosker rock 
 
 Round which in seemly rings the obsequious waters flock ; 
 
 When this with hasty zeal performs the moon's designs, 
 
 If any man comes near, the world he straight resigns ; 
 
 In spring its billows rear like other mountains high. 
 
 But through theii* sides we see the sun, the earth's bright eye ; 
 
 Then, if the wind should rise against the flood's wild way, 
 
 Two heroes rush and meet in crash of war's array. 
 
 Then tremble land and house, then doors and windows rattle, 
 
 The earth is fain to cleave before that monstrous battle ; 
 
 The vast and magic whale dares not its breach essay, 
 
 But turns in fear to flight, and roaring speeds away.^ 
 
 After more description in the same grandiose style, 
 Arrebo proceeds to propound a theory of his own, which 
 was universally received for at least a century, and which 
 ' Appendix R. 
 
THE MAELSTROM. 77 
 
 made the poet more famous than the best of his verses. 
 It runs thus : — 
 
 Now my belief is this : that underneath the sea 
 
 A belt of lofty rocks is forced immutably, 
 
 Which hath au entrance, but is solid stone elsewhere. 
 
 And in the centre sends a peak high up to air. 
 
 When now the flood is come, with angry voice it calls, 
 
 And rushes inward like a thousand waterfalls, 
 
 And can no exit find to rule its rugged shock, 
 
 So madly whirls around the lofty central rock, 
 
 And rumbles like a quern when man doth grind therein.' 
 
 Ten years after the death of Arrebo there was born at 
 North Hero, on the Arctic coast of Norway, a man who 
 was destined to give considerable literary prominence to 
 the Lofodens. This was Petter Dass, son of a certain 
 Peter Dundas, a Scotchman of Dundee, who came over to 
 Norway in 1635. This man, who was an influential 
 ecclesiastic in the province of Nordland, composed, between 
 1678 and 1692, a long itinerary in verse, somewhat in 
 the fashion of Drayton's ' Polyolbion,' entitled ' N ordlands 
 Trompet ' (' The Trumpet of Nordland '). This poem— if 
 poem it can be called — has enjoyed since the lifetime of 
 its author an uninterrupted popularity, which it owes rather 
 to its lucid and sensible style, its humour and its nimble 
 versification, than to fancy or imagination — of which it is 
 devoid. A long canto in it is devoted to the Lofodens, much 
 of which unfortunately is taken up with describing, with 
 far less beauty of language than Arrebo had employed, 
 the Maelstrom. We learn, however, that in Dass's time 
 the principal Lofoden village stood on Skraaven, a small 
 island now almost desolate. From Petter Dass's language, 
 it seems to me almost certain that he visited the Lofodens, 
 ' Appendix b. 
 
78 THE LITEEATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 and lodged at Skraaven, and also at a fishing station on 
 Vaago, of which he gives a minute and curious descrip- 
 tion. 
 
 Until lately, the topography of the islands was in a 
 very unsettled state. The name of the group begins to 
 appear on maps of North Europe about the year 1 600 ; 
 but for a century and a half there is no sign to show that 
 geographers were at all aware of the real position of the 
 islands. In Pontoppidan's map the right point on the 
 €oast is at last fixed, but the oval smooth pieces of land, 
 at a great distance from one another, which adorn the 
 coast of Finmark on his chart, are a sadly inaccurate 
 realisation of these firmly-compacted and fantastically- 
 shaped Lofodens. Only within the last few years has the 
 patient survey of the Norwegian Admiralty presented us 
 with a minute and exact chart of the coast, and the sea- 
 line may now be considered as accurately laid down. But 
 with the interior of the islands it is not so : they consist 
 of inaccessible crags, dreary morasses, and impenetrable 
 snow-fields. The Lofoden islander prizes the sea-shore, 
 for it feeds and enriches him ; and the fringe of rich pas- 
 ture which smiles along it, for it preserves his cattle ; but 
 the land which lies behind these is an unknown wilder- 
 ness to him : if he penetrates it, it is to destroy the in- 
 solent eagles that snap up stray lambs, or to seek some 
 idle kid that has strayed beyond the flock. Hence it is 
 very difficult to find names for the peaks that bristle on 
 the horizon or tower above the valleys ; in many cases 
 they have no names, in many more these names have 
 found their way into no printed maps. It was an object 
 with me to fix on the true appellations of these magnifi- 
 
THE VEST FJORD. 79 
 
 cent mountains ; and I was in many cases enabled, 
 through the courtesy of the people and through patient 
 •collation of reports, to increase the amount of information 
 in this respect. It must be remembered that many of 
 the names given were taken down from oral statement, 
 and that the spelling must in some cases be phonetic. 
 
 The only key to this enchanted palace of the Oceanides 
 is, for ordinary travellers, the weekly steamer from 
 Trondhjem. This invaluable vessel brings the voyager, after 
 a somewhat weary journey through an endless multitude 
 of low, slippery, gray islets and tame hills, to the Arctic 
 Circle. Another day through scenery which at that point 
 becomes highly eccentric and interesting, and in some 
 places, grand, brings him to Bodo. This depressing village 
 is London and Liverpool in one for the inhabitants of our 
 islands : every luxury, from a watch to a piano, from a box 
 of Huntley and Palmer's biscuits to a pig, must be brought 
 from Bodo. After a long stoppage here, the steamer 
 passes on up the coast some twenty miles, to a strange 
 place called Gryto, a labyrinth of slimy rocks just high 
 enough to hide the horizon. From this the boat emerges 
 through a tortuous and perilous sound, and is at once in 
 the great Vest Pjord. Forty miles ahead in one unbroken 
 line rise the sharp mountains of the Lofodens, and without 
 swerving a point, the good ship glides west-north-west 
 into the very centre of the great wall. If the traveller 
 visit the islands in summer, and make the passage across 
 the Vest Fjord at midnight, as he is almost sure to do, 
 the scene, provided the air be clear and dry, will be gor- 
 geous. In the weird Arctic midnight, with a calm sea 
 shimmering before the bows, and all things clothed in 
 
80 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 that cold yellow lustre, deepening to amber and gold 
 behind the great blue mountains, which is so strange a 
 characteristic of the sun at midnight, the scene is won- 
 derfully impressive. As the steamer glides on, making 
 for Balstad on the south-west corner of Vest Vaago, 
 Flakstado and Moskenseso lie somewhat to our left ; and 
 perchance, if the eye is very keen, far away in the same 
 direction it may detect the little solitary rock of Viero, 
 and still farther Eost itself, our ultimfia Thule. The 
 southern range of the Lofodens has been compared to a 
 vertebrated skeleton, and the simile is vastly well chosen ; 
 for the isles taper off to a minute tail, and the channels 
 that run between them are so narrow and fit the outline 
 so exactly, that they appear like joints. Seen from the 
 Vest Fjord, the whole looks like one vast land, undivided. 
 Higher and higher on the primrose-coloured sky the dark 
 peaks rise as we approach our haven. And now the hills of 
 Moskenseso assume definite shape ; the two central points 
 rising side by side are Gruldtind and Eeinebring, the 
 former being the southern one. For an account, the 
 only one I know, of Moskenseso I can refer the reader to 
 the ' Eeise durch Norwegen ' of Herr C. F. Lessing, pub- 
 lished in 1831, at Berlin ; a scarce book, I believe. Herr 
 Lessing was an enterprising natm-alist, who visited Voero, 
 Moskenseso, and Vest Vaago, and v/rote an entertaining 
 chapter about them in his excellent little book. The 
 mountains of Moskenseso are not very lofty, but the 
 island is inaccessible, the shores being so steep and the 
 outline so indented by the sea, that it is necessary to 
 take a boat from haven to haven : one cannot pass by 
 land. The highest mountain of Flakstado, the precipitous 
 
SKOTTIND. 81 
 
 Napstind, is on the northern extremity of that island, and 
 hidden from iis by the projecting promontories of Vaago ; 
 but the lofty hills very slightly to our left belong to this 
 island. Even while we speak, we glide between half- 
 submerged rocks and rounded islets crowded with sea- 
 birds into the bay of Balstad, and the Lofodens are around 
 us ! The hour is that one of glamom- in^these Arctic sum- 
 mers when the day is but a few hours old, and the golden 
 sheen of midnight has given way to the strong chiaroscuro 
 of sunrise. Above our heads rises the mountain Skottind, 
 and we perceive how strange is the land we have arrived 
 in ; no longer the rounded hills of the mainland, no more 
 any conventional mountain forms and shapes in any wise 
 familiar. Skottind soars into the clouds one vast cliff of 
 dark rock split across now and then with a sharp crevasse, 
 above which rises another wall of cliff, and so on to the 
 summit, where thin spires and sharp pinnacles, clear-cut 
 against the sky, complete the mighty peak. This is cha- 
 racteristic of all the mountains of this southern and grand- 
 est range : especially unique and perplexing is the thin 
 look of the extreme summit; apparently the ridge is as 
 sharp and narrow as a notched razor ; no signs of the reced- 
 ing of the edge are to be seen. All these points are inacces- 
 sible on one side ; from the interior it might be possible to 
 reach the top of some of them, and sublime would be the 
 view so gained. At present, this chilly July morning, Skot- 
 tind rises a wall of darkest indigo blue between the sun 
 and our faces ; about its horns the heavy tissue of clouds is 
 smitten and shot through with brilliant white light of sun- 
 rise, and the fainter wreaths of vapour, delicately tinged 
 with rose-colour and orange, pause before they rise and flee 
 
 G 
 
82 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 away over the awakened heavens. As for Balstad itself, it 
 is a cluster of wooden houses painted gray and green, and 
 some deeply stained with red ochre, scattered about on a 
 frightfully rugged platform of rocks, so uneven that I can- 
 not think a square yard of earth or tolerably flat rock 
 could be found anywhere. Some of the houses are built on 
 the outlying islets, treacherous low reefs on which the gray, 
 sea creeps and shows his ominous white teeth Such 
 places seem to promise certain destruction in the iirst 
 storm, but the cottages survive, and the bay certainly is 
 very sheltered. 
 
 Leaving Balstad, the steamer coasts along the shores 
 of Vest Vaago. The twin peaks that appeared from the 
 middle of Vest Fjord as the highest land in this island 
 lie on the northern coast, and are now far out of sight; 
 they are known under the collective name of Himmelstinder 
 — a poetic and suggestive title. It may be well to point 
 out that ' tind ' is equivalent to needle, spitz, and is de- 
 scriptive of the pinnacle-character of the mountain. Him- 
 melstind was ascended by Herr Lessing, who crossed over 
 to it from Buxnses, and bravely ascended, in spite of pouring 
 rain and the derisive remarks of the natives : his account 
 of the adventure is highly humorous. We pursue our 
 voyage through an infinite multitude of sterile rocks and 
 under fine stormy crags till we reach the mouth of the 
 broad Grimsostrom, the gulf that divides us from Ost Vaago. 
 Here the colossal precipices of Vaagekallen come into 
 sight, the sublimest, though not the loftiest, of all the 
 Lofoden mountains. This stupendous mass occupies the 
 south-west extremity of Ost Vaago, and is almost always 
 shrouded in cloud ; the snow lies in patches about its ravines. 
 
SVOLV^R. 83 
 
 but most of its summit is too sheer for snow to rest on or any 
 lierb to grow. Vaagekallen is the beacon towards which the 
 fisher, laden with finny spoils, wearily steers at fall of day ; 
 for under its spurs, on a group of islets in the sound, is 
 built the village of Henningsvser, the most important of 
 all fishing stations, and a flourishing little place. It has a 
 lighthouse also, the largest on this coast. A little farther 
 •on we pass the quaint church of Vaagen — Kirkevaag, as 
 the inhabitants call it — built, like all Northern churches, 
 of wood, and painted dark brown. Here we find the only 
 trace of historic importance that Lofoden can boast, I 
 believe; for it was from Kirkevaag that that enthusiast 
 Hans Egede, led by devoted love for the souls of men, 
 -went in 1721 to preach the gospel to the desolate 
 savages of GTreenland. We pass on through crowds of 
 eider-ducks and terns and cormorants to S vol veer, a promi- 
 nent station on Ost Vaago. The entrance to this harbour 
 is through a maze of black, cruel rocks, round which 
 the sea tumbles and glides ominously; at last, after an 
 intricate half-hour of steering, through passages where 
 no path seemed possible, a large village is reached, built 
 like a lacustrine town on piles above the water. Svolvser is 
 thrown about on a heap of islets and promontories, here a 
 house, and there a house, on a site even wilder than that 
 of Balstad. The mountain rising sheer behind it is the 
 Svolvser Fjeld. Tolerable accommodation may be got at 
 this place, though the house of entertainment is, according 
 to Mr. Bonney, very inconveniently situated. It had been 
 decided by a commission, shortly before I arrived, that if 
 ever it should be thought desirable to found a town on the 
 Lofodens, this should be the site of it. Leaving Svolvser, 
 
84: THE LITEIIATURE OF NOETHERN EUEOPE. 
 
 the Ostnses Fjord, gloomy, narrow, and terrible as that gate 
 which Dante saw in Hell, looms on our left; enormous 
 mountains hem it in. On the west side, eminent above the 
 rest, is a peak called, I believe, the Jomfrutind; it would 
 be a dismal thing to have to live on the shores of this 
 sombre and sinister water-glen. 
 
 But now, straight before us, we perceive three islands, 
 not belonging to the general range, but standing at right 
 angles to it, running far out in the Vest Fjord; and be- 
 tween them, we see glimpses of the mainland, now not very 
 distant. These islands are circular, and not indented by 
 the sea; but a shelf of rock, covered with rough pasturage, 
 runs round each of them, and then a mountain soars sud- 
 denly into the skies. Stor Molla, one of the largest and 
 nearest to Ost Vaago, is a double peak of quite exceptional 
 grandeur; and Lille Molla and Skraaven, though less lofty, 
 are scarcely tamer in their forms. It is difficult to form 
 a due conception of this peculiar masculine scenery; 
 there is nothing pretty or charming about it, but it is 
 extremely impressive. Compared with the rest of Norwe- 
 gian sea-scenery, with that south of the Arctic Circle 
 especially, it diifers from it as an American backwoodsman 
 differs from a London counter-jumper. I would here pro- 
 test a little, in wonder, at the compliments paid to the 
 coast scenery of South and Central Norway: saving that 
 terrible sound which nms between Bremangerland and the 
 main, under the awful cliffs of Hornelen, there is no ocean 
 landscape from Torghatten to the Naze to call forth tlie 
 slightest enthusiasm. There is much finer country in the 
 Hebrides. To return to Lille Molla. This island and its 
 congeners are all inhabited, and not two hours' sail from 
 
THE EAFTSUNJ). 85 
 
 VSvolvier ; on Stor Molla accommodation of some sort might 
 probably be found, and I think this little group would be 
 well worth investigation. They have just that amount of 
 geographical independence which often suffices to produce 
 a difference in flora and fauna. Between the two Mollas we 
 steam, noticing the rough seeters on the shores, the rows 
 of stockfish flapping in the wind, and the cauldrons of stew- 
 ing livers, faintly odorous from the steamer's deck. The 
 Okellesund (for so the northern passage between Stor 
 Molla and Vaago appears to be called) is too narrow to 
 admit the steamer, but turning north as we leave the 
 Moldoren, we enter the celebrated Eaftsund. 
 
 The Eaftsund, which has won the hearty admiration of 
 every traveller who has seen it, is a narrow channel, fifteen 
 miles long, running north-east between Vaago and Hindo. 
 It is of various width, narrowest towards the north ; on each 
 side mountains of the most vigorous and eccentric forms 
 rise in precipices and lose themselves in pinnacles and 
 sharp edges that cut the clouds. As this is the one part 
 of the Lofodens that has been somewhat minutely described, 
 I need not linger in painting it. A few of the peaks, how- 
 ever, I can name. All the loftiest and boldest are on the 
 Vaago side. Perhaps the strangest is listind, a gigantic 
 mass with a tower-like cairn on the summit; Mahomet's 
 Tomb we nicknamed it, till a natiye obligingly gave its 
 true title. This is at the middle of the sound, where an 
 Island breaks the current, and several small fjords push 
 into the land. Another very noble cluster of aiguilles is 
 Euttind, on Vaago, but much to the south of listind. 
 These peaks are mostly wreathed with foamy cloud, that 
 ■on a fine day daintily rises and lays bare their dark beauty. 
 
86 THE LITEKATUEE OF NOKTHEEX EUROPE. 
 
 and as airily closes round them again. About the summits 
 the rifts and joints are full of snow all the summer, and 
 from every bed, leaping over rocks and sliding down the 
 smooth slabs of granite, a narrow line of water, white as 
 the parent snow, falls in a long cataract to the sea. On 
 the Hindo side, Kongstind, which lies north-east of listind, 
 is the most striking mass. On both sides near the water 
 the ground is covered with deep grass, of a bright green 
 colour, and flowers bloom in beautiful abundance. In one 
 place the harebells were so thick on the hill-side that they 
 gleamed, an azure patch, half a mile away. Flocks of 
 slieep and goats luxuriate in this lush herbage ; here and 
 there ferns are in the ascendancy, Polypodium phlego- 
 pteris and dryopteris being everywhere abundant. 
 
 Leaving the Eaftsund, we suddenly enter that sea-lake 
 which, as I have said, holds the centre of the archipelago. 
 We are now at the heart of the weird land, and the sight 
 before us is one of the loveliest that can be conceived.. 
 The bristling character of the southern coast gives place 
 to a calmer, more placid scenery. Here there are no 
 subtle rocks, no frightful reefs ; all is simple, serene, and 
 stately. I cannot do better than give my remembrance 
 of the first time I saw this scene, on a calm sunlit morning 
 in July. Leaving the Eaftsund, we bore due north. As 
 we steamed through quiet shimmering water gently down 
 on Ulvo, the ghostly mountains lay behind us, a semi- 
 circle of piu'ple shadow ; down their sides the clear snow- 
 patches, muffling the vast crevasses, shone, dead-white, or 
 stretched in glaciers almost to the water's edge. In sweet 
 contrast to their grandeur, the sunny slopes of Ulvo rose 
 before us, with the little kirk of Hassel nestling in a bright 
 
STOKMAEKN^S. 87 
 
 gTeen valley ; in its heart one violet peak rose, hiding its 
 dim head in the mystery of the vaporous air above. The 
 sea had all the silence and the restfulness of dreamland : 
 not a ripple broke the sheeny floor, save where a flock of 
 ducklings followed in a fluttering arc the mother-bird, or 
 where the cormorant hurled himself on some quivering fish. 
 We drifted round the eastern promontory of the lovely isle ; 
 peak by peak the pleasant hills of Lango gathered on our 
 right, while to the left of us, and ever growing dimmer in 
 the distance, the prodigious aiguilles of Vaago, in their 
 clear majestic colour, soared unapproachable above the 
 lower foreground of Ulvo. Behind us now was Hindo, less 
 grand perhaps than Vaago, but displaying two central 
 mountains of immense height, Fisketind and Mosadlen, 
 the latter reported to attain a greater elevation than any 
 in the group. 
 
 Lango lies very close on the right when we enter the 
 Borosund and make for Stokmarknses. Boro itself lies 
 in the strait between Ulvo and Lango. The pretty hamlet 
 on its shores was the centre of the investigations of Dr. 
 Greorge Berna and his friends, as related by Herr Carl Vogt 
 in his interesting ' Nordfahrt.' On the northern shore of 
 Ulvo, at the mouth of a small valley, lies the large village 
 of Stokmarknses. It is almost a town, containing perhaps 
 one hundred and twenty houses ; it may be the most 
 populous place in the Lofodens, though I am told that the 
 discovery of coal in Ando has greatly increased the village- 
 port of Dvergberg in that island. Stokmarknses looks very 
 pretty from the sea, with its clean painted houses of deal 
 wood, and bright tiled roofs. Ulvo is the ricliest, most 
 fertile, and most populous of the islands. It stands in the sea 
 
88 THE LITEEATUKE OF NOKTHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 like a hat, having a central mountain mass, and a broad rim 
 of very flat and fertile land. To compare great things with 
 mean, it is in shape extremely like that unpleasant island, 
 Lunga, in the Hebrides, facetiously known as the Dutch- 
 man's Hat. Ulvo culminates in a single peak, by name 
 Sseterheid, which rises close behind Stokmarknses. This 
 mountain, whose sides are principally covered by a thick 
 jungle of birch underwood, slopes gradually away into a 
 rocky ridge running across the island, and falls in steep 
 precipitous cliffs to the flat lands that form the external rim. 
 These flats were originally, I suppose, morasses, but have 
 been in great part reclaimed, though on the eastern side of 
 Sseterheid there are still great bogs, and two little tarns, full 
 of trout. At Stokmarknges (which is quite a place of impor- 
 tance, and had in the summer of 1871 a bazaar for the sick 
 and wounded French) good accommodation can be had ; 
 Herr Halls, the landhandler, being in a condition to make 
 visitors very comfortable at a moderate charge, and this is a 
 good station to leave the steamer at. Herr Halls also sup- 
 plies karjols, and a very pleasant excursion can be made 
 on one of those arm-chairs-on-wheels to the south of the 
 island. There is one road in Ulvo, running from Stok- 
 marknses round the eastern coast to Melbo, a gaard or 
 farmstead opposite Vaago. It is a very good road, more 
 like a carriage-drive through a gentleman's park than a 
 public thoroughfare. It is about ten miles from Stok- 
 marknses to Melbo. The road passes Hassel Church, at 
 the eastern extremity of the ^ island, an odd octagonal 
 building of wood, painted red, with a high conical roof. 
 Norwegian churches have an excessively undignified look ; 
 some are like pigeon-houses, some like pocket-telescopes. 
 
ULVO. 89 
 
 Hassel reminded me irresistibly of a mustard-pot. Yet it 
 is a structure of high ecclesiastical dignity, for not only 
 all Ulvo, but parts of Lango and Hindo, and the whole 
 north of Vaago, depend upon it for pastoral care. It is a 
 very pretty sight on a summer Sunday morning to see the 
 boats gathering from all parts to it, full of the simple, 
 devout people in their holiday dress. 
 
 To judge by the number of red-shank and curlew that 
 wheel above the traveller, or flutter wailing before him, 
 the bogs beside the road must teem with wild-fowl. The 
 north side of the island is thickly dotted witli farms and 
 fishermen's huts, but after leaving Hassel and the adjoin- 
 ing hamlet of Steilo tliese diminish in number, till at 
 Melbo the road itself disappears, and the flat land becomes 
 a wild peat bog, with only a few huts near the sea. Melbo 
 is simply a large farm, owned by Fru Coldevin, a lady who 
 opens her house in the summer for the accommodation of 
 sportsmen and those few travellers that wander to this far 
 end of the earth. A cluster of islets off the coast here is 
 a part of her property. She preserves these rocks for the 
 sea-birds, which flock to them in extraordinary numbers. 
 Little kennels of turf and stone are built to shelter the 
 nests, and here the eider ducks strip themselves of their 
 exquisite down for the sake of their offspring, and in due 
 time see it appropriated by Fru Coldevin. 
 
 The lovely range of snowy points in Vaago is seen 
 on a fine day bewitchingly from Melbo. Mr. Bonney 
 who unhappily seems to have had execrable weather in the 
 Lofodens, sighed pathetically at these peaks from Melbo. 
 He gives Alpine names to the two highest, supposing 
 apparently that they were nameless in the native tongue ; 
 
90 THE LITEEATURE OF NOETHERN EUEOPE. 
 
 they are not so neglected, however. The foremost moun- 
 tain, which from Ulvo seems the highest, is Higraven, 
 ' the tomb or monument of the wild beast ; ' and the other, 
 really the loftiest peak in Vaago, is Blaamanden. My 
 friend Mr. W. S. Green accomplished in 1871 the ascent 
 of Higraven, and kindly permits me to transcribe from his 
 journal the story of his adventure. Mr. Green's famili- 
 arity with Swiss Alpine scenery would tend to make him 
 a severe critic of mountain effects, and that he can write 
 thus enthusiastically of the Lofodens is no small proof of 
 their wonderful beauty. 
 
 Mr. Green started from Melbo on a fine July morning, 
 at 10 A.M ; the clouds, taage, masses of opaque white 
 fleece on the sides of all the peaks, promised ill for the 
 expedition ; but soon these rolled away, and left the 
 snowy rocks clear-cut against an azure sun -lit sky. ' The 
 face of the sea was as smooth as glass, and over it rose the 
 long line of snow-capped peaks, softening from rugged 
 purple crags to emerald-green slopes as they approached 
 the sea, looking about a mile off, though in fact the 
 nearest of them was seven. I had determined beforehand 
 which peak I should climb ; it seemed to be the highest 
 in Ost Vaago and lay at the head of the Stover Fjord. 
 My boatmen were pleasant fellows, and as I lay luxuriously 
 in the stern, steering, I conversed with them in bad 
 Norse ; my questions had reference principally to the sea- 
 birds. A pretty little sort of guillemot with red legs they 
 call testhe ; this bird is very common : another common 
 bird, the hen-eider I think, is called ae. We passed many 
 of these with a train of young ones after them. As the 
 boat skimmed along we passed many beautiful jelly-fish r 
 
ASCENT OF HIGEAVEN. 91 
 
 one sort of bolina about the size of a goose-egg was 
 particularly common. At last, after winding through 
 many islets, we enter the Stover Fjord : the only thing I 
 can compare it to is the Bay of Uri, which I think it 
 surpasses in beauty, and the Aiguille de Dru is rivalled 
 by these snow-seamed pinnacles. But it was 12 o'clock, 
 and I jumped ashore at a sort of elbow where the fjord 
 forks. I put some provisions into my pocket ; then, with 
 my sketching materials slung upon my back and my 
 alpen-stock in my hand, I commenced the ascent. I first 
 scrambled over boulders covered with fern, bushes, and 
 wild flowers ; these soon became very steep, and slinging 
 myself up hand over hand through the bushes was very 
 warm work. I took off my coat and hung it in the strap 
 on my back ; after a sharp climb over steep rocks I got 
 on to a slope of snow that filled the gorge. In about an 
 hour and a half I reached a col that I had aimed at all 
 through. I could see the boat, a speck below, so I jodeled 
 at the top of my voice, and soon heard a faint answer. 
 The place I had come up was very steep, and the thought 
 of descending it again not very pleasant. I took the pre- 
 caution, however, of fixing bits of white paper on the 
 rocks and bushes where I had met with difficulty, to serve 
 as guides in my descent. There was a glorious view from 
 where I stood, and the day was perfection. After another 
 hour of steep climbing I reached a cornice of snow, but 
 was able to turn off to the right and cross a level 
 plateau of snow, from the other side of which rose up my 
 peak. I now encountered very steep snow-slopes and 
 rocks, and just before the snow rounded off into the dom, 
 forming a summit, it became so hard that my feet could 
 
92 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 get no hold. I had to resort to step-cutting: about a 
 dozen steps sufficed to land me on the dom ; an easy 
 incline then led to the summit, on which I stood at 4.30 
 P.M. I wished for an aneroid ; but from the time I took 
 to ascend, and from other circumstances, I should think 
 the height to be over 4,000, and possibly 5,000 feet. 
 Now for the view. I have yet to see the Alpine view that 
 surpasses this in its extreme beauty : the mountain chain 
 of the mainland was in sight for, I suppose, a hundred 
 miles ; then came the Vest Fjord, studded with islands. 
 The mountains around me were of the wildest and most 
 fantastic form, not drawn out in a long chain, but grouped 
 together, and embosoming lovely little tarns and lakes. 
 The inner arm of the Stover Fjord, over which I seemed 
 to hang, was of a deep dark blue, except where it became 
 shallow, where it was of a bright pea-green. This latter 
 colour may be accounted for by the fact that the rocks 
 below low-water mark are white, with pure white nulli- 
 pore and balani ; there is no laininaria or sea-weed of 
 any sort in these narrow fjords, except Fucus veslculosns, 
 and this grows only between tide-marks. Looking away 
 to the north came Ulvo, with its fringe of islets ; then 
 Lango, with its sea of peaks : these do not appear, how- 
 ever, to be so high or rugged as the peaks of Hindo, that 
 come next to the sight. Here Mosadlen stands up with 
 his lovely crest of snow ; far away, in an opposite direction, 
 lies Vest Vaago, where I remarked another peak that 
 seemed to be of a respectable height. The view was per- 
 fection : one drop of bitterness was in my cup, and that 
 was that a neighbouring peak was evidently higher than 
 the one I had climbed. It was connected with my peak 
 
ASCENT OF HIGKAVEN. 93 
 
 by a very sharp rock arrete just below which was a flattish 
 plateau of crevassed neve : it was too far to think of try- 
 ing it, and it looked very difficult ; an attempt upon it 
 would be more likely to succeed if made from the south- 
 east. Having made a sketch and built a cairn of stones, 
 I looked al)out for the easiest way to descend, and found 
 that a long- slope of snow led into a valley connected with 
 the north arm of the fjord ; this I determined to try. I 
 climbed down the steps I had cut, with my face to the 
 snow ; then sitting down and steering with my alpen- 
 stock, I made the finest glissade I ever enjoyed. As I 
 neared the bottom it was necessary to go lightly, as a 
 torrent was roaring along under the snow. I soon had to 
 take to the moraine, which was of a most trying character. 
 I now got down to a charming little lake, in which islands 
 of snow floated, and in which the peaks were mirrored to 
 their summits. Skirting along this, and descending by 
 the edge of a stream that led out of it, I came to another 
 lovely tarn, on which were a couple of water-fowl. From 
 this I clambered down through bushes at the side of a 
 waterfall, and arrived on the strand of the fjord all safe. 
 At 6.30 r.M. I was sitting in the boat, and in two hours 
 arrived in Melbo.' 
 
 The superior peak that dashed Mr. Green's happiness 
 was Blaamanden, which must now be considered the 
 highest point out of Hindo. Vaagekallen is certainly 
 lower even than Higraven. 
 
 Of the northern islands of the Lofoden group space 
 fails me to speak much ; they are but little known. Lango 
 was skirted by the German expedition whose story is ' erziihlt 
 von Carl Vogt,' but his notes on this part of tlie tour are 
 
94 THE LITEEATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 unfortunately very scanty. The northern peninsula would 
 seem to be the finest part of Lango. I hear of a splendid 
 mountain, Klotind, which fills this tongue of land with its 
 spurs. Ando, the most northerly of the archipelago, is the 
 tamest of all : the interior of it has been surveyed with 
 such minute care, that it is impossible to suppose its moun- 
 tains can be very rugged. For the sake of anyone desirous 
 of visiting Ando, I may remark that a little steamer has 
 been started in connection with the large boat which 
 meets the latter at Harstadhavn in Hindo, skirts the north 
 of that island, calls at Dvergberg and Andenses in Ando, 
 and after a visit to the north of Senjen, returns the same 
 way to Harstad. The same steamer calls oflf the coast of 
 Oryto, a mountainous Lofoden, whose vast central peak of 
 Fussen is seen in the distance from the Vaags Fjord. 
 
 In ordinary years the snow disappears from the low 
 ground in these islands before May, and the rapid summer 
 brings their scanty harvest soon to perfection. A few 
 years ago, however, the snow lay on the cultivated lands 
 till June, and a famine ensued. These poor people live a 
 precarious life, exposed to the attacks of a singularly 
 peevish climate. A whim of the cod-fish, a hurricane 
 in the April sky, or a cold spring, is sufficient to plunge them 
 into distress and poverty. Yet for all this they are an 
 honest and well-to-do population ; for, being thrifty and 
 laborious, they guard with much foresight against the 
 severities of nature. In winter the aurora scintillates 
 over their solemn mountains, and illuminates the snows 
 and wan gray sea; they sit at their cottage-doors and 
 spin by the gleam of it ; in summer the sun never sets, 
 and they have the advantage of endless light to husband 
 
THE MIDNIGHT SUN. 95 
 
 their hardly-won crops. Kemote as they are, too, they can 
 all read and write : it is strange to find how much intelli- 
 gent interest they take in the struggles of great peoples 
 who never heard of Lofoden. It is a fact, too, not over- 
 flattering to our boasted civilisation, that the education of 
 children in the hamlets of this remote cluster of islands in 
 the Polar Sea is higher than that of towns within a small 
 distance of our capital-city ; ay, higher even, proportionally, 
 than that of London itself. 
 
 I would fain linger over the delicious memories that 
 the name of these wild islands brings with it ; would fain 
 take the reader to the pine-covered slopes of Sandtorv, 
 the brilliant meadow of little Kjoen, so refreshing in this 
 savage land ; to the Tjeldsesund, as I saw it on a certain 
 midnight, when the lustrous sun-light lay in irregular 
 golden bars across the blue spectral mountains, and tinged 
 the snow peaks daintily with rose-red. But space is want- 
 ing ; and being forced to choose, I will wind up with a 
 faint description of the last sight I had of the islands, on a 
 calm sunny night in summer. 
 
 All day we had been winding among the tortuous 
 tributaries of the Ofoten Fjord, and as evening drew on 
 slipped down to Trano, a station on the mainland side of 
 the Vest Fjord, near the head of that gulf. It had been a 
 cloudless day of excessive heat, and the comparative cool- 
 ness of night was refreshing ; the light, too, ceased to be 
 garish, but flooded all the air with mellow lustre. From 
 Trano we saw the Lofodens rising all along the northern 
 sky, a gigantic wall of irregular jagged peaks, pale blue 
 on an horizon of gold fire. The surface of the fjord was 
 slightly broken into little tossing waves, that, murmuring 
 
96 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 faintly, were the only audible things that broke the sweet 
 silence ; the edge of the ripple shone with the colour of 
 burnished bronze, relieved by the cool neutral gray of the 
 sea-hollows. From Trano we slipped across the fjord 
 almost due west to the mouth of the Kaftsund. The sun 
 lay like a great harvest-moon, shedding its cold yellow 
 light down on us from over Hindo, till, as we glided gra- 
 dually more under the shadow of the islands, he disappeared 
 behind the mountains : at 11. 30 p.m. we lost him thus, but 
 a long while after a ravine in Hindo of more than common 
 depth again revealed him, and a portion of his disk shone 
 for a minute like a luminous point or burning star on 
 the side of a peak. About midnight we came abreast of 
 Aarstenen, and before us rose the double peak of Lille 
 Molla, of a black-blue colour, very solemn and grand ; 
 Skraaven was behind, and both were swathed lightly in 
 wreaths and fox-tails of rose-tinged mist. There was no 
 lustre on the waters here ; the entrance to the sound was 
 unbroken by any wave or ripple, unillumined by any light 
 of sunset or sunrise, but a sombre reflex of the unstained 
 blue heaven above. As we glided, in the same strange utter 
 noiselessness of the hour when evening and morning meet, 
 up the Eaftsund itself, inclosed by the vast slopes of Hindo 
 and the keen aiguilles of Vaago, the glory and beauty of 
 the scene rose to a pitch so high that the spirit was op- 
 pressed and overawed by it, and the eyes could scarcely 
 fulfil their function. Ahead of the vessel the narrow 
 vista of glassy water was a blaze of purple and golden 
 colour, arranged in a faultless harmony of tone that waft 
 like music or lyrical verse in its direct appeal to the emo- 
 tions. At each side the fjord reflected each elbow, each 
 
THE RAFTSUND. 97 
 
 edge, each cataract, and even the flowers and herbs of the 
 base, with a precision so absolute that it was hard to tell 
 where mountain ended and sea began. The centre of the 
 sound, where it spreads into several small arms, was the 
 climax of loveliness; for here the harmonious vista was 
 broadened and deepened, and here rose listind towering 
 into the unclouded heavens, and showing by the rays of 
 golden splendour that lit up its topmost snows, that it 
 could see the sun, whose magical fingers, working unseen 
 of us, had woven for the world this tissue of variegated 
 beauty. 
 
RUNE BERG. 
 
 At the opening of the present century the monarchy of 
 Sweden lay defenceless and almost moribund, supported 
 in European opinion solely by the memory of its vast pres- 
 tige. The dynasty of Wasa, which had held the crown for 
 nearly two centuries, and from the hands of whose successive 
 kings Sweden had received such matchless glory and such a 
 world of sorrows, was approaching its last degeneracy in the 
 person of Grustavus IV., a prim and melancholy bigot, 
 touched with madness, and retaining of the iron will and 
 clear intelligence of his ancestors nothing but a silly 
 obstinacy and the ingenuity of a wizard maker of prophetic 
 almanacks. The old order was passing away, throughout 
 Europe, and the new had scarcely taken iixed form or entity. 
 Geographically, Sweden had been dwindling throughout the 
 eighteenth centmy, drying up, as it were, along the south 
 shores of the Baltic : Courland was lost, Esthonia lost, 
 even Pomerania was assailed. Finland, the most precious, 
 the most extensive outland province, forming more than 
 a fourth of the entire dominion, remained untouched, or 
 almost untouched. There had not been wanting signs of 
 Russian ambition working on the vast open frontier by 
 Lake Ladoga. Already, before the century was half out, 
 the great new power of Eastern Europe had determined that 
 its capital would never be secure until the Russian supre- 
 macy was acknowledged everywhere east of the Gulf of 
 
FINLAND. 99 
 
 Bothnia. The Empress Elizabeth, while seizing the 
 eastern counties of the province, had dangled before Fin- 
 land the tempting hope of national independence under a 
 protectorate of Kussia. In 1788 the malcontent nobles, 
 met at Anjala, offered to another great woman, to the 
 Empress Catherine II,, the dictatorship of Finland ; but 
 their treason infuriated the middle and lower classes, and 
 when the Russian army commenced its invasion in 1789, it 
 was met by a resistance as determined as it was unexpected. 
 It was in this campaign that modern Finland first expressed 
 itself; the war culminated in the battle of Porrasalmi, a 
 glorious victory for the Finns, in which Adlercreutz and 
 Dobeln, afterwards so famous as generals, won their spurs. 
 The peace of Warala, in 1790, left Finland full of the 
 enthusiasm of military success, and loyal as a dependency 
 of Sweden. But the murder of Gustavus III., at the Opera 
 House of Stockholm, in 1792, brought the luckless Grus- 
 tavus IV. to the throne, and reduced the nation to despair. 
 One of the first events of the new reign was the loss of 
 Pomerania. Finland now became the most precious, as it 
 was the last, jewel in the Swedish crown ; and to comfort 
 his excellent Finnish subjects, and to strengthen their, 
 hearts in the fear of 'Punaparte,' as the Finns called 
 Napoleon, the dreary monarch made a solemn tour through 
 the province in 1802. Thus security reigned for a little 
 while on both sides of the Gulf of Bothnia, Em'ope in the 
 meantime writhing, convulsed by a conjunction of wars 
 that threatened to conclude in chaos. 
 
 At this eventful moment the greatest poet that has 
 ever used the Swedish tongue saw the light in a sea- 
 port of Finland. Johan Ludvig Runeberg Avas bom 
 
 u 2 
 
100 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 February 5, 1804, at Jakobsstad, a little town half-way 
 up the Grulf of Bothnia. He was the son of a merchant 
 captain, and the eldest of six children. The straitened 
 means of the parents induced them to accept the offer of 
 the father's brother, a very well-to-do man in UleSborg, 
 who offered to adopt Johan Ludvig. Thither, therefore, 
 far away north, to the extreme town of the country, the 
 child went. In Uleaborg he must have seen the birth- 
 place of the greatest then-living poet of Finland, Franzen^ 
 in whose steps he was afterwards to tread. We know little 
 of his boyhood, except that at due age he was sent to the 
 college at Wasa, and that he was so poor that he could 
 only continue his studies there by serving as tutor to the 
 younger and richer boys. But in the meantime changes 
 of vast importance had occurred in the constitution of his 
 country, changes to which he was destined in after life to 
 give immortality by his art. In 1807, Napoleon had met 
 Alexander I. at Tilsit, and had offered Finland to the 
 Eussian monarch in exchange for help against England. 
 By one of those coincidences which give history the air of 
 a well-planned sensational drama, the autocrat who now lies 
 under a mass of Finnish poi-phyry in his Parisian tomb set 
 out on the last great perilous enterprise which led him to 
 his doom by the sacrifice of Finland to Russian ambition.. 
 In February 1808, three Russian armies broke into Fin- 
 land. Like the troops who obeyed the summons from 
 Anjala in 1788, these armies were grievously disappointed 
 to find the fruit not ripe or ready to drop into their hand. 
 Everywhere the Swedish sentiment was decided ; the Finns 
 rose in arms, 19,000 strong, and collected around the 
 fortress of Tavasthus. But their resistance was, at first. 
 
WAE WITH EUSSIA. 101 
 
 not very successful. The south of the province was over- 
 powered. Sveaborg, an impregnable maritime citadel, the 
 Gribraltar of the north, built by Augustin Ehrensvard, in 
 1749, on seven islets at the entrance of the harbour of 
 Helsingfors, was shamefully and treasonably surrendered. 
 In May the Eussians marched into Helsingfors. Mean- 
 while the Finlanders had a different fortune in the north, 
 where, under two noble generals, Adlercreutz and Dobeln, 
 they rallied their forces to defend the sea-coast and the 
 Bothnia districts. On April 18, across the frozen river 
 Siikajoki, the Swedes and Finlanders won their first 
 victory, and defeated the Russians again, nine days later, 
 at Revolax. A little later, Dobeln contrived to drive the 
 enemy back from the walls of Nykarleby, and to win a 
 signal victory at Lappo. But on September 14, 1808, 
 Adlercreutz lost all but honour at the terrible battle of 
 Oravais, the most fiercely contested and the decisive en- 
 gagement of the campaign. Finland was lost, and by the 
 Peace of Fredrikshamn, on September 17, 1809, it was 
 finally annexed, as a grand duchy, to the dominions of 
 Russia. 
 
 Such were the events which agitated the childhood of 
 Runeberg. In after life he clearly remembered seeing 
 Dobeln and Kulneff, the Swedish general with the black 
 band round his forehead that concealed the wound in the 
 left temple which he bore away after the battle of Porro- 
 salmi, the Russian general with his bright eyes and long 
 brown beard. He saw them in the streets of Jakobsstad, 
 when he was four years old, and this memory gave a par- 
 ticular colouring to his pictures of the war. Stories were 
 repeated in his presence of the chivalric regard which each 
 
102 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHEEX EUEOPE. 
 
 opponent liad for the other — ^how Kulneff forbade his 
 Cossacks to fire upon Dobeln, and how Dobeln's soldiers 
 respected the person of Kulneff; and when he came to 
 wi-ite ' Fanrik StRls Sagner,' there was to be found among 
 the portraits of friends and patriots a noble tribute to the 
 generous Russian leader also. It is noticeable that in the 
 native literature of Finland, since the annexation, there is 
 none of the tone of smothered insurrection which marks 
 the atmosphere of Poland, or even the dull discontent of 
 Esthonia and Courland. The Swedish Lutherans of Finland 
 have been by far the best treated of all the dependants of 
 the empire. Xo attempt has been made to force Russian 
 upon them as their official language, no check has been 
 put on the free development of the literature, even when, as 
 in the case of Runeberg, that development has taken the 
 form of deepening and extending the patriotic sentiment. 
 The fact is, that under the easy Russian yoke Finland is 
 almost as free as she was under the Wasas, and has actually 
 attained that intellectual and spiritual independence which 
 Porthan, her great citizen of the eighteenth century, 
 dreamed for her — an independence which consists in liberty 
 of thought, the spread of an education congenial to the 
 natm-e of the people, and a free development of science and 
 'belles lettres.' 
 
 In the autumn of 1822, Runeberg, then in his nine- 
 teenth year, left Wasa to enter a student life in the 
 University of Abo. He enjoyed few of the luxuries and 
 the amenities which we identify with the existence of an 
 undergraduate. Such a university life as is to be found in 
 Aberdeen or St. Andrews presents a truer analogy with that 
 in a Scandinavian town. Most of the students were poor. 
 
FIRE OF Abo. 103 
 
 many of them extremely poor, and among these few had 
 a harder struggle than Kuneberg. In the spring of 1827 
 he successfully closed his examinations, and received the 
 degi'ee of Doctor of Philosophy. It was a little earlier than 
 this that he made his first appearance before the literary 
 public. One evening in 1826 a party of young people met 
 at the house of Archbishop Tengstrom, the metropolitan 
 of Finland ; a game of forfeits was set on foot, the last of 
 which was lost by a student of the name of Euneberg. The 
 young ladies put their heads together, and finally decided 
 that, as he was suspected of writing verses, he should then 
 and there compose a Hymn to the Sun. This he accom- 
 plished, nothing loth ; and it was so highly approved of that 
 Sjostrom, then considered one of the chief Finnish poets, 
 printed it forthwith in a newspaper of which he was the 
 editor. The young poet had hardly received his degree, 
 when an event occurred which entirely revolutionised his 
 career. On a mild September evening in 1827, as the 
 good people of Abo were going to bed, they were alarmed 
 to hear the tocsin furiously sounded from the tower of 
 their cathedral. A girl had spilt some tallow, the tallow 
 had taken fire, and in half an hour the wood-built city was 
 in a blaze. The fire spread with infinite velocity, engulfed 
 the university first, and then the cathedral ; before the 
 morning broke, not an eighth of the flourishing capital of 
 Finland still existed. In the confusion that ensued, the 
 university was transferred to Helsingfors, a larger town 
 further east on the Gulf of Finland, and this place has 
 since then been the seat of government. Euneberg was left 
 to choose his career. He decided to leave the sea-coast, 
 where he associated only with educated persons using the 
 
104 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Swedish language, and to penetrate into the heart of the 
 country, by so doing to gain a knowledge of his beautiful 
 fatherland and its singular aborigines. He therefore 
 accepted a tutorship in a family living at Saarijiirvi, a 
 sequestered village in the heart of the country, on the high 
 road between the Gulf of Bothnia and the White Sea. 
 Here he had plenty of leisure to study the primitive life 
 of the country people, among the desolate and impressive 
 scenery of the interior. Saarijarvi lies on the extreme arm 
 of one of the great winding lakes, that seem to meander 
 for ever between forest and moorland, thickly dotted with 
 innumerable islands. Kound it stretch in every direction 
 the interminable beech-woods, muffling the air with such 
 a silence that the woodman's axe falls with a mysterious, 
 almost with a sinister sound. There are few spots in 
 Europe so utterly remote and inaccessible ; the solitude is 
 broken only by the farmer's cart, the footstep of some 
 wandering Finn or Quain, or the voice of a Kussian pedlar 
 from Archangel singing loudly to keep himself company 
 through the woods. Here it was that Euneberg buried 
 himself for three years. He had a good many books, mainly 
 the Greek poets ; he studied hard, whether nature was his 
 master or Homer, and he set himself studiously to unlearn 
 whatever his teachers had taught him of the art of Swedish 
 poetry. The ruling genius of Sweden at that date was 
 Tegner, the famous poet of ' Frithiofs saga,' in whom the 
 peculiarly Swedish vice of style, which consists in cultiva- 
 ting empty and sonorous phrases, had reached its climax. 
 Tegner was a poet of great genius, but he had not the 
 intellectual courage or the inclination to cast behind him 
 the poetic phraseology of his day. Instead of doing this, 
 
KEALISM. 105 
 
 instead of adopting a realistic style, he simply gilded and 
 polished the old ' ideal ' language, and the practical result 
 of his brilliant productions was to paralyse poetry in 
 Sweden for half a century. It was right that the voice 
 which was to do away for ever with this glitter and fustian 
 should come out of the wilderness. Not in Lund or Upsala, 
 but in an unknown village in the heart of the forests of 
 Finland, the seed was germinating which was destined 
 to fill the whole country with a flower of a new sort, a veri- 
 table wood-rose to take the place of the fabulous asphodel. 
 In Tegner the old forces that battled in Swedish literature 
 had found a common ground, and, as it were, an apotheosis. 
 There were no longer academic writers who loved the old 
 French rules, ' Phosphorists ' who outdid Tieck and Novalis 
 in mysticism, Grothic poets who sought to reconcile the 
 antique Scandinavian myths to elegant manners and modern 
 thoughts ; all these warring groups united in Tegner or were 
 extinguished by him. Between Tegner and Euneberg the 
 natural link is wanting. This link properly consists, it 
 appears to me, in Longfellow, who is an anomaly in 
 American literature, but who has the full character of a 
 Swedish poet, and who, had he been born in Sweden, would 
 have completed exactly enough the chain of style that ought 
 to unite the idealism of Tegner to the realism of Euneberg. 
 The poem of ' Evangeline ' has really no place in Anglo- 
 Saxon poetry; in Swedish it would accurately express a 
 stage in the progress of literature which is now unfilled. 
 It is known that Mr. Longfellow has cultivated the lan- 
 guage of Sweden with much assiduity, and has contemplated 
 literary life in that country with all the unconscioug 
 affection of a changeling. 
 
106 THE LITEKATUEE OF XOKTHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 The years spent by Euneberg at Saarijarvi were occu- 
 pied in almost continual literary production. He wrote 
 here the most important and most original works of his 
 early manhood. Among- these must be mentioned ' Svarts- 
 jukans natter' ('Nights of Jealousy '), a large part of his 
 * Lyrical Poems,' and his great epic or idyl of ' Elgskyt- 
 tarne,' or * The Elk Hunters.' Of these the lyrical 
 poems have lately been translated in their entirety in a 
 version remarkable for care and scholarship.' They were 
 originally published, together with a collection of Servian 
 Folksongs, in 1830, and formed Euneberg's first published 
 volume. This publication followed close upon the young 
 writer's reappearance in the civilised world ; he left his 
 hermitage in that year to accept the post of amanuensis to 
 the council of the university, now settled in Helsingfors. 
 The volume was dedicated to Franzen, the poet-bishop of 
 Hemosand, one of the most illustrious persons Finland had 
 produced ; a poem addressed to this eminent man breathes 
 the same fresh and unconventional air that animates the 
 body of the book itself, and also contains not a few traces 
 of the study of the poet eulogised. In fact, the influence 
 of Franzen is strong throughout the early writings of 
 Euneberg — a pure and genial, but not robust influence, 
 which did the young poet no harm, and out of which he 
 very speedily grew. Franzen wrote to him a letter full of 
 tenderness and prophecy. ' I know,' he had the generosity 
 to write to this unknown beginner, ' that it is a great 
 poet that Finland is about to produce in you.' The 
 
 ' Johan Ludvig Euneberg's « Lyrical Songs, Id3'lls, and Epigrams,' 
 done into English by Eirikr Magnusson, and E. H. Palmer. London, 
 
 1878. 
 
THE GRAVE IN PERRHO. 107 
 
 perfume of the violet and the song of the lark were strong 
 in this book of thoroughly sincere and unaffected verses, 
 and the public was not slow in acknowledging the Bishop 
 of Hernosand to have been a true prophet. 
 
 In 1831 he attempted to win larger laurels than the 
 coteries of Helsingfors could offer him. He sent in to the 
 annual prize-giving of the Swedish Academy a poem of 
 considerable length, ' Grrafven i Perrho ' (' The Grrave in 
 Perrho '), a work which for the first time displayed to 
 advantage his rich severity of style, his epic force and 
 freshness. It was the story of a grave in the wilds of 
 Finland, the grave of an old man and his six tall sons, and 
 told with infinite beauty the tragic circumstances that laid 
 them there. The Swedish Academy, unable to overlook 
 so much originality, but unwilling to crown a realist who 
 disregarded the conventionalities so rudely, rewarded the 
 poet with the small gold medal — a distinction commonly 
 given to very mediocre merit. Still this was a measure of 
 national recognition : and, in the glee of success, Eune- 
 berg married one of the young ladies who had set him his 
 first lesson in verse five years before, at the house of 
 Archbishop Tengstrom. This year, indeed, proved a turn- 
 ing-point in his life, for he received a post which bound 
 him to the capital ; in reward for a learned tractate com- 
 paring the ' Medea ' of Euripides with the ' Medea ' of 
 Seneca, he was appointed Lecturer on Eoman Literature 
 at the University. From this time forward every step 
 was an advance ; he felt himself more and more sure of his 
 genius, of his representative position in so small a state as 
 Finland, where he began to take a place as literary oracle. 
 He now undertook the labours of journalism, and founded 
 
108 THE LITERATUEE OF NOETHERN EUROPE. 
 
 a newspaper, the ' Helsingfors Morgonblad,' whicli he 
 edited with such success that it became the most influen- 
 tial journal in the grand duchy. Runeberg remained sole 
 editor until 1837, and dm-ing these years he made it the 
 medium of spreading far and wide the principles of culture 
 and literary taste. All the best critical writings of the 
 poet, all which is preserved in the sixth volume of his col- 
 lected works, originally saw the light in the columns of 
 the ' Helsingfors Morgonblad.' 
 
 The greatest result of his solitude at Saarijarvi 
 remained, however, still unknown till in 1832 he published 
 his ' Elgskyttarne,' or ' The Elk Hunters.' This poem 
 marks an epoch in Swedish literature. It is as remark- 
 able in its way as the novels of Zola ; it begins a new 
 class of work, it is one of the masterpieces of scrupulous 
 realism, a true product of the nineteenth century. The 
 form is the same adopted by Voss, Groethe, Tegner, Kings- 
 ley, and many more North European poets for narrative 
 work — the dactylic hexameter. But the Swedish language 
 suits this exutic growth much better than Grerman or 
 English : there are more compact masses of rolling sovmd 
 to be obtained, it is far more easy to observe the rules of 
 position. Euneberg seems to have gone straight back to 
 Homer for his model ; and though there are moments when 
 we feel that he could not entirely forget ' Hermann und 
 Dorothea,' his hexameters have as a rule a more pure and 
 classical character than Groethe's. The plan of the poem 
 is as follows. The local magnate of an inland Finnish 
 district, the Kommissarie or Agent, has ordered all the 
 chief men of the place to meet at his house for an elk- 
 himt next morning. The worthy farmer, Petrus, at home 
 
'THE ELK hunters; 109- 
 
 in his large guest-room, prepares, half overcome with 
 sleep, for the duties of the morrow, furbishing up his gun, 
 and listening to his wife Anna, as she busies herself in the 
 house and gossips. The door opens, and Anna's brother, 
 Mathias, a rich farmer from a distant parish, whose wife 
 had died about a year before, appears on an improvised 
 visit. He has scarcely sat down to supper, when Anna 
 commences to mourn over the desolate condition of his 
 children, and urges him to find a wife to take care of his 
 fine home at Kuru. Petrus proposes the beauty of their 
 parish, Hedda, the daughter of Zacharias, and the pair 
 paint her virtues in such glowing terms that Mathias 
 begins to wish to see her. It is agreed that he shall 
 follow the hunt next morning, and be introduced to her 
 incidentally at the meet. Next morning Petrus is waked 
 by the noise of a quarrel between Pavo, one of his servants, 
 and Aron, a beggar to whom, after the Finnish custom, he 
 is exercising hospitality. He rises in the dark winter 
 morning, and he and Mathias start for the rendezvous. It 
 is a ringing frosty day, or rather night, for the stars are 
 still brilliant overhead. Petrus supplies his brother-in-law 
 with an old Swedish rifle, a jewel of a weapon, as he explains 
 in an episode. It was with this rifle that Petrus's uncle, 
 Joannes, picked out a spy at an incredible distance in 
 1808, and this leads to other tales of the great war with 
 which they beguile the way to the Agent's. At last they 
 reach the house, and receive a warm welcome ; already the 
 guest-room is full of people, and among the first they 
 meet are Zacharias and his lovely daughter Hedda. There 
 are, moreover, a group of Russian pedlars from Archangel 
 who recognise Mathias, and loudly praise the hospitality 
 
110 THE LITP:RATUEI<] of northern EUROPE. 
 
 they lately enjoyed at his house in Kuru. One of the 
 pedlars, the brown-bearded Ontrus, thinks this an excellent 
 opportunity for hawking his wares, and we have an ex- 
 quisite pictiu-e of the girls darting like swallows around 
 his pack as he displays his treasures. But alas ! they are 
 poor, and there are no purchases. Mathias conceives that 
 this is the moment for him to advance. He buys presents 
 for them all, but the most costly and most tempting for 
 Hedda. Petrus cannot help paying the beautiful girl a 
 compliment in these words : — 
 
 As when a cloud in spring hangs bright o'er the trees on a hill-side, 
 Hushed is the underwood all, and the birches stand mutely admii'ing, 
 Watching the pride of the morning, the rose-hued breast of the 
 
 cloudlet, 
 Till from the heart of it issues a breeze, and the shoots on the 
 
 branches 
 Tenderly wave, and their leaves half unfolded shiver with pleasure, 
 Not less quivers the youth when he gazes on Hedda and hears her.^ 
 
 Hedda finds herself in a shy confusion, and sends Mathias 
 a grateful glance when he reproves his brother-in-law for 
 this persiflage. The Agent now appears, dawn is break- 
 ing, and the hunters all go out into the snow, Mathias 
 still dreaming of the beauty of Hedda. However, they 
 call upon him for a story, and he rouses himself to de- 
 scribe, in the most powerful and brilliant language, the 
 killing of a bear. They find the elk on a wooded island, 
 and the hunt begins ; but we are transported back to the 
 Agent's guest-room, wliere the Archangel traders have 
 made themselves cosy with the girls, and where the 
 youngest of them, the handsome Tobias, excited with 
 beer and love, begins to dance about, and to offer the 
 indignant Hedda all his wares in exchange for a kiss. 
 ' Appendix T. 
 
'THE ELK HUNTERS.' Ill 
 
 His elder brother, Ontrus, turns him out of doors, where he 
 screams and sings and jumps about till he drops down 
 fast asleep. Ontrus gravely presses on Hedda the ad- 
 vantages she would find in marrying this his scapegrace 
 brother, till she at last escapes from his importunity by 
 joining the old women upstairs. Ontrus then has a vio- 
 lent quarrel with a spiteful ancient dame, the cripple 
 Rebecca, and at last falls fast asleep upon the floor. This 
 odd scene is described with great humour, and in minute 
 detail, like a Teniers. Meanwhile the liunt proceeds ; 
 four elks are shot, of which Mathias bags two with the 
 famous Swedish gun. On the way home he asks Zacha- 
 rias for leave to court his daughter. No sooner has he 
 entered the guest-room than he finds an opportunity of 
 speaking to Hedda, and is on the point of tenderly press- 
 ing his suit, when the abominable old Rebecca puts in 
 an oar and spoils it all. The girl flies to an upper room, 
 but Mathias sends Petrus after her. A very quaint and 
 charming scene ensues. Petrus sits down with his pipe 
 opposite the conscious maiden, and recounts at great 
 length the virtues and the possessions of this 'brave 
 Mathias from Kuru,' — how fine his farmstead is, how wild 
 and fertile his fields are, — taking care to explain that they 
 consist of rich black top-soil on a clayey bottom. These 
 poetic details move the maiden less than an eloquent re- 
 cital of the vigour and excellence of the possessor, and 
 Petrus begs her not to refuse because Mathias is no 
 longer a romantic youth. He perorises thus : — 
 
 Never so rich is in blossoms a field in the heart of the summer, 
 Child, as in pleasures the way to the grave if we walk with con- 
 tentment ; 
 If we but step with a care to the road, nor let Hope the enchantress 
 
112 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Leap from the path at our feet, and persuade us another -were fairer. 
 Only the fool is beguiled, but he follows and wantonly wavers, 
 Never at peace, till death suddenly falls on him, sighing, and takes 
 him.^ 
 
 Hedda finds it difficult to reply, but at last she manages 
 to murmur a pretty and modest assent. And she sits 
 awhile, weeping for pleasure, and patting Petrus's hand, 
 until he weeps too, to keep her company. Then Mathias 
 comes, and all is liappiness. We are now taken back to 
 the homestead at Tjaderkulle, where Anna sits at home, 
 while Aron the beggar plays national airs upon the jew's- 
 harp — an instrument, perhaps, hitherto unknown to epic 
 poetry. At Anna's desire he tells the terrible story of his 
 life : how one bad season after another ruined him, till at 
 last his wife died of starvation, and he himself nearly 
 went mad. He has scarcely closed this tragical recital, 
 when Petrus enters, and proposes they should all imme- 
 diately proceed to the Agent's house, to be present at the 
 betrothal of Mathias ; this they accordingly do, and the 
 poem ends with a spirited and humorous picture of the 
 scene at the ceremony. 
 
 The next few years of Runeberg's life were full of work 
 and happiness. In 1833 he published a second voliune 
 of lyrical poems, and improved his economical position 
 by lecturing on Grreek literature in the imiversity. It 
 was about the same time that he met the indefatigable 
 collector of Finnish legends, the famous Dr. Elias 
 Lonnroth, then still occupied in putting together the 
 ancient epic of the ' Kalevala.' In this new-found treasure- 
 house of mythological wealth Runeberg took the keenest 
 interest, and translated the beginning of it into Swedish. 
 ' Appendix U. 
 
'HANNA.' 113 
 
 In 1836 Lonnroth made himself and Finland famous 
 throughout Europe by his publication of the original text. 
 It is perhaps fortunate that Euneberg did not carry out 
 his original idea of translating the whole of the ' Kalevala,' 
 a work well performed by less- representative hands than 
 his. In 1834 he had attempted dramatic creation, in the 
 form of a comedy in verse, ' Friaren frSn Landet ' (' The 
 Country Lover '), which was acted and printed in ' Mor- 
 gonblad,' but which the poet would never allow to be re- 
 printed among his works. In 1836 appeared a poem far 
 more worthy of his genius, the delicate idyl of ' Hanna.' 
 This also is written in hexameters, and closes the first 
 period of his poetic career. It was dedicated ' To the 
 First Love,' and it forms, in fact, a kind of modern 
 ' Eomeo and Juliet.' In a quiet Finland parsonage the 
 pastor sits in his study, calmly smoking his pipe, and 
 gazing over the hazy landscape. It is a warm summer 
 afternoon, and he sits waiting for liis son, who has just 
 
 o 
 
 passed his examination at Abo. The lad has been told 
 that if he passes he may bring home with him some poor 
 comrade to spend the vacation in the country ; and he 
 has passed, so a stranger is expected. In another room 
 sits the pastor's lovely daughter, Hanna, weaving, but the 
 perfume of the lilacs, blossoming at the open window, 
 troubles her fancy, and she leans out into the warm air, 
 her brain full of little graceful vanities, the pretty whims 
 of a spoilt child. At this moment the old housekeeper, 
 Susanna, enters, and tells her to dress as quickly as sh» 
 can to receive the Bailiff, a man of fifty, rich and re- 
 spected, who has just come to pay her father a visit. 
 From some words the portly gentleman has let fall, she 
 
 I 
 
114 THE LITERATUKE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 fancies that his mission is to ask Hanna for his wife. The 
 girl is much fluttered, but not displeased at this notion : 
 to be the cliief lady of the place is flattering to her vanity, 
 and she does not comprehend what it is to be a wife. 
 Her father comes to call her down, and though she clings 
 to Susanna in her confusion, she is absolutely obliged to 
 open the study-door at last. 
 
 Blushing she stood at the door, in the exquisite charm of her shyness, 
 Coy as a strip of the sea that is caught by the rush of the mornmg. 
 Slender and quivering in rosy dismay through the gloom of the wood- 
 lands.^ 
 
 The Bailiff is hardly less confused than she ; but her 
 father, who greatly desires the match, expends much 
 flowing speech, till the suitor succeeds in gaining confi- 
 dence, and expatiates on the charms of his house and 
 garden, the latter being so well-cultured and protected 
 that sometimes, in very warm summers, they manage to 
 ripen an apple. He apologises much for his age, thougli 
 this has not occurred to Hanna as an objection. They 
 give her some days to make up her mind, and she flies 
 to her own room. There a girl, half friend, half depen- 
 dent, called Johanna, is taken into her confidence, and 
 violently objects to the match, advising Hanna to wait 
 for some young suitor. Hanna, a little shaken in resolu- 
 tion, is desiring more light on this difficult subject, when 
 suddenly her brother and his friend arrive. The Bailiff 
 has by this time gone, and the pastor is left free to 
 welcome his son. The friend is discovered to be the son 
 of the poet whose bosom companion the pastor was at 
 college, and who died early. He is a handsome, ardent, 
 ingenuous youth, and the old man is delighted thus to 
 
 ' Appendix V. 
 
* HANNA.' 1 1 5 
 
 renew the early alliance. Hanna enters, and there is 
 mutual love at first sight. With him it is conscious, 
 with her it is an unconscious trouble and dismay for 
 which she cannot account. The pastor desires that they 
 should embrace one another as if they were brother and 
 sister, and Hanna kisses him lightly, like a summer wind, 
 and disappears, to think it all over in her own room. 
 
 ' So she thought to herself, and her thoughts were less 
 words than a perfume.' She smiles to think how fresh 
 and radiant he is, and then she weeps — not, she says, for 
 love, but in anger that he, a young poor student, should 
 dare to look so charming and so confidential. They have 
 the evening meal together, and then her brother insists 
 that she and the friend should go with him for a long- 
 stroll together. They proceed down to the lake, and the 
 brother expatiates on the scene, a truly inland land- 
 scape, unlike the coast of the Grulf of Finland at Abo. 
 
 * Look at tke lake in the sunset," lie answered, ' look you, how unlike 
 'Tis to the sea as it moans round the rock-built shores of your child- 
 hood ! 
 Here there are verdure and colour and life ; quaint unmberlesrf 
 
 islands 
 Shoot from the breast of the wave, and, gracefully swaying on each 
 
 one, 
 Clumps of underwood offer the worn-out mariner shadow. 
 Follow me down to the beach, calm strip between meadow and 
 
 water, 
 Here you may glance o'er a wider expanse, discerning the hamlet 
 Dimly sequestered afar, and the steeple that shines in the distance.' ' 
 
 They continue their walk in the soft and magical air 
 of a northern sunset, while their voices grow intenser and 
 graver. A talk about wild birds reveals the tenderness of 
 
 ' Appendix W. 
 
116 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Hanna's nature, and she is led to tell, with exquisite 
 pathos, the story of the death of an old fisherman whose 
 hut they pass. At last the brother confesses that he is 
 betrothed to the friend's sister. They all seat themselves 
 in the purple twilight round a bubbling well, and subdued 
 by the witchcraft of the sound of the water, the perfume 
 of the earth and the colour of the heavens, the lovers, 
 who only met a few hours before, obey a sovereign im- 
 pulse and fall into eacli other's arms. The brother is de- 
 lighted ; all three proceed through the deepening dusk 
 to ask the father's blessing, which he grants with some 
 surprise, but with a very fairly good grace. 
 
 The great landmarks in a poet's life are events which 
 would scarcely be worthy of mention in the biography 
 of a man of action. The solitude at Saarijarvi, the 
 public career in Helsingfors, had each in succession 
 moulded and ripened the powers of Euneberg's mind ; a 
 third step, the last in his life, was to develop those powers 
 to their utmost, and to prepare him for their natural 
 decay. In 1837 he accepted a professorate of Latin 
 Literature at the College of BorgR, and removed thither 
 with his family. This quiet little town remained his 
 home for forty years, until his death. BorgS, which the 
 long residence of Euneberg has rendered famous, lies 
 some thirty miles east of Helsingfors, close to the sea, and 
 on the high road into Eussia. It has a cathedral and 
 a bishop, and enjoys a certain sleepy distinction that 
 prevents it from becoming too tamely provincial ; but 
 nothing can avail to make it other than a very hushed 
 and dreamy little place. The poet became exceedingly 
 attached to BorgS, and soon fell into that absolute, almost 
 
JULQVALLEN. 11? 
 
 mechanical round of life which so often marks the later 
 years of men of genius. In this quietude, which the 
 college and the cathedral preserved from entire stagnation, 
 he was able to write without distraction, and with the 
 utmost regularity. He was now recognised as a leading- 
 poet throughout Scandinavia: in 1839 the Swedish 
 Academy, of its own free will, voted him the large gold 
 medal, the highest compliment in its gift, and had he 
 been a citizen of Sweden he would without doubt have 
 been forthwith elected into that stately body. Baron von 
 Beskow, on behalf of the Academy, conveyed to the young- 
 Finnish poet a series of compliments that could not fail to 
 gratify him. It was indeed a period of transition. The 
 old writers were passing away ; several eminent poets of 
 the elder generation had just died — Wadman, Nicander, 
 Wallin. Tegner was at the height of his glory ; there 
 was no young man so fit to be considered heir apparent of 
 the skaldship as Runeberg. He was thus urged on to still 
 higher attainment. His first work at BorgS, was of 
 doubtful success. ' Julqvallen,' or ' Christmas Eve,' is an 
 idyl of the same class as ' The Elk Hunters ' and ' Hanna,' 
 but it possesses neither the force of the first nor the sweet- 
 ness and colour of the second. It is not even a complete 
 story ; it is merely an episode, and an episode not specially 
 suited to poetic treatment. At the same time it is 
 worked out with even finer dramatic tact and insight. 
 An old crippled soldier, Pistol, is stumbling from his hut 
 in the woods, through the snow, to the house of the Major, 
 who has invited him to come to spend the festive Christmas 
 Eve with his servants. Much jollity, however, cannot be 
 expected : everyone has some near relative away in the 
 
118 THE LITEKITURE OF NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 Russian armies fighting- the Turk, and who knows if he be 
 alive or dead ? Pistol thinks of his only son, the apple of 
 his eye, of whom he has for a long while heard nothing. 
 While he tramps on, he hears a carriage behind him, and 
 the clear voice of the IMajor's younger daughter, Augusta, 
 calling to him to get in and ride. She is the light of the 
 whole parish, and a universal favourite. Her elder sister, 
 whose husband is away in the war, and her mother, spend 
 their days in weeping and sighing, and nearly drive the 
 old Major out of his wits ; Augusta alone tries to keep 
 up something like cheerfulness at home. When they 
 arrive at the house, Pistol goes into the kitchen, Augusta 
 into the guest-room, where she finds the usual scene of 
 petulant recrimination going on. Even she is almost in 
 despair. But by degrees she manages to bring peace into 
 the house again, and the way in which the Christmas Eve 
 is spent, above stairs and below, is described very brightly 
 and humorously. In the midst of it all there is a great 
 noise in the com'tyard, lights are brought, and it is found 
 that the Lieutenant, Augusta's brother-in-law, has come 
 back safe and sound. There are universal rejoicings, 
 until he comes to explain that poor Pistol's son has been 
 killed by the enemy in a skirmish. This renews their 
 regret, and Pistol is almost broken-hearted, thinking of 
 the desolate life he must now live, alone in the woods. 
 But the Major declares that he wn'll not allow him to go 
 back to that solitude ; he must in futm-e take up his 
 abode as one of the retainers of the great house, and in 
 the prospect of so much kindness he is a little consoled 
 for his loss. In ' Julqvallen ' Runeberg returns to the 
 rigidly realistic style of ' Elgskyttarne,' which he had 
 
' NADESCHDA.' 1 1 9 
 
 partly abandoned in ' Hanna ' in favour of a tenderer and 
 more romantic feeling. 
 
 In the same year, 1841, lie published a very different 
 poem, and a more successful one. He had hitherto 
 devoted himself entirely to the study of Finnish character 
 and the scenery of Finland ; in ' Nadeschda ' he has 
 drawn from his experience of Russian character and 
 manners, and has in fact written one of those Builinas 
 or national Russian epics about which Mr. Ralston has told 
 us much and promised us more in his charming ' Songs of 
 the Russian People.' This curious poem is closely allied 
 to the lyrical stories that Ruibnikof collected on the 
 shores of Lake Onega from the lips of the peasants ; it 
 is composed from the peasant's point of view, and shows a 
 singular insight into Russian popular feeling. Until Mr. 
 Ralston completes his study of the Builinas, it is not easy 
 for a non-Russian student to understand what is exactly 
 the form of these curious epics ; but Runeberg has pro- 
 bably been correct in composing ' Nadeschda ' in a great 
 variety of unrhymed, strongly accentuated measures. 
 Nadeschda is a lovely Russian girl, a serf, and when the 
 poem opens we find her wandering beside a tributary of 
 the Moskwa, stirring the flowers with her fair feet, and 
 dreaming of some vague lover, who will come to marry 
 her. She bends over the water, and while she is admiring 
 her own reflection, she remembers that this beauty is the 
 beauty of a slave, and can be bought and sold. At this 
 moment Miljutin, lier foster-father, comes to summon her 
 to the festival of welcoming Prince Woldmar, their master, 
 back to the castle. Nadeschda will not come, full of this 
 new revolt against the^ humiliation of her birth. At last 
 
120 THE LITEEATUEE OF NORTHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 INIiljutin persuades her to come, and leaves her that she 
 may adorn herself; but she refuses to bathe in the river, 
 to girdle herself with flowers, or to put on her saint's-day 
 garments. She weaves a belt of thistles and other 
 dolorous herbs, and binding them round her common 
 dress, she follows Miljutiu. INIeanwhile Prince Woldmar 
 is approaching in a golden chariot, accompanied by his 
 brother Dmitri, who is burning with jealousy to see the 
 noble estate which his brother has inherited. Just out- 
 side the gates they stop, at Dmitri's desire, and while the 
 cortege waits, the brothers, with their falcons on their 
 wrists, pass out into the woodland. They send their 
 hawks after a dove, who flies in terror into Woldmar's 
 bosom, and Woldmar's falcon kills Dmitri's. At this the 
 evil brother's rage increases, and he demands a ransom. 
 Woldmar promises him the fairest of his slaves, and at 
 that moment they perceive Nadeschda passing through the 
 forest towards the castle. They regain their carriage, but 
 these incidents have sufficed to throw Woldmar into a rage, 
 and as they drive up through the ranks of gaily-dressed 
 retainers, his eye catches one girl who has only a coil of 
 straw in her hair and thistles for a girdle. He stops 
 and shouts to her to come to him ; it is Nadeschda. He 
 storms at her for her disrespect, and swears she shall 
 instantly marry the basest of his grooms ; but she, 
 glancing timidly at him, perceives that he is the lover of 
 her dream, and she flushes rosy red with shame and sorrow. 
 He falls under the spell of her beauty and loves her, even 
 before he has finished his reproof. Dmitri, also, perceives 
 her loveliness, and claims her as the ransom for his falcon. 
 But Woldmar gives Nadeschda her freedom, and then 
 
'NADESCHDA.' 121 
 
 brusquely turning to Dmitri, says that he only promised 
 to give him a slave, and that this is a free woman. 
 Dmitri, excessively piqued, sends out the same night to 
 secure her, but she has disappeared, and he cannot discover 
 what has become of her. Two years are now supposed to 
 pass, and we are presented to Nadeschda, a lovely and 
 accomplished woman, who has been protected and 
 educated in hiding by some noble ladies, friends of Prince 
 Woldmar. He comes to visit her, and we are given one 
 of Runeberg's characteristic love-scenes, full of tenderness 
 and highly-wrought passion. He explains to her that 
 they have everything to fear from his mother's pride and 
 his brotlier's jealousy. In the next canto, however, he has 
 resolved to brave these dangers, and bringing Nadeschda 
 to his castle, he is about to be privately married to her, 
 when Prince Dmitri hears of it, and communicates witli 
 his mother, the Princess Natalia Feodorowna. The proud 
 dowager determines that, sooner than her sou shall marry 
 a serf, she will herself denounce him to the Empress. We 
 then have a very dramatic scene. Potemkin is presented 
 loimging on a rich ottoman, and scolding General 
 Kutusoff and other eminent soldiers for the laxity of their 
 regiments : he has some insolent word for each, and finally 
 bids them all to leave his presence, except Prince 
 Woldmar. Potemkin charges him with his intended 
 mesalliance as with a crime, tells him of the Empress's 
 displeasure, sends him oft' forthwith to Tomsk, and gives 
 his castle, with Nadeschda in it, into his mother's care. 
 Nadeschda is turned out of doors, and returns to the hut 
 of lier foster father Miljutiu. Thither Dmitri follows 
 her, expecting an easy conquest, but her dignity and her 
 
122 THE LITERATUEE OF NOETHERN EUEOPE. 
 
 despair overcome him, aad he consents to leave her 
 unmolested. The Princess Natalia ruins the district with 
 her tyrannies, and the serfs are in the last 'condition of 
 destitution, when suddenly the Empress announces that 
 she is coming to the castle to spend the night. To hide 
 the desolation of the scene, the Princess has some painted 
 semblances of cottages set up along the opposite hill-side, 
 and when the Empress arrives, she is so pleased at this 
 appearance of comfort that she insists on going to visit 
 the cottagers themselves. The Princess is accordingly 
 disgraced, Nadeschda throws herself at the Empress's feet 
 and is pardoned, and Prince Woldmar returns to celebrate 
 his marriage. 
 
 The position of Euneberg at BorgS became more and 
 more firmly settled. In 1842 he was offered and accepted 
 the chair of Greek. A third volume of lyrical poems, in 
 
 1843, and the cycle of romances entitled ' Kung Fjalar,' in 
 
 1 844, testified to the freshness and ascending vigour of his 
 imagination. 'Kung Fjalar,' in fact, marks the very 
 apex of his powers ; Euneberg never exceeded this tragic 
 work in the admirable later creations of his brain. It has 
 an audacity, an originality that raise it to the first order 
 of lyric writing. It is very difficult, by making a cold- 
 blooded analysis of such a poem, to give the reader the 
 least notion of its beauty. The plot is as follows. A 
 mythical king of Grauthiod, Fjalar, has fought many 
 battles and won as many victories ; his hair is silver, and 
 he now determines to live at home in peace, and keep 
 watch over the prosperity of his people. It is Christmas 
 time, and there are re veilings in Fjalar's castle. As his 
 warriors gather round him, he tells them that he desires 
 
KING FJALAE. 123 
 
 rest ; he swears that by his own help, resting on his own 
 will alone, he will lead the land up into wealth and 
 happiness. As he makes this oath, an unknown stranger 
 strides up the hall ; he uncovers his face — it is Dargar the 
 seer, the all-wise prophet, who hates Fjalar. He prophe- 
 sies woe to Grauthiod and its king ; and, as a last sorrow, 
 Fjalar is to see before he dies his only daughter locked 
 in the burning embrace of his only son. At a curse so 
 fearful, silence and consternation rule in the hall : no one 
 dares to speak till Fjalar orders the nurse to bring Hjalmar 
 and Grerda, his infant children. He takes one babe on 
 each arm, not knowing which to sacrifice, till at last his 
 warriors persuade him to leave the boy to reign after him. 
 One of them, Sjolf, approaches, and lifting Gerdafrom the 
 king's embrace, takes her out into the night, and flings 
 her, ' a laughing sacrifice,' off the cliff into the roaring 
 sea. Fjalar forbids her name to be mentioned again, and 
 then walks out in silence. The next canto takes us twenty 
 years onward. In the Ossianic kingdom of Morven, the 
 three sons of the king are all in love with his foster- 
 daughter Oihonna, a lovely being mysteriously saved from 
 the waves. Each of the sons tries to win her lieart by a 
 song. This is Gall's, the eldest : — 
 
 Come, Oihonna, follow my life ! 
 The hunter loves thee, rosy cloud ! 
 The tall prince of the mountains 
 Prays thee to sliare his upland footways. 
 
 Hast thou seen from thy mountain rocks 
 The broad expanses smile in the morning ? 
 Hast thou seen the wakening sunrise 
 Drink the dew of the tremblin<i: haze ? 
 
124 THE LITERATUKE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Remember the sound of the windy woodlands, 
 Leaves that stir in the wing of the wind, 
 Birds' riot, and the intoxicate 
 Brook that flies through the sounding houlders ! 
 
 Dost thou know how beats the heart 
 When to the noise of the horn and hounds 
 Rustle the bushes, and lo ! the stag 
 Checks his leap and is here before us ? 
 
 Maiden, lov'st thou the sombre twilight 
 That melts to the shine of the dewy stars ? 
 Come, from the summit of Mellmor 
 Let us watch how the night is born. 
 
 how oft have I sat on the mountain 
 "When in the west the sun has been closing 
 His glimmering gates, and the red glow 
 Slowly faded out of the sky. 
 
 1 have drunk the cool of the spirit of even, 
 Seen the shadows walk over the valleys, 
 Let my thoughts go wander 
 
 Around the sea of nightly silence. 
 
 Lovely is life on the cloudy heights, 
 
 'Tis easy to breathe in the fragrant woods ; 
 
 Ah ! be my bride ! I will open 
 
 A thousand pleasures around thy heart." 
 
 So sings Gfall the hunter, but in vain ; nor can Rurmar 
 the bard, nor Clesamor the warrior soften her crystal heart. 
 Next we have a scene in which Oihonna, ' the huntress of 
 the swan-like arm,' is hunting the deer in the valley of 
 Lora, in company with her friend the singer Gylnandyne. 
 She sings the saga which tells how Hjalmar desired his 
 father, King P^jalar, to let him go a- viking, and how, 
 when the king would not, Hjalmar got away by stealth and 
 won glory at sea. At this moment Oihonna is summoned 
 back to Morven. When she arrives there, the Scotch king 
 * Appendix X. 
 
KING FJALAR. 125 
 
 tells her of the circumstances of her coming- to that land, 
 how a captain, sailing one Christmas night by King 
 Fjalar's castle, found a girl-child in the sea, brought her 
 to Morven, and dying, bequeathed her to the king. 
 Hjalmar, the terrible vikingr, now appears and attacks 
 Morven. He fights with each of the sons of King Morannel 
 in turn, and kills them ; the youngest, Clesamor, fights 
 so well that Morven trembles to hear a late half-dying 
 echo from Ossian's heroic days, but falls at last. Morannel 
 dies of grief in the arms of Oihonna. We then return to 
 Gauthiod, where, from the heights above his castle, Fj alar, 
 now extremely old, gazes in content and self-gratulation 
 over the land that has prospered under his firm will and 
 peaceful rule. He thinks of the old curse only to deride 
 it, when suddenly the evil seer, Dargar, arrives, and 
 denounces the king. The hour of the vengeance of the 
 gods is, he says, at hand ; and he points to a golden speck 
 on the horizon, the dragon of Hjalmar returning across 
 the sea. They watched the approaching fleet ; the prows 
 grate the shore, and Hjalmar slowly ascends the mountain 
 with a bloody sword in his hand. He explains that from 
 the court of Morven he bore off Oihanna, a lovely and a 
 loving bride ; that on their homeward voyage she told the 
 story of her birth, and that he perceived her too late to be 
 his sister. With the sword he holds he slew her, and now 
 he slays himself before his father's throne. The sun goes 
 down, and when they turn to King Fjalar he is dead. 
 Even from so slight an outline as this it may be seen how 
 lofty a rendering this is of the old theme that wise men 
 are powerless fighting against the gods. Fjalar is great, 
 virtuous, and humane, but because he does not make the 
 
126 THE LITEKATUKE OF NOKTHEEN EUROPE. 
 
 gods witnesses to his oath, he brings down upon himself 
 and his race their slow but implacable vengeance. The 
 style in which this poem is composed is exceedingly cold 
 and severe, with delicate lyrical passages introduced with- 
 out any detriment to the general solemnity. The work 
 is like a noble frieze in marble, where among the sublime 
 figures of the gods and their victims, the sculptor has 
 sought to introduce an element of tenderer beauty in the 
 flying graces of a garment or the innocent sweetness of a 
 child's averted head. 
 
 We have now arrived at the work which did most 
 to give Euneberg a name throughout all classes and in 
 all the provinces of the North. It was in 1848 that 
 he published the first series of ' Fanrik StSls Sagner ' 
 (' Ensign StSl's Stories '), a series of narrative poems dealing 
 with the war of independence in 1808. The cycle pro- 
 fesses to be said and sung by an old ensign, a veteran from 
 the days of Dobeln and Adlercreutz, who recites to a young 
 student all he can remember about the war. Similar 
 stories Euneberg himself had heai'd, as a boy of sixteen, 
 from an old corporal at Euovesi. He himself, as we have 
 said, dimly remembered seeiug the Swedish and Eussian 
 armies pass through his birth-place, Jakobsstad. The 
 publication of these national poems, breathing the full 
 perfume of patriotic regret, the mingled tone of war-song 
 and of elegy, created such a sensation as is but poorly 
 comparable with the success of Mr. Tennyson's ' Charge of 
 the Light Brigade.' The volume was such a one as Mr. 
 Dobell's ' England in Time of War ' might have proved 
 in the hands of a far saner and more judicious poet. The 
 first series appeared in 1848, the second in I860; and 
 
FANRIK STALS SAGNER. 127 
 
 with one poem on the treacherous surrender of Sveaborg-, 
 which was suppressed at the supplication of the descend- 
 ants of the traitor, there are thirty-five pieces in all. 
 They are varied in subject and style ; they describe every- 
 one from the king and the generals down to village 
 maidens and ' drunken privates of the Buff.' ' Fanrik 
 StSls Sagner ' opens with the famous hymn which has 
 become the national anthem of Finland, ' VSrt land, vSrt 
 land.' This is one of the noblest strains of patriotic verse 
 ever indited ; it lifts Euneberg at once to the level of 
 Callicles or Campbell, to the first rank of poets in whom 
 art and ardour, national sentiment and power of utterance, 
 are equally blended. Unhappily, in its crystal simplicity 
 and its somewhat elaborate verse form, it is practically 
 untranslatable. To enjoy it is one of the first and best 
 rewards of him who takes the trouble to learn Swedish. 
 The old Ensign is next described, and the events that led 
 to his repeating tliese tales of his ; and then the tales 
 themselves begin. Some of the figures that stand out 
 against the background of the war are of a marvellous 
 freshness and realistic force. The stupid Sven Dufva, 
 who had an heroic heart ; Lieutenant Ziden, who cheered 
 on his little troop from Wasa; Wilhelm von Schweriil, 
 the boy-hero ; Otto von Fieandt, who uses his whip 
 instead of a sword ; General Adlercreutz fighting at 
 Siikajoki. All are good ; it may almost be said that not 
 one is poor or weak. Perhaps the most exquisite, the 
 most inimitable of all is ' Soldatgossen,' the boy whose 
 father — a brave young soldier — fell at the battle of Lappo, 
 and who is only longing to be fifteen years old that he may 
 take up his rifle and go to fight the Kussians. The absolute 
 
128 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 perfection of this poem, which it would be ruinous to fail 
 to give, is too terrifying for a translator to attempt. Such 
 a poem is like the strange draughts that Persian monarchs 
 boasted ; it takes its colour wholly from the vase that 
 holds it, and would seem mere trash poured into a less 
 cunning goblet. As a ballad less fine, and in a form less 
 exacting, I venture to attempt a version of ' Torp- 
 flickan ' : — 
 
 THE VILLAGE GIRL. 
 
 The sun went down and evening came, the quiet summer even, 
 A mass of glowing purple lay between the farms and heaven ; 
 A weary troop of men went by, their day's hard labour done. 
 Tired and contented, towards their home they wended one by one. 
 
 Their work was done, their harvest reaped, a goodly harvest truly, 
 A well-appointed band of foes all slain or captured newly ; 
 At dawn against this armed band they had gone forth to fight, 
 And all had closed in victory before the fall of night. 
 
 Close by the field where all day long the hard hot strife was raging, 
 A cottage by the wayside stood, half-desolate and ageing, 
 And on its worn low steps there sat a silent girl, and mused 
 And watched the troop come slowly by, in weary line confused. 
 
 She looked like one who sought a friend, she scanned each man's face 
 
 nearly. 
 High burned the colour in her cheek, too high for sunset merely ; 
 She sat so quiet, looked so warm, so flushed with secret heat, 
 It seemed she listened as she gazed, and felt her own heart beat. 
 
 But as she saw the ti-oop march by, and darkness round them stealing, 
 To every file, to every man, her anxious eye appealing 
 Seemed muttering in a shy distress a question without speech, 
 More silent than a sigh itself, too anguished to beseech. 
 
 But when the men had aU gone past, and not a word was spoken. 
 The poor girl's courage failed at last, and all her strength was broken. 
 She wept not loud, but on her hand her weary forehead fell, 
 And large tears followed one by one as from a bm-uing well. 
 
FANRIK STALS SAGNER. 129 
 
 ' Why dost thou ^Yeep ? For hope may break, just where the gloom 
 is deepest ! 
 
 daughter, hear thy mother's voice, a needless tear thou weepest ; 
 He whom thy eyes were seeking for, whose face thou could&t not see, 
 He is not dead : he thought of love, and still he lives for thee. 
 
 He thought of love ; I counselled him to shield himself from danger, 
 
 1 taught him how to slip the fight, and leave them like a stranger ; 
 By force they made him march with them, but weep not, rave not thus, 
 I know he will not choose to die from happy life and us.' 
 
 Shivering the maiden rose like one whom awful dreams awaken, 
 As if some grim foreboding all her soul in her had shaken ; 
 She lingered not, she sought the place where late had raged the fight, 
 And stole away and swiftly fled and vanished out of sight. 
 
 An hour went by, another hour, the night had closed around her ; 
 The moonshot clouds were silver-white, but darkness hung below 
 
 them. 
 ' She lingers long ; O daughter, come, thy toil is all in vain, 
 To-morrow, ere the dawn is red, thy bridegroom's here again ! ' 
 
 The daughter came ; with silent steps she came to meet her mother, 
 The pallid eyelids strained no more with tears she fain would 
 
 smother ; 
 But colder than the Avind at night the hand that mother pressed, 
 And whiter than a winter cloud the maiden's cheek and breast. 
 
 ' Make me a grave, mother dear ; my days on earth are over ! 
 The only man that fled to-day, that coward, was my lover ; 
 He thought of me and of himself, the battle field he scanned, 
 And then betrayed his brothers' hope and shamed his father's land. 
 
 When past our door the troop marched by, and I their ranks had 
 
 numbered, 
 I wept to think that like a man among the dead he slumbered ; 
 I sorrowed, but my grief was mild, it had no bitter weight, 
 I would have lived a thousand years to mourn his noble fate. 
 
 ( ) mother, I have looked for him where'er the dead are lying, 
 But none of all the stricken bear his features, calm in dying ; 
 Now will I live no more on earth in shame to sit and sigh. 
 He lies not there among the dead, and therefore I will die.' * 
 
 ' Appendix Y. 
 
130 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 There can be little doubt that in ' Fanrik StSls 
 Sagner' Finland has presented Swedish literature with 
 the most intimate, glowing, and original poetical work 
 that it possesses. And it is very interesting to note how 
 much of what is most notable in the history of Sweden has 
 proceeded from this desolate and distant province, now 
 hopelessly separated from the realm itself. In the annals 
 of statecraft, of the church, of war, and of the navy, the 
 names of Finns are singularly prominent. In literature, 
 some of the leading writers in each century — Frese in the 
 seventeenth, Creutz and Kellgren in the eighteenth, 
 Franzen, Fredrika Bremer, and Zakris Topelius in the 
 nineteenth — have been natives of Finland ; but of all these 
 Kuneberg is the greatest. On May 1 3, 1 848, the ' VSrt 
 Land,' to which music had been set by the greatest of 
 Finnish composers, Pacius, was sung outside the city of 
 Helsingfors, and the ringing tones of the new National 
 Anthem were taken up by thousands of voices. This was 
 the crowning day in the life of Runeberg. 
 
 By this time he had outlived the economical pressvu'e 
 of his earlier years. In 1844 he had been made titular 
 Professor, and decorated with the order of the North Star 
 by the King of Sweden, Oscar I. In 1847 he was unani- 
 mously elected Rector of the College of BorgS. In 1 851 he 
 achieved the only foreign journey he ever took, namely, a 
 trip into Sweden, the great aim of which was a visit to the 
 novelist, Almqvist. He entered Stockholm just in time to 
 hear that this illustrious person, perhaps the first intellect 
 which Sweden then possessed, had just taken flight for 
 America under a charge of forgery and suspicion of mur- 
 der. This startling catastrophe caused Runeberg a lively 
 
EUNEBEEG AT BORGA. 131 
 
 disappointment, which the Swedish Academy and its spokes- 
 man, Baron Beskow, did their best to remove by the 
 cordiality of their welcome. Both in the capital and in 
 Upsala he enjoyed the honours of a notable lion. At Upsala 
 however, he was thrown into the deepest melancholy by 
 the constant necessity of answering the speeches made 
 him on public occasions, for he was a very shy and poor 
 speaker. He soon returned to BorgS, never to leave it 
 again, hugging himself with the delight in home which so 
 often marks a man of his type of genius. He was now 
 possessed of a handsome house, which it was his delight to 
 fill with objects of art, for he posed as the first connoisseur 
 in Finland. When he had originally settled in BorgS 
 he had rented a very small and humble house in the out- 
 skirts of the town ; and towards the end of his life he was 
 fond of repeating a story which showed that this prophet 
 at least was not without honour in his own country. For, 
 walking in the lonely streets one moonlight night, he was 
 struck with a desire to go and look at this little lodging 
 where he had spent so many of his struggling days. He 
 found it ; there was a light in the window, and, peeping 
 through the shutters, he saw an artisan busy over his work, 
 and singing. He listened attentively ; it was one of Eune- 
 berg's own songs, and the poet turned away with tears of 
 pleasure in his eyes. From this time forward his life was 
 extremely uneventful. In 1853 lie collected his prose 
 writings, and published them under the title of ' Smarre 
 Berattelser.' In 1857, as president of the committee to 
 select a National Psalter, he published a 'Psalm-book for 
 theuseof Evangelico-Lutheran Congregations in Finland,' 
 to which he contributed sixty-two psalms of his own com- 
 
 K 2 
 
132 THE LITEEATURE OF NORTHEEN EUROPE.^ 
 
 position, A second series of ' Ensign StSl's Tales ' appeared 
 in 1860, and he closed his long literary career with the 
 production of two dramatic works, — ' Kan ej ' (' Can't '), a 
 comedy in rhyme, performed and published in 1 862 ; and 
 ' Kungarne pS, Salamis ' (' The Kings at Salamis,') a tragedy 
 in the manner of Sophocles. This last is one of his noblest 
 works, combining the Attic severity with the modern 
 poifft's realism and truth of detail. It resembles our own 
 English dramas of ' Atalanta in Calydon ' and 'Philoctetes ' 
 more closely than what the continental poets usually give 
 us as revivals of the antique tragedy. The metre in 
 which it is written is closely modelled on what the 
 Swedish poet has conceived to be the tragic measure of 
 the Greeks, the Sophoclean trimeter. 
 
 When, in 1S70, Professor Nyblom, in editing the works 
 of Euneberg, issued a biographical notice which still 
 remains the chief storehouse of information, the poet was 
 already in very weak and precarious health. As late, how- 
 ever, as April 1877, he was well enough to publicly con- 
 gratulate his old friend and fellow-poet Cygnseus on attain- 
 ing his seventieth birthday. But he was taken ill very 
 shortly after, and on the afternoon of Sunday, ]May 6, 1877, 
 he passed away in his seventy-fourth year. He has left 
 many disciples behind him, and in his friend and follower, 
 Topelius, Sweden once more borrows from Finland lier 
 most prominent living poet. The influence of Euneberg 
 on the literature of his timeh as been healthy and vigorous. 
 In Talis Qualis, who survived him only a few weeks, 
 he found in Sweden itself a quick and strong imagina- 
 tion lighted at the lamp of his own. The present King 
 of Sweden, Oscar II., in his excellent poem of ' Svenska 
 
SWEDISH POETRY. 133 
 
 flottans minnen,' has shown himself a scholar of the great 
 Finnish realist. In Carl Snoilsky, the latest product of 
 Swedish poetry, we find another side of Euneberg's genius, 
 the artistic and classic, laid iinder the contribution of 
 discipleship, although the main current of this last writer's 
 lyrical work flows in a more modern and a more intense 
 channel, and proves him the more direct disciple of the 
 great Danish lyrist, Christian Winther. We know as yet 
 little of Euneberg's life, little of the inward development 
 of his great powers. A collection of his posthumous 
 writings, as well as an exhaustive biography, will be 
 welcomed by every lover of his noble verse. 
 
THE DANISH NATIONAL THEATRE. 
 
 The only instance in which unfamiliar forms of culture 
 have a claim on public attention is when they are wholly 
 original and individual. The development of the ages is 
 now too vast for men to spare much time in the study of 
 what is merely imitative, and even reproductions of ancient 
 phases of art and literatm-e must now be very excellent or 
 very vigorous, to succeed in arresting general interest. 
 But art is no respecter of persons, and merit in nations, as 
 in individuals, is still not naeasured by wealth or size ; and 
 it sometimes happens even in these days that what is most 
 worthy of attention is to be discovered in narrow and im- 
 poverished circles of men, the light of genius burning all 
 the clearer for the atmospheric compression in which it is 
 forced to exist. Of modern peoples none has displayed the 
 truth of this fact more notably than Denmark, a country 
 so weak and poor, so isolated among inimical races, so 
 forlorn of all geographical protection, that its very place 
 among nations seems to have been preserved by a series of 
 accidents, and which yet has been able, by the brilliance 
 of the individual men of genius it has produced, to keep its 
 distinct and honourable place in the world of science and 
 letters during a century and a half of perilous struggle for 
 
DENMARK. 135 
 
 existence. There is not another of the minor countries of 
 Europe that can point to names so universally illustrious 
 in their different spheres as Orsted, Thorwaldsen, Oehlen- 
 schlager, Madvig, H. C. Andersen. The labours of these 
 men, by nature of their craft, speak to all cultivated 
 persons ; the electro-magnetic discoveries of Orsted tinge 
 all modern habits of life ; the fairy-stories of Andersen 
 make an enchanted land of every well-conducted nursery. 
 These men have scarcely influenced thought in their own 
 land more strongly than they have the thought of Europe. 
 But I purpose here to speak a little of a form of culture 
 which has penetrated no less deeply into the spiritual life 
 of Denmark, and which by its very nature is restricted in 
 its workings to the native intelligence. 
 
 Of all the small nations of Europe, Denmark is the only 
 one that has succeeded in founding and preserving a truly 
 national dramatic art. One has but to compare it in this 
 respect with the surrounding lands of a cognate character, 
 with Sweden, Norway, Holland, to perceive at once the 
 complete difference of individuality. In all these countries 
 one finds, to be sure, what is called a Eoyal Theatre, but 
 on examining the repertoire one is sure at once to find the 
 bulk of acting plays to be translations or adaptations. If the 
 popular taste is sentimental, the tendency will be towards 
 Iffland and Kotzebue, tempered with a judicious selection 
 from Shakspeare and Schiller ; if farcical, perhaps native 
 talent will be allowed to compete with adaptations from 
 Scribe, while the gaps will be filled up with vaudevilles 
 and operettas translated from the French, and set on the 
 stage purely to give employment to the gregarious multi- 
 tude that sing tolerably and act most intolerably. In such 
 
136 THE LITERATURE OE NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 a depressing atmosphere as this the stage can hardly be 
 said to exist ; what poetical talent the nation possesses 
 pours itself into other channels, and sometimes a theatre is 
 found stranded in a position of such hopeless incompetence, 
 that it is ready to adopt the masterpieces of the contempo- 
 rary English drama. 
 
 But the old dingy tlieatre that was pulled down in 
 Copenliagen in 1874 had another tale to tell than such a 
 dreary one. For within its walls almost all that is really 
 national and individual in the poetic literature of the 
 country had found at one time or another its place and 
 voice. Within the walls that now no more will ever dis- 
 play their faded roses and smoky garlands to the searching 
 flare of the footlights, almost every Danish poet of eminence 
 — with the exception of Grrundtvig and Winther, perhaps 
 every one — had received the plaudits of the people, and been 
 taken personally into the sympathy of the nation in a way 
 no mere study-writer ever can be taken. Perhaps this is why 
 the Danes preserve such an astonishing personal love for 
 their dead poets. Men who had seen the white, sick face 
 of Ewald grow whiter under the storms of applause, and 
 the long thin fingers press the aching brow in an agony of 
 nervous agitation ; the next generation that saw Oehlen- 
 schlager, handsome and burly, in his stall, receive the 
 plaudits like a comfortable burgess, one of themselves ; the 
 younger men that knew the haughty, keen face of Heiberg, 
 master of all the best aesthetic culture that his age could give, 
 yet a Dane in every feature, and a type to every romantic 
 youth of what a Dane should be— these men had a sense 
 of being a living part and parcel of the national poetic life 
 such as no citizens have had save at Athens, and Florence, 
 
THE DANISH THEATEE. 137 
 
 and Weimar ; and their sympathy has been so far wider 
 than these, that it was not the emotion of a single circle, 
 however brilliant, of a single city, however potent, but of a 
 whole nation not potent or brilliant at all, but beating to 
 the heart's core with that warm blood of patriotism that 
 has sent its men, again and again, to certain, hopeless 
 death with cheerful resignation. It is this living force in 
 the dramatic art of Denmark that makes it worthy of study. 
 No lyric or scenic excellence in native writers, no glitter- 
 ing and costly ornament, coidd have secured to the Royal 
 Theatre of Copenhagen the wonderful influence that it has 
 had over public life, if it had not in some way been able 
 to stand as the representative of the best national life of 
 the coimtry. It is this that gives it a unique place in the 
 history of the modern drama. In Copenhagen the stage 
 has been, what it has not for centuries been in London, 
 the organ by which poetry of the highest class speaks to 
 the masses. The nearest parallel to the position of the 
 Danish Theatre is found amongst ourselves in the new-born 
 popularity of concerts of classical music. Just as crowds 
 throng to hear the elaborate and delicate harmonies of 
 Beethoven and Schumann, till one is set wondering how 
 much of this is habit and fashion, and how much apprecia- 
 tion of the noblest art, so in Copenhagen is one astonished 
 and puzzled to see crowded audiences, night after night, 
 receive with applause dramatic poems that take a place 
 among the most exquisite and subtle works in the language. 
 Nor is the position of the theatre as a means of widely 
 popularising the higher culture the only or the main service 
 it performs ; it is a school for patriotism. Here the people 
 hear their native tongue spoken most purely and most 
 
138 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHEEN EUROPE. 
 
 beautifully, and the peculiar character of the ablest plays 
 on the boards gives the audience an opportunity of almost 
 breathing a condensed air of love for the Fatherland. The 
 best Danish comedies, the old-fashioned but still popular 
 pieces of Holberg, deal almost wholly with life in Copen- 
 hagen; and after the lapse of one hundred and fifty years, the 
 satire in them which lashes an affectation of Grerman taste 
 and German fashion is as welcome and as fresh as ever ; the 
 most popular tragedies are those of Oehlenschlager, almost 
 without exception occupied with the mythic or the heroic 
 life of early Scandinavia ; the later dramas of Heiberg 
 mingle poetic romance with life out in the woods and by 
 the lakes of Zealand ; while the farces of Hostrup never 
 stray outside the walls of Copenhagen, but point out to a 
 keenly-appreciative audience the ludicrous side of the men 
 and women that jostle them hom'ly in the familiar, homely 
 streets. In a commimity so small that almost everybody 
 knows everybody else, a copious literature studded with 
 local illusion becomes as intensely interesting to the popu- 
 lace as the vers de soclete of a witty poet become to his 
 circle of admirers and butts ; and when the interest thus 
 awakened is led to concentrate itself on topics of the 
 gravest national importance, art approaches its apotheosis, 
 and nears the fulfilment of its highest aim. In fact, if 
 a foreign power secured Copenhagen and understood the 
 temper of the people, its first act would undoubtedly be 
 to shut for an indefinite period the doors of the Koyal 
 Theatre. 
 
 The ugly old theatre that has just been pulled down to 
 make room for a splendid successor was a disgrace to 
 Kongens Nytorv, the handsome central square of Copen- 
 
 I 
 
THE OLD DANISH THEATRE. 139 
 
 liagen, and its area had long been quite unable to offer 
 comfortable sitting room to the audience. It was well that 
 it should be pulled down and a better house be opened ; 
 but in the moment of destruction a thought of gratitude 
 seemed due to the building that had seen so many triumphs 
 of art, so many brilliant poetical successes, and had so large 
 a share in the best life of the country. It was one of the 
 oldest theatres in Europe, having reached the age, most un- 
 usual in this class of houses, of one hundred and twenty-six 
 years. In Paris, where dramatic art has so lovingly been 
 studied, and where the passion for scenic representation was 
 so early developed, only two out of the thirty or more 
 theatres now open date from the last century — the Theatre 
 Franjais from 1782, and the Theatre Porte St. Martin 
 from 1781. The latter suffered so severely under the 
 Commune in 1871, that it hardly comes into the category. 
 Here in London almost all the theatres date, in their pre- 
 sent position, from later than 1800, although several of the 
 most important occupy the same classical ground as houses 
 that have been destroyed by fire. This greatest enemy of 
 theatres has wonderfully spared the stage at Copenhagen, 
 where the Eoyal Theatre, built in 1784, contrived to last 
 till our own day, to undergo the more ignominious fate of 
 being pulled stone from stone. 
 
 When Eigtved, the architect, finished it in 1748, it 
 was not the eyesore that it had been of late years ; it was 
 considered an adornment to that very Kongens Nytorv 
 that lately groaned under its hideousness. But the growth 
 of the audience, the necessity of more machinery and more 
 furniture, at various times obliged the management to 
 throw out frightful fungus-growths, to heave up the roof, 
 
140 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 and make all raaniaer of emendations that destroyed the 
 last vestiges of shapeliness. It was the first theatre where 
 the Danish drama found a firm place to settle in ; and 
 after doubtful and dangerous sojourns in Grounegade and 
 other places, this secure habitation was a great step forward. 
 It seated, however, only eight hundred spectators ; and 
 although the decorations and machinery were so magnifi- 
 cent that a performance was announced gratis, merely that 
 there might be an opportunity of impressing society with 
 a Mercury on clouds, and Niglit brought on in an airy 
 chariot drawn by two painted horses, still a modern 
 audience might have grumbled at having to spend an 
 evening, or rather an afternoon — for the performances 
 began at 5 p.m. — in the old building. The stage was 
 lit up by tallow candles, which had to be briskly snuffed 
 by a special attendant ; the orchestra could onlv muster 
 ten pieces, and the wardrobe suffered from a complaint 
 the most terrible for green-rooms — poverty of costumes. 
 Tiie heart and soul of tlie management was Holberg, that 
 most gifted of all Danes before or since, who more than 
 any other man has succeeded in lifting his country into 
 an honourable place among the nations. If it be true, as 
 has been said, that Groethe created for Grermany the rank 
 it holds in the literature of Europe, much more true is it 
 that Denmark owes to Holberg what rank she has succeeded 
 in attaining. This remarkable man played so important 
 a rule in the dramatic life of the early times of wliich we 
 speak, that a few words seem demanded here on his life 
 and personal character. He was born, like so many other 
 men who have made a name in Denmark, in Norway, in 
 1 684. When he was eighteen he came up to study at the 
 
HOLBERG. 141 
 
 University of Copenhagen, and, being- left almost entirely 
 destitute, was thrown on the resources of his own talents. 
 Wandering all over the north of Europe, he came at last 
 to Oxford, where he lived for two years, studying at the 
 University, and subsisting in the meanwhile by teaching 
 languages and music. After years of extraordinary adven- 
 tures, including a journey on foot from Brussels to Mar- 
 seilles, a narrow escape from the Inquisition at Genoa, and 
 a return journey on foot fi'om Rome over the Alps to 
 Amsterdam, he settled in Copenhagen about the year 1716. 
 Already a great part of his historical works were written, 
 and he gave himself now to law and to philology. His 
 name became generally famous in Denmark as that of a 
 brilliant writer on the subjects just mentioned, but no one 
 suspected that a series of comic poems, published under 
 the pseudonym of Hans Mikkelsen, and over which Copen- 
 hagen became periodically convulsed with laughter, were 
 produced by the grave Professor of Latin Eloquence. From 
 1716 to 1722 he successfully preserved his authorship a 
 secret from the world ; but when a circle of those friends 
 to whom his humorous genius was known besought him 
 to try to write for the Danish stage comedies that should 
 banish French adaptations from the theatrical repertoire, 
 in assenting he took a place before the public as a comic 
 poet which has outshone all his reputation in science and 
 history, bright as that still is. Until then Copenhagen 
 had possessed a Crerman and a French, but no Danish 
 theatre. The first of Holberg's Danish comedies that was 
 produced was the ' Pewterer turned Politician ' (' Den 
 politiske Kandestober '), a piece that recalls somewhat the 
 style of Ben Jon son in the ' Alchemist,' but which for the 
 
142 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHERN EUROPE. 
 
 rest is so wholly original, so happily constructed in plot, 
 so exquisitely funny in evolution, that it is one of the 
 most remarkable works ever produced in Scandinavia. 
 Had Moliere never lived, the genius of Holberg would have 
 proved itself superhuman : but the fact is that the Danish 
 poet, in the course of his travels, had had opportunity to 
 study the French comedian thoroughly, and had adopted 
 the happy notion of satirising atfectation and vice in 
 Copenhagen, not in the same but in a parallel way with 
 that adopted by Moliere in lashing Parisian society. In 
 consequence, the series of Holberg's dramas display no 
 imitation, but a general similarity of method, while the 
 precise nature of the wit is characteristic only of himself. 
 These comedies so far belong to the school represented 
 among ourselves by Ben Jonson, and in our own day by 
 Dickens, that the source of amusement is not found in 
 intrigue, nor mainly in the development of the plot, but 
 in the art of bringing prominently forward certain oddities 
 of character, which in the Shakspearian time were called 
 ' humours.' Holberg's loving study of the French drama 
 preserved him from the temptation of exaggerating these 
 studies of eccentric character into caricature; the odd lines 
 are just deepened a little beyond what nature commonly 
 presents, and that is all. These comedies show no signs of 
 losing their freshness. They are as popular on the stage 
 to-day as they were one hundred and fifty years ago, and com- 
 pared with those English plays that just preceded them, 
 from Wycherley to Colley Gibber, they appear astonishingly 
 modern, and as superior in wit as they are in morality and 
 decency ; whereas Holberg's humorous epics and lyrics have 
 long ago gone the way of most such writing, and are 
 
HOLBERG'S COMEDIES. 143 
 
 honourably unread in every gentleman's library. The 
 thirty Holbergian comedies formed the nucleus of the 
 Danish drama. It was in 1722, before the actors had 
 found a home in Kongens Nytorv, that the ' Pewterer 
 turned Politician ' was produced, and the rest followed in 
 quick succession. Some remarks in one of them against 
 the Gferman tendencies of the ministry then in power had 
 the effect of bringing upon Holbergthe displeasure of men 
 in authority ; an attempt was made to burn the play 
 publicly, together with another peccant book of Holberg's, 
 the comic epic of ' Peder Paars,' and to punish the author. 
 Fortunately, King Frederick IV. took the poet's part, and 
 this incident only served to intensify popular interest in 
 dramatic representations. 
 
 When the Eoyal Company flitted over to Kongens 
 Nytorv in 1748, Holberg was the heart and soul of the 
 new enterprise. The repertoire consisted almost entirely 
 of his own comedies, and of translations of the best pieces 
 of Moliere. He was fortunate enough to secure in 
 Clementin and Londemann two interpreters whose tradi- 
 tions still cling about the stage, and whose genius, if we 
 may trust the reports of contemporary writers, was in the 
 highest degree suited to set the creations of the great 
 humourist in the broadest and wittiest manner before an 
 audience that had to be educated into appreciation. The 
 memory of these two men is so far interesting to us, as 
 there seems no doubt that it is to them and to their great 
 master that we owe the chaste and judicious style in acting 
 which still characterises the Danish stage. A stranger 
 from London or Berlin, we will not say from Paris, is 
 struck in Copenhagen by the wonderful reserve and poetical 
 
144 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 repose that characterises the general tone of the acting ; 
 no one is permitted to rave and saw the air ; it is preferred 
 to lose a little in sensation, if thereby something can be 
 gained in completeness. The great merit now-a-days of 
 Danish acting is not the supreme excellence of a single 
 performance so much as the intelligence of the whole 
 company, and the happy way in which all the important 
 parts are individually made to build up the general 
 harmony of effect. This chastity of art has come down 
 as a tradition from Clementin and Londemann, and for 
 this, if for nothing else, they deserve a moment's recol- 
 lection. 
 
 In 1771, the Royal Theatre entered upon a fresh and 
 fortunate epoch. It became a pensioner of Grovernment, 
 and at the same time received its first important enlarge- 
 ment. This crisis was simultaneous with two events of 
 literary importance. One was the production of the lyrical 
 dramas of Johannes Ewald, the poet who composed the 
 well-known national hymn, 
 
 King Christian stood Iw the high mast, 
 
 and who composed, lying on his back in bed, dying, like 
 Heine, by inches, some of the masterpieces of Danish 
 dramatic literature ; and the other was the production of 
 a single play so unique in its character that it is worth 
 while to pause a few minutes to discuss it. In the course 
 of fifty years, no poet had risen up whose talents in any 
 way fitted him to carry on the war against affectation that 
 Holberg had fought so bravely and so successfully. The 
 comedies of that author, however, still kept the stage, and 
 the particular forms of folly satirised by them had long 
 
'LOVE WITHOUT STOCKINGS.' 145 
 
 ago died and faded into thin air. But affectation bas a 
 thousand hydra-heads, and if a Hercules annihilate one, 
 there are nine hundred and ninety-nine left. The craving 
 after Grerman support and German fashion was indeed 
 dead in 1772, but another fearful craving had taken its 
 place, a yearning after the stilted and beperiwigged 
 chivalry that passed for good manners and good taste in 
 France, or rather on the French heroic stage. To act in 
 real life like the heroes of the tragedies of Voltaire was 
 the universal bourgeois ideal in Copenhagen, and to write 
 as much as possible in alexandrines the apex of good 
 taste. Zaire was the model for a romantic Danish 
 lady. This rococo taste had penetrated to the theatre, 
 where the nobility and the court had introduced it after 
 the death of Holberg. Voltaire had been translated and 
 imitated with great popular success ; and when the Royal 
 Theatre was opened anew after its enlargement, a native 
 tragedy by the court poet, Nordahl Brun, was performed 
 on the opening night. This production, which out-Alzired 
 ' Alzire,' was the finishing touch given to the exotic absur- 
 dity. A young man, who had hitherto l^een known only 
 as the president of a kind of club of wits, rose up and with 
 one blow slew this rouged and ruffled creature. His name 
 was Wessel, and the weapon he used was a little tragedy 
 called ' Love without Stockings.' The title was quite eii 
 regie ; ' Love without Hope,' ' Love without Fortune,' 
 ' Love without Eecompense,' all these are familiar ; and 
 why not ' Love without Stockings ' ? The populace 
 thronged to see this novelty, and Zaire and Zarine and all 
 the other fantastic absurdities faded away in a roar of 
 universal laughter. ' Love without Stockings ' is in some 
 
 L 
 
146 THE LITEEATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 respects unique in literature. The only thing- I know 
 that is in any way parallel to it is Lord Buckingham's 
 ' Eehearsal ; ' and it differs from that inasmuch as that, 
 while the ' Eehearsal ' parodies certain individual pieces 
 of Dryden and others, Wessel's play is a parody of a whole 
 class of dramas.^ ' Love without Stockings ' ! Cannot one 
 love without possessing stockings ? Certainly not, answers 
 Wessel ; at all events, not in the age of knee-breeches. 
 And out of this thought he developes a plot wholly in 
 accordance with the arbitrary rules of French tragedy, 
 with the three unities intact, with a hero and his friend, a 
 heroine and her confidante, with a Fate that pursues the 
 lovers, with their struggle against it, their fall and tragic 
 death. And the whole is worked out in the most pathetic 
 alexandrines, and with a pompous, ornate diction. At 
 the same time, while he adheres strictly to the rules of 
 French tragedy, he does so in such a manner as to make 
 these rules in the highest degree ridiculous, and to set the 
 faults of this kind of writing in the very plainest light. 
 The wedding-day of the two lovers has arrived ; all is 
 ready, the priest is waiting, the bride is adorned, but alas ! 
 the bridegroom, who is a tailor, has no stockings, or, at all 
 events, no white ones. What can he do ? Buy a pair ? But 
 he has no money. Borrow a pair of his bride ? On the one 
 hand, it would not be proper ; on the other, his legs are 
 too thin. But his rival is rich, is the possessor of many 
 pairs of white stockings ; the lover fights a hard battle, or 
 makes out that he does, between virtue and love — but love 
 
 ' Perhai^s the closest English analogue is Henry Carey's Draijon of 
 Wantley, the fun of which was so potent against the Italian opeia in 
 1738. 
 
'LOVE WITHOUT STOCKINGS.' 147 
 
 prevails, and he steals a pair. Adorned in them he marches 
 off to the churcli with his bride, but od the way the 
 larceny is discovered, and the rival holds him up to public 
 disgrace. For one moment the hero is dejected, and then, 
 recalling his heroic nature, he rises to the height of the 
 situation and stabs himself with a pocket-knife. The 
 bride follows his example, tlien the rival, then the confi- 
 dante, then the friend ; and the curtain goes down on a 
 scene in the approved tragic manner. The purity of the 
 language, and the exactitude with which not only tlie 
 French dramas, but the Italian arias then so much in 
 vogue, were imitated, secured an instant success for this 
 parody, which took a place that it has ever since retained 
 among the classics of its country. The French tragedy 
 fell ; an attempt to put Nordahl Brun's ' Zarine ' on the 
 boards again was a signal failure, and the painted Muse 
 fled back to her own Gallic home. The wonderful promise 
 of ' Love without Stockings ' was scarcely fulfilled. 
 Wessel wrote nothing more of any great importance, and 
 in a few years both he and Ewald were dead. The death- 
 blow, however, that the first had given to pompous affec- 
 tation, and the stimulus lent by the second to exalted 
 dramatic writing, brought forward several minor writers, 
 whose very respectable works have scarcely survived them, 
 but who helped to set Danish literature upon a broad and 
 firm basis. The theatre in Kongens Nytorv took a new 
 lease of vitality, and, after expelling the French plays, set 
 itself to turn out a worse cuckoo-fledgling that had made 
 itself a nest there — the Italian Opera. This institution, 
 with all its disagreeable old traditions, with its gang* of 
 castrati and all its attendant aliens, pressed hard upon the 
 
 L 2 
 
148 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 comfort and welfare of native art, and it was determined 
 to have done with it. The Itnlians were suddenly sent 
 about their business, and with slirill screams brought news 
 of their discomfiture to Dresden and Cologne. Then for 
 the first time the Royal Theatre found space to breathe, 
 and since then no piece has been performed within its 
 walls in any other language than Danish. When the 
 present writer heard G-luck's opera of ' Iphigenia in 
 Tauris ' sung there some years ago Avith infinite delicacy 
 and finish, it did not seem to him that any charm was lost 
 through the fact that the libretto was in a language in- 
 telligible to all the hearers. To supply the place of the 
 banished Opera, the Danes set about producing lyrical 
 dramas of their own. In the old Hartmann, grandfather 
 to the now living composer of that name, a musician was 
 found whose settings of Ewald have had a truly national 
 importance. The airs from these operas of a hundred 
 years ago live still in the memory of every boy who 
 whistles. From this moment the Eoyal Theatre passed 
 out of its boyhood into a confident manhood, or at least 
 into an adolescence which lasted without further crisis 
 till 1805. 
 
 It was in that year that the young and unknown poet, 
 Adam Oehlenschlager, wearing out a winter in Germany 
 under all the worst pangs of nostalgia, found in the Uni- 
 versity Library at Halle a copy of the Icelandic of Snorre 
 Sturleson's ' Heimskringia." The event was as full of 
 import to Scandinavian literature as Luther's famous 
 discovery of the Bible was to German liberty. In Oehlen- 
 schlager's own words, he read the forgotten classic as one 
 reads a packet of new-found letters from the dearest friend 
 
 J 
 
OEHLENSCHLAdEE. 149 
 
 of one's youth; and when he reached ' Hakon Jarl's Saga ' 
 in his reading, he laid the folio aside, and in a kind of 
 ecstasy sat down to write a tragedy on that subject, which 
 was the firstfruits of a new epoch, and destined to re- 
 volutionise poetic literature, not in Denmark only, but 
 thi'oughout the North. To follow the development of 
 Oehlenschlager's genius would take us too flir from our 
 present inquiry, and belongs rather to the history of poetry 
 proper than to that of the Danish theatre. It suffices to point 
 out that the real addition to national dramatic art given 
 by these tragedies was that the whole subject-matter of 
 them was taken from the legendary history of the race. 
 Instead of borrowing themes from Italian romance or 
 German tradition, this poet took his audience back to the 
 springs of their own thought and legend ; in the sagas of 
 Iceland he found an infinite store of material for tragic 
 dramas in which to develop emotions kindred to the 
 people in whose language they were clothed, and to teach 
 the unfailing lesson of patriotism to a nation that had 
 almost forgotten its own mediseval glories. In place of 
 the precious sticklers for the unities, Oehlenschlager set be- 
 fore his eyes Shakespeare for a model; but his worship was 
 less blind than that of the German romanticists, and did 
 not lead him into extravagances so wild as theirs. In later 
 years, when he passed from the influence of Goethe, he fell 
 into a looser and more florid style ; but in his earlier dramas 
 he is, perhaps, the coldest and most severe playwright that 
 has ever succeeded in winning the popular ear.' So intent 
 
 ' There can be no question that the early decadence of Oehlen- 
 schlager's genius was mainly due to the absurd excess of laudation 
 showered upon him in Denmark. He rose again, for one moment, in 
 1842, to the height of his power, in the tragedy of ' Dina.' 
 
150 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 was he on insisting on the heroic, primal forms of life, so 
 careless of what was merely sentiment and adornment, that 
 he presents in one of his most famous tragedies, ' Palnatoke,' 
 the unique spectacle of a long drama, in which no female 
 character is introduced. It was not intentionally so; 
 simply Oehlenschlager forgot to bring a woman into his plot. 
 He rewarded the patience of the public by dedicating his 
 next play, ' Axel and Valborg,' entirely to romantic love. 
 The success of this piece on the stage was so great, that, 
 as the poet was away from Copenhagen and wished the 
 printing to be delayed, large sums were given for MS. 
 copies, and a clerk busied himself day after day in writing 
 out the verses for enthusiastic playgoers. As it was seventy 
 years ago with fashionable people, so is it to this day with 
 every boy and maiden. The fame of Oehlenschlager, like 
 that of Walter KScott amongst ourselves, has broadened and 
 deepened, even while it has somewhat passed out of the 
 recognition of the cultivated classes. It is usual now-a- 
 days, in good society, to vote Oehlenschlager a trifle old- 
 fashioned; but for every thoughtful boy his tragedies are 
 the very basis upon which his first ideas ofculture are built 
 up; they are to him the sum and crown of poetry, while all 
 other verses seem but offshoots and imitations ; they are 
 to him what bread is among the necessaries of life. He 
 measures the other poets that he learns to know, by 
 Oehlenschlager, but there is no one by whom he dreams of 
 measuring him; he looks at him as the sun of their planet- 
 circle, and he knows nothing yet of any other solar system. 
 Just as these tragedies are tjie foundation of a Dane's edu- 
 cation, so for the Danish stage they have always been, and 
 will remain, the foundation of everything that the theatre 
 
OEHLENSCHLAGER. 151 
 
 can offer of serious drama, the very cornerstone of the 
 whole edifice: and, rightly enough, an amBitious actor's 
 first desire is to fit himself for the performance of the 
 heroic parts in these, the manner and style being already 
 traditional. The strings that' Oehleuschlager touched had 
 never before been heard in Denmark; he led his audience 
 into a world of thought and vision where its feet had never 
 stood before, and he spoke in a language that had never 
 yet been declaimed from behind the footlights. It was 
 not, therefore, wonderful that some years went by before 
 a school of actors arose whose powers were adequate to 
 the biu'den of these new dramas, and who coidd be the 
 poet's worthy interpreters. Without such interpreters the 
 tragedies of Oehleuschlager might have passed from 
 the stage into the library, and their great public function 
 never have been fulfilled. But as early as 1813, in Ryge, 
 a man of superb histrionic genius, an actor was found wholly 
 worthy to bear the weight of such heroic parts as Hakon 
 Ja rl and Palnatoke ; some years afterwards Nielsen and his 
 celebrated wife began to share this glory, and the palmy 
 days of Danish acting set in. Fru Nielsen was the Mrs. 
 Siddons of the Danish stage; in her highly-strung sensibi- 
 lity, native magnificence of manner, and passionate grace, 
 she was exactly suited to give the correct interpretation to 
 Oehlenschiager's queenly but rather cold heroines. 
 
 The next event in the Royal Theatre was the intro- 
 duction of Shakspeare, but unfortunately he did not 
 arrive alone. The newly-awakened sense for what was 
 lofty and pathetic sought for itself satisfaction in the 
 dreadful dramas of the Grerman * Sturm und Drang Periode,' 
 and threatened to lose its reason completely in the rant 
 
152 THE LITEEATUKE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 and bluster of melodrama. Again the popular sanity was 
 rescued from its perils. We have seen the Danish drama 
 created by the comedies of Holberg, and then fall into the 
 snare of pseudo-classic tragedy; we have seen it saved from 
 this wrinkled and mincing foe by a single scathing parody, 
 and then fall gradually into a condition of tameness and 
 triviality. Out of this we have seen it suddenly lifted into 
 the zenith of the poetical heavens by the genius of Oehlen- 
 schlager ; and now we find it tottering dizzily, and ready to 
 fall into some humiliating abyss. It does not fall, but is 
 carried lightly down into the atmosphere of common life on 
 the wings of a mild and homely muse. Hitherto the stage 
 had been forced to adapt itself to the poet's caprices ; it found 
 in 1825 a poet who would mould himself to its needs and 
 exigencies. Heiberg imderstood how to bring all forms of 
 scenic individuality into his service; for the descendants 
 of Holberg he provided laughter, for the interpreters of 
 Oehlenschlager parts that displayed the mild enthusiam of 
 Scandinavian romanticism. Above all he possessed the art 
 of setting an audience in good humour at the outset ; his 
 most serious dramas had some easy-going prologue, in 
 which good, honest Copenhageners found themselves lightly 
 laughed at, and their own darling haunts and habits por- 
 trayed with a humour that was wholly sympathetic. And, 
 having at his hand more than one young composer of en- 
 thusiasm and talent, and being from the first a passionate 
 admirer of the Swedish airs of Bellman, he brought music 
 and dancing into his plays in a way that the audience found 
 ravishing, and that filled the house as it had never been 
 filled before. His success combined with it that of his inti- 
 mate friend, Hertz, whose southern imagination and passion 
 
HEIBERG. 153 
 
 flowed out in pJays that brought au element of richness and 
 colour into Danish dramatic art that had always been lack- 
 ing before. Heiberg's wife became the first actress of her 
 time ; and these three friends contrived for a long succession 
 of years to hold the reins in all matters regarding the theatre, 
 and in measure, also, to govern public taste in general ques- 
 tions of art and literature. The two poets are both dead ; 
 F'ru Heiberg still lives in honoured age, the centre still of a 
 keenly critical circle. The influence of Heiberg and Hertz 
 on popular feeling in Denmark has been extraordinary; in 
 a larger country it could not have been so powerful, being, 
 as it was, almost wholly critical and of a peculiarly delicate 
 type. The average cultivated Dane now-a-days is very 
 much what Heiberg has made him ; that is, one of the 
 most refined, fastidious, and superficially cultivated men of 
 his class in Europe, but wholly incapable of creating new 
 forms of art, and so perfectly satisfied with its past that lie 
 has no curiosity for its future. The only new class of 
 drama ])roducedin Denmark in our own time is the farces 
 of Hostrup, pieces that belong to the ' cup and saucer ' school, 
 and are very much what Robertson would have written, if 
 Robertson had happened to be born a poet. Let us hope 
 that the new house will bring forward new writers, anrl 
 that the period of lethargy and reaction after the last out- 
 burst of poetry is nearly over. 
 
 An account of the Danish Royal Theatre would be 
 very imperfect without some notice of a form of art which 
 borrows no aid directly from poetry, but which has 
 developed itself in a quite unique manner at Copenhagen. 
 Already in the middle of the last century, under tlie 
 direction of Graleotti, tlie ballet was made a prominent 
 
154 THE LITERATURE OE NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 feature on the boards of the Eoyal Theatre ; and from the 
 records of that time we learn that it already began to be 
 regarded with a seriousness that has hardly been afforded 
 to it elsewhere. However, it was not until about fifty 
 years ago that it took the peculiar form which it now 
 holds, and which gives it a national importance. If one 
 can fancy an old Gfreek in whose brain the harmonious 
 dances of a divine festival still throbbed, waking suddenly 
 to find himself settled in this commonplace century as 
 dancing-master at the Eoyal Theatre of Copenhagen, one 
 can form some notion of the personality of Bournonville. 
 Tins poet, to whom the gift of words seems to have been 
 denied, has retained instead the most divine faculty for 
 devising intricate and exquisite dances, and for framing 
 stories of a dramatic kind, in which all the action is 
 performed in dumb show, and consists of a succession 
 of mingled tableaux and dances. These dumb poems — in 
 the severely intellectual character of which the light and 
 trivial pettiness of what all the rest of Europe calls a 
 ballet is forgotten — are mostly occupied with scenes from 
 the mythology and ancient history of Scandinavia, or else 
 reflect the classicism of Tborwaldsen, with whose spirit 
 Bournonville is deeply imbued. No visitor to Copenhagen 
 should miss the opportunity of seeing one of these beauti- 
 ful pieces, the best of all, perhaps, being ' Thrymskviden ' 
 (the ' Lay of Thrym,' a giant king), to which Hartmann 
 has set the wildest, most magical music conceivable. 
 Certain scenes in this ballet remain on the mind as 
 visions of an almost ideal loveliness. The piece is oc- 
 cupied with the last days of the ^sir, the gods of heathen 
 Scandinavia, against whom, it will be remembered, be- 
 
THE DECLINE OF THE DKAMA. 155 
 
 trayed by Loki, the Evil God, one of themselves, the 
 powers of darkness and chaos rose, and who sank to 
 destruction in the midst of a general conflagration of the 
 imiverse. When once the natural disappointment that 
 follows the discovery of these colossal figures of the ima- 
 gination dwarfed to human proportions has subsided, 
 the vigour and liveliness of the scenes, the truly poetic 
 conceptions, the grace and originality of the dances, 
 surprise and delight one to the highest degree ; and the 
 vivid way in which the dumb poem is made to interpret 
 its own development is worthy of particular attention, the 
 insipidity of ordinary ballet-plots giving all tlie more 
 piquancy to the interest of this. 
 
 It cannot be wholly without value to us to be made 
 aware of the success of other nations in fields where we 
 have been notoriously unsuccessful ourselves. Without 
 falling into any of the jeremiads that have only been too 
 plentiful of late years, we may soberly confess that our 
 own theatres have long ceased to be a school for poetic 
 education, or influential in any way as leaders of popular 
 thought or taste. They have not attempted to claim any 
 moral or political power ; they have existed for amuse- 
 ment only, and now, in the eyes of most cultivated 
 persons, they have ceased even to amuse. Over the drop- 
 scene at the Koyal Theatre at Copenhagen there stands in 
 large gold letters this inscription : ' Ej blot til Lyst ' — 
 not merely for enjoyment : and in these simple words 
 may be read the secret of its unique charm and the source 
 of its power. It has striven, not prudishly or didacti- 
 cally, but in a broad and healthy spirit, to lead the 
 popular thought in high and ennobling directions. It 
 
156 THE LITEEATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 has not stooped to ask the lowest of its auditors how near 
 the edges of impropriety, how deep into the garbage of 
 vulgarity and slang, how high in the light air of triviality 
 it dared to go ; it has not interpreted comedy by farce, 
 not turned tragedy into melodrama, nor dirtied its fingers 
 with burlesque, but has adapted itself as far as possible, 
 meekly and modestly, to the requirements of the chastity 
 of art, and has managed for a century and a half to 
 support a school of original actors and a series of national 
 plays without borrowing traditions or dramas from its 
 neighbours. Denmark is an extremely insignificant 
 country ; but that exemplary insect, the ant, is also small, 
 and yet the wisest of men deigned to recommend it to 
 human attention. 
 
FOUR DANISH POETS. 
 
 The revival of romantic poetry in Denmark was almost 
 exactly coeval with the movement of Wordsworth and 
 Coleridge amongst ourselves, and in each case the intro- 
 duction of a somewhat poor and inartistic element from 
 Germany was the immediate cause of the development 
 of a rare, vigorous, and many-sided poetic art. In 
 Denmark, two Scandinavian exiles brought romanticism 
 back with them on their return ; of these one was a 
 philosopher, Henrik Steffens, the other was a poet, Schack- 
 Staffeldt. These persons did for their country not only 
 what Coleridge did for England, but what he proposed to 
 do. In theory and practice, by stirring lectures and by 
 exquisite lyrics, they pointed their countrymen to the 
 value of abstract and mystic thought, and in the same 
 dreamy spirit to the popular legends and ancient mytho- 
 logy of their country. Steffens indeed was met by public 
 disapproval, but in private discussion he lit the ambition 
 of Oehlenschlager and Gnmdtvig, and a new epoch com- 
 menced. To chronicle the bare facts of the fertile and 
 brilliant period that ensued, merely to enumerate works 
 of all the romantic poets from Schack- Staff eldt to Paludan- 
 Miiller, would need more than one volume. The efflo- 
 rescence of Danish poetry lasted about half a century, 
 
158 THE LITEEATUKE OF NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 from 1800 to 1850, and in this sliort space of time tlie 
 valuable part of the literature of Denmark was trebled in 
 bulk. I have thought it might be of some interest, and 
 not unsuited to the limited space at my command, if I gave 
 a rapid sketch of the characteristics of four deceased poets, 
 widely divergent from one another, each of the highest 
 eminence in his own line, and with each of whom it has 
 been my privilege to come into some measure of personal 
 intercourse. These four were the last ' survivors of a race 
 of intellectual giants, the tradition of whose prestige will 
 long give Denmark an honourable prominence among the 
 nations of Northern Europe. 
 
 It was on the last Sunday of July 1872 that I set out 
 to hear Bishop Grundtvig preach in the little workhouse 
 chapel, called the Vartou, opposite the trees and still 
 waters of the western ramparts of Copenhagen. I had much 
 desired for some time past to satisfy the curiosity I felt 
 to see the oldest poet, certainly, then alive in Europe, but 
 my friends were of the orthodox party in the Church, and 
 some little difficulty was made. However, the amiability 
 of my host overcame his scruples as a rival theologian, 
 and we set out together. We found seats with difficulty, 
 for the chapel was crowded with communicants, the day 
 being of special importance among the sect. After 
 sitting more than half-an-hom-, surrounded by strange 
 fanatic faces, and women who swung themselves to and 
 
 ' I do not forget Christian Winther, but regard him as the first of 
 a new school, rather than as the last of tlie old. 
 
GEUNDTVia. 159 
 
 fro in silent prayer, it seemed to be decided that tlie 
 Bishop was unable to come, and we began to sing- hymns 
 in the loud, quick, joyous manner invented by the poet, 
 and very different from the slow singing in the state 
 churches. Suddenly, and when we had given up all hope, 
 there entered from the vestry and walked rapidly to the 
 altar a personage who seemed to me the oldest man I 
 had ever seen. He prayed in a few words that sounded 
 as if they came from underground, and then he turned 
 and exhorted the communicants in the same slow, dull 
 voice. He stood beside me for a moment as he laid his 
 hands on a girl's head, and I saw his face to perfection. 
 For a man of ninety, he could not be called infirm, but 
 the attention was drawn less to his vitality, great as it was, 
 than to his appearance of excessive age. He looked like 
 a troll from some cave in Norway ; he might have been 
 centuries old. 
 
 From the vast orb of his bald head, very long silky 
 hair, perfectly white, fell over his shoulders, and mingled 
 with a long and loose white beard. His eyes flamed 
 under very beetling brows, and they were the only part of 
 his face that seemed alive, even when he spoke. His 
 features were still shapely, but colourless and dry, like 
 parchment. I never saw so strange a head. When he rose 
 into the pulpit, and began to preach, and in his dead 
 voice warned us all to beware of false spirits, and to try 
 every spirit, he looked veiy noble, but the nobility was 
 scarcely Christian. In the body of the church he had 
 reminded me of a troll ; in the pulpit he looked more 
 like some forgotten Druid, that had survived from Mona 
 and could not die. It is rare indeed to hear any man 
 
160 THE LITEKATUKE OF NOETHERN EUROPE. 
 
 preach a sermon at ninety, and perhaps unique for that 
 man to be also a great poet. Had I missed seeing him 
 then, I should never have seen him ; for he took to his 
 bed next day, and in a month the grand old man was 
 dead. 
 
 Nikolai Frederik Severin Grundtvig was born in 1783, 
 at the parsonage of Udby, in the south of Zealand. All 
 his relatives were Zealand folk : both on the father's and 
 mother's side the family had been Danes of the most 
 Danish intensity for loug generations. Perhaps this has 
 had something to do with his great love of all that is 
 national and homely ; of all the Northern writers, not one 
 has so exclusively been a man of the people. When he 
 was only nine years old he was sent away to school in Jut- 
 land, and while he was here the news came of the execu- 
 tion of Louis XVI. The poet was wont to declare that he 
 could remember it ; doubtless the great events in PVance 
 were the subject of much excited talk in the tutor's house 
 at Tyregodluud. When he was fifteen he was sent to the 
 Latin school at Aarhuus, but long before this his mind had 
 begun to take in literary impressions. On the wild moors 
 of Jutland, lie had learned to steal out alone with old 
 chronicles and war-songs under his arm, and devour strange 
 romances. At Aarhuus he made friends with a little old 
 shoemaker, and, sitting by his fireside through the long 
 winter nights, heard folk-song after folk-song, and story 
 after story. In 1800 he became a student at the Uni- 
 versity of Copenhagen, and began to study Icelandic. 
 About 1803 he came under the influence of his cousin, 
 Henrik Steffens, then a very prominent man just returned 
 from Germauy full of Fichte and Schelling, and whose 
 
GRUNDTVIG. 161 
 
 lectures on the poetic treatment of themes of popular 
 history were a revelation to the young men of the day. 
 The works of Steffens are almost forgotten now- a-days, but 
 in the earliest years of the century he was a power in the 
 North of Europe, more by the almost magnetic attraction 
 of his personal presence than by any great depth or value 
 in his words. 
 
 In a pretty country-house, in the island of Langeland, 
 where he was tutor, Grundtvig now began to throw him- 
 self heart and soul into literature. He studied Icelandic, 
 that he might make himself master of the ancient sagas ; 
 German, that he might revel in Goethe and Tieck ; and 
 English, that he might stand face to face with Shakspeare. 
 But what roused the young Titan more than all was the 
 publication of Oehlenschlager's first volume of poems, 
 which came to him in his solitude in Langeland, and fired 
 him with a new ambition. Henceforth he was a poet, but 
 his first two works, though published under the patronage 
 of Eahbek, the Maecenas of Danish letters, fell dead from 
 the press. But he had many strings to his bow. In 1 807 
 he published ' On Religion and Liturgy,' in which he 
 stepped forward as a spiritual reformer, urging the neces- 
 sity of a broader spirit in religious matters. The daring 
 tone of the book drew people's attention to its author. In 
 1808 he appeared before the public in yet another guise, 
 as author of ' The Mythology of the North,' a first attempt 
 at a philosophico-poetical interpretation of the Scandi- 
 navian miyths, and this was followed by a long epic poem 
 of similar drift, ' The Decline of Heroic Life in the Nortli.' 
 Literary work was carried by him to such an excess that 
 in 1810 his nervous system gave way, and the young poet 
 
 M 
 
162 THE LITEEATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 had to go home to his father's house to be nursed. Here 
 he wrote ' A Short Sketch of the World's Chronicle,' a 
 fanatical and violent work, which roused a good deal 
 of ill-feeling against him. In 1813 his father died, and 
 he came to live in Copenhagen. There his literary am- 
 bitions blossomed out in the most fervid manner. The 
 seven years of his stay in the city are filled with the record 
 of ceaseless labour ; he published in that period a great 
 mass of poetical, theological, and philosophical works, 
 edited and wrote a newspaper, and translated into the best 
 Danish, Snorro Sturleson, Saxo-Grammaticus, and Beo- 
 wulf. In 1821 he came with his newly-wedded wife to 
 live at Prsesto, a little country town in Zealand, of which 
 he had been made pastor ; but the provincial life proved 
 unbearable, and in a few months he flitted back to the 
 capital. 
 
 Hitherto his life had been one of constant and well- 
 merited success, but now a hand was interposed to stop the 
 onward course of victory. It must be confessed that his own 
 imwisdom drew it on him. In the University of Copenhagen 
 a Dr. Clausen was Professor of Theology ; Grundtvig, who 
 had long passed beyond the romantic theology of Steffens, 
 considered Clausen too much addicted to rationalistic 
 ideas, and openly, even violently, charged him with heresy. 
 The result was a law- suit for libel, and Clausen was suc- 
 cessful. Grundtvig was heavily fined, and placed under 
 ecclesiastical censure, a ban which was not removed for 
 sixteen years. He retired from publicity in consequence, 
 and lived as a private man of letters ; the languages and 
 popular literature of the peoples of the North continued 
 to be his constant study. . He interested himself in Anglo- 
 
GRUNDTVia. 163 
 
 Saxon, and, that he might explore all the streams of that 
 language at their fountain-head, he paid four successive 
 visits to England. In 1842, especially, when the Trac- 
 tarian movement at Oxford was beginning to work so 
 powerfully in the English Church, Grrundtvig, who had 
 watched the battle from afar, came over to us again, that 
 he might study on the spot the various currents of excited 
 religious opinion then dividing English society. All this 
 while he was not entirely without public influence in theo- 
 logical matters ; soon after his disgrace, he sought and at 
 last obtained permission to preach in a single church in 
 Copenhagen, where he, Sunday by Sunday, declaimed and 
 exhorted in his peculiar manner to a select audience of 
 disciples. At first his influence was very small, but his 
 pupils, if few, were extremely enthusiastic, and his 
 doctrines have so far spread as to have formed a sect who 
 glory in the name of Grundtvigians, and who comprise 
 within their numbers a large proportion of the inhabitants 
 of Denmark and Norway, and not a few in Sweden. In 
 his later years he has spent much labour in advocating a 
 new scheme of education for the peasants, by means of what 
 are called Popular High Schools. These schools are carried 
 on under Grrundtvigian principles, — that is, everything the 
 old poet has counselled is carried out on an extravagant 
 scale — for he remarked, it is said, that he never was a 
 ' Grundtvigian ' himself, and never sanctioned half the 
 follies that are perpetrated in his name. These Higli 
 Schools are now found all over Denmark and Norway. 
 The peasants meet together, men and women, in the 
 winter nights, and are taught to read and write, if that 
 is needful but chieflv receive oral instruction in the 
 
164 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 elements of singing, and above all, study the history of 
 their country in Grrundtvig's rhythmical chronicles and 
 songs. In Denmark the schools are extremely popular, 
 and the spirit of hatred towards the ' German tyrant ' 
 is strongly fostered in them, for every Grundtvigian is, 
 above all things, intensely a Dane. 
 
 In religious matters Grundtvig never divided him- 
 self distinctly from the Danish Church ; to the last he 
 remained within the pale of it. But at the very time 
 that he was confutino- the neologism of Professor Clausen 
 he was developing views at variance with Danish ortho- 
 doxy. He opposed the usual view of the inspiration of 
 the Bible with great subtlety, and with evident sincerity, 
 though his views were neither entirely logical nor entirely 
 original. He first made public his convictions at the 
 very time when an extremely interesting work of an 
 analogous character was appearing in England, the ' Con- 
 fessions of an Inquiring Spirit,' by S. T. Coleridge. But 
 while Coleridge conscientiously refers to Lessing as the 
 suggester of his ideas, Grundtvig was under the impres- 
 sion that his own were entirely new. The formula 
 upon which all that is peculiar in his teaching rests, is 
 that ' the Church of Christ is founded on a word, and not 
 on a book ; ' and so, without in any way rejecting the 
 Bible, he considers it secondary to the Creed, and would 
 fain trace this last to the actual oracular word of Jesus. 
 If this theory be vague, it is at the same time quite un- 
 deniable that Grundtvig has brought about a great and 
 salutary revival in the practical character of the Danish 
 Church. He has introduced animated and popular preach- 
 ing, hearty singing and frequent communions, with a new 
 
GRUNDTVIG. 165 
 
 and excellent hymn-book for general use, in which he 
 has superseded the tiresome and conventional pieces of 
 the last century in favour of the stirring and national 
 hymns of such ancient poets as Kingo and Brorson. At 
 the same time, the most sober-minded theologians looked 
 askance at Gfrundtvig's doctrinal laxities. He was an old 
 Pagan at heart, after all, a viking — baptized, indeed, and 
 zealous for the faith, but dim on all crucial questions of 
 dogma. His youth had been wearied by much abstract 
 talk about virtue, and it was the conquering power and 
 wide-spreading enthusiasm, rather than the morality of 
 the gospel, that charmed him. The picturesque and an- 
 thropomorphic features of religion delighted him to a 
 dangerous excess, and he was not always very sure if it 
 were Christ or Baldur for whom he fought. The great 
 point was to be always lighting for some pure and personal 
 deity. For the Old Testament he scarcely disguised his 
 indifference. His ardour and his glowing passion made 
 the common people hear him gladly, but grave theolo- 
 gians, such as Dr. Martensen and Dr. Fog, eminent 
 divines whose creed was crystallised in systems of 
 Christian ethics and Christian dogmatics, always held aloof 
 from the rash and emotional schismatic. Grundtvig's 
 title of Bishop was only an honorary one ; he never held 
 a diocese. 
 
 As a poet, one of the greatest of Scandinavian critics has 
 called Grrundtvig ' the younger brother of Oehlenschlager ; ' 
 but he differed greatly from that eminent man, and in- 
 deed from all later Danish poets, in being no artist, but 
 essentially a fighter, a man of action. He never cared to 
 address the polite world of letters ; he wrote poems for the 
 
166 THE LITEKATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 people, and in return there is no poet in our time whose 
 works have been read and loved in the homes of the 
 peasants as his have been. ' Like a bird in the green- 
 wood, I would sing for the country folks, so that my song 
 might pass from mouth to mouth, and give delight from 
 one generation to another. It will be my greatest happi- 
 ness, as a child-like poet, if I can write songs that will 
 make bare legs skip in the street at the sound of them. 
 That shall be called my best poem, my greatest glory and 
 memorial, which is the greatest favourite in Danish 
 harvest-fields when the girls are binding sheaves. That 
 shall be my crowned and accepted poem which inclines 
 most girls to the dances at every country wedding.' This 
 is, at least, a very intelligible ambition, and a very 
 arduous one. It can hardly be said that Grrundtvig has 
 the perfect simplicity and repose that such an aim re- 
 quires. He is, perhaps, of foreign writers, the one most 
 near to Carlyle in temperament. On all sides of his 
 genius he was a little too destructive ; he gloried through- 
 out his long life in opposing himself to conventional 
 forms and conventional aspirations : he even found an 
 exhilaration in the mere act of fighting. He was a 
 dangerous old literary bersark to the last. Slightly 
 altering his own words, we may take them as describing 
 his life's course : — 
 
 This hero followed not the tide ; 
 He dashed the waves of thought aside, — 
 Above his hair their wild spray passed, 
 But only silvered it at last. 
 
 It was in lyrical composition that he achieved the 
 
BODTCHEK. 167 
 
 greatest triumphs ; as a lyrist he will always rank high 
 among the poets of the North, although he lacked the gifts 
 of concentration and compression. 
 
 II. 
 
 There can never have existed two poets more widely 
 different in genius and disposition than Grundtvig and 
 Bodtcher, who for nearly eighty years lived as fellow- 
 citizens of the same little state. They had almost less 
 in common than Burns and Keats ; the first was essen- 
 tially a man of action, the second as essentially a dreamer 
 and an artist. Ludvig Adolph Bodtcher was born on 
 April 22, 1793, being thus by eight months Shelley's 
 junior. When he was a very little child the young 
 Oehlenschlager came to act in private theatricals with his 
 brothers, and thus in his father's house the boy became 
 acquainted with the new romantic literature. Oehlen- 
 schlager became his first master in verse, but he soon 
 learned to express his very plastic and definite genius 
 in his own wa;y. In 1812 he went to the university, and 
 lounged easily through an uneventful student-life in which 
 love and verse outweighed the attractions of deep study. 
 Early in life his innocent epicureanism asserted itself, 
 and when in 1824 his father died, leaving him a small 
 fortune, he did not hesitate an hour, but set off at once 
 to live in Italy. He settled in Kome ; his rooms looked 
 on to the Piazza Barberini, and exactly opposite him 
 was Thorwaldsen's studio. For eleven years he received 
 at his window every morning the great sculptor's greeting 
 from the shinina: street below, and he became in time the 
 
168 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 most intimate of all the friends of Thorwaldsen. In his 
 own house he held a little court for Scandinavian poets and 
 painters visiting Kome ; and the enjoyable monotony of 
 his life was only broken by little excursions into the moun- 
 tains or to the Bay of Naples. His favourite spot outside 
 Rome was Nemi, the scenery of which inspired several of 
 his most exquisite verses. The simplicity and idle ease 
 of Eome delighted Bodtcher ; he was able to do exactly 
 what he pleased, and in company with Thorwaldsen he 
 associated with an extraordinary group of personages. To 
 the studio came the King of Bavaria, the ex-Eang of 
 Holland, Dom Miguel of Portugal, and Napoleon's old 
 mother Letitia, while Bodtcher counted among his own 
 visitors not these only, but King Frederick VII. of Den- 
 mark, Sir Walter Scott, Cornelius and Horace Vernet. 
 To study so motley a crew of notabilities was the 3^oung 
 Danish poet's delight, and he filled up the odd corners of 
 his timie by polishing to their last perfection one after 
 another of his own adorable verses, composing with the 
 utmost deliberation and at long intervals. 
 
 In 1835 Thorwaldsen died, and it then became 
 apparent that Bodtcher had deserved well of Denmark, 
 for it was only by liis constant and untiring effort that 
 the versatile sculptor had beeu induced to leave his works 
 to his own country. Bodtcher had had to fight the battle 
 step by step with the King of Bavaria, who had made up 
 his mind to secm'e the sculptures for Munich, and who 
 could not conceal his displeasure when the poet outwitted 
 him at last, by inducing Thorwaldsen to sign the deed of 
 bequest. To accompany the precious freight to Copen- 
 hagen, Bodtcher tore himself away from Italy. With 
 
BODTCHER. 169 
 
 all his late friend's masterpieces around him, be set out 
 from Leghorn with a gay ' a rivederla ! ' to the Italian 
 coast, which he was not fated to revisit. For finding 
 himself once again in Copenhagen, his easy indolent 
 nature led him to put off the idea of returning southwards, 
 until his life had taken root again in the North. As, 
 however, he made a little Denmark around him in Eome, 
 so in Copenhagen he contrived to enjoy something still of 
 Italy. With his guitar, his roses, his quaint friends, he 
 lived his own life without constraint, profoundly careless, 
 because unconscious, of the ' fall of sceptres and of crowns.' 
 His philosophy was that of Anacreon, or rather of Omar 
 Khayyam : he never vexed himself about liis soul ; he 
 lived for enjoyment only, but then he enjoyed not merely 
 the sunshine, and flowers, and choice wines, but still more 
 the conversation of his friends and the diapason of the 
 noble poetry of all time. He was no critic, but his range 
 of poetic pleasures was very wide, and if he had a fault it 
 was foolish indulgence to every needy man of letters who 
 sought his help or his sympathy. To Bodtcher went the 
 poetess who was ' misunderstood ' at home, and the anti- 
 quarian whose researches a cold world derided. In liim 
 at least they always found an auditor. It did not occur to 
 him to publish his own poems until 1856, when he was 
 already an elderly man. They fill one slender volume, 
 which has been augmented since his death by another still 
 more slender. 
 
 Ludvig Bodtcher is one of the most finished poets that 
 the North has produced : the entire collection of his works 
 is no larger than the poems of Thomas Grray, but almost 
 every one of them is a gem, cut and engraved with the most 
 
170 THE LITERATUEE OF NOETHERN EUEOPE. 
 
 exquisite precision. In metrical construction his lyrics 
 have an extraordinary delicacy and shapeliness ; he is the 
 most consummate artist in form among the Danish poets. 
 His most characteristic pieces unite a kind of dry sparkle 
 of humour with the intense light and vivid form of anti- 
 quity or of Italian landscape. Among these the longest 
 and finest is ' The Meeting with Bacchus,' a delicious 
 ' piece of Paganism,' as Wordsworth would have called it. 
 The poet leaves the dewy gardens of Frascati in the early 
 morning, and on a stout mule climbs towards Monte 
 Porcia. The rosy radiance of the morning strikes them 
 as they pass the ancient Tusculum, and the smiling poet 
 finds that the mule is smiling too. In this joyous mood 
 they wend on their way, and the poet falls into a dream, 
 in which the lovely modern laodscape becomes full of 
 antique life. At last, at the side of an old rock-cistern, 
 he shouts ' Evoe ! ' and starts to hear a triple echo. 
 Suddenly he perceives at his side the ancient altar of 
 Bacchus, and before him rise a motley group of satyrs. 
 
 ' And lo ! in a quiet reverie beside me, a youtli lay stretclied upon 
 the marUe, with a dreamy smile as if his thoughts rekhidled the dark 
 fires of antique art, 
 
 ' The sandal which bound his foot was delicately fastened ; one 
 arm supported his head, the other, with a glass in the hand, lay along 
 the table naked, as though Phidias had carved it. 
 
 ' Mine eyes sank when that youth turned and gazed on me, for 
 midnight owns no star so sparkling as his eyes were, and yet my looks 
 were chained to their clear fires.' ' 
 
 The youth pours out a cup of wine, and when the poet 
 praises it, says coldly, ' Non c'e male ! ' ' Not bad, indeed ! 
 show me a better,' cries the guest ; ' Si, Signore ! ' replies 
 
 ' Appendix Z. 
 
BODTCHBE, 171 
 
 the youth, and bids him follow. He leads him to a rustic 
 dwelling in the rock, all overgrown with ivy, and leads 
 him down into a cellar. He crushes marvellous red 
 grapes into a beaker, and the poet lifts up his song 
 of praise to Bacchus, while still the youth gravely 
 smiles. 
 
 ' He loAvered the Leaker ; there came a cascade of fire, a murmur 
 of vine-leaves, and then all the cavern was filled with a perfume of 
 wine, mingled with roses and jasmine. 
 
 ' I drank, while my eyes gazed intently beyond the glory and the 
 A'apour ; the first grew like a magian's lamp, the last became a dim 
 veil of pearl, through which all seemed mistier but fairer than before. 
 
 ' It seemed to me that pillars rose from the floor, and shot out 
 marble shoulders, over which a cupola sprang high into the roof, and 
 that roimd the alabaster of the walls the ivy swung in festoons. 
 
 ' But such a mist hung round me ! then it cleared, and lo ! the 
 wine-casks had disappeared, and seven yellow leopards, still and 
 severe, lay watching me, with folded paws. 
 
 'Then, reeling with the vision, I turned to the youth that 
 brought me thither smiling. He rested, majestic, on a thyrsus, and his 
 look was terrible. I fell before him in the dust, and stammered 
 " Dionysos ! " ' i 
 
 He wakes to find that he has been dosing in the 
 wood by the road-side, and that his mule stands patiently 
 by him. I cannot hope in this bald sketch to give any 
 idea of the form and beauty of a poem that approaches 
 as near perfection as modern verses can. This is perhaps 
 the finest of Bodtcher's lyrics, though there are several 
 others that in precision and originality, — in the qualities 
 of a cameo or an intaglio, clear form carved in colour, — 
 come very near it. 
 
 I had the privilege of being presented to this charming 
 
 ' Appendix AA. 
 
172 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 old man and divine poet, during the last year of his life. 
 He was living in Svsertegade, a litfe street in Copenhagen, 
 where he occupied rooms high up the house, close under 
 the sky. I was introduced by an esteemed friend of his, 
 and the singularly genial and gentle manner of his welcome 
 put me at my ease with him at once. His sitting-room 
 was thoroughly in keeping with his character. It was 
 filled with works of art and memorials of his life in 
 Italy. Behind his arm-chair stood Bissen's bust of the 
 poet when he was a young and handsome man. It could 
 not be said of liim at eighty-one that he was otherwise than 
 pleasant-looking, although the loss of one eye was a 
 marked disfigurement. He wore dark spectacles, and a 
 snuff-coloured wig ; his figure was tall and spare, his fore- 
 head very full at the temples ; and his mouth had 
 evidently been large and sensitive, like Keats's. His one 
 blight eye was still of an extraordinary brilliance and 
 vivacity. It was the first year, he explained to me, that 
 he had not been able to get out into the beech-woods on 
 * Pinsedag ' or Whitsunday, a day on which Copenhagen 
 is always deserted, and the forests are filled. It was on 
 "Whitsunday that we visited him, and the old gentleman 
 was a little inclined to be mournful about it. But he 
 cheered up as the sun came out and lighted into intense 
 pale green the young leaves of a beech-tree, in a pot 
 which filled the window, flanked by two rose-bushes. 
 ' Ah I ' he said, ' the sun through the leaves is as good as a 
 flower to me, and when you are gone, I shall sit for the 
 rest of the day and dream of the woods.' He talked 
 readily of his friendship with Thorwaldsen, and chuckled 
 as he recounted the oft-told tale of how he outwitted the 
 
BtoTCHEE. 173 
 
 King of Bavaria. WTiile he talked he sat on a forhoining, 
 or raised platform in the window ; his restless eye seemed 
 all the while to follow something, and presently I dis- 
 covered that opposite him an oblique mirror allowed him 
 to watch the life passing in the street below. On the 
 wall behind him hung his guitar ; of his carpet he used 
 to say that it was very costly, when you considered how 
 many of the best cigars had to be consumed over it 
 before it got so rich a colour, from the descending 
 smoke ; every object in the room had its particular anec- 
 dote or association connected with it ; each could only 
 have belonged to Bodtcher, and the gentle epicurean 
 seemed not the least precious or the least antique of the 
 objects of art. 
 
 His smile was sweet and humorous^ — such a smile as 
 Charles Lamb might have given a visitor in his happiest 
 and quietest hours. It was on the 25th of May 1874 that I 
 had the pleasure of this welcome ; next day I received a 
 little note and the poet's photograph. In July he sent 
 me a kind greeting in a letter from Christian Winther, 
 and on the 1st of October of the same year he died, after 
 one day's illness. To the very last he clung to his old 
 habits, singing his own songs in a feeble broken voice, 
 and playing meanwhile on the guitar. He left behind 
 him the fragrant memory of a long life, in which there 
 was no sadness or baseness, but in which art and an affec- 
 tionate nature were self-sufficient to the close. 
 
 UI. 
 
 There was no man of genius in Europe so accessible 
 as Hans Christian Andersen. Whether in his own house 
 
174 THE LITER ATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 in Havnegade, or in the country at Eolighed, where his 
 friends the Melchiors had fitted up rooms for him, he 
 was at the service of any visitor who brought with him 
 the pass-word of enthusiasm and respect. He delighted 
 in publicity, and responded to the sympathy of strangers 
 with the utmost alacrity. I saw him in 1872, and again 
 in 1874, and he did me the honour to write to me 
 frequently between the earlier date and his death. Yet, 
 although he accepted me at once into his intimacy, I can- 
 not pretend that I have anything very characteristic to 
 add to the published memorials of one of the most singular 
 persons of our time. For Andersen throughout his long 
 literary life never scrupled to make the world his con- 
 fidante, and that with the utmost sincerity ; so that his 
 friends could but testify to the minute fidelity of hi^. 
 portrait of himself. It is true that that portrait is not to 
 be found complete in those stories for children, which are 
 chiefly associated with his name in the mind of the 
 English public. "We have to read the ' Komance of My 
 Life,' and his chatty, egotistic books of travel, to realise his 
 chai'acter, but in these it is drawn as firmly and coloured 
 as richly as if Titian had survived to paint his features. 
 
 The passion for hoarding up little treasures of every 
 kind — pebbles that friends had picked up, leaves that had 
 been plucked on a certain day, odd mementoes of travel 
 and incident — was always strongly developed in Andersen. 
 He hated to destroy anything, and he dragged about with 
 him, from one lodging to another, a constantly increasing 
 store of what irritable friends were apt to consider rubbish. 
 In like manner, he could not endure to tear up paper with 
 writing upon it, even if that writing were disagreeable 
 
ANDERSEN. 175 
 
 or derogatory to his dignity. Hence, when his executors 
 began to examine the piles of MS. that the poet had left 
 behind him, they came upon such a mass of correspondence 
 as few eminent persons can ever have bequeathed. Most 
 people are glad to destroy any letter in which their 
 own conduct is sharply criticised or in which reproof is 
 administered to an obvious fault. But it was part of the 
 crystal innocence of Andersen's character, than whom a 
 simpler or a purer creature never breathed, to preserve 
 with the utmost impartiality the good and the evil, the 
 praise of his friends and their blame. Consequently, 
 there is little need of personal memorials of Andersen. 
 In his writings we can trace every change of tempera- 
 ment, every turn and whim of this guileless and trans- 
 parent mind. 
 
 Few English people, perhaps, are aware how numerous 
 and how versatile are the writings of Andersen. He at- 
 tempted almost every form of authorship in the course of 
 his long life. He was born on April 2, 1 805, at Odense, 
 in the Danish island of Funen. His father, a poor shoe- 
 maker, whose love of books and book-learning made him 
 discontented with his trade, died in the poet's early 
 childhood, and until his confirmation Andersen was left 
 in the charge of his mother, an ignorant and superstitious 
 but kindly person. Until Andersen's death the true 
 raciness and originality of her mind were unknown ; but 
 her letters to her son, which then came to light, pi'ove 
 her to have been, in shrewdness, wit, and sense, worthy to 
 be the mother of a great man. Except during the few 
 hours' wi'etched instruction at the Poor School, he was 
 chiefly occupied witli a little theatre of marionettes, on 
 
176 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 which he brought out various pieces, generally of his own 
 composition. This early taste for theatrical pursuits was 
 nourished in the child by a visit paid to Odense by some 
 of the company of the Eoyal Theatre of Copenhagen. 
 The actors gave special performances, and on these 
 occasions Andersen managed to get on the boards and 
 mix with the supers. After this, of course, the Copen- 
 hagen stage was the great aim of his life. After his 
 confirmation in the autumn of 1819, he travelled up to 
 the capital to try his fortune, and entered the dancing 
 and singing school at the theatre ; but it soon became 
 plain that he had no histrionic talent, and when his voice 
 broke he was obliged to leave. However, he had managed 
 to awaken interest in several very distinguished men — 
 in Collin, Eahbek, the Oersteds, Baggesen, Weyse, and 
 Siboni — and by their efforts he obtained a free entrance 
 into the Latin school at Slagelse ; when the rector of the 
 school, the learned Meisling, was transferred to the 
 college at Helsingor, he took Andersen with him. ^Mei- 
 sling, however, though learned, was unsympathetic, and 
 without understanding at all what was great and lovely 
 in Andersen's character, made his eccentricities the object 
 of untiring ridicule. The young man who had already 
 written ' The Dying Child,' and appeared as a poet, in 
 1827, in such influential journals as the 'Kjobenhavnspost' 
 and Heiberg's ' Flyvende Post,' could at last bear this no 
 longer, and came back to Copenhagen, where L. C. Moller 
 introduced him into the University in 1828. The year 
 after he published his first important work, ' A Journey on 
 Foot from Holmen's Canal to the East Point of Amager,' 
 and the same year had produced, on the boards of the 
 
ANDERSEN. 177 
 
 Eoyal Theatre, ' Love on St. Nicholas' Tower,' a comic 
 vaudeville in rhymed verse, which parodied the romantic 
 dramas of the day ; during the ensuing Christmas season 
 appeared his first collection of poems, of which several 
 already had attained consideralble notoriety in the ' Fly- 
 vende Post.' In 1830 Andersen made the first of many 
 travels, a tour in Funen and Jutland, and in 1831 
 published a volume of ' Fancies and Sketches,' which was 
 not so well received as his earlier works, and was es- 
 pecially cut up by Hertz in his powerful ' Gjenganger- 
 Breve.' This want of success, a blighted love experience, 
 and other misfortunes threw Andersen into a painful 
 condition of despondency, and he was ordered to travel 
 for his health. He went to Grermany, and published on 
 his return ' Shadow-Pictures of a Tour in the Hartz and 
 Saxon Switzerland.' In 1832 appeared his 'Vignettes of 
 Danish Poets,' and a new volume of poems entitled ' The 
 Twelve Months of the Year.' He was lucky enough to 
 receive a draft of money for travelling from the Grovern- 
 ment in the spring of 1833, and proceeded to Paris, 
 where he met the enfeebled and almost blind P. A. 
 Heiberg. Later in the year he was in Rome, Avhere he 
 fell in with Thorwaldsen and Bodtcher, and with his own 
 great opponent. Hertz. In the summer of 1834 Andersen 
 returned to Copenhagen, where in the meantime his 
 beautiful dramatic poem 'Agnete and the Merman,' 
 which he had sent home from Switzerland, had appeared. 
 After his return was published in 1835 his exquisite 
 romance ' The Improvisatore,' which he had commenced 
 in Rome, and in which he sketches the life of the country 
 folk in Italy, as in his next romance, ' (). T.,' which came 
 
 • N 
 
178 THE LITEEATUEE OF NORTHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 out the year after, he sketches the sarae in Denmark. 
 But in the meantime, by the publication of his first 
 volume of 'Eventyr,' or 'Fairy Tales' in 1835, Andersen had 
 laid the foundation of his immense reputation, and the 
 successive series of these stories, unapproached in modern 
 literature for depth, pathos, and humour, continued to 
 appear Christmas by Christmas, the most welcome gift 
 to young and old. In 1852 they ceased to be entitled 
 ' Eventyr ' and were called ' Historier.' To the same 
 class belongs the inimitable ' Picture-Book without Pic- 
 tures,' 1840. To his novels Andersen added in 1848 
 'The Two Baronesses.' In 1837 came ' Only a Player.' 
 Another novel was ' To be or Not to be.' In 1853 
 Andersen published his own autobiography, under the 
 title of ' My Life's Komance.' As a dramatic author he 
 has also shown no small genius, though this is not the 
 most brilliant side of his life's work. The romantic 
 dramas of ' The Mulatto,' 1840, and ' The King is Dream- 
 ing,' 1844; the romantic operas of 'Little Christie,' 
 1846; 'The Wedding by Lake Como,' 1848; with 
 certain small comedies, especially ' The New Lying-in 
 Eoom ' (' Den ny Barselstue ; ' Barselstuen being a very 
 popular piece by Holberg), 1845, attained very marked 
 success at the Eoyal Theatre, which was also the case 
 with the fairy comedies, ' More than Pearls and Gold,' ' Ole 
 Lukoie ' and ' Hyldemoer,' which were brought out in 1849, 
 1850, and 1851 respectively at the Casino Theatre at 
 Copenhagen. Andersen was incessantly moving hither and 
 thither over the Continent of Europe, and on one occasion 
 he crossed the Mediterranean Sea. The results of his ob- 
 servations were given to the public in a variety of chatty 
 
ANDERSEN. 179 
 
 and picturesque volumes, of which the most characteristic 
 were 'A Poet's Bazaar,' 1841; 'In Sweden,' 1849; and 
 'In Spain,' 1863. 
 
 Andersen's nature craved the excitement of travel, and 
 wherever he went he made himself acquainted with the 
 prominent literary people of the place. There is no doubt 
 that this personal habit helped his genius to make itself 
 heard outside the borders of Denmark sooner than it 
 would otherwise have done, but this has also been greatly 
 exaggerated in Denmark, where some unworthy but not 
 inexplicable jealousy was felt of the ubiquitous poet who 
 carried his fame over Europe with him. It is well known 
 that Andersen was a visitor of Dickens's at Gradshill ; two 
 years earlier he had been Wagner's guest in Berlin, and 
 almost every literary or artistic man of eminence in 
 Europe received a visit from him at one time or 
 another. In 1861 he was at Kome just in time to see 
 Mrs. Browning before her death, and to receive from her 
 the last stanzas she ever wrote : — 
 
 ' And oh ! for a seer to discern the same ! ' 
 
 Sighed the South to the North. 
 ' For a poet's tongue of baptismal flame, 
 To call the tree or the flower by its name ! " 
 
 Sighed the South to the North. 
 
 The North sent therefore a man of men 
 
 As a grace to the South, 
 And thus to Rome came Andersen. 
 ' Alas, but you must take him again ! ' 
 
 Said the South to the North : 
 
 verses which the old poet was never tired of repeating in 
 his broken English. 
 
 Among all his multitudinous writings, it is of course 
 
 N 2 
 
180 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 his so-called Fairy Tales, his ' Eventyr,' that show most 
 distinctly his extraordinary genius. No modern poet's 
 work has been so widely disseminated throughout the 
 world as these stories of Andersen's. They affect the 
 Hindoo no less directly than the Teutonic mind ; they 
 are equally familiar to children all over the civilised 
 world. It is the simple earnestness, humour, and tender- 
 ness that pervades them, their perfect yet not over-subtle 
 dramatic insight, their democratic sympathy with all things 
 in adverse and humble circumstances, and their exquisite 
 freshness of invention that characterise them most, and 
 set them on so lofty a height above the best of other 
 modern stories for children. The style in which they are 
 composed is one never before used in writing ; it is the 
 lax, irregular, direct language of children that Andersen 
 employs, and it is instructive to notice how admirably he 
 has gone over his earlier writings and weeded out every 
 phrase that savours of pedantry or contains a word that a 
 child cannot learn to understand. When he first wrote 
 these stories he was under the influence of the Grerman 
 writer Musaeus, and from 1830 to about 1835 he was 
 engaged in gradually freeing himself from this exotic 
 manner, and in bringing down his style to that perfection 
 of simplicity which is its great adornment. 
 
 In character, Andersen was one of the most blameless 
 of human creatures. A certain irritability of manner that 
 almost amounted to petulance in his earlier days, and 
 which doubtless arose from the sufferings of his childhood, 
 became mellowed, as years went on, into something like 
 the sensitive and pathetic sweetness of a dumb animal. 
 There was an appeal in his physical appearance that 
 
ANDERSEN. 181 
 
 claimed for him immmiity from the rough ways of the 
 world, a childlike trustfulness, a tremulous and confiding- 
 atfectionateness that threw itself directly upon the 
 sympathy of those around. His personality was somewhat 
 ungainly : a tall body with arms of very unusual length, 
 and features that recalled, at the first instant, the usual 
 blunt type of the blue-eyed, yellow-haired Danish peasant. 
 But it was impossible to hold this impression after a 
 moment's observation. The eyes, somewhat deeply set 
 under arching eyebrows, were full of mysterious and 
 changing expression, and a kind of exaltation which never 
 left the face entirely, though fading at times into reverie, 
 gave a singular charm to a countenance that had no pre- 
 tension to outward beauty. The innocence and delicacy, 
 like the pure frank look of a girl-child, that beamed from 
 Andersen's face, gave it an unique character hardly to be 
 expressed in words ; notwithstanding his native shrewd- 
 ness, he seemed to have gone through the world not only 
 undefiled by, but actually ignorant of its shadow-side. 
 The one least pleasing feature of his character was his 
 singular self-absorption. It was impossible to be many 
 minutes in his company without his referring in the 
 naivest way to his own greatness. The Queen of Timbuc- 
 too had sent him this ; the Pacha of Many Tails had 
 given him such an Order ; such a little boy in the street 
 had said, ' There goes the great Hans Andersen ! ' These 
 reminiscences were incessant, and it was all the same to him 
 whether a little boy or a great queen noticed him, so long 
 as he was favourably noticed. If, however, the notice was 
 unfavourable, he was inconsolable for the time being, and 
 again in this case it mattered nothing from what source 
 
182 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 the censure came. The Norwegian poet Welhaven used 
 to relate that he was once in a Copenhagen coffee-house 
 with Andersen, when the latter, glancing at one of the 
 lowest and most ribald prints of the hour, became sud- 
 denly excessively agitated. With trembling hands he 
 pointed out to Welhaven a passage in which some 
 miserable penny-a-liner had pointed a coarse jest with an 
 allusion to Andersen's appearance. ' Is it possible,' 
 Welhaven asked, ' that you, with a European reputation, 
 care what such a man says of you in such a place ? ' 
 ' Yes,' replied Andersen, with tears in his eyes, ' I do — a 
 little ! ' This intense craving for perpetual laudation, no 
 matter from whom, was an idiosyncrasy in Andersen's 
 character not to be confounded with mere vulgar vanity. 
 It sometimes assumed really magnificent proportions, as 
 when he once said to a friend of mine, an old friend of his 
 own, in deprecation of some fulsome praise from abroad, 
 ' It is true that I am the greatest man of letters now 
 living, yet the praise should not be to me, but to God 
 who has made me so.' It was a strange and morbid 
 characteristic, to be traced, no doubt, to the distressing 
 hardships of his boyhood. It was harmless and guileless, 
 but it was none the less fatiguing, and it was so strongly 
 developed that no biographical sketch of him can be 
 considered fair that does not allude to it. During his 
 lifetime, it would have been inhuman to vex his pure 
 spirit by dwelling on a weakness that was entirely beyond 
 his own control; but it is only just to his own country- 
 men, who have been so harshly blamed for their want of 
 sympathy with him, to mention the fact which made 
 Andersen's constant companionship a thing almost in- 
 
ANDERSEN. 183 
 
 tolerable. In a small community like that of Copenhagen, 
 a little personal peculiarity of this kind is not so easily 
 overlooked as in a wider circle. 
 
 He passed peacefully away at eleven o'clock on the 
 morning of August 4, 1875. He died just outside the 
 northern suburb of Copenhagen, at Eolighed, in the arms 
 of a family who had devoted themselves for years to the 
 care of their eminent guest ; here he fell asleep, in the 
 truest sense, for out of a mild and peaceful slumber of 
 many hours' duration, he never awoke. He had been 
 suffering acutely and hopelessly from a complaint that 
 now proved to have been cancer, and for some years past 
 his life had been one of ceaseless suffering, patiently and 
 even heroically borne. Four months before the end he 
 had completed his seventieth year, and in the festivities 
 of that day he had been able in great measure to join. 
 He could never rally from the relapse brought on by the 
 excitement of this birthday, which was celebrated by the 
 whole nation, from the royal family downwards, as a 
 public holiday. He had the joy of receiving the greatest 
 honour a poet can take from his country, the erection of a 
 statue which will remind all coming generations of his 
 outward form and feature, and having lived to receive this 
 glory, not from one man or one clique of men, but from 
 all Denmark, it was permitted him to rest from liis suffer- 
 ing. He could not have died at a moment when his 
 fame, spread from one end of the world to tlie other, was 
 more living than it is now, and in dying he took from 
 among us the most popular of all contemporary writers of 
 the imagination. It is said that the very last literary 
 subject in which he took interest was the history and 
 
184 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOKTHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 work of his own great predecessor, the Hindoo fabulist, 
 Bidpai, and the best books on that writer lay strewed upon 
 his death-bed. 
 
 IV. 
 
 So many poets came up to the University of Copenhagen 
 in 1828, that some wit dubbed them the four greater and 
 the twelve minor prophets. This classification caused a 
 great deal of amusement at the time, and is still re- 
 membered because Hans Christian Andersen happened to 
 be one of the major prophets, and Paiudan-lNIiiller to be 
 one of the minor. The minor prophet, indeed, lived to 
 see himself easily first among the children of Parnassus in 
 Denmark. 
 
 Frederik Paludan-Miiller was the third son of^a 
 remarkable man, Jens Paludan-Miiller, who died as Bishop 
 of Aarhuus, and who became famous after his death as a 
 theological writer of much vigour. Each of his sons 
 became distinguished in one way or another. Frederik, 
 the poet, was born at Kjerteminde, a little town in Funen, 
 on February 7, 1809. He went to school at Odense in 
 1820, a few months after Andersen — poor little forlorn 
 adventurer that he was— left that city for the capital. In 
 1832 he wrote four romances, in the hope of gaining a 
 prize offered by the Society of Fine Arts. He was un- 
 successful, but the romances, which were published, 
 attracted attention. The same year he brought out a 
 romantic drama, ' Love at Court,' wliich had a considerable 
 run, and still holds the stage. But when, in 1833, he 
 printed his delicious poem of 'The Dancing Grirl,' with 
 
PALUDAN-MULLER. 185 
 
 all its profusion of wit, pathos, and melody, his position 
 as a poet was made. In 1834 he opened a new 
 poetic vein, since admirably worked by Swinburne 
 amongst ourselves, and by Paul Heyse in Germany, with 
 his lyrical drama of ' Amor and Psyche,' a work displaying 
 stilistic gift of the first order, and which produced much 
 such a sensation in Copenhagen as, thirty years later, 
 attended ' Atalanta in Calydon ' with us. At this pomt 
 he began to go a little wrong ; his next production, a 
 story in rhyme, called 'Zuleima's Flight,' being tinged 
 with Byronisms and other inscrutable insipidity. The two 
 volumes of ' Poems,' however, in 1836 and 1838, redeemed 
 his reputation. All this time the poet had been quietly 
 working away at his literary and juridical studies, and 
 had attained his thirtieth year with no more exciting 
 experience than could be contained in a walking-tour 
 through the north of Zealand. He set out, however, in 
 1838, for a two years' wandering over Europe ; he only once 
 left Denmark again. The life of such a hermit is but a 
 catalogue of his works. In 1841 he published his lyrical 
 drama of ' Venus,' and the first part of ' Adam Homo,' an 
 epic which it is customary to mention as his masterpiece. 
 In 1844 appeared the noble drama of 'Tithonus' and the 
 delicate idyl of ' The Dryad's Wedding.' His later pro- 
 ductions were the conclusion of 'Adam Homo,' 1848; 
 ' Abel's Death,' 1854 ; ' Kalanus,' 1857 ; ' Paradise,' 1861 ; 
 'Spirits of Darkness in the Night,' 1862 ; 'Ivar Lykke's 
 Story,' a prose novel ; ' The Times are Changing,' a 
 comedy, 1874 ; and ' Adonis,' 1874. In the face of such a 
 barren list of titles, the curse of Babel does indeed become 
 a burden. It is useless to recommend the reader to the 
 
186 THE LITEKATUKE OF NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 books themselves, and how is a weary critic to persuade 
 him of the value of their contents ? This, however, I 
 shall presently attempt to do. 
 
 In 1872 Paludan-Mliller was living- in one of a little 
 group of houses in the Royal Park of Fredensborg, on the 
 left-hand side in driving up to the palace. It would be 
 difficult to secure a more poetic situation. The great 
 undulating park extended on all sides, with its classic 
 solitude, its ricli hoard of memories from the last century, 
 and its delicious greensward swept by the long boughs of 
 the beeches. From the back of the poet's house, the park 
 sloped away to the Esrom Lake, the most beautiful of all 
 the beech-smrounded meres of North Zealand. There, in 
 the most exquisite silence, broken only by the sound of a 
 deer that came down to drink, the poet could watch from 
 dawn to gloom 
 
 The lake-reflected sun illume 
 The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom. 
 
 The court was never at Fredensborg, except for a little 
 time in the summer, and its idyllic quiet was unbroken. 
 The old palace was always there to remind the wanderer, 
 with its clean white walls and green cupola, of the beperi- 
 wigged gentlemen and bepatched ladies that had flirted 
 down its smooth arcades. The place fostered the morbid 
 melancholy of Paludan-Miiller, and yet it possessed that note 
 of refinement and personal elegance which he would have 
 missed in a retreat more purely sylvan. When I saw him 
 first he had not received a stranger for years; he asked pardon 
 for his manifest agitation, as some veritable Robinson Crusoe 
 might do in suddenly re-viewing a European face. But 
 
PALUDAN-MULLER. 187 
 
 he was then at the very point of recovering from his strange 
 melancholy illness, and so far woke up to new life that he 
 proposed to me a series of early morning walks, and at last 
 conceived it possible that he might journey to London. This 
 he never contrived to do, but he returned to Copenhagen 
 and to society, and when I saw him again in 1874 he was 
 looking ten years younger. He had a singularly fine and 
 spiritual face, the eyes large and clear, the hair silvery 
 when I knew him, but deep yellow in earlier life. In 
 speaking he expressed himself with emphasis, and in some 
 cases a little too dogmatically for modern habits of thought, 
 and he had but slight personal sympathy for his con- 
 temporaries. I was full of enthusiasm for the Norwegian 
 poet, Ibsen, and spoke of him on one occasion to Paludan- 
 Miiller, but he confined himself to a rather cynical con- 
 demnation of the close of ' Brand.' It was evident that 
 he found no place in art for anything but the ideal beauty 
 of which he was himself so exquisite an exponent. His 
 adoration for the memory of his father was a very marked 
 point in his cliaracter ; in a review of one of his books 
 I had especially indulged this pious foible in order to 
 please him, and he recollected it two years afterwards with 
 vehement commendation. The news of his death was a 
 great surprise to his friends, for he had regained an un- 
 wonted vigour in 1874 and 1875. But the winter of 
 1876, that was fatal to Christian Winther, was fatal also 
 to him, and within three days ; for while tlie latter died on 
 December 30, Paludan-Miiller died on December 27, 1876. 
 There can be little doubt, that posterity will judge 
 Adam Homo ' to be its author's greatest claim to a place 
 among poets of the first class. This epic, in ottava rmia, 
 
188 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 is the history of a single man, a Dane in the Denmark of 
 the poet's day, from his cradle to his grave. The hero is 
 a Philistine of the Philistines, but his character is worked 
 out with an irony so subtle, that we begin by sympathising 
 with the man that we end in ridiculing and despising. 
 The poem is full of great and original qualities ; humour 
 and satire give place in rapid interchange to descriptive 
 and pathetic passages of the most delicate beauty. Dr. 
 Brandes, in his brilliant volume on the modern Danish 
 poets ('Danske Digtere,' 1877), a work no Scandinavian 
 student should be without, has very justly said of ' Adam 
 Homo,' that it is 'a piece of Denmark, a piece of our 
 history, a piece of living cloth cut out of the web of time.' 
 But to the foreign reader it certainly lacks the cosmo- 
 politan interest of the writer's lyrical dramas. Of these the 
 greatest is, without doubt, ' Kalanus,' and I cannot give a 
 better idea of the genius of Paludan-Miiller, than by an 
 analysis of this noble poem. 
 
 The scene is laid far back in heroic times, when the 
 great presence of Alexander overshadowed the ancient 
 world, and the story of his patience, and his labour, and his 
 glory was in the mouth of all men living. Kalanus, an 
 Indian, born by the Ganges, and brought up in a temple 
 of Brama, has been living in the hills near the sources of 
 the Indus, as a solitary mystic, worshipping the Invisible 
 Unity whom men call Brama. Day after day, kneeling 
 by the river-side among the palms, he has prayed and 
 longed for a manifestation of the incarnate Godhead. 
 Born about the same time as the son of Philip of Macedon, 
 his life has been spent in the silence of unbroken devotion, 
 tended by his old mother and a faithful slave. Meanwhile, 
 
PALUDAN-MiJLLER. 189 
 
 Alexander has driven like a tempest through the world, 
 achieving the ultimate possible aim of an active sensuous 
 nature. To Kalanus in his mystical existence of almost 
 supernatural calm comes the glorious Alexander, sailing up 
 the Indus with his fleet; the myfatic had been praying 
 most importunately for the divine vision — 
 
 There by the prow I saw him staud, 
 With hehnless hair, and like the moruing suu ! 
 His lotus-eyes flashed beams of radiance round ! 
 For ever all my heart and soul are his ! 
 
 In absolute faith that this is Brama, he forces himself into 
 Alexander's presence. The conqueror, pleased with his 
 enthusiasm, invites him to join his train, and forthwith 
 Kalanus, lu"s old mother, and all their small possessions, 
 are moving with the Grreek army in its westward retreat. 
 The first important halt is at Pasargadse, in Persia, and 
 here the play opens and continues to the end. 
 
 The first act begins with a fine symphony that strikes 
 the key-note of the whole play at once. Kalanus and his 
 mother are saluting the rising smi with their song of morn- 
 ing prayer, that their pure souls may rise with his into the 
 ethereal kingdom of the Truth, losing })ody and sense in 
 the perfection of the soul. This is the day on which 
 Kalanus is to have audience of Alexander, and he counts 
 the hours till the splendid moment shall arrive. Sankara, 
 his mother, who knows nothing of his conviction, is troubled 
 by his sudden pas sion i(y t Grreat King, and asks its 
 cause. ' Why,' she asks, ' is the clear flame of thy devo- 
 tion, which no wind could move, now become a quivering 
 tongue of unsteady fire ? Has the sight of one man so 
 changed thee ? ' Then he unfolds to her his new-born faith. 
 
190 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 that this hero, that man called Alexander, is no other than 
 the universal Brama made flesh to visit humanity. To his 
 dazzled and inexperienced imagination all things seem to 
 point to this one goal, and his intensity easily wins Sankara 
 to his view. Most subtly is the growth of this new faith, 
 born of desire and introspection, and fed by distance from 
 its object, sketched by the poet in Kalanus' confession to 
 his mother ; we are won into love and respect for the mild 
 mystic at once, and the dreamier his speculations are, the 
 more musical is his expression of them. Passing over some 
 side-scenes of great interest, we move on to the meeting of 
 Kalanus and Alexander. The Indian approaches the palace 
 as if it were a sanctuary, but his soul has no fear of the 
 divinity ; all his nature is absorbed in that pure love that 
 casts out fear ; he will at last wind his frail humanity round 
 the omnipotent deity, as the ivy curls round the straight 
 stem of the cocos-palm. Alexander meets him with the 
 light patronage of an emperor at his ease, rallyingKalanus 
 good-natm-edly on his reticence and gloom, but saying no- 
 thing so obviously mortal as to shake the Indian in his 
 confidence. Presently the conversation turns on those 
 questions of divine ethics which are nearest to the heart of 
 Kalanus. The reticence of the mystic melts in the fiery 
 heat of his own ecstasy, and pours itself along the channels 
 of Alexander's activities and aims, so strange to him. 
 His soul overflows with the sudden accession of new 
 thoughts and new desires, and the king, becoming deeply 
 interested in his impassioned admirer, adopts a seriousness 
 unusual to him, and exerts his great and masculine intelli- 
 gence in presenting new ideas of energetic action to the 
 passive Indian. The soul of Kalanus, in his own esteem, 
 
P ALUD AN-MtJLLER. 1 9 1 
 
 now first wakes into full bloom of thought ; this one 
 
 interview with the divine though concealed Brama has 
 
 effected it, — 
 
 As iu my country, after one night's rain, 
 The desert blossoms with a million flowers ; 
 
 — and he throws himself into the dust in adoration. 
 
 The beginning of the next act is occupied with the 
 humours of two Grreek philosophers — Mopsos, a sensual 
 atheist and scoffer ; Pyrrhon, a troubled doubter — who 
 argue, and after a while combine to cross-question Kalanus 
 and to trouble his pure soul, unused to such a spirit of 
 false philosophy. To Mopsos the enthusiasm of Kalanus 
 for the king is merely the cringing of a toady ; to Pyrrhon, 
 it is a mystery of genuine belief almost incredible in its 
 novelty. Alexander and Hephsestion join the three, and 
 Kalanus once more basks in the sunlight of Brama's sup- 
 posed presence. All minor vexations are lost in the joys 
 of adoration. The progress of this long scene is in the 
 highest degree masterly; the five characters are drawn 
 with a firm and vigorous hand, and the .interest, though of 
 a purely intellectual character, is sustained and heightened 
 to the end. Kalanus, whose utterances during his season 
 of complete conviction were conspicuous for harmony, be- 
 comes more and more fragmentary and discordant as Alex- 
 ander, in the easy neighbourhood of friends, slips into a 
 frivolous vein of badinage that is most unlike the spirit 
 of Brama. As the wine heats his brain, Alexander becomes 
 still more jocose, and orders Kalanus to dispute with 
 Mopsos on philosophical questions ; the Indian, struggling 
 against his own dejection, obeys. The selfish scepticism 
 of Mopsos is reproved by the sublime mysticism of his 
 
192 THE LITEEATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 opponent, who proclaims that the ultimate desire of the 
 soul is to be absorbed into the Eternal, — 
 
 Returning like a drop of dew, and lost 
 
 In that great fountain-ocean whence it came. 
 
 As this great idea, new to all the scoffing Greeks, is 
 being discussed and ridicided, the doors burst open, and 
 the whole changes into one of those splendid scenes of 
 glowing, sensuous colour, in painting which Paludan- 
 Miiller shows a singular delight. A chorus of girls, led 
 by two of the most distinguished hetairai of the time, all 
 garlanded, and singing to the music of stringed instru- 
 ments, rush into the palace. No one heeds Kalanus, who 
 has risen behind Alexander, and stands there rigid and 
 pale with passion. There follows some exquisite choral 
 writing, and at last Thais, pouring out her soul into a 
 lyric that is like a ' god's voice hidden in a bird,' throws 
 her lute aside and flings herself into the arms of Alexander. 
 But before she can reach her royal lover, Kalanus is 
 between them, with a knife, ready to sacrifice the impious 
 nymph. The king angrily brushes him aside, Thais rushes 
 to embrace Alexander, and the whole company, singing 
 and shouting, leave the palace to seek fresh revels else- 
 where. Kalanus is left alone, a dying priest in a polluted 
 shrine ; the god he has been worshipping proved to be a 
 mere naan, the slave of wine and women, tossed about by 
 vulgar and ungodlike passions. He departs in unutterable 
 sorrow. 
 
 In the third act, Alexander, repenting of his foll}^ 
 under the exhaustion of the morning after the revel, is 
 troubled at the absence of Kalanus, and learning that a 
 
PALUD AN-M LILLE R. 193 
 
 pyre is being built on which it is reported that the Indian 
 is about to destroy himself, he supposes that the cause of 
 Kalanus's despair is his own harshness, and starts in person 
 to reassure him of favour. In a later act Sankara and her 
 son are discovered in their hut, and Kalanus is sleeping. 
 He wakes calm and quiet, but when Sankara attempts to 
 dissuade him from self-immolation, his purpose is shown 
 to be firm and absolute, and again she gives way before 
 his more powerful will. But in his sleep he has had a 
 glorious vision of Brama, and his fancy is no longer haunted 
 by the desire of an anthropomorphic revelation of the Grod- 
 head, but is securely content to pass into the splendour of a 
 Presence whose form and fashion he knows not, but in whom 
 he trusts with an infinite repose. This vision of glory, 
 and a clearer intellectual perception of the mystery of 
 divine things, lift him above all mundane hopes and fears. 
 His mother leaves him to prepare the bath of purification, 
 and Alexander enters, addressing Kalanus with gracious 
 courtesy. To the conqueror's intense surprise, he finds, 
 instead of a suppliant, broken-hearted at his feet, a calm 
 and resolute opponent. Alexander assures him of his 
 friendship; takes for granted that this report of a funeral 
 pyre is untrue ; commands, entreats, at last kneels to him 
 for a promise to save his own life ; storms at him with 
 sudden passion ; entreats again, but to no avail. Kalanus 
 stands outside the magic ring, and in the power of his 
 purity is stronger of will than the world's master. This is 
 one of the most powerful scenes in the poem. Tired out 
 with his efforts, Alexander leaves him at last, swearing to 
 prevent his purpose with physical force. But here also the 
 mystic's wiJl is stronger than the king's, and in the last 
 
 o 
 
194 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 act Alexander sanctions the burning of Kalanus. The 
 philosopher approaches his own fiery tomb with a solemn 
 elation, a sublime joy. Dismissing the troops, casting 
 aside the adornments that Alexander has sent to do him 
 honour, he gathers his own countrymen about him, mounts 
 the pyre, and in the midst of a choral invocation to the 
 spirit of Brama, expires, his soul rising to the skies like 
 wine poured out into the fire. The chorus around pro- 
 claim his absorption into the Universal Oneness that is 
 spirit and light. 
 
 The work which seems to me to approach most 
 nearly to the classic severity and grace of ' Kalanus ' is 
 the last thing that Paludan-Miiller published, his greeting 
 to approaching Death, of whom he had ever been a lover. 
 This is ' Adonis,' a short poem of less than fifty stanzas, in 
 the manner of the early mythological studies in which the 
 poet developed his poetic individuality in its purest and 
 most ideal form. It belongs to the same class of his 
 writings as ' Tithon ' and ' Amor and Psyche,' though it 
 is much slighter and more direct than these. Charon is 
 represented as just setting his sail to catch the weak wind 
 that blows along the Styx, when he hears a voice cry to 
 him from the landing-place, and before he has time to 
 turn, a beautiful youth has leaped into his boat. The 
 thin ghosts shudder together at the unwelcome coming of 
 one so full of life. Charon inquires his name, and learns 
 that it is Adonis, who, snatched away from men by 
 Aphrodite, has found that good fortune at last a burden, 
 whose heart has remained unsatisfied among all the Paphian 
 roses, and who now has escaped from her, and goes to lay 
 his devotion and his desire at the feet of Persephone, 
 
PALUDAN-MULLEE. 195 
 
 flying from pleasure that lie may find rest. ' For I must 
 always love, and always love a goddess ; that was m}' 
 destiny, and I have followed it all my life. Venus and 
 Proserpine were near when I was born, and before 1 
 began to breathe two goddesses were contesting to possess 
 me.' Aphrodite has held his manhood first ; now, weary 
 of a love so exciting and so exhausting, he turns with 
 irrepressible longing to the goddess, crowned with calm 
 leaves, in whose hushed dominions there are no budding 
 and no falling flowers. The boat of Charon passes in 
 silence down the dark channel, roofed in with rocks, the 
 pulse of the oars alone breaking the deep stillness. Arrived 
 at the harbour of death, a shade summons the coming- 
 shades to the banquet of Pluto. Adonis sees them 
 disappear, as he stands alone upon the desolate margin of 
 the stream. Presently a dead-pale maiden comes, bearing 
 a torch, and cries, ' Charon, is he come ? ' This girl 
 Persephone sends daily to inquire if Adonis has arrived. 
 At last, after so many years, the answer is ' Yes ! ' She 
 binds his eyes, and leads him through the realms of death, 
 down into the hall of the infernal gods, where, when his 
 eyes are unbound, he sees Persephone sitting on her 
 throne in silence and solitude. A tinge of red flies to her 
 white cheeks, she opens her majestic arms, and breathes 
 his name ; with an outburst of passionate love he throws 
 himself at her feet, and tells her how, even in the arms of 
 Aphrodite, he has loved her, and now has flown to her to 
 experience with her keener and deeper pleasures than the 
 earthly goddess could give him. But Persephone repels 
 his caresses, and warns him that she has no love to give 
 him that can be likened with the love of passion ; if he 
 
 o 2 
 
196 THE LITEEATUKE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 seeks for that he is deceived, but she also loves him, and 
 she has better gifts for whom she loves. While the 
 beautiful Adonis still clasps her knees with his hands, she 
 bids a maiden fill a beaker with the waters of Lethe. He 
 drinks the divine nepenthe, and has only just time to 
 respond to the kiss the goddess presses on his mouth, 
 before he sinks at her feet in slumber, and lays his weary 
 head upon her knee. So, through the ages these two 
 remain unmoving, — Adonis in a happy dream, forgetful 
 of all past passions and desires, Persephone bending over 
 him with a grave smile, pleased at her final victory over 
 her earthly rival. The open heavens are above them ; and 
 time is only marked by the waxing and the waning of the 
 moon. 
 
WALT HER VON DER VOGELWEIDE. 
 
 When the history of mediseval poetry comes to be written 
 we shall understand, perhaps, what must remain very dark 
 till then, how it was that during the marvellous twelfth 
 century, amid all the chaos of the shattering and building 
 of empires, such sudden simultaneous chords of melody 
 were shot crosswise through the length and breadth of 
 Europe, interpenetrating Iceland and Provence, Acquitaine 
 and Austria, Normandy and Italy, with an irresistible 
 desire for poetic production. In that mysterious atmo- 
 sphere, in an air so burdened with electric force, the or- 
 dinary rules of germination and growth were set aside ; 
 out of barbarous races, and wielding the uncouthest of 
 tongues, poets sprang full-armed, so many Athenes born 
 suddenly adult from the forehead of the new Gothic civi- 
 lisation. That was an age of rapid movement and brilliant 
 development, an age thirsting for discovery and invention, 
 ready with one hand to fill the West with the new-found 
 marvel of the pointed arch, with the other to push with 
 sword and cross far into the fabulous East. It was at such 
 a time, under such violent auspices, that poetry was born, 
 full-grown, in Grermany; the rude-bud of folksong blossom 
 ing in one single generation into the most elaborate art, 
 
198 THE LITEEATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 only to wither again, as is the wont of such sudden' 
 blooms, in as short a time as it had taken to expand. No 
 more such brilliant verse was written in Grermany, until 
 the time of Groethe, as was produced between the years 
 1150 and 1220, by a group of poets residing mainly at the 
 courts of Austria and Thuringia. It would be out of place 
 here to give any sketch, however slight, of the influences 
 brought to beai' upon them from without. We must hurry 
 over the various cardinal points which demand mention, 
 before we can intelligibly introduce the subject of this 
 memoir. It was about the year 1140 that an Austrian 
 knight, whose name has not been preserved, gathered into 
 epical shape the scattered ballads which form what we 
 know as the ' Nibelungenlied.' Somewhat later, another 
 Austrian, of equally obscure personality, collected the 
 priceless epos of ' Kudi'un.' The minne-song, the lyric of 
 love, was at the same epoch invented or imported by the 
 great German lyrist, Heinrich von Veldecke, and his ex- 
 ample was shortly followed by the simultaneous outburst 
 of the four great poetic voices of medieval Germany — the 
 nightingales as they called themselves — Gottfried von 
 Strassburg, Hartmann von Aue, Wolfram von Eschenbach, 
 and Walther von der Vogelweide. The genius of the first 
 three of these was essentially epical. In the ' Tristan ' of 
 Gottfried, in the ' Iwein ' of Hartmann, in the ' Parzival * 
 and 'the ' Titurel ' of Wolfram, we have the four great 
 epics of romance literature, the four poetic pillars on which 
 the whole structure of High-German language and litera- 
 ture rests. In these unique works, steeped in the purest 
 colours of knight-errantry and chivalry, and written in 
 verse-forms of astonishingly delicate art, we have in it& 
 
EPICS. 199 
 
 original and undiluted form that spirit of romance that 
 has so often since fascinated and bewitched the youth of 
 Europe into more or less fatuous imitation. By the side 
 of this native poetry may be set the epics of foreign ex- 
 traction, the masterpiece among which was that ' Alex- 
 andersage ' of the Pfaffe Lamprecht so extravagantly 
 eulogised by Gervinus. But this epical literature was not 
 the sole product of the age ; a lyrical growth accompanied 
 it, represented by myriads of minor singers, and one man 
 that by common consent ranks as high as the three great 
 epicists. This first of mediaeval German song- writers was 
 Walther von der Vogelweide. 
 
 Over the earliest years of his life there rests an ob- 
 scurity which is likely to remain impenetrable. We know 
 neither the year nor the place of his birth, his rank in 
 society, nor the name of his family. In lack of clearer 
 data than his own verses give us, we may roughly put 
 his birth down at about the year 1170, or nearly a century 
 before that of Dante. That he was of gentle, but not 
 noble birth, is judged by the title given him by all of his 
 contemporaries of Herr Walther, the ' Herr ' being the 
 token of the knightly middle class, in contradistinction to 
 the burghers, who were styled Meister.^ Over his appellative 
 ' von der Vogelweide ' a great deal of ingenious speculation 
 has been expended. ' Walther of the Bird Meadow ' has 
 been fancifully supposed to be a name adopted by himself, 
 
 • It is perhaps not generally known that the race of meister- 
 singers has been extinguished only in our own day, and that there is 
 still alive, at the age of over eighty, at Ulm, a grave-digger named 
 J. Best, who is absolutely the last survivor of the last guild of meister- 
 singers in Germany. This guild was dissolved in 1839. 
 
200 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 either to signify that he was born in some hamlet secluded 
 in the midst of the forest, among the birds, or else merely 
 in token of his own great love for wild places and little 
 birds. But ' Fogilweida ' is understood to mean aviarium 
 in Middle High Gferman ; that is to say, an enclosed space 
 where birds are artificially confined. It would therefore 
 be difiicult to believe that the lover of wild things would 
 take this name from choice, and fortunately the difficulty 
 has been cleared up very lately by the discovery in an old 
 manuscript of the thirteenth century, of the existence of an 
 estate called Vogelweide in the Tyrol, which has now long 
 since disappeared, and there is little doubt that it was hence 
 our poet came, especially as one of his friends and followers, 
 a sweet minor minne-singer of that time, Leutolt von Seven, 
 was born, we know, in that very valley in Tyrol. This 
 mountain province, even in that early time, had not a 
 little thirst after literary glory, and several of its poets, 
 contemporary with Walther, have been fortunate enough 
 to have their 'Lieder' preserved, now to be piecemeal 
 printed by modern admirers. Walther, however, was not 
 satisfied with a local reputation, and very early in life he 
 seems to have left the paternal home to seek his fortune 
 in Vienna. 
 
 There was no more attractive city in Germany to a 
 young man with his life before him than the capital of 
 Austria in 1 190. No part of the Empire was so prosperous 
 or so devoted to the graceful arts as the neighbourhood of 
 the Viennese com't, and, what would have special fascina- 
 tion for Walther, nowhere were the poets so brilliant, so 
 popular, and so famous in their art. Jealous of the un- 
 disputed supremacy of Cologne, Vienna was taking advan- 
 
KEINMAK THE OLD. 201 
 
 tage of its own security and prosperity to establish its 
 position as the second city, at least, of the Empire, if it 
 could not be the first. It seems that the raw lad from the 
 Tyrol, with nothing to live on but his genius, came and 
 put himself under the tuition of the most famous lyrist of 
 that age, Eeinmar the Old, and lost in the blaze of the 
 Court and the noise of rival wits, we hear no more of him 
 for eight years. It must not be imagined that he was idle 
 during that time ; it was no light task to learn to be a 
 minne-singer. The poetry of that early age, so far from 
 being the simple, wild-wood fluting that is idly and 
 generally supposed, was a metrical art of the most elaborate 
 kind, and one for the skilful performance of which a long 
 and patient apprenticeship was needed. Out of the one 
 hundred and eighty-eight poems of Walther's which exist, 
 at least half are written in unique measures, and all in forms 
 of his own invention. He soon surpassed all his forerunners, 
 even Eeinmar himself, in the intricate mysteries of verse, 
 and it is worthy of no small admiration how supple the stiff 
 old High Grerman becomes in his masterly hands. We shall 
 return to this matter ; for the present it may suffice to 
 point out that the blank years 11 90-1 198 must have been 
 full of laborious exercise, and that all in which he differs 
 from other poets in this, is that he has not seen fit to hand 
 down to us his juvenilia. At the same time, there is no 
 reason against supposing that many of his most beautiful 
 love-songs, which carry no internal or external evidence of 
 date, belong to this early period. However that may be, it 
 is not till 1198 that we catch a distinct view of our poet 
 for the first time. 
 
 Indeed, there is a theory that almost all the naive and 
 
202 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 spontaneous lyrics of "Walther's minne-period date from 
 this first Vienna life, and that it was the death of the 
 Emperor Henry VI. that first woke the poet out of hiS' 
 dream of love and pleasure, and that aroused in him that 
 noble spirit of patriotism which has made his name so 
 fragrant ever since. Henry VI. had raised the Empire to 
 a position of secm-e prosperity and dreaded power which it 
 had never reached before ; he was still in the flower of his 
 age, and apparently at the opening of a brilliant career. 
 Suddenly he died at Messina, on September 28, 1197, and 
 the earliest political poem of Walther's that we possess 
 evidently marks the tide of feeling at home when the de- 
 plorable news was brought to Grermany. With his head 
 resting in the palm of his hand, and one knee over the 
 other, and his elbow resting on the upper knee, the poet 
 sits on a rock overlooking the world, and speculates, not 
 without dismay, how fortune, honour, and God's grace are 
 to be reconciled in this bereaved and helmless state. In 
 the next strophe he sees a great water rushing by, with 
 fish in it, and gazing past it he sees the forest : and these 
 fish, and the birds, beasts — yea, and the very worms in the 
 forest, have their order and their rulers, but Germany has 
 none. In the third part he is gifted with prophetic 
 sight, and sees all things done, and hears all things said, 
 by all the men and women in the world, and behold, they 
 all with one accord lift up their hands to God and cry 
 ' Woe ! for the Pope is too young ! Lord, help thy Chris- 
 tendom.' In this first poem of political import we have 
 some of the most characteristic utterances of Walther's 
 muse : desire of order and hatred of anarchy, yearning for 
 the unity of Germany, and deep-rooted suspicion of the 
 
WALTHER AT VIENNA. 203 
 
 Papacy. The mention of the youth of the Pope gives us a 
 hint of the exact date of the poem, since Innocent III. was 
 elected in January 1198, at the unusually early age of 
 thirty-seven. 
 
 The death of the great Emperor was coeval with the 
 breaking up of Walther's Viennese home. For some 
 reason obscure to us, Austria was no longer favourable to his 
 prospects. Perhaps the fate of Heinrich had less to do with 
 it than the death of his beloved patron, Duke Friedrich, 
 who was lingering in Palestine at the extreme end of the 
 Third Crusade, and who fell, in April 1198, a few months 
 before his great rival Eichard Coeur de Lion defeated the 
 French in the battle of Grisors. It was an epoch of great 
 deeds and names sonorous with romance. While Walther 
 was learning the art of poetry under Eeinmar, the terrible 
 Sultan Saladin had died. To return to Vienna : in place 
 of Friedrich, Leopold VII. ascended the Austrian throne, 
 and in him Walther had at first to mourn an irresponsive 
 patron. We possess an artful elegy over Friedrich, in which 
 his successor is warned to imitate the generosity of the 
 duke, but to so little purpose that we find Walther leaving 
 Vienna precipitately, to offer his singing services to 
 Philip of Suabia. As Friedrich died in April, and as we 
 find Walther singing at Mayence on occasion of King 
 Philip's coronation in September of the same year, we can 
 hardly allow that he gave Leopold time to do justice to his 
 powers. The poem is very flattering, but from a lyrical 
 point of view particularly flat and inefficient. The ex- 
 cellent and handsome Philip responded, however, to our 
 poet's praise of his magnanimity and his beauty, so far, at 
 least, as to take him with him in 1199 to the Diet of 
 
204: THE LITEEATUEE OF NORTHEKN EUROPE. 
 
 Magdeburg, where Walther gives us a brilliant little 
 picture of the procession of Philip and his Greek queen 
 Irene to church, attended by a gay throng of Thuringian 
 and Saxon nobles. Next year he was back again in 
 Vienna, welcomed this time by Leopold, and rewarded for 
 his songs by largesse from the hands of that young * glorious 
 and liberal' prince. On May 28, 1200, when Leopold 
 took the sword in solemn pomp as Duke of Austria, gifts of 
 ' not less than thirty pounds ' were made in all directions, 
 and Walther, who had complained in 1198 that the 
 showers of fortune fell on all sides of him but left him 
 dry, was plentifully moistened with golden rain, and had 
 his debts paid. This brings us to the end of his first rest- 
 less period. From 1200 until 1210 he seems to have 
 stayed quietly in Austria. 
 
 The only important event that occurred during this 
 peaceful decade was the death of his great master in poesy, 
 Eeinmar the Old. This occurred in 1207. Reinmar, 
 who originally came from Hagenau — that very Hagenau 
 where, in Walther's early manhood, Eichard of England 
 was arraigned before a Diet of the Empire — was par 
 eminence the poet of melancholy passion and tender 
 reverie, and very unlike the joyous, manly figure of 
 Walther. There is a tradition that they did not live 
 together on the friendliest terms — a notion that is 
 curiously borne out by the wording of a very musical and 
 thoughtful elegy by the younger on the elder poet, in 
 which he expressly says that it is not Reinmar he moiu-ns, 
 but his art. The death of Reinmar gave occasion to one 
 of the most important contemporary notices of Walther 
 which have come down to us. Gottfried von Strassburg, 
 
THE DEATH OF EEINMAR. 205 
 
 far away in Alsace, received the news as he was writing 
 tlie eighth book of his great epic of ' Tristan.' He broke 
 off to celebrate and mourn ' the nightingale of Hagenau,' 
 and to weave into his narrative a critical sketch of all the 
 great poets of his time. Eeinmar has fallen with the 
 banner in his grasp, and the minne-singers are left without 
 a leader. Gottfried takes up his prophecy : — 
 
 Who now shall lead our congregation ? 
 
 Whose voice guide this dear singing nation ? 
 
 I know full well whom ye will find 
 
 Bear best that hauner to yoiu' mind ; 
 
 That Vogelweide it must be 
 
 Whose clear high voice rings merrily 
 
 In fields and in the open air ! 
 
 Who sings of wondrous things and fair, 
 
 Whose art is like an organ's tone, 
 
 Whose songs are tuned in Citheron 
 
 To please our goddess Lady of Love.^ 
 
 This testimony, from such a man, proves how far the young 
 poet's fame had already reached, and how highly he was 
 esteemed. 
 
 Except that in this same year, 1207, Walther was so 
 frightened by comets and shooting stars that he was sure 
 the Last Judgment was arriving, nothing seems to have 
 occurred in his history until 1210, when we find him in the 
 service of Duke Berhard of Karinthia, where he was so ill 
 at ease that in 1211 he migrated again; and this time 
 to the very home of polite letters, Thuringia, where the 
 young landgrave, Hermann, gathered around him all the 
 most advanced spirits of the age. At the Thuringian 
 Court on the Wartburg, close by Eisenach, Albrecht von 
 Halberstadt was busy with his German version of Ovid's 
 ' Appendix BB. 
 
206 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 ' Metamorphoses ; ' Herbert von Fritslar was composing his 
 epic on the tale of Troy; Heinrich von Veldecke, the 
 greatest of Walther's predecessors, had just died, hard by 
 in Naumburg; and, best of all, Walther learnt here to 
 know the rare and exalted genius of Wolfram von Eschen- 
 bach, who was writing his deathless ' Parzival,' amid the 
 roaring joviality and hospitable freedom of the Wartburg, 
 of which Walther, whom it suited less, gives a striking 
 picture. This seems to have been a time of depression and 
 morbid irritation with our wandering poet. His bitterest 
 epigrams against Pope Innocent III. date from this period, 
 and the merry life at Eisenach seems to have jarred upon 
 his melancholy. He is plaintively humorous against a 
 •certain knight Grerhard Etze, who has stolen his horse, and 
 on whom he revenges himself by describing him thus : 
 
 He rolls his eyes as monkeys do, 
 But most lie's like the lewd cuckoo, 
 
 and other such uncouth pleasantries in the lumbering 
 manner of the Middle Ages. From Thuringia the dis- 
 satisfied man turned to the service of Dietrich, Margrave 
 of Meissen, and remained with him till 1213. It is pro- 
 voking, and a little humiliating, to read the verse-petitions 
 addressed to one monarch after another, praying for pro- 
 tection and shelter, and urging liberality in the style of a 
 charity sermon. Under Dietrich as under Hermann, 
 Walther was a liege servant of the Emperor Otto IV., 
 whose excommunication by the poet's pet aversion, Pope 
 Innocent, provokes him to continual wrath. In all his 
 poems against the Papacy, he writes with a freedom and a 
 force that are truly remarkable, and Luther himself never 
 
POLITICAL POEMS. 207 
 
 spoke out more plainly than Walther von der Vogelweide 
 in one little ' Spruch ' or sonnet, where he urges the 
 division of all temporal and spiritual authority, that being 
 given to Grod which is Grod's, and that to the Kaiser which 
 is his. Grermany was divided between rival Emperors. 
 Otto IV. was pitted, to the great danger of the whole 
 Hohenstaufen dynasty, against the legitimate heir to the 
 throne, Friedrich, the young son of Henry VI. The civil 
 war between these princes was carried on for ten years, 
 and by-and-by we find Walther growing impatient with his 
 patron, and urging him, at any cost, to endanger the unity 
 of Germany no longer. Presently he describes with 
 enthusiasm the fine presence and masculine beauty of Otto, 
 but pathetically wishes he were as liberal as he is tall. 
 Things rapidly get worse and worse, till at last Walther 
 takes up his parable against Otto as a double-faced monster, 
 and openly comes over to the cause of Friedrich. This 
 was but the instinct of a wise rather than grateful man of 
 the "world, for the poem we have mentioned last seems 
 to belong to the year 1215, in which Friedrich II. finally 
 gained the day. A series of moving appeals to the clemency 
 of Friedrich meet us next. If only the great man will smile, 
 the poet's genius, now frozen as in winter, will reblossom 
 and revive. He says that — 
 
 Then will I sing again of little birds, 
 
 Of heather, and of flowers, as once I sang : 
 
 Of lovely women and their gracious words, 
 And cheeks where roses red and lilies sprang.^ 
 
 Vienna seems once more to have become his settled 
 
 home, and in 1217 we read his farewell to Leopold, who, 
 
 •with the flower of Austrian chivalry, was then starting for 
 
 ' Appendix OC. 
 
208 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Palestine on the fifth Crusade. Their departure leaves the 
 court and city as empty and dull, we are told, as the 
 departure of the knights of the Table Eound, when they 
 parted on the quest of the GTraal, left Arthur's fabulous 
 city. The public of Walther's day, it must be remembered, 
 were even more familiar than we are with the Arthurian 
 legends. The humorous tone of this song, however, soon 
 fades in genuine apprehension, and we have a poem in 
 which, in a strain of the tenderest and most child-like piety, 
 he begs Grod to guard him as Grabriel guarded Jesus in the 
 crib at Bethlehem. To this period belongs a curious 
 lyrical tirade against the roughness of the young knights, 
 who have no care for courtesy and the dignity of women. 
 For such licentious and froward mediaeval youth, Walther 
 has but one lesson, and he repeats it incessantly — 
 
 And wilt thou gild the round of life, of women speak thou well. 
 
 The two years between Leopold's departure and his 
 happy return in 1219 were lightened by brief visits to 
 Styria and Bavaria, but he was back again in Vienna to 
 welcome his prince, and to send a joyous note of congratu- 
 lation after him when he set out once more, this time to 
 be crowned at Eome in the winter of 1220. It must have 
 been about the same year that he gained the friendship 
 of Englebert, the stirring Prince Archbishop of Cologne, 
 under whose special protection he flourished until 1225, 
 when that gifted prelate was murdered by his own nephew. 
 As time goes by, as the poet grows older, and as one 
 friend and patron is taken from him after the other, he 
 loses gradually the elasticity of intellect that had so ong 
 sustained him, and there comes to be something almost 
 
MINNELIEDER. 225 
 
 as children do, to see if she will love him or love him not. 
 He begs us ' do not langh ! ' for the answer is favourable, 
 and he is so hopeless that even that affords him some little 
 consolation. Presently we find him, in true Kenaissance 
 spirit, kneeling in supplication to ' Frouwe Minne,' Venus, 
 our Lady of Love, that she will shoot an aiTow into the 
 hard heart of his mistress. It is difficult to imagine how 
 it was possible that these long-winged interchanges of 
 homage and disdain, to prosecute which 
 
 Men must have had eternal youth, — 
 Or nothing else to do, 
 
 as Mr. Austin Dobson flippantly but pertinently says, could 
 be pursue^ without much ennui. The sense of the ridi- 
 culous was very slightly developed in the early mediaeval 
 times, many proofs of which might be adduced from 
 Walther's poems, and from none more than the next we 
 come to among the ' minnelieder,' which I translate as 
 being at the same time very short and a curiosity in subject 
 and metre : — 
 
 Queen Fortune throws her gifts around, <> 
 
 But turns her back on wretched me ; 
 No place for pity hath she found,' 
 And what to do I cannot see ; 
 To me to turn she will not deign, 
 And if I run around, I find her turned again. 
 She pleases not to see me ever, 
 I would her eyes stood in her neck, so must she see me then tor 
 all her wild endeavour.' 
 
 The abnormal length of the last line is of not unfrequent 
 occurrence in these poems, and points to some peculiarity 
 in the melody to which they were sung, for in all cases the 
 
 ' Appendix JJ. \ 
 
 / 
 Q 
 
226 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 metre was arranged to suit the tune, not the tune composed 
 for the words. 
 
 A fresh group of more hunaoristic ' minnelieder ' opens 
 with a whimsical piece of petulance direct against his 
 lady. All her honour comes from having so great a poet 
 to sing her glory, and if she will not favour him he will 
 sing no more, and her fame will be forgotten. Then with 
 a curious impetuous outburst that is half-comic, half-savage, 
 he hopes that if she refuses him, and takes a young man 
 when she is gray, that her lusty husband may revenge her 
 first poet-lover by ill-treating her, and by whipping her 
 old hide with summer saplings. The next is more fantastic 
 still, full of curses on the winter, queer jokes about the ill- 
 fortune of hearing the ass and the cuckoo on an empty 
 stomach, and ends up by addressing his mistress as 
 Hiltegunde. It has been supposed from this that that was 
 her name ; but, on the whole, considering the etiquette of 
 the times, which, as we have seen, forbad a knight to reveal 
 his lady's name, it is more likely that it is a play on his 
 own name in connection with the popular romance of 
 'Walther and Hildegunde.' A little later we are assured 
 that the Emperor, probably poor young Heinrich VI., 
 presently about to die in Sicily, would gladly turn music- 
 maker for a kiss of her red lips. Passing one or two simi- 
 larly conventional lyrics, we come to one song of a far 
 fresher kind, one that made Walther famous at once, and 
 which ought to endear his name and memory to every 
 German, the first clear note of high patriotic unity, a 
 hymn in praise of Grermany and German beauty. One 
 verse in particular has often been quoted by modern critics 
 as curiously anticipating the famous national song 
 
LAST POEMS. 227 
 
 * Was ist des Deutschen Vaterland ? ' of Ernst Moriz 
 Arndt : — 
 
 From Elbe river to the Rhine, 
 And back again all round to Hungary, 
 
 'Tis the best, this land of mine ; 
 The best of all the world, it seems to me. 
 
 If I can judge what's fair, 
 
 In body or in face, 
 So help me God, no ladies have such grace 
 
 As German women bear.^ 
 
 Whether this declaration of public feeling softened his 
 Hiltegunde's heart or not, at all events we find him soon 
 on terms of familiarity with her, called by her ' friunt ' and 
 ' geselle ' (lover and comrade), and calling her in return 
 ' friundin ' and ' frouwe min ' (darling and wife). With this 
 song and with that quoted above, in which, for her sake, he 
 forgives the winter, the series of ' minnelieder ' closes. 
 
 The verses of his later days breathe a spirit of morbid 
 and petulant melancholy that is very sad to meet. He 
 lived long enough to see the decline of art, and to hear 
 the cry that poetry was dead. Walther deplores with 
 much bitterness the loss of courtly popularity. The 
 world whom he has served and still would serve has left 
 him, he tells us, to listen to young fools. The garlands of 
 the world have missed Inm, and the blossoms faded ; the 
 very roses have fallen apart and left only thorns. Virtue 
 has lost its power, beauty its magic, in these sad days. 
 In short, he mourns, like Asaph of old, that the wicked 
 should flourish as a green bay-tree, while he is poor and 
 an outcast. In one of these later poems, however, we 
 come upon a single example of a brighter mood. It 
 begins with the old depression. He is in utter despair ; 
 ' Appendix KK. 
 
228 THE LITERATUKE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 life is not worth living ; all men do evil, and that is the 
 fault of the women. So far all is gloomy, but at the 
 mention of the last word he pauses, and reproves himself 
 for speaking evil of women. He has no right to carp at 
 others because life is dark to him, and the piece ends by 
 his saying, ' Then I will live as best I may, and give out my 
 song.' But he is soon as miserable as ever. Love likes 
 the stalwart limbs of young Four-and-twenty better than 
 the wise bald head of Three-score. The Lady of Love has 
 gone crazed after young fools, and heeds not him nor his 
 songs. Art is at a low ebb, morality is dead, and at last 
 he says farewell to the world altogether. 
 
 There is little pleasure in following him through this 
 period of morbid and atrabilious discontent, a Byronic 
 disease of the mind far enough removed from that melan- 
 choly of Leopardi or Shelley, wliieh is deeply poetic in 
 spite of its weakness. We lose in it all trace of the joyous 
 singer who had been unable, in his youth, to lead off even 
 a piece of juggling nonsense about a crow and an old 
 woman, without a prelude of such bubbling Chaucerian 
 sweetness as this : — 
 
 When siunmer came to pass, 
 And blossoms through the grass 
 Were wonderfully springing, 
 And all the birds were singing, 
 I came through sim and shadow 
 Along a mighty meadow, 
 In midst of whicli a fountain sprang, 
 Before a woodland wild, that rang 
 With songs the nightingale outsang.^ 
 
 We have seen that he awoke from this intellectual 
 paralysis which was creeping over him, under the excite- 
 
 ' ApiDcndix LL. 
 
WALTHER VON DEE VOGELWEIDE. 229 
 
 ment of the pietistic revival, and wrote some superb fresh 
 sacred lyrics under the personal influence of St. Elizabeth 
 of Hungary. We have seen, too, that the rousing of the 
 embers was but a flash, and that the end was near. The 
 life of trouble was to find rest in the cloistered silence 
 of Wiirzburg. Thus we have traced the man and the 
 poet through his life and his work to the same point of 
 conclusion. 
 
A DUTCH POETESS OF THE 
 SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 In one of the precious portfolios of the Fodor Museum in 
 Amsterdam, there exists a drawing the interest of which, 
 to the literary student, far overbalances that of the heads 
 of old women and groups of old armour with which it is 
 associated. It is a study in sanguine, by Groltzius, and it 
 represents a young Dutch lady of the time of Shakespeare. 
 The face is viewed almost in profile; the soft hair — golden 
 blond, as we know from other sources — is drawn tightly 
 back from a forehead of most virginal sweetness, and is 
 enclosed in a lace coif; large dark eyes, partly concealed 
 by somewhat heavy eyelids, and softened by long lashes; a 
 straight nose, finely cut, with resolute and even passionate 
 nostrils; a mouth exquisitely curved; and a small firm 
 chin, compose a countenance in which intelligence and 
 strength of purpose combine with an unusual beauty. The 
 modest diffidence of the upper part of this face is belied by 
 the resolution of the lower part, and we recognise that 
 sweetest paradox of excellent womanhood, the tenderness 
 that is at once wise and strong, the will that knows how, 
 with equal simplicity, to rule or to be ruled. The drawing 
 was made about the year 1614, and it is the portrait, at 
 
CHAMBERS OF EHETORIC. 231 
 
 the age of twenty, of Tesselschade Vissclier, the most 
 renowned of Dutch poetesses. 
 
 Before we enter upon the study of that particular period 
 which is to be the subject of this chapter, it may be well to 
 regard very briefly the literaiy and political events which 
 led up to it. The phrase, ' Chamber of Rhetoric,' will be 
 frequently mentioned in the course of these pages, and I 
 may at the outset describe the peculiar institution thus 
 referred to. It was under the Dukes of Burgundy and 
 during the last years of the fourteenth century that literary 
 guilds began to be formed in the Low Countries, under the 
 title of ' Kamers van Rhetorica,' or Chambers of Rhetoric. 
 For more than two centuries all literary enterprise was 
 protected and conducted by these semi-official bodies, the 
 existence of which was not confined to the large cities, but 
 marked the prosperity and public spirit of even such 
 unimportant towns as Zierikzee and Schiedam. It was 
 the privilege of these Chambers to encourage the com- 
 position of sacred poems, of scholastic prose treatises, and, 
 most of all, of moralities and dramatic mysteries. As the 
 course of events progressed, first the Renaissance, and 
 secondly, the Reformation, coloured the exercises of the 
 Chambers, and in due time destroyed them. But before 
 this last could happen, a kind of didactic liumanism had 
 taken the place of the study of Thomas Aquinas. There 
 was really little vitality in the constitution of the Chambers. 
 The ' brothers,' as the members were called, discussed, 
 analysed, spun out their endless threads of argument, 
 without much result in science or literature. Under their 
 hands the language became gradually debased, until it 
 threatened to sink into a kind of bastard French . Flanders, 
 
232 THE LITEEATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 in the early part of the fifteenth century, enjoyed a certain 
 fallacious revival in the hands of Houwaert, a man equally 
 illustrious as poet and statesman, who stirred the Chamber 
 of the ' Garland of Mary,' at Brussels, into a sort of frenzy 
 with his pseudo-classical dramas of ' Narcissus and Echo,' 
 ' Leander and Hero,' and the like. But this proved to be 
 a false start. Houwaert had no true conception of the 
 dignity of antique art; and, moreover, the language he 
 wrote in was deformed by all the worst barbarisms of the 
 Burgundian school. Cornells van Ghistele was but a little 
 more successful with the Chamber of the 'Marigold,' at 
 Antwerp, for though he approached somewhat nearer to the 
 sources of antiquity, he did nothing to purify the debased 
 and nerveless language. Meanwhile, the first great writer 
 of the Netherlands had arisen in Antwerp, actually outside 
 the blazing petals of the 'Marigold.' This was the poetess 
 Anna Bijns, perhaps the only woman whose writing, apart 
 from her personal influence, has effected a great change in 
 any epoch of letters. From this time the omnipotence of 
 the Chambers, having been questioned, was ripe to pass 
 away. The struggle with Spain, and the victory of the 
 Northern Provinces, removed the head of intellectual as 
 of commercial enterprise from Antwerp to Amsterdam, 
 but not before it had called forth in the Southern Provinces 
 the quickening genius of Filips van Marnix, Lord of Saint 
 Aldegonde, one of those brilliant and penetrating minds 
 which seem to be produced only in the most critical 
 moments of history. In the plastic hands of Marnix the 
 Dutch language regained its vigour and much of its purity, 
 and became a fit channel for national and patriotic thoughts, 
 while his ' Wilhelmuslied,' a ballad in honour of William 
 
THE EGLANTINE. 233 
 
 of Orange, nobly heralded the independence, and has 
 remained for three hundred years the one great popular 
 poem of Holland. To return, however, to the Chambers 
 of Khetoric. We are particularly concerned with one of 
 those institutions, the Amsterdam Chamber of the ' Eglan- 
 tine,' which was founded in 1496, and which took for its 
 motto the words, ' In Liefde Bloeyende ' — ' Blossoming in 
 Love.' In process of time the full title of the Chamber 
 was merged in the phrase, 'The Brothers Blossoming 
 in Love.' This body played no important part until 
 the war with Spain; it failed to compete with its 
 southern brethren; but as soon as Amsterdam began to 
 enjoy the privileges of Protestant freedom, that is to say, 
 from the year 1578, the Eglantine took a foremost j)lace in 
 Dutch culture, and the last fifty years of its existence were 
 years of prolonged triumph. About 1585 Amsterdam was 
 enriched by the arrival of a great number of fugitives from 
 Flanders and Brabant, who brought their wealth and energy 
 to the new market of Holland ; and at the same time there 
 arrived two of the literary guilds of Antwerp, the ' White 
 Lavender Bloom,' and the ' Fig-tree.' From this time forth 
 the Eglantine became known as the Old Chamber, and its 
 character underwent an important modification. While 
 the exiles from the south retained their cut-and-dried 
 traditions, their conventional forms, their tiresome Burgun- 
 dian phrases, the Brothers of the Old Chamber, among 
 whom were counted the noblest and most intelligent 
 citizens of Amsterdam, set themselves to reform the 
 language and enrich the literature of the new-born state. 
 The creation of a national poetry and a national art was 
 exactly coeval with the creation of a national constitution. 
 
234 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 As Holland attained independence with a sudden heroic 
 effort that nothing could withstand, so, with the same 
 rapid decision, she formed for herself, in a single genera- 
 tion, a great literature. In tins work, three men, intimate 
 friends, citizens of Amsterdam, had the main honour of 
 initiation: one of them was the father of our poetess. 
 They were immediately followed by a group of the 
 most elevated and original minds that Holland has 
 produced; and in this greater generation our poetess 
 herself formed the central point around which all the 
 best genius of the time revolved, obeying the irresistible 
 attraction of beauty and sympathy. Hence a full bio- 
 graphy of father and daughter would embrace the whole 
 history of the rise and glory of letters during the short 
 period that they flourished eminently in the Netherlands. 
 Such a copious study would be impossible within our 
 limits, but it will perhaps be within our scope, while 
 never losing sight of the central figure, to contem- 
 plate, in some degree, the whole movement of Dutch 
 literature from 1580 to 1670, the extreme limits of its 
 efflorescence. 
 
 Tesselschade was the third and youngest daughter of 
 the poet and rhetorician Roemer Visscher. Her name was 
 typical of the ingenious tastelessness of the age, a quality 
 that we find, like a stain, pervading the whole literature of 
 Europe in the end of the sixteenth century. The name 
 signifies Texel- wreck, and the young lady received this 
 extraordinary title because her father, returning from some 
 voyage, was wrecked off the Texel, at the mouth of the 
 Zuyder Zee, on the day of her birth, March 25, 1594. Her 
 father himself had a punning name, for ' Roemer ' sig- 
 
DUTCH HUMANISM. 235 
 
 nifies a goblet or cup, and his contemporaries indulged, of 
 course, in endless pleasantries on so pliable a text. Eoemer 
 Visscher was born in 1545 ; the Independence found him 
 a middle-aged man of wealth and position, a Catholic indeed, 
 but wholly devoted to the State, and with an enthusiasm 
 for letters which overpowered all other considerations. He 
 had plenty of leisure, and he had employed his earlier years 
 in a course of study then very unusual in the north of 
 Europe. For while devouring the classics with all the 
 passion for which Ley den had so long been famous, he did 
 not, like the scholars of that famous university, attempt 
 the vain task of competing with the ancients in their own 
 tongues, but determined to use them as models for the 
 exaltation of the vernacular into a classic language. In 
 this great idea he consciously followed the example of 
 Joachim du Bellay, whose ' Defense et Illustration,' pub- 
 lished when they were children, formed the text-book of 
 the Humanists of Amsterdam. In the labour he under- 
 took, Eoemer possessed a great advantage in being one of 
 the two Presidents of the Chamber of the Eglantine ; and 
 another in having for his colleague his bosom friend 
 Hendrick Spieghel, a man entirely like-minded with him- 
 self. A third agent in the work of this renaissance was 
 Coornhert, a much older, and in some respects less genial 
 and fascinating person than Spieghel or Eoemer, but a great 
 reformer of language, and a prosaist of considerable genius. 
 A didactic humanism, Cicero strongly tinctured with the 
 Bible, formed the starting point of the polemical philo- 
 sophy of Coornhert ; the Old Chamber, under the guidance 
 of the younger men, stood more aloof from religion, gave 
 a warmer tinge to thought, and formed an element in 
 
236 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 which the imagination could move comparatively un- 
 shackled by conventional disabilities. It was their great 
 glory to have purified the language, to have thrown away 
 the rubbish of the Ehetoricians, and to have restored, in 
 modern form, the nervous language of Maerlant and 
 Boendale, the great mediasval writers of ' Dietsch ' or early 
 Dutch. In this revival, it should be repeated, the Brothers 
 Blossoming in Love took at first a solitary part, and to 
 their two Presidents is due the chief honour of the 
 movement. Spieghel, a wealthy merchant, was a more 
 active, less contemplative character than Eoemer. Born 
 in 1 549, he was slightly younger than his friend, but he 
 seems at first to have taken the lead in literature. Just 
 outside the Utrecht gate of Amsterdam, stood Meerhuyzen, 
 his beautiful villa, in the garden of which, among the 
 boughs of a great old linden, he built a summer-house, 
 which he named the Muses' Tower-court. In this hanging 
 house among the leaves he received a few select friends, 
 and it became the first Dutch salon. Called to the highest 
 honours of the Eepublic, he preferred to pay one heavy fine 
 after another rather than to disturb his study, and imperil the 
 progress of literary reform. As early as 1584, he published 
 his famous ' Twaespraek,' a prose treatise founded on the 
 model of Du Bellay's, in which he advocated, in the form 
 of a dialogue held in his linden tree between Eoemer 
 Visscher and Gedeon Fallett, the necessity of purifying 
 Dutch literature by a tasteful study of the classics, and in 
 which he lays down, for the first time, the principles of 
 prose style. This book was introduced by a preface from 
 the hand of Coornhert, and was in fact a manifesto from 
 all the leaders of reform. We may safely take this date — 
 
HOOFT. 237 
 
 1 584 — as the commencement of the great age of Dutch 
 letters. 
 
 We can easily mark the decline of genius, but we know- 
 nothing of its rise until it stands before us adult. There 
 seemed, between 1585 and 1605, to be but little practical 
 result of the labours of Eoemer and Spieghel. The great 
 poets of the next generation, all born soon after the earlier 
 date, were fast growing towards maturity in the warm air 
 of freedom and revival. Although the two Presidents of 
 the Old Chamber did not print their poems till the last 
 years of their lives, their pieces were circidated from hand 
 to hand, and their teaching was widely received. Such 
 books as ' Den Pyl der Liefden,' (Love's Arrow), by 
 Arnoldus Cobbault, full of allusions to Venus and Adonis, 
 Panchaian odours, and the progress of Bacchus, pointed 
 the way though without original talent, exactly as the 
 poems of our own Groves and Watsons did. But the first 
 real luminary that rose into the heavens, thus purged of 
 mist by the leaders of the Old Chamber, was a young man 
 destined to become the most influential, if not precisely 
 the greatest, of all Dutch men of letters. Pieter Corneliszoon 
 Hooft was the only poet of the great period, who in after 
 years could remember the meetings among the boughs at 
 Meerhuyzen. Born in 1581, he was admitted as a boy of 
 seventeen into the Chamber of the Eglantine, of which his 
 father, for a long time Burgomaster of Amsterdam, was an 
 enliglitened and prominent naember. The introduction of 
 entire equality among the citizens of the great Dutch cities 
 produced, as it had done in Florence in the fourteenth 
 century, a merchant aristocracy, which the presence of a 
 great national danger chastened and preserved from vulgar 
 
238 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 excess. The glory of the new commonwealth was its 
 mercliant class, with their wide government of the sea. 
 The fall of Antwerp had been the rise of Amsterdam, and 
 this was entirely owing to the immense impetus given to 
 mercantile enterprise. In spite of the exhaustion of 
 the struggle for independence, the wealth of the United 
 Provinces was practically unbounded, and the centre of 
 this prosperity was Amsterdam. The courts that en- 
 couraged art and literature had no counterparts in Holland ; 
 no member of the House of Orange had the opportunity of 
 becoming a Maecenas, except Frederick Henry, and he too 
 late to modify the course of events. Consequently it was 
 left to the wealthy merchants to organise and direct in- 
 tellectual effort, and under their genial protection the fine 
 arts flourished freely, in accordance with the temper of the 
 nation. The elder Hooft was a typical merchant prince, 
 and it was natmal that the son of such a man, being dowered 
 with genius, should know how to cultivate his gifts in the 
 way most advantageous to himself, and to his country. 
 Hooft had the intelligence to import, even in his boyish 
 days, a new element into literature. Hitherto the Dutch 
 Hmnanism had been essentially didactic. Spieghel read 
 Plato in the original, and felt a little the Grreek sense of 
 delight in thought for its own sake, but he was alone in 
 both these attainments. The Eenaissance had come to 
 Holland to teach, and not to enjoy ; the great Latinists of 
 Leyden, though they had produced a Joannes Secundus to 
 their wounding, and a Lotichius to their hurt, had mainly 
 asserted a Ciceronian stoicism in which there was no 
 tincture of the southern delight in luxury and physical 
 beauty. Already in Hooft's boyish tragedy of 'Achilles 
 
HOOFT. 239 
 
 and Polyxena,' performed before the Old Chamber in 1598, 
 in spite of the inspiration drawn rather from Seneca than 
 Homer, in spite of the thinness of plot and the poverty of 
 language, a more truly Greek conception of poetry is re- 
 cognisable than in any previous Dutch poem. The chorus 
 (act ii. scene 4) beginning — 
 
 The heaven with its halls of cloth of gold, 
 
 alone appears to me to protest against the neglect Dutch 
 critics have shown to this dull and puerile but most 
 important drama, and to foreshadow plainly enough the 
 richness and melody of Hooft's later style. In his 
 eighteenth year, flushed with success and ambition, with 
 unlimited means at his disposal, attended by all the charms 
 that wealth, beauty, and vivacity can give, the fortunate 
 young poet started on a three years' tour through France, 
 Italy, and Germany. Italy was the land of his dreams ; 
 he arrived too late to press the dying hand of Tasso, but 
 not too late, it would appear, to pour a florid worship at 
 the feet of Guarini. He recorded his adventures, such as 
 seeing the dead body of Gabrielle d'Estree sitting up in a 
 white satin mantle six hours after her decease, and other 
 remarkable exhibitions, in a highly entertaining note-book, 
 which has been published in our own time. But it is 
 more to our purpose that from Florence, in 1600, he 
 addressed a letter in rhyme to the Old Chamber, which 
 marks an epoch in Dutch verse, so excellent is it. In 1601 
 he came back to Holland with a splendid pair of mous- 
 taches and one finished drama. The latter was the 
 ' Theseus and Ariadne,' a boyish affair, even worse than 
 the ' Achilles.' 
 
240 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 Hooft returned, to find the household at Meerhuyzen 
 broken up. Spieghel, persuaded by his second wife, 
 abandoned the Muses' Tower-court in 1602, and proceeded 
 to Alkmaar, now a red-roofed dreamy town, as clean and 
 as empty as a scoured pan, but then a great mercantile 
 centre and the capital of North Holland. But the literary 
 circle was not broken up ; the members merely transferred 
 their rendezvous to the house of Roemer Visscher, on the 
 Cingel, just outside the city of Amsterdam, on the way to 
 Haarlem. In 1602 the family consisted of his wife Aafge, 
 of whom we know next to nothing, and of his three 
 daughters. Of these, Anna, the eldest, was a comely, 
 intelligent girl of eighteen, Truitjen (or Grertrude) six 
 years younger, and Tesselschade, a sweet little person of 
 eight. It was probably at this time, and during the next 
 three years, that these young ladies laid up the stock 
 of accomplishments which formed in after life the wonder 
 of their contemporaries. Speaking of the time before he 
 set out for Constantinople in 1612, Ernestus Brink of 
 Harderwijk wrote : — 
 
 Roemer Visscher had three daughters, all of whom were prac- 
 tised iu very sweet accomplishments ; they could play music, paint, 
 write and engrave on glass, make poems, cut emblems, embroider 
 all manner of fabrics, and swim well, which last thing they had 
 learned in their father's garden, where there was a canal with water 
 outside the city. 
 
 It will be noticed that the curriculum of their studies 
 was a very healthy and practical one. The blue-stockings 
 of the day, like Anna Maria van Schurmau, talked Greek 
 and wrote Arabic, and were prigs of the most appalling 
 intensity ; but the daughters of Roemer Visscher, though 
 
ROEMER'S HOUSE. 241 
 
 possessing the finest feminine intellects of their age, could 
 not even read Latin. They were early instructed in their 
 father's love of his mother-tongue, and of the fine arts, 
 and they inherited no small measure of his admirable good 
 sense. Throughout life nothing was more remarkable in 
 the characters of Anna and Tesselschade that, though habit- 
 ually covered with the most fulsome advdation from all the 
 most eminent men of their age, they never forgot to be 
 sensible, discreet, and modest. Such was the home and such 
 the feminine adornments of the house of Eoemer Visscher. 
 Coornhert had died in 1590; Spieghel was gone to 
 Alkmaar ; Eoemer himself was verging on sixty, and his 
 chief friends, the elder Hooft and the elder Eeael, were old 
 men too. In this company Pieter Hooft, with his Italian- 
 ated manners, his moustaches and his poetic ardour, must 
 have produced a fine impression of youthfulness. One of 
 the first things he did was to fall in love with the staid 
 Anna, who rejected him with a gentle courtesy ; then with 
 two nieces of Spieghel, who died one after the other, and 
 finally with the famous lute-player, the fair Christina van 
 Erp. But this is taking us too far ahead ; we must pause 
 at the year 1605, in which Eoemer moved to the house 
 which was for so many years the nursery of genius, and 
 Hooft first proved himself to be a great poet. 
 
 The family of Eoemer left their home on the Cingel 
 and took up their abode on the English quay, now known 
 as the Geldersche Kaai, quite in the middle of Amsterdam. 
 There is a charming engraving in Brederoo's ' Lied-boek,' 
 which may very likely, I think, be a portrait of the house. 
 A broad street, paved with 'klinkers' or rounded bricks, 
 lies between it and the water ; a carved metal railing pro- 
 
 K 
 
242 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 tects the lower windows, which are themselves provided 
 with delicate screens in ironwork. A long knocker de- 
 corates the stout oak door, with its elaborate lintel, on 
 which hangs the escutcheon of the family. It is a red- 
 brick house, with lattice windows. There is a tree in 
 front of it, and a courtyard beside it ; and if you would 
 know liow cool and clean and sunny it is within, you 
 must refer to the pictures of Mijnheer Pieter de Hooghe. 
 There are effects of sunlight and colour to be found there 
 on summer evenings such as Van der Meer, of all men who 
 ever lived, was alone worthy to paint, but we must not 
 fancy that the daughters of the house appreciated them 
 with all the intensity of the generation that followed. 
 The Italian fashion was supreme in art as in poetry, and 
 there still were memories of the young men who went 
 to Eome with Bernard van Orley to study in the school of 
 Raphael. This Italianating spirit was not lessened, we 
 may be sure, by the next step taken by the ambitious Hooft. 
 In 1605, the year that Roemer moved into the city, the 
 Brothers Blossoming in Love were invited to witness the 
 performance of a pastoral drama by their youthful colleague, 
 a work imprecedented in Dutch history. It is not sup- 
 prising that ' Grranida,' as it was called, excited great 
 notice. From the first verse that the shepherdess Dorilea 
 utters we see how fresh and new a poem this is, and how 
 great was the advance that Hooft had achieved. Pastorals 
 are not now in fashion ; it is unfortunate, for a good 
 dramatic idyl is a lovely piece of art. ' Grranida ' has 
 almost every requisite of this kind of writing ; it is varied 
 and lyrical, sufficiently interesting as a story, amorous and 
 gracious, with a spice of passion, and written in luxurious 
 
ITALIAN TASTE. 243 
 
 richly-rhymed verse that is music itself. Compared with 
 our own ' Faithful Shepherdess,' it is a little stiff in form, 
 the Italian model being more closely imitated, and when 
 we read it carefully we find whole passages of the ' Pastor 
 Fido ' bodily paraphrased. But there was no law in those 
 days against the sin of plagiarism, and the unconscious 
 offender errs very gracefully. This delicate, artificial 
 poetry was not to set root in Holland ; its days were already 
 numbered, but in Hooft, as in Spenser of whom he con- 
 stantly reminds us, the love of the French and Italian poets 
 outweighed for a little while the temper of the nation, and 
 produced a brief semblance of the Grolden Age. Moreover, 
 the daughters of Eoemer, with whom Hooft's unlucky suit 
 to Anna had wrought no severance of friendship, were 
 deeply impressed with it, Tesselschade especially, as her 
 early poems prove. 
 
 At the English Quay the life at first was very quiet. 
 It is not probable that the house of Eoemer was con- 
 scious of the fact that close by, in Warmoesstraat, a 
 seller of stockings died in 1608, leaving a young son of 
 twenty-one, Joost van den Vondel, in good time to be the 
 intimate companion of Tesselschade and Anna, and himself 
 the greatest of Dutch writers. Still less are the ladies likely 
 to have heard of the arrival, in 1607, at Amsterdam, of an 
 English family exiled as Brownists by the bigotry of James 
 I., and bringing with them their son, Jan Janssen Starter, a 
 boy of thirteen, soon to become an exquisite lyrical poet. 
 They were more interested in certain family matters that 
 gave colouring to the year 1609, when their sister Triutjen, 
 who did not share their literary proclivities, married a rich 
 brewer, Nikolaas van Buyl, afterwards promoted to be 
 
 K '2 
 
244 THE LITEKATUEE OF NORTHEEN EUROPE. 
 
 sheriff of the city. He belonged to the Eeformed Church, 
 and thus G-ertrude passed out of the circle of her family's 
 interests ; accordingly, we meet with her name no more. 
 It was in the same year that a young man of twenty-six, 
 one of the handsomest and most capable persons of that 
 stirring time, Laurens Reael, was marked out for honours 
 by the great Oldenbarneveldt, and a still greater distinction 
 was accorded to a dearer friend by the Stadtholder. The 
 influence of the family of Hooft with the house of Nassau 
 was very gi'eat, and the brilliant gifts of young Pieter 
 Corneliszoon were not unnoticed by Maurice. In 1609, 
 the bailiff of the castle of Muiden, Willem van Zuijlen 
 van Nijevelt, died, and was succeeded by the author of 
 ' Granida ' with the titles and emoluments of bailiff of 
 Muiden, steward of G-ooiland, and master of the town and 
 lands of Weesp. This appointment was one of the richest 
 and most desirable in the gift of the Stadtholder ; it gave 
 the possessor rank among the highest dignitaries of the 
 country, and assm-ed him more than competence. From 
 this moment Hooft lived at Muiden Castle, on the river 
 Vecht, about ten miles east of Amsterdam. 
 
 The mother of our three sisters died soon after her 
 second daughter's marriage, and in 1610 we find Anna 
 head of the household at Engelsche Kaai, and dividing lier 
 care between her ageing father, and the sixteen-year-old 
 Tesselschade, now fast developing into an acknowledged 
 beauty. Soon came the news that Hooft had won the hand 
 of Christina van Erp, and had brought her to share the 
 dignities of Miuden. It was probably in the same year 
 that the sisters became acquainted with Vondel, who had 
 just married, at the age of twenty-three. Some influence, 
 
BREDER06. 245 
 
 now unknown to us, united the family of Roemer with the 
 great Latinists of Leyden, particularly with Heinsius, who 
 we find henceforward as a faithful admirer of Anna and 
 warm friend of the others. Thus the circle was enlarging, 
 and one by one those great figures were gathering round 
 the unfolding charms of Tesselschade, ready to greet with 
 their sympathy the earliest emanations of her genius. In 
 
 1611 her father at least, and probably herself, became 
 conscious of a youth over whom slie was destined to exercise 
 a very considerable influence. This was Gerbrand Adria- 
 enszoon Brederoo, whose ' Eoddrick and Alphonsus,' per- 
 formed in that year, and dedicated to Hugo Grrotius, 
 revealed the existence of a new dramatic genius. Born in 
 1585, Brederoo was at this time of the same age as Anna, 
 twenty-six, and a rough, fiery creature, in every way unlike 
 the aristocratic Hooft. He was the son of a poor shoe- 
 maker of Amsterdam, a Protestant, and a stranger to the 
 native refinements of the Roemer family ; but genius was 
 a key that could always unlock that hospitable door, and it 
 was not long before he became an intimate visitor. In 
 1612, too, the young English exile, Jan Starter, became a 
 member of the Old Chamber, and a friend of Roemer's 
 daughters ; a very different person he from the unpolished, 
 ardent Brederoo, nor did he, a boy of seventeen, impress 
 his personality on the circle as Brederoo did. The year 
 
 1612 was a memorable one in the annals of the Dutch drama. 
 Brederoo produced two very important plays before the 
 Old Chamber- — his romantic tragi-comedy of ' Griane ' and 
 his broadly comic ' Farce of the Cow.' A new figure, that 
 of the physician Dr. Samuel Coster, competed for dramatic 
 honours with his farce of ' Teeuwis, the Boor ;' Hooft came 
 
246 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 forward with his noble historical tragedy of ' Geeraerdt van 
 Velsen,' a story of early Dutch history from the times of 
 Floris v., the scene of which is laid in the Castle of Muiden, 
 Hooft's own home ; and last, but not least, Vondel brought 
 out the first of the magnificent series of his biblical dramas, 
 ' Het Pascha,' or the Freeing of the Children of Israel from 
 Egypt, in which, as in most of the writings of this exalted 
 poet, a great national idea or aspiration is not far to seek 
 below the surface of the story. This tragi-comedy was 
 brought out, not by the Old Chamber, but by the Chamber 
 of the White Lavender Blossom, one of the Brabant guilds 
 settled in Amsterdam. It was simultaneously brought out, 
 pirated perhaps, by the Chamber of the Bed Eose at 
 Schiedam. The success of the ' Pascha ' was immediate ; 
 Vondel was invited to come over to the Eglantine, and 
 from this time forward we find him a constant visitor at 
 Koemer's house. 
 
 Among all these acquisitions there had been one loss. 
 Oldenbarneveldt had noted, as I have said, the diplomatic 
 and governing qualities in Laurens Eeael, and had deter- 
 mined to take him away from the writing of poetry to a 
 wider sphere. We need not regret it, for making verses 
 was the worst thing this great man could do. In 1602 
 Holland had founded her East India Company, at a most 
 happy moment, when the sceptre of Asia Avas falling 
 from the enslaved liand of Portugal, and when Spain had 
 proved herself incapable of lifting it again. The treasures 
 of the Eastern Archipelago dropped into the grasp of 
 Holland, and her merchants found a glorious new empire 
 waiting for them under the spice trees of Banda and 
 Amboyna. But government as well as energy, craft as well 
 
BREDEKOO. 247 
 
 as courage, were needed to regulate this new Eldorado. 
 The keen glance of the Advocate surveyed the youth of 
 Holland and selected Reael as the most capable person to 
 be found. Accordingly, in 1611, that young man said 
 farewell to his friends in Roemer's house, and set out, in 
 his twenty-eighth year, in command of four ships of war for 
 the Moluccas. No sooner had he reached his destination 
 than he was appointed Grovernor of Ternate, the most pre- 
 cious of the Spice Settlements ; and here, winning golden 
 opinions, we leave him for the present. 
 
 At home in Amsterdam, Brederoo was no less rapidly 
 rising into fame, though on the more peaceful scene of the 
 stage. In 1613 he was made a Brother Blossoming in Love, 
 and began, by his growing differences with the elder mem- 
 bers, a split which finally proved the ruin of the Eglantine. 
 To us, the most interesting thing is that he fell violently 
 in love with Tesselschade, now an exquisite girl of nineteen, 
 and that this passion tinged the first few years with hope 
 and the rest of his life with despair. Among the poets of 
 this time she had many admirers, but no other suitor, for 
 Hooft, Vondel, and Coster were married, and in 1614 
 Starter left Amsterdam to settle at Leeuwarden, in Fries- 
 land, there to found a chamber of rhetoric in memory of 
 his regretted Eglantine. Personally, there was much to 
 recommend Brederoo to a young poetess like Tesselschade ; 
 his fervour, his indisputable genius, his passionate admira- 
 tion of her wit and beauty, and his public acknowledgment 
 of her great qualities ; for in 1614 he dedicated to her by 
 name his tragedy of ' Lucelle.' To her father, on the other 
 hand, the somewhat disreputable son of a Protestant shoe- 
 maker, author of farces in which the decencies were not 
 
248 THE LITEKATUEE OF NORTHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 successfully maintained, the poor adventurer of Helicon, 
 was a very interesting visitor and guest, but not to be 
 thought of as a son-in-law, and so the wooing went on 
 without any obvious result. The dedication of ' Lucelle ' is 
 the earliest of the thousand-and-one tributes to Tessel- 
 schade. Brederoo entreats the ' amiable maiden ' to en- 
 lighten his poor play ' with beams from those flashing stars 
 that stand and sparkle in the heaven of her forehead.' He 
 overwhelms her with thanks, (' friend of books and all 
 fair letters ! ') for having deigned to be present at the first 
 performance ; and already were the genius and beauty of 
 this girl so eminent that he addresses her as ' the Honour 
 of our City, the Grlory of our Age.' He is charmed with 
 the sympathy she showed for his heroine, clothing with the 
 royal purple of pity the lily-white of her maidenly cheeks. 
 It will be observed that the style of Brederoo was far from 
 what we nowadays consider reticent, and no doubt his 
 personal suit was carried on in a manner no less stormy. 
 In the midst of these successes of the younger men, Spieghel 
 had died, in 1612, and in 1614 Koemer Visscher determined 
 to publish to the world his own poems and those of his old 
 friend, neither of which had hitherto circulated except 
 in MS. Accordingly, Spieghel's great masterpiece, the 
 ' Hert Spieghel,' with its passing reference to its author's 
 name, went through the press, and in the same year the 
 ' Zinne-Poppen ' and the ' Brabbelingh ' of Koemer. These 
 names, of which we may translate the first as ' Thought- 
 Puppets', and the second as ' Scribblings,' were in some 
 degree characteristic of the oddity of the contents. The 
 ' Brabbelingh ' consisted of erotic, comic, and epigrammatic 
 pieces, very many of them translated from Catullus, Martial, 
 
ZINNE-POPPEN. 249 
 
 and Ovid. It was the pride of Eoemer to be known among 
 his contemporaries as the Dutch Martial ; a modern critic 
 might be more inclined to call him a Batavian Clement 
 Marot. His original pieces are sprightly and earnest ; 
 without being exactly clumsy, he is seldom melodious or 
 neatly turned. Both of his daughters seem to me to surpass 
 him in the technical part of verse. The ' Zinue-Poppen ' 
 is a very delightful book, but it hardly comes under the 
 category of poetry. It consists of nearly two hundred 
 emblems, each illustrated by an engraving in the most 
 charming style, with a motto above and a couplet below. 
 This tills one page, and on the opposite is a short disquisi- 
 tion with the text as a motto. The first editions are 
 extremely rare; I only know the third, of 1669, adorned 
 with the improvements and additions of Anna. It has a 
 pretty title-page, with a roemer^ a coffee-pot, and a grace- 
 ful jug, standing on a slab, again in punning reference to 
 the author's name ; and the engravings in the body of the 
 book are works of delicate art. 
 
 The poems of Eoemer and Spieghel were received with 
 great respect, but the age, in its rapid development, had 
 in fact already passed these forerunners of the revival. 
 It was in the drama that the next few years produced 
 the most brilliant successes. Brederoo presented before 
 the Old Chamber in 1615 his 'Moortje,' an adaptation in 
 verse of the * Eunuchus ' of Terence, which remained a 
 popular stage-piece for eighty years, and Coster began a 
 new style of performance with his ' Itys,' a most gruesome 
 classical drama, in the manner of ' Titus Andronicus ' or 
 ' Hoffmann's Tragedy,' a thing of blood and rape, mitigated 
 by passages of considerable romantic beauty. We find 
 
250 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 here side by side the two main streams of dramatic art in 
 Holland, the broad humour and farcical comicality of 
 which Brederoo is the greatest exponent in poetry as 
 Teniers in painting, and the coarse tragedy, dealing with 
 violent effects and horrid crimes in which Coster excelled, 
 or rather, perhaps, persisted. Coster belongs altogether 
 to a lower rank of talent than Brederoo, whose life-like 
 portraiture of ' humours,' less pedantic than Ben Jonson's, 
 is infinitely laughter-compelling still ; but Coster also had 
 his comic side, and wi"ote farces which were quite as coarse 
 if not so fimny as his younger contemporary's. In spite, 
 in fact, of his horrors, he was probably intended by 
 nature to be a kind of bourgeois tragedian of the mild 
 type of Heywood, of whom he frequently reminds us. 
 It is strange to think that Tesselschade, a girl of distin- 
 guished rank in society, and in the flush of her youth, 
 should be present at the performance of these wild plays, 
 and should shower plaudits on their authors. It is more 
 easy to imagine her seated in the theatre of the Brothers 
 Blossoming in Love when her excellent friend Hooft 
 brought out his great historical play of ' Baeto, or the 
 Origin of the Dutchmen,' in 1616. Meanwhile the fussy 
 energy of Coster had brought about dissension in the 
 Chamber of the Eglantine, and finding it impossible to 
 induce the old-fashioned Brothers to act with them, he 
 and other modern sphits left the Chamber in 1617, and 
 built in Amsterdam a wooden theatre, which they named 
 the First Dutch Academy, or more generally Coster's 
 Academy. It was an attempt to imitate the Academia 
 della Crusca of Florence. 
 
 Suddenly the troubles of civil war threatened to break 
 
EELIGIOUS FACTION. 251 
 
 on the Republic. From one end of the country to the 
 other nothing was heard but the jarring clash of creeds, 
 the endless squabbles of Gromarist and Arminian, and the 
 growing jealousy of the heads of the State. Mr. Motley 
 has given a graphic picture of this terrible storm of em- 
 bittered religious opinions which broke upon the whole 
 society of Holland ; and no one would suspect, in reading 
 his pages, that literature could flourish anywhere during 
 that period. But Amsterdam possessed a partial immunity 
 from the politico-theological scourge, and the house of 
 Roemer, and the castle of Hooft were retired waters that 
 scarcely felt the storm, or, feeling it, could still forget it. 
 In 1618, however, the policy of the Counter-Remonstrants 
 had become a burning question even in Amsterdam, and 
 heated Calvinistic preachers, fulminating from their 
 pulpits with all the rage, if not perhaps all the eloquence 
 of Tertullian, succeeded in closing some of the theatres. 
 In this very year, however. Prince Maurice commanded, 
 and applauded, a performance of Hooft's ' Geraad van 
 Velsen,' while Starter, away in Friesland, was unmolested 
 in putting his ' Timbre van Cardone ' on the stage. To 
 the family of Roemer, with their mild Catholicism and 
 their cultured humanism, these rabid shouts of Free Will 
 and Predestination that deafened the consciences of men, 
 and drove them to the foulest acts of tyranny and treason, 
 must have seemed pitiful indeed ; nor has Protestantism 
 ever shone in so contemptible a light, as in these years 
 preceding the murder of Oldenbarneveldt. A more inti- 
 mate grief came to them in 1618, when Brederoo, worn 
 out with exhaustion and disappointment, died in the arms 
 of his poor old mother, in the same humble house where he 
 
252 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHEKN EUEOPE. 
 
 was born. Tesselschade had refused him, as her sister 
 had refused Hooffc before, but in the latter case a light 
 fancy had been diverted, in the former an intense passion 
 fatally thwarted. There is no reason for building up a 
 romantic story that Brederoo died of love for Tesselschade : 
 this would be extremely unlikely ; but the innumerable 
 poems in which he displays or disguises his infatuation 
 for her person, leave us with no doubt about the depth and 
 sincerity of his feeling. He died at the age of thirty-six, 
 two years after the death of Shakespeare, and in him 
 Holland lost the greatest dramatist she has ever produced. 
 Almost simultaneously with the death of Brederoo the 
 daughter of Eoemer became acquainted with a friend who 
 was destined to take his place and to complete the circle 
 of genius. This was Constantine Huyghens, a young man 
 born two years later than Tesselschade, and now in his 
 twenty-second year. He was a Hagenaar, or citizen of 
 The Hague, a village entirely given up to politics, and 
 with no literary activity. Yet he had read Roemer Visscher's 
 poems with enthusiastic admiration, and had paid a flying 
 visit to Amsterdam, to pay homage to the old poet and his 
 daughters. But he came of a high and ambitious family, 
 and a diplomatic career opened before him. In 1618, he 
 was sent to London in company with the English Ambas- 
 sador Carleton, who was a friend of his father's. He was 
 presented to James I., then engaged in refreshing the 
 weary Synod of Dort by ' his godly zeal and fiery sympathy,' 
 and in hounding on the Stadth older to the massacre of the 
 Arminians. Huyghens was taken to Oxford, Woodstock, 
 Windsor, and Cambridge ; finally, in September 1618, he 
 accompanied homewards the English delegates, who were 
 
EXECUTION OF BAKNEVELDT. 253 
 
 proceeding to assist at that weary Synod aforesaid. But 
 the most noticeable thing in connection with this visit 
 of Huyghens to London, was that he was permitted the 
 honour, as he himself puts it, of pressing the hand of that 
 incomparable divine poet, John Donne. 
 
 During the agitations of the political crisis, Anna 
 Roemer began to develop her literary talent in a remark- 
 able degree, and to show the didactic tendencies which 
 afterwards entirely absorbed her work. The ' Maeghden- 
 Plicht' of Cats the Emblematist was dedicated to Anna, 
 and shows that she had already corresponded with the 
 Zealand school of poets. While these literary amenities 
 were passing between Amsterdam and Middelburg, the 
 father of Huyghens noted in his diary, with singular 
 brevity, on May 13, 1618, ' Barneveldt beheaded this morn- 
 ing, directly after breakfast.' This terrible judicial crime 
 was execrated in the circle of Roemer's friends. Hooft 
 was united by the strongest bonds of association and 
 gratitude to the Stadth older, but Vondel, at least, was a 
 passionate partisan of the Advocate, and he and Coster laid 
 no restraint on their scathing satires against the Gomarists 
 and Counter-Remonstrants. In this Tesselschade herself, 
 as a poem of hers to Vondel proves, ardently joined, and 
 in the house of Engelsche Kaai verses were recited in the 
 inmost circle, which would have brought the heads that 
 read them to prison, if not to the scaffold. Vondel's burn- 
 ing ode, beginning — 
 
 Holland had he hid and carried 
 
 At his heart, 
 Till old age, that had not tarried, 
 
 Did its part ; 
 
254 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 But to wasli the oaths of cravens 
 
 In his blood, 
 And to fatten crows and ravens 
 
 With its flood ?i 
 
 became a kind of watchword among the select company of 
 the best spirits of Amsterdam, who met around the board 
 of the gentle Anna, and the wronged soul of the great 
 Barneveldt held these men and women closer together in a 
 bond of protest. From this time forth we find Vondel 
 strongly leaning to the Catholic religion. 
 
 As soon as the triumph of the Calvinists was assured, 
 the rigid suppression of the drama began to be relaxed. 
 Some magnificent posthumous plays of Brederoo's were 
 performed, and Coster shyly came out of his shell, and got 
 his Academy once more into working order. Already 
 before 1619, Anna is conjectured to have published her 
 magnum opus, the descriptive and didactic poem of ' De 
 Eoemster van den Aemstel ' (The Glory of the Aemstel), a 
 work of which the only known edition is without a date. 
 Early in 1620, a second edition of Roemer's ' Zinne- 
 Poppen ' appeared with very considerable emendation and 
 enlargement from the hand of Anna. Some of the verses 
 attached to her father's work display her pedestrian muse 
 at its best. A drawing of a giddy lady, singing to her 
 own accompaniment upon the lute, suggests to Anna the 
 following sensible little poem: — 
 
 A wife that sings and pipes all day, 
 And never puts her lute away, 
 No service to her hand finds she ; 
 Fie, fie ! for this is vanity ! 
 
 • Appendix MM. 
 
DEATH OF EOEMER. 255 
 
 But is it not a heavenly sight 
 To see a woman take delight 
 With song or string her hushand dear, 
 When daily work is done, to cheer ? 
 
 Misuse may turn the sweetest sweet 
 To loathsome wormwood, I repeat ; 
 Yea, wholesome medicine, full of grace, 
 May prove a poison — out of place . 
 
 They who on thoughts eternal rest. 
 With earthly pleasures may be blest ; 
 Since they know well these shadows gay, 
 Like wind and smoke, will pass away.^ 
 
 There was no fear that the authoress of such cheerful 
 lines would be decoyed away into the barrenness of religious 
 polemic. It has been supposed that Anna visited Zealand 
 in this year, but to me it seems extremely improbable that 
 in her father's infirm state she, as head of the house, would 
 choose to take so long a journey from home. In fact, 
 before the year was out, Eoemer Visscher was dead, at the 
 age of seventy-five. Two years earlier, in 1618, the famous 
 Franz Hals had painted his portrait, a dreamy old man, with 
 finely-cut features, slightly recalling those of his daughter 
 Tesselschade ; in the eyes a weary, wistful expression, 
 but no trace of sourness. To the last he was the honoured 
 centre of the most important literary salon in the north 
 of Europe. 
 
 But the circle did not break up with his death, or even 
 materially change. From all parts of Holland poetical 
 tributes to the memory of their father poured in upon 
 the sisters. Hooft wrote two genial epitaphs ; Huyghens, 
 
 ' Appendix NN. 
 
256 THE LITEEATUEE OE NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 who was away in Venice, sent a long poem of condolence.^ 
 All these elegies presupposed, in their tone, that the same 
 welcome would meet all men of genius at the table of Anna 
 and Tesselschade as at that of Eoemer, and for two or 
 three years Anna was at the head of the Amsterdam school. 
 Meanwhile Laurens Eeael had returned after a brilliant 
 career. In 1616 he had succeeded Ehijnst as Grovernor- 
 Greneral of the Indies, he had defeated the Javanese at 
 Batavia, and the English at Amboyna, and now, ripe with 
 honours, he came back to Amsterdam to greet his friends. 
 He started from the Moluccas in AugTist 1619, and arrived 
 at home in January 1620, to find that his patron and dear 
 friend Oldenbarneveldt had been degraded, condemned, 
 and executed before he liimself had left his new splendours 
 in Asia. Under the new rule there was little in Holland 
 to attract or to solace Reael, and he drew more closely than 
 ever to the sisters, at whose house he met Vondel, Hooffc, 
 and the lovers of the murdered advocate. Vondel himself, 
 
 ' Hiiyghens, who was one of the greatest masters of metrical form 
 of his age, in one of his epistles to Tesselschade uses, with the 
 utmost ease and at great length, a stanza of which this is an ex- 
 ample : — 
 
 Tesselschaedje, 
 Kameraedje, 
 Die dit praetje 
 
 Uit mijn hert, 
 En van binnen, 
 Uyi het spinnen 
 Van mijn sinnen. 
 Hebt ontwert. 
 
 This is more like one of the lovely creations of Victor Hugo or of 
 Swinburne than a production of the heavy and fettered Teutonic tongues 
 of the seventeenth century. But m respect of mastery over form 
 Huyghens is facile pnncejjs among the Dutch poets of his time or 
 since. 
 
MUIDEN CASTLE. 257 
 
 in this year, 1621, wrote his remarkable poem, ' The Praise 
 of St. Ag-nes,' in which his strong bias towards the Catholic 
 religion first found definite expression. Another old friend 
 returned to Amsterdam in 1621; this was Starter, who, 
 anxious to collect his lyrical and amorous poems into a 
 volume, and finding no type for music at Leeuwarden, came 
 up to superintend the publication of his ' Friesche Lust- 
 hof,' or ' Frisian Pleasaunce,' an oblong quarto, illustrated 
 in the most charming way, and altogether one of the most 
 desirable books of that age. At the same time he brouglit 
 out at Coster's Academy his tragedy of ' Darnide,' and 
 continued to live at Amsterdam, in companionship with 
 his old friends, until 1625, when he wandered away, 
 and died obscurely fighting in the Thirty Years' War. 
 Huyghens had gone in January 1621, to London, as Secre- 
 tary to the Dutch Ambassador, and was dubbed Sir Con- 
 stantine in the following year by the sword of James I. 
 In March 1623, he returDed to the Hagiie. 
 
 Meanwhile Hooft had been enjoying the luxury of his 
 castle at Muiden since 1609. He found the house in a 
 half-ruined condition, and its walls were almost destroyed 
 by a great storm in 1612. It therefore became necessary 
 to repair it thoroughly, and on this task the poet expended 
 a great deal of time and trouble. At last it was completed, 
 and sumptuously fitted up, and his charming- wife and he 
 hastened to press their friends to visit them, Muiden was 
 a picturesque little castle, built four-square, with four 
 pointed sexagonal turrets, a chapel and a central quad- 
 rangle. It stood in a lake, which itself formed the centre 
 of an island contained between the Eiver Veclit and the 
 sea, so that it was completely isolated, except by a draw- 
 
 s 
 
258 THE LITEEATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 bridge on the south-western side. When Hooft accepted 
 the bailiwick, the ground about the castle was bare, but he 
 at once planted it on all sides with aspen, elm, and nut 
 trees, which soon formed a pleasant feature of the landscape. 
 To the south were gardens, and an orchard ; on all other 
 sides these young woods. In the orchard stood two mem- 
 orable objects — a magnificent plum-tree, the fruit of which 
 was specially dedicated to Hooft's friends, and a summer- 
 house, where he sometimes wrote. He chiefly studied and 
 composed, however, in one of his six-cornered tiu'rets, which 
 he had fitted up as a library, and from which, looking over 
 the nut-copses, he could see the grey, shimmering line of 
 the ZLuder Zee. He called this room his 'Torentje,' or 
 little tower, and under this name it became famous in Dutch 
 literature. Here he wrote not only his great poems, but 
 his still greater historical works. To us he is chiefly 
 interesting, at present, in the former capacity, but it may 
 not be amiss to remind ourselves that Motley, not the 
 worst of judges, has gone out of his way to call Hooft one 
 of the greatest historians, not of Holland, but of Europe. 
 It was in Torentje that he wrote his life of Henry IV., 
 and to this fact Vondel refers in his famous lines : — 
 
 Oftentimes you choose to clamber 
 To this six-side cloister chamber ; 
 
 But its solitude, I own, 
 
 Lets you never be alone. 
 In this chamber was beg-otteu 
 AVhat will never be forgotten, — 
 
 Greatest Henry's mighty fame, 
 
 And the glory of his name 
 From this little place came flying. 
 Fledged by your fine pen undying.^ 
 
 ' Appendix 00. 
 
TESSELSCHADE'S LYKJCS. 259 
 
 To share the amenities of Miiiden Castle, and to enjoy 
 a little rest after their sorrow, the daughters of Roemer 
 became the guests of Hooft. Anna came as a friend, but 
 her literary sympathies were by this time far enough 
 alienated from Hooft and the- Italian school. Tesselschade, 
 on the contrary, came as a disciple, and from this time 
 forth was habitually accustomed to lay her poems before 
 Hooft for his revision. Hitherto we have said too little of 
 the sweet poetess herself, and too much of her surroundings. 
 In truth, so rich was the period in which she lived, and so 
 great the men of genius with wliom she associated, that 
 her own productions, judged simply as literature, are a 
 little thrown into the shade. She was the intimate friend, 
 as we have seen and are to see, of the four greatest 
 and most original poets of Holland — Vondel, Hooft, 
 Brederoo, Huyghens — and it cannot be pretended that her 
 verses are worthy to be seen by the side of theirs. It is ' 
 natm'al, considering the bias of her mind, to find her 
 resembling Hooft most nearly. But she had original lyric 
 genius, and her scholarship of the poet of ' Grranida ' is 
 never slavish. A close translation of one of her pastorals 
 will exhibit fairly enough the charms and the limitations 
 of her style: — 
 
 THE COMPLAINT OF PHYLLIS. 
 
 My sheep, wlio hunger satisfied 
 With fragrant thyme, now turn aside 
 
 To these rose-petals, from my crown ; 
 They brought their scent to sacrifice, 
 And ravished heart and soul with spice, 
 
 Whene'er to dance I was led down. 
 
 'Tis better that the blossoms feed 
 My lambkins which I, dying, lead, 
 Than that, undone, dishonoured, 
 s 2 
 
260 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Between my g-roans and sighs of woe, 
 
 Bathed in my hot tears' burning flow, 
 
 They, faultless, wither on my head. 
 
 Ah ! chew them small with little nips, 
 Imiocent flock ! hut when yom* lips 
 
 Are weary, and you fall on sleep, 
 Muse on the death of my delight, 
 That bids me toss in sad despite 
 
 My rosy garland to mj- sheep. 
 
 For you were near when faith and troth 
 Philander swore, who breaks them both, 
 
 And lewdly com-ts another lass ! 
 For you were near, when his sweet words 
 Bound my weak heart, and heaven recoixis 
 
 How tender and how false he was ! 
 
 Yet health, and not revenge be found ! 
 Give balsam for my aching wound, 
 
 Give balsam from the heavenly store ! 
 But if revenge yom- will decree, 
 O gods, chastise, but let it be 
 
 The prick of conscience, and no more. 
 
 My sorrow, sure, will make him bm-n, 
 My passion to his passion turn. 
 
 His passion tm*u again to me ; 
 And so, once more, as once hath been, 
 No happier pair on earth be seen 
 
 Than Phyllis and Philander be.^ 
 
 But in one instance, the praise of music, that inspiring 
 theme for a lyrical poet, lifted the imagination of Tessel- 
 schade into a height which she never approached again. 
 The poem called ' Songsters ' is not only her best, bat 
 worthy of any one of the greatest poets of her age. I 
 attempt as literal a rendering as possible of this exquisitely 
 musical ode; I adhere, as in all other cases, strictly to the 
 metrical form of the original. 
 
 ' A^Dpendix PP. 
 
SONGSTERS.' 261 
 
 ' 1. 
 
 THE WILD SONGSTER. 
 
 Praise tlioii the nightingale, 
 Who with her joyous tale 
 Doth make thy heart rejoice, 
 Whether a singing plume she he, or viewless winged voice ; 
 
 Whose warblings, sweet and clear, 
 Ravish the listening ear 
 With joy, as upward float 
 The throbbing liquid trills of her enchanted throat ; 
 
 Whose accent pure and ripe 
 Sounds like an organ pipe, 
 That holdeth divers songs, 
 And with one tongue alone sings like a score of tongues. 
 
 Tlie rise and fall again 
 In clear and loveh^ strain 
 Of her sweet voice and shrill, 
 utclamoiu's with its song the singing springing rill. 
 
 A creature whose great praise 
 Her rarity displays. 
 Seeing she only lives 
 A month in all the year to which her song she gives. 
 
 But this thing sets the crown 
 Upon her high renown, 
 That such a little bird as she 
 Can harbour such a strength of clamorous harmony. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE TAME SONGSTER. 
 
 But, wild-wood songster, cease ! 
 Draw breath and hold thy peace ! 
 Thy notes make no sweet noise 
 That can compete for tone with Rosamund a's voice. 
 
262 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHEKN EUROPE. 
 
 Who hath so dear au art 
 Of whispering to the heart 
 In measured plaintive sobs, 
 That, bound iu friendship's net, like a suared bird it throbs. 
 
 Whose cunning voice instils 
 Deep wisdom, while it tills 
 The minds of those who hear, 
 And makes the soul leap up into the listening ear. 
 
 In moauiugs low she dies, 
 And then with tender sighs, 
 In amorous soft conceits 
 A world of various tongues she nimbly counterfeits. 
 
 No weariness we know, 
 Though from her throat may flow 
 Much song ; new pleasures high 
 Still charm the insatiate ear with each fresh harmony. 
 
 Here rarer rapture lives 
 That fitful music gives ; 
 No feathered song so gay 
 As this, that summer gives nor winter takes away.^ 
 
 In 1621 Anna was exchanging compliments and verses 
 with the famous Peter Paul Rubens, one of whose 
 Madonnas she was then copying. She writes to him 
 famiKarly, and signs herself 'your friend.' How they 
 came to be acquainted does not seem to be known. 
 
 In 1622 Anna paid her long-promised visit to Zealand, 
 leaving Tesselschade, it would appear, at home in Amster- 
 dam. She arrived at Middelburg, after a long sea-voyage, 
 in the early summer, and remained there till the end of 
 July. Middelburg was at this time second only to 
 Amsterdam in literary vitality, and as a point of fact 
 the books produced in the former town were far more 
 sumptuously printed and illustrated than those in the 
 ' Appendix QQ. 
 
THE ZEALAND TnIGHTINGALE. 263 
 
 latter. Father Cats, now a man of forty-five, ruled the 
 society of the wits ; he was a personage of no little wealth 
 and grandeur. Among his literary associates the most 
 eminent were Sir Simon van Beaumont, the Pensioner or 
 Grovernor of Zealand, a pastoral and lyric writer of no 
 mean gifts, Joanna Coomans, called the Pearl of Zealand, 
 and Westerbaen, a careful imitator of Cats. Anna was 
 welcomed with enthusiasm by these people, and when, 
 immediately after her return, the southern poets pub- 
 lished, in a very handsome quarto, their collected effusions, 
 this book, entitled the ' Zeeusche Nachtegael,' or Zealand 
 Nightingale, was dedicated to ' Anna Eoemers, the Dutch 
 Sappho,' in terms of rapturous eulogy, the excellent 
 Joanna Coomans being especially exuberant in praise, and 
 many of Anna's own best pieces were included in this 
 production. After this time her heart was always with 
 the southern poets, the school of Dort, as they came to 
 be called. Tesselschade in the meanwhile moved in the 
 old circle of Hooft and his wife, Vondel, Eeael, Starter, 
 Coster, and the few other remaining friends of her father ; 
 and this fidelity to the earlier companionships continued 
 past a crisis in her life which is usually very fatal to 
 friendships. In 1622 had appeared the posthumous 
 ' Song-Book ' of Brederoo, a publication that bore upon 
 it the stamp of the Eoemer circle, with its splendid 
 portrait of Brederoo, surrounded by monodies bearing the 
 initials of Coster, Vondel, and Hooft, and containing every 
 form of passionate appeal to the heart of Tesselschade, 
 ' the glory of Amsterdam,' ' goddess bearing the name of the 
 island rich in ships,' — that is the Texel, — and many other 
 lyrical addresses barely concealing his lady's name from 
 
264 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 the public, to whom no doubt it was well known. These 
 references must have been touching to the heart of the 
 sweet Tesselschade, who consented, however, in the 
 following year, to bury their memory in a less romantic 
 passion. She accepted the hand of a sailor, a middle-aged 
 widower, AUart Krombalgh, of Alkmaar, her sister Grer- 
 trude assisting at the ceremony, on November 1, 1623. 
 To all the poets the marriage of their beautiful friend 
 was an occasion not to be put by. Vondel wrote several 
 pieces on the occasion, and one epithalamium of great 
 length and beauty. Huyghens, who had just returned to 
 the Hague from his second visit to London, poui'ed out 
 his genial soul in poems which displayed, as never before, 
 his absolute supremacy over the language, and his un- 
 rivalled gifts of form. These exquisite verses flow in a 
 measure so buoyant and so rich in rliyme that they ab- 
 solutely preclude the idea of translation. Vondel's and 
 Hooft's soberer eulogies might be attempted, but space 
 fails us. Tesselschade— now, it must be remembered, in 
 her thirtieth year, but still radiantly beautiful — went away 
 with her husband to live in Alkmaar. Three months 
 later Anna followed her example, and bestowed her mature 
 charms on Dominicus Booth van Wesel, on January 12, 
 1624. This couple proceeded also to North Holland, but 
 to a still remoter place, a polder entitled Wieringewaard, 
 to the north of Hoorn. So the family that had so long 
 formed the nucleus of literary life in Amsterdam bad now 
 entirely left it. 
 
 Anna appears no more as tlie friend of the Amsterdam 
 school. She corresponded with Hooft, to whom directly 
 after her marriage she presented a ' loose peruke.' With 
 
TESSELSCHADE'S TASSO. 265 
 
 Cats, now gone to reside at Dort, and with Simon van 
 Beaumont she remained on intimate terms ; but she was 
 now forty years of age and her literary interests stagnated. 
 Tesselschade, on the contrary, wrote with ardour during 
 lier married life. Already she was busy in translating the 
 ' Grerusalemme Liberata ' of Tasso, to which Vondel refers 
 in his epithalamium, congratulating her on bravely ven- 
 turing to the wars with Grodfrey ; she patiently continued 
 this version, which Hooft revised, and to which there are 
 many contemporary references, but, unhappily, it was 
 never printed, and somehow, ' as rare things will, it 
 vanished.' It may yet reappear, and would be a most 
 welcome addition to early Dutch literature. For eleven 
 years, from 1623 to 1634, Krombalgh and his poet-wife 
 lived in quiet domestic happiness. She bore him two 
 daughters, one named Tadea, the other, like herself, 
 Maria Tesselschade. Her relations with Hooft remained 
 on the most intimate footing. As early as 1621 they 
 read Lucian together, and Tesselschade wrote to Hooft in 
 Italian. In 1622 we find her sending poems to him for 
 correction, and soon after her marriage he writes that his 
 heart is fast bound by a triple cord of Tesselschade, Anna, 
 and Keael. It may be said in passing that the merits 
 of Reael had been of too shinino: an order to allow his 
 connection with the murdered Barneveldt to stand in the 
 way of his promotion, and he was rapidly rising to the 
 highest civil honours. On June 6, 1624, Hooft lost his 
 excellent wife Christina, and on July 6 we find him writ- 
 ing to Tesselschade what is really a very pathetic and 
 touching letter, in spite of its pedantic references, in the 
 spirit of that age, to Boethius and Montaigne. His four 
 
266 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 children had preceded their mother to the grave, and 
 Hooft, in the midst of his luxury at Muiden, was desolate 
 iudeed. Already in 1625 he was 'courting the beautiful 
 Susanna van Eaerle ; but he was moreover exceedingly 
 busy on the composition of his great liistorical works. 
 
 The year 1625 was a critical one in the career of 
 Vondel. This great genius, one of the most original and 
 powerful poetic natures of modern Europe, was approach- 
 ing the age of forty not only without having won a very 
 wide reputation, but almost without having deserved it. 
 Few poets have developed so slowly as Vondel, but on the 
 other hand few have continued their production so late. 
 The ' Pascha ' in 1612 was his debut, and he was already 
 in his twenty-fifth year ; until 1619 he did little more 
 than lay up stores of knowledge and experience, and brood 
 in an infinite distress over the bigotry and violence of 
 his countrymen, to whom the revolution had brought not 
 orly liberty but licence. The meeting of the Synod of 
 Durt brought about a healthy revulsion in Vondel's mind ; 
 Bameveldt was dead, Calvinism had triumphed, there 
 was now at all events none of the sickening anxiety, the 
 liope without hope which had brought so much tension 
 into these last years. In 1619 he took leave of the 
 Flemish Chamber of the Lavender with the performance 
 of his second biblical tragedy, ' Jerusalem Laid Desolate,' 
 and went over to the Eglantine. For the next six years 
 we find him in the highly-wrought, impassioned attitude 
 of defiance to the Calvinistic majority which Alberdingk 
 Thijm has known how to reproduce with so much imagi- 
 native fidelity in the admirable early scenes of his ' Por- 
 tretten.' He waited for the death of Prince Maurice, and 
 
PALAMEDES. 267 
 
 when that arrived, in 1625, the result of these years of 
 silence appeared in Yondel's brilliant lyrical invectives 
 against the judicial murder of the Advocate and the 
 persecution of Hugo Grotius. All Amsterdam was up 
 in arms, and the poems of Vondel became a burning- 
 party question. In the midst of this turmoil, his 
 tragedy of ' Palamedes, or Murdered Innocence,' was 
 brought out, in which the trial of the Advocate was 
 painted under the transparent veil of a classical list of 
 persons. Oldenbarneveldt was Palamedes, Prince Maurice, 
 Agamemnon ; the Stadtholder of Friesland, Diomedes. 
 The poet was summoned before the court at Amsterdam, 
 threatened with a charge of high treason and a prison at 
 the Hague, and finally fined 300 guldens. His enemies 
 had hoped to bring him to the gallows, and all they suc- 
 ceeded in doing was to extract a small fine, which a rich 
 friend of the poet's immediately paid ; moreover, from the 
 moment of his trial Vondel was the most famous man in 
 Holland, and a power in politics against the ' Saints of 
 Dort,' as the extreme Calvinists were called. 
 
 We must pass hurriedly over the next nine years of 
 Tesselschade's life. She lived very happily in Alkmaar 
 with her husband, taking a lively interest in literatm-e 
 and her friends, and writing and correcting her own poems. 
 Tlie success and prosperity of the circle was something- 
 very remarkable. Brederoo and Starter had been offer- 
 ings to the jealous gods, but all the rest flourished in the 
 most extraordinary way. Cats at Dort and Huyghens 
 at tlie Hague reigned like little kings in the midst of an 
 admiring and luxurious society. In 1627 Huyghens 
 married Susanna van Baerle, to whom Hooft had been 
 
268 THE LITER4TURE OF NOETHERN EUROPE. 
 
 making suit, but the latter, without any bitterness, trans- 
 ferred his affections to Leonora Hellmans, and married 
 her before the year was out. About this same time arose 
 the famous Anna Maria van Schurman, called the Torch 
 of Wisdom, really a very surprising person, one of the 
 most learned women that ever lived, who spoke Grreek 
 and wrote Arabic and knew everything. A great fuss 
 was made about her, but it is recorded that Hooft was 
 very faithful to his old friend, and being called upon to 
 admire the new wonder, replied, ' She smells of the school- 
 room ; she cannot hold a rose to our Tesselschade.' In- 
 deed, at this distance of time, the charms of Anna van 
 Schurman have raiher a faded fragrance. In 1626 
 Eeael went to England as the representative of Holland 
 at the coronation of Charles I., and came back to Amster- 
 dam Sir Laurence Eeael; in 1628 he was Ambassador of 
 the States to the court of Denmark. This very serious 
 person amused himself on these high journeys by para- 
 phrasing in Dutch the ' Basia ' of Joannes Secundus, an 
 occupation which strikes the modern reader as a little 
 frivolous. He had been better occupied, perhaps, in old 
 days in Eoemer's house, translating, with Hooft's help, 
 Seneca for the instruction of Vondel and Tesselschade who 
 knew no Latin. 
 
 In 1630, the Chamber of the White Lavender merged 
 itself in Coster's Academy, and Vondel gave a subject on 
 the occasion for a prize poem. Hooft was to award the 
 prize, and the successful candidate was Tesselschade. I do 
 not know what the modern critics who talk about ' Mutual 
 Admiration ' would say to this transaction, but I have no 
 doubt the poem, which we possess and which is very good. 
 
LIFE AT MUIDEN. 269 
 
 though a little obscure, deserved its honour. In the same 
 year Hooft and his wife paid the Krombalghs a visit at 
 their house in Corn Street, Alkmaar, and when they re- 
 turned brought Tesselschade back with them to Muiden, 
 while her husband effected a change of house into a better 
 locality in Long Street. It was perhaps upon this occasion 
 that Hooft wrote his well-known verses describing the way 
 Tesselschade spent her time in his house. The seven- 
 teenth century did not excel in vers dp soclete, but these 
 are above the average of pre-Priorian compliment : — 
 
 Love-god, stern of sovereignty, 
 
 Mark the maiden of the Y, 
 Who in her proud youth and story^ 
 Rohs thy mother of ber glory, 
 
 Bkishing cheek, and winsome guile. 
 
 And a lovely artless smile ! 
 
 What employs her leisure so ? 
 
 Thoughts are working, fingers go ! 
 Busy are lier eyes, drooped sweetly, 
 Throat and lips are warbling featly ; 
 
 Youth and joy can have no fence 
 
 'Gainst such dangerous diligence. 
 
 Now she makes the diamond pass 
 
 O'er the diunb face of the glass ; 
 Now with golden thread she lingers, 
 Painting cloth with nimble fingers ; 
 
 Now the pencil bears, and pen. 
 
 Kindly charming idle men. 
 
 See, she curves her slender throat's 
 Outline up and down the notes I 
 Or to words ber eyes sbe's liming, 
 All her soul gone out in rhyming ! 
 Or she bends her gracious tongue 
 To the French or Roman song ! '' 
 
 J' Appendix RR. 
 
270 THE LITERATUKE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 According to F^arlaf-us, Tesselsehade adorned her house, 
 which was exquisitely fitted ujj, with paintings of her own ; 
 he particular!}'' mentions a flying Psyche, and a landscape of 
 Muiden Castle. If her painting was like her poetry, she 
 must have tended rather to the classic manner of Poelen- 
 burgh than to the style of the Amsterdam realists, among 
 whom Rembrandt was now taking a foremost place. In 
 1631, Coster and Vondel were at Muiden, and about this 
 time Barlaeus was invited there to meet Tesselsehade. 
 Barlaeus was a man of great learning and energy, who had 
 only very lately been able to extricate himself from the 
 tedious duties of a country minister. For years and years 
 he had been pastor of a little parish on the dull island of 
 Overflakkee, with no literary centre nearer to him than the 
 rather obscure Chamber of the Thistle at Zierikzee; since 
 then he had been away in France, and only now, at the age 
 of forty-seven, was he able to mix with men of letters. He 
 was a brilliant and ardent person, the best Latinist of the 
 day, and he was received at once into the Muiden circle, and 
 became the most infatuated of Tesselschade's admirers ; she 
 played to him, it appears, successively on the organ, klavier, 
 viol, guitar and cithern, and he strove in vain to decide 
 on which her skill in melody was most divine. In this 
 charming way the whole circle lived ; at least at Muiden 
 and at Alkmaar it was so. We find Hooft writing: 
 ' We live here as those dead to the world ; each day is so 
 like the other, that life seems a ship becalmed in a dead 
 sea of stillness.' Hooft's letters are a most invaluable 
 contribution to our knowledge of those times. I know no 
 correspondence so distinguished and at the same time so 
 playful and intimate. For instance, what a delightful 
 
LIFE AT ALKMAA.R. 271 
 
 piece of absurdity is that letter, of February 1632, in 
 which he assures Tesselschade that his wife is no Medea to 
 tear little Teetjen Krombalgh in pieces, or make a meal 
 off the limbs of Maria ; on the contrary, she is ' a sweet- 
 milk heart, full of sugar,' and Tesselschade must hurry to 
 bring her little girls to Muiden, where the Hoofts are 
 dying to embrace them. In November of the same year, 
 Tesselschade presented Hooft's wife and daughter each 
 with a goblet engraved by her own hand ; it is said that 
 these still exist, and show rare technical skill. A young 
 French or Italian musician, Francesca Duarte, about this 
 time joined the circle, and shared with Tesselschade 
 Hooft's enthusiastic friendship. In 1633, she settled at 
 Alkmaar, and this gave the Hoofts an excuse for visiting 
 both families in that year. 
 
 But a great sorrow waited for them behind all this 
 happiness. On May 28, 1634, Hooft wrote a long letter, 
 begging Tesselschade to come and read Marini with him, 
 upbraiding her with neglecting poetry, and asking her 
 what she thought of some translations Huyghens had been 
 making from John Donne. Keceiving no reply, he grew 
 anxious, and at last sent a messenger to Alkmaar, who 
 returned with news thatthe eldest daughter Tadea (Teetjen), 
 was very ill with small-pox. Full of anxiety he communi- 
 cated the tact to Huyghens and others, but in June he has 
 to report not only that little Teetjen is dead, but that Krom- 
 balgh himself has succumbed to the disease. Huyghens 
 has recorded that the child was bled to death, and Hooft 
 uses the same expression about the father. It may be 
 supposed that this was the result of a foolish attempt to 
 allay the violent secondary fever, in accordance with the 
 
272 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 ignorant practice of the time. At all events, our poetess 
 was thus at one blow left a widow, and deprived of her 
 eldest child. 
 
 She bore this sorrow with an exquisite patience. Hooft, 
 who supported her through this terrible trial with the 
 most friendly fidelity, wrote that the heroes might go to 
 school to this much more enduring heroine. He very 
 wisely recommended her to silence her memories of the 
 past by renewed devotion to literary work, and she took 
 his advice. She resumed her version of Tasso, and worked 
 on upon it until it was finished, no slight or holiday pastime 
 for a woman to complete. It would seem that nobody 
 was poor in Holland in those halcyon days, and Krombalgh 
 had left his widow well provided for. With her daughter, 
 the young Tesselschade, a child in every way worthy of so 
 beautiful and so distinguished a mother, she retired to a 
 bouse called Belvedere, outside the town of Alkmaar, in a 
 wood, and here she spent the next eight years in great con- 
 tentment. Barlaeus has dedicated a whole Latin poem, 
 one of his best, to the description of this house, which 
 Tesselschade adorned with all manner of artistic objects 
 paintings by her own hand, tapestries, porcelain, the 
 wonders of the newly-opened and still fabulous East. 
 The poet gives a charming picture of his friend, sericd 
 in vests splendens, shimmering in her satin dress, in her 
 lovely garden, her lute at her hand, as pretty a figure, 
 sui'ely, as ever Netscher or Metzu painted for us in boudoir 
 or courtyard. It must not be supposed, however, that she 
 gave herself up to a frivolous life ; on the contrary, her 
 writings became tinged with a serious, almost a pietistic 
 colour, and she wrote many spiritual poems, among which 
 
VONDEL'S CONVERSION. 273 
 
 her hymn to St. Mary Magdalene is the best known. It 
 begins : — 
 
 Adorned ov unadorned art thou, Magdalene, 
 As with uubroidered hair thou jewel-less art seen. 
 
 Thy chain of pearls undone, thy shining gold profaned. 
 And all that men esteem as vile and false disdained ; 
 Since these can well betray thy tender youth from heaven, 
 And be a stumbling-block that were for pleasure given ? 
 Godfearing woman, hail ! Oling fast, as to a wall 
 That neitiier time can move nor gloomy fate make fall./ 
 
 Her verse now reminds the critic in no way of Hooft, 
 but of the more massive and robust style of Vondel. 
 Indeed, at this time her relations with the latter poet were 
 very intimate, and he himself was passing through a 
 remarkable period of transition. Still nominally a Pro- 
 testant, it is recorded by Brandt, his first biographer, that 
 he was powerfully drawn towards Eome by a beautiful 
 widow lady, and it has always been understood that this 
 lady was Tesselschade. Vondel's wife was now dead, and 
 in his isolatioD at Amsterdam his heart went out in tender 
 passion towards the sweet poetess at Alkmaar, in whom he 
 found so close and so intelligent a sympathy. There does 
 not seem to have been any talk of marriage between them ; 
 she easily made his sensitive spirit understand that she 
 would not accept again the risks of so near a tie, but the 
 love was great on his side and no doubt responded to on 
 hers. News that the great Vondel was going over to the 
 Popish Church, seems to have found its way to the Hague, 
 and the energetic Huyghens, who was a staunch Protestant, 
 and had just brought out a volume of divine poems, 
 tliought it his duty to upbraid Tesselschade, and, if it 
 
 * Appendix SS. 
 T 
 
274 THE LITERATUKE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 might be, convert her. He set about his pious task in 
 furious style, and attacked his gentle friend in poems and 
 epistles, till at last she could bear it no longer, and 
 entreated Barlaeus to take up the cause on her behalf. 
 Nothing could be more welcome to Barlaeus, and Huyghens 
 suddenly found himself stung in excellent Latin verse, and 
 reproached for his cruelty. He replied that he loved the 
 child too much to spare the rod, but his versatile mind 
 soon wearied of this puritanic fervour, and he returned 
 humbly to his old adulation. Meanwhile it soon appeared 
 why Barlaeus had been so ready in the defence : he had 
 been sighing to Hooft of his wretched condition as a 
 widower, and now he laid his laurels and his heart at the 
 feet of Tesselschade. Never was a poetess so lyrically 
 wooed : the poems of Barlaeus to Tesselschade are so 
 numerous that they form a whole section of his poetical 
 works, under the heading ' Tessalica.' He sung of her in a 
 boat at sea, playing the organ in Alkmaar Church, singing 
 with Francesca Duarte, riding on horseback ; he sung to 
 other people about her, to Huyghens sleeping under her 
 roof, to Hooft about to receive a visit from her ; but in 
 every poem he exalted her priceless worth and beauty, and 
 insinuated that he alone should guard it. For a long time 
 she bore this hot siege with patient amusement ; Huyghens 
 and Hooft, anxious, perhaps, to frustrate the hopes of 
 Vondel, encouraged Barlaeus in every way. At last, in a 
 letter about other matters, she enclosed a copy of a stanza 
 of Cats, which runs as follows : — 
 
 AVheu a valved shell of ocean 
 
 Breaks one side or loses one, 
 Though you seek witli all deTotion 
 
 You can ne'er the loss atone, 
 
'GIJSBRECHT VAN AEMSTEL.' 275 
 
 Never make agaiu the edges 
 
 Bite together, tooth for tooth, 
 And, just so, old love alleges 
 
 Nought is like the heart's first troth. ^ 
 
 The generous Barlaeus understood the hint, and pressed 
 his suit no more ; but his warm-hearted, intimate friend- 
 ship was no whit slackened by the disappointment.^ In 
 1639, Tesselschade came up to Amsterdam, with her 
 friend Francesca Duarte, to sing- before the French Queen 
 Dowager, Maria de' Medicis, and to present to her an 
 Italian poem of her own composition. She was at this 
 time busy translating into Dutch the ' Adonis ' of Marini ; 
 this work, like her Tasso, has unhappily been lost. A 
 new race of young literati, now springing up, claimed her 
 patronage, and laid their first-fruits before her. The 
 poetess Alida Bruno claimed her as her poetic mother ; 
 two young dramatists destined to a great reputation, Vos 
 the pupil of Vondel, and Geraerdt Brandt the protege of 
 Barlaeus, sought the honour of her friendship. The 
 Old Chamber of the Eglantine had in 1631 become 
 merged in the Academy, and the stage of the latter had 
 proved inadequate as a national theatre. It was rebuilt 
 on a grander scale and opened in January 3, 1638, by tlie 
 performance of one of the greatest works in the Dutch 
 language, Vondel's immortal tragedy of ' Grijsbrecht van 
 Aemstel,' a drama that still lives on the stage, and enjoys 
 a traditional popularity, when much of the admirable 
 literature of that age exists only for antiquarians. In 
 1639, Vondel dedicated to Tesselschade his version of the 
 
 ' Appendix TT. 
 
 "^ For this story Scheltema is responsible ; I cannot lind that tlie 
 letter is in existence. 
 
 T 2 
 
276 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 'Electra' of Sophocles, and in 1641, again to her, though 
 this time under the pseudonym of Eusebia, his sacred 
 tragedy ' Peter and Paul.' On his fifty-fourth birthday, 
 November 17, 1641, he went over to the Catholic Church. 
 He suffered for this step. His friends turned their 
 backs upon him, even the hospitable Hooft refused him 
 admission to Muiden. He bore his unpopularity with for- 
 titude, and produced his great dramatic poems in rapid 
 succession : three tragedies, ' The Sons of Saul,' ' Joseph in 
 Dothan,' and ' Joseph in Egypt,' belong to this period of 
 suspicion and estrangement. It must have been a con- 
 solation to Vondel, that in 1642 Tesselschade removed, 
 with her daughter, to Amsterdam, and took up her abode 
 under the roof of her sister Grertrude van Buyl. Scarcely 
 had she arrived, when, in March 1642, she lost her left 
 eye from a spark that flew out of a smithy as she passed. 
 Hooft, Huyghens, and Barlaeus have all left poems de- 
 scribing this accident in glowing colours, but the poetess 
 herself only mentions it to thank Barlaeus, smilingly, for 
 the ' learned plaister over my eye,' which he sent. She 
 still took an interest, as she had ever done, in literary 
 events, and ' assisted,' as the French say, at two famous 
 debuts^ the first performances of Vos's ' Aaron and Titus,' 
 a blood-and-thunder tragedy on the lines of ' Titus 
 Andronicus' in 1642, and Brandt's 'Dissembling Tarquin' 
 in 1643. But the shadows were gathering around her, 
 and her most eventful life was not destined to linger into 
 old age. Her daughter, a charming girl, was now 
 approaching womanhood, and in her all Tesselschade's 
 hopes and wishes were bound up. One by one the other 
 ties dissolved. In 1642 Eeael died ; Hooft passed away 
 
DEATH OF TESSELSGHADE. 277 
 
 in the sixty-seventh year of his age, on May 21, 1647 ; on 
 January 14, 1648, Barlaens was laid by Hooft's side in 
 the New Church of Amsterdam, and Vondel wrote above 
 them both a touching epitaph. As if the loss of these 
 dear friends were not enough. Death laid his hand upon 
 the apple of her eye, her only remaining comfort, her 
 daughter. Her heroic patience failed her at last, and on 
 June 20, 1649, she died of grief in the house of her niece 
 in Amsterdam. All the poets wrote verses on her death, 
 but the most simple and touching were those of Huyghens, 
 of which I essay a version : — 
 
 'Tis Tesselschade's grave ! 
 
 Let no one vainly try 
 To measure out in words lier matchless quality ; 
 The honour that men give the Sun to her they gave. 
 
 And why in death she lay, 
 
 Listen, I will relate : 
 O mothers, think, it was her daughter sealed her fate, 
 And she who owed her life took life fi'om her away. 
 
 The child had little blame ; 
 
 The mother saw her die, 
 And died that she to keep her company might try. 
 So perished Tesselscha through her own tender aim ! ' 
 
 Anna van Wesel, her sister, died December 6, 1651. 
 Cats survived till 1660, nearly completing his eighty-third 
 year; Vondel and Huyghens each outlived his ninetieth 
 year, lingering respectively until 1679 and 1687. So 
 passed away the last of the great race. 
 
 ' Appendix UU. 
 
VONDEL AND MILTON. 
 
 The critics of the last century, whose idea of sesthetic 
 analysis not imfreqiiently seems to have been to form a 
 mosaic of such little bits of a poet as could in some degree 
 be held to resemble little bits of earlier poets, found in 
 Milton a wide field for their ingenious labour. With an 
 extraordinary memory and a taste for poetry that far over- 
 flowed the conventional banks of English and classical 
 literature, Milton, at the outset of his career, seems to 
 have steeped his imagination in the fine thoughts of almost 
 all the European poets, and to have occasionally combined 
 or reproduced their felicities in his own verse. But when 
 his blindness came upon him, and he was more and more 
 thrown for refreshment back upon the stores of his 
 memory, he was unable, and, perhaps, not anxious, to 
 ascertain whether a noble fancy or a chord of melody that 
 floated in his brain was or was not his own in any sense 
 but that of conquest. Like Groethe, he had the august 
 arrogance of a supreme poet who is conscious that he con- 
 fers immortality on a thought by stealing it, and that 
 what is stolen leaves his lips so glorified in expression that 
 it has become a new thing. A great deal of foolishness 
 has been said about plagiarism ; to plagiarise is the 
 instinct, the characteristic audacity of almost every poet 
 
MILTON. • 9.79 
 
 of the highest class. It is only when it is committed by 
 a small poet or poetaster — in other words, when skill is 
 wanted, and the hand of the thief is seen in the pocket of 
 the owner — that the action becomes blamable, because 
 contemptible. To carry out no further an argument that 
 may to some readers seem paradoxical, it is at least certain, 
 for praise or blame, that the later poems of Milton are 
 studded with memories, more or less faint or vivid, of the 
 works of numerous previous writers. The French didactic 
 poet, Du Bartas, whether in the original or in the transla- 
 tion of Joshua Sylvester, supplied him with ideas ; some fine 
 images and a whole train of thought were taken from the 
 richly coloured ' Christ's Victory and Triumph ' of the 
 younger Griles Fletcher ; even Cowley's ' Davideis ' was 
 laid under contribution for ' Paradise Lost.' These sug- 
 gestions and reminiscences have been frequently dwelt 
 upon, but not so much attention has been paid to the still 
 bolder appropriations Milton made from various foreign 
 writers. Some notice, but to an inadequate extent, has, 
 indeed, been taken of the influence on the great English 
 epic of the ' Adamo ' of the Italian dramatist, J. B. And- 
 reini, who died shortly before Milton commenced his great 
 tusk. The ' Adamus Exul ' of Hugo Grotius, published in 
 l(i01, has not escaped the notice of Milton's last and best 
 biographer, Dr. Alfred Stern. It is probable that a close 
 study of Italian and Spanish literature would bring to light 
 many more cases of Miltonic adaptation and suggestion. 
 Bat the most full and curious of all is one which has, indeed, 
 been frequently pointed out in a cursory manner, but never, 
 to the knowledge of the present writer, been carefully 
 investigated. This is the amount to which Milton was 
 
280 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 indebted in his sketch of the Fall of the Eebel Angels to 
 the choral drama of ' Lucifer,' by the Dutch poet Vondel. 
 
 The Dutch language was not so little studied in the 
 beginning of the seventeenth century as it now is. Eliza- 
 beth, being in some sort looked upon as the head of the 
 Keformed party throughout Europe, supplied help to the 
 Netherlands in their revolt against Spain ; and when the 
 United Provinces, after their almost single-handed and 
 heroic struggles, succeeded in establishing for themselves, 
 not merely independence, but a foremost place among the 
 States of Europe, there was a good deal of diplomatic 
 coquetting between Holland and England before the ulti- 
 mate jealousy and hatred set in. The sudden political 
 start made by Holland was almost immediately succeeded 
 by the creation of a brilliant literature. Within twenty 
 years after the proclamation of the Federal Commonwealth 
 of the Seven United Provinces, in 1581, all the greatest 
 names in Dutch literature were born. It was a time of 
 great imaginative revival all over the North of Europe. 
 The same period saw the birth of Ai-rebo and of Stjernhelm, 
 respectively destined to be the fathers of Danish and of 
 Swedish poetry ; and of Martin Opitz, in whom German 
 literature threw out its first modern blossom. In England 
 the great Elizabethan school was at its climax, and light 
 and heat radiated from London through all the EeformeJ 
 countries. But iu Holland, more tlian anywhere else, all 
 the elements of imaginative production seemed concen- 
 trated and intensified in a brief period of brilliance. 
 
 In the last chapter I have given a rapid outline of the 
 rise and development of this literature, and I have tracetl 
 the lives of the principal Dutch poets down to the year 
 
VONDEL. 281 
 
 1649. Vondel was then in his sixty-fiftli year, and had 
 reached that time of life ^^at which work is usually laid 
 aside, the harvest of the brain being reaped and garnered. 
 It was not so however with this great man. The decline 
 of life, the loss of friends, the burden of poverty only in- 
 creased the light of his singularly heroic genius. IrABAI- 
 he had joined the Church of Rome, in 1644 Christina of 
 Sweden, whose tendencies were Popish, had honoured him 
 with a golden chain, and her portrait. These events had 
 not increased the favour with which his Protestant fellow- 
 citizens regarded him, nor did his didactic poem ' Altaerge- 
 heimenissen ' (Mysteries of the Altar) add to his. popularity. 
 On the other hand his tragedy of ' Maria Stuart ' brought 
 him much praise and profit in 1646. Vondel, it may be 
 remarked, was the first poet to select for dramatic treat- 
 ment this highly romantic theme ; at Mary's death he was 
 two years old, and therefore in some sense her contemporary. 
 In 1648 he celebrated the Peace of Munster by the 
 performance of ' Leeuwendalers,' a pastoral in the style of 
 Tasso or Gruarini. After the death of his dear friend 
 Tesselschade in 1649, he gave over the stocking-shop in 
 Warmoesstraat to his eldest son, and went to live on the 
 Cingel, then the limit of Amsterdam, with his daughter 
 Anna. In 1653 he was made the president of the Gruild 
 of St. Luke, being crowned on the occasion by the famous 
 painter, Bartholomeus van der Heist. He completed the 
 long li.st of his biblical tragedies with the ' Solomon ' in 
 1649. It was in his daughter's house that he completed, j 
 in his sixty-seventh year, the masterpiece of his life-time, /^- ^' / 
 the most brilliant poetical work in the Dutch language. 
 This was the ' Lucifer,' which was brought out with great 
 
282 THE LITEEATUKE OF NOETHEEN EUROPE. 
 
 display of scenic heavens, but after two nights withdrawn 
 on account of the great expense it involved. It was then 
 printed in 1654. Milton was living in the 'pretty garden- 
 house opening into the park,' and still acting as Secretary 
 to the Council of State, although his failing sight had led 
 him, some months before, to suggest Marvell as his succes- 
 sor. In April peace had been made between England and 
 the United Provinces, and there was a temporary cessation 
 of hostilities. There can be little doubt that Milton, who 
 had received regular lessons in the Dutch language from 
 Eoger Williams, kept himself well versed in the best current 
 Dutch literature. There were frequent interchanges of 
 scholarly civilities. Huyghens had been in London within 
 Milton's manhood, burning incense to the English poets, and 
 carrying back to Holland memories, and, alas ! imitations of 
 the great John Donne. Such a poet as Hooft, kindred in 
 so many ways to Milton's own youth, divided as it was 
 between Puritanism and the worship of beauty, between 
 pietism and sensuous paganism, cannot but have attracted 
 his learned and curious mind. Hence, one may well believe 
 that immediately on the puldication of Vondel's ' Lucifer ' 
 a copy foimd its way to Milton ; it may have been one of 
 the last books he[read with his own faded eyes. Four years 
 afterwards — that is, in 1658 — he is supposed to have com- 
 menced 'Paradise Lost,' and in 1667, thirteen years later 
 than the Dutch drama, it saw the light. 
 
 We all know that, in the great English epic, the Fall 
 
 of the Angels forms a vast episode in the story of the Fall 
 
 of Man. In ' Lucifer,' the angels fill the foreground, and 
 
 ^ man is secondary and out of sight. The scene of the Dutch 
 
 drama is laid in heaven itself, and never leaves it. Above, 
 
/ 
 
 ' LUCIFER.' _, -^^ 283 
 
 just beyond our vision, God remains apart, ineffable ; below, 
 the new-created human couple walk their paradise ; but we 
 never trespass on the domain of either. The persons are 
 all angels, and when the curtain rises they are all blessed 
 and serene. This apparent serenity, however, is the mask 
 of a suspicion that has hardly ripened into ill-feeling. 
 Beelzebub and Belial are discovered in conversation when 
 the drama opens ; and we learn from the first that Apollyon 
 has been sent by Lucifer, the Stadth older of the States of 
 Heaven, to make a closer investigation of Adam's bliss, and 
 the condition in which God has placed him. Belial, lean- 
 ing from the sheer heights, sees Apollyon rising from circle 
 to circle, outspeeding the wind, and leaving a track of 
 splendour behind him. He soars into the blue hyaline of 
 heaven, while the celestial spheres almost pause upon their 
 courses as they lean to gaze upon his countenance ; he 
 seems to them no angel, but a flying fire. At last, like a 
 star, he alights on the rim of heaven, and bears in Ms hand 
 a golden branch. Beelzebub praises the blossom and fruit 
 of this branch in very luscious alexandrines ; its golden 
 leaves are studded with aerial dew, and between them the 
 jocund fruit glows with crimson and with gold. It would 
 be a pity to rend it with the hands : the very sight of it 
 fascinates the mouth. If such fruits can be eaten in Eden, 
 the bliss of angels must give way to men. To this light 
 hyperbole Apollyon responds eagerly and seriously, and his 
 listeners are roused to inquire in what this felicity of man 
 consists. He gives a very spirited and poetical account of 
 his journey to the earth, and a vivid but rather rococo 
 description of the wonders and beauties of the earthly 
 paradise, which he praises as far more varied and exquisite 
 
284 THE LITEEATURE OF NORTHEEN' EUROPE. 
 
 than the heavenly. He passes to the subject most interest- 
 ing to his hearers — the nature and functions of the inhabi- 
 tants of this garden. It seenas that at the moment that 
 he fluttered on wide pinions over Eden, Adam was giving 
 names to all the animals- Grriffins and eagles were obe- 
 dient to this man, and dragons and Behemoth, and even 
 Leviathan, while the trees and bushes rang with melody. 
 But of all marvels this has amazed him most, that the 
 two inmates of the garden have power subtly to weave 
 together body and soul, and create double angels, out of 
 the same clay- flesh and bones. It is for this purpose, no 
 doubt, that God has just made these two strange creatures, 
 that he may reap from them a rich harvest of souls. 
 Apollyon watches, with an agony of jealousy and longing, 
 their joyous dalliance ; and at last, with infinite pain, tears 
 himself away from a scene in which he can have no part. 
 But of all the beauties and wonders, he praises Woman 
 must, and grows so ecstatic that he declares — 
 
 kSearch all our augel bauds, in beauty well arrayed, 
 They will but monsters seem, by the dawn-liglit of a maid. 
 Beeh. It seems you burn in love for this new woman-kind I 
 Apoll. My great wing-feather in that amorous flame, I find 
 
 I've singed ! 'Twas hard indeed to soar up from below', ' 
 
 To sweep, and reach the veige of Angelborough so ; 
 I parted, but with pain, and three times looked around ; 
 There shines no seraph-form in all the rethereal bound 
 Like hers, whose hanging hair, in golden glory, seems 
 To rush down from her head in a torrent of sunbeams, 
 And flow along her back. So clad in light and grace, 
 Stately she treads, and charms the daylight with her face : 
 Let pearls and mother o' pearl their claims before her furl, 
 Her brightness passes far the beauty of a pearl ! 
 Beeh. But what can profit man this beauty that must fade, 
 And wither lilie a flower, and shortly be decayed ? ^ 
 
 ' Appendix VV. 
 
' LUCIFER.' 285 
 
 The description that closes with the passage above quoted 
 bears many striking points of resemblance to the Fourth 
 Book of Milton's epic. What follows is contrary to the pur- 
 pose of the English poet. Apollyon goes on to explain that 
 an eternity is assured to mankind by a tree of immortal life 
 which he has seen in the midst of Eden, by eating the fruit 
 of which man will live for ever, and the number and power 
 of his children be eternally on the increase. The key-note 
 sj of the drama is then struck, for Beelzebub, quivering with 
 ^jealousy, exclaims — 
 
 Man thus lias power and scope to wax above our heads. 
 
 At tliis moment a trumpet is heard, and the hosts of 
 heaven assemble. Grabriel, ' chief of the angelic guards,' 
 appears, attended with the chorus of cherubim, sent as 
 herald from the thi-one of Grod. His message is to this 
 effect : Grod has created man a little lower than the angels, 
 in order that, in the process of time, he may ascend 
 the staircase of the world into the summit of uncreated 
 light, the infinite glory. Though the spiritual race now 
 seems to overtop all others, yet God has from eternity 
 concluded to exalt the human race, and to transport them 
 into a splendour^ which is not different from that of Grod. 
 The eternal Word, clothed in flesh and bone, anointed as 
 Lord and Head and Judge, you shall see give law to all tlie 
 troops of spirits, angels, and man, from his unshadowed 
 kingdom. Tlien the clear flame of seraphim shall seem 
 dark beside the godlike splendour of man. This is destiny, 
 and an unrevokable destiny. A burst from the chorus- 
 Whatever Heaven decrees shall please the heavenly host — 
 
286 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 softens the severity of Grabriel's demeanour, and he passes 
 on to discuss the present state of the angelic orders. 
 Vondel's conceptions in this respect are simply those of St. 
 Thomas Aquinas and Dante : we seem to move in the 
 fourteenth century, as we read of the inmost hierarchy of 
 seraphim, cherubim, and thrones ; of the second of domi- 
 nations, virtues, powers, and the outer hierarchy of prin- 
 cipalities, archangels, and angels. We must remember, 
 however, that Milton also was not free from the technical 
 expressions of a celestial cosmogony tliat the researches of 
 science had already exploded. To return to the earlier part 
 of Grabriel's charge, it will be noted that Vondel, though 
 shadowy in his theology, fully escapes that rock of Arian 
 heresy on which Milton struck in his Sixth Book ; but, 
 once started on the primum mobile, he wanders on in a 
 sufficiently tedious prolixity. At length, however, the 
 speech of Gabriel ceases, and the first act closes with a long 
 antiphonal ode from the chorus. As this passage — almost 
 the only one hitherto translated into English — was ren- 
 dered with some success by the late Sir John Bowring, I 
 will not attempt to give a version of it here. It is a long- 
 rhapsody in praise of the divine attributes, expressed in 
 language of exceptional sublimity, and with a mingling of 
 daring theological dogma with organ-harmony of music 
 which is not unworthy of those that 'sing, and singing in 
 their glory move." 
 
 In reviewing this first act, we see that, as in ' Paradise 
 
 Lost,' jealousy is the seed out of which the shoot and flower 
 
 of rebellion bear such rapid fruit of destruction. But 
 
 whereas in that poem, in almost precisely similar terms, 
 
 cy Qod himself commands obedience to the Son, ' whom tliis 
 
!^ 
 
 ' LUCIFER.' 287 
 
 day I have begot,' and proclaims His superiority to the 
 
 Eingfilsj which enflames them to sullen r evoli , it is here the 
 
 ignominy of watching the crescent supremacy of the vile 
 
 rival man, born of the dust, that rouses the jealous anger 
 
 of the Princes of Angelborough. The causes are widely 
 
 distinct ; the consequences are curiously identical. But 
 
 we must not press on too fast : when the first act closes, all 
 
 appears docile and quiet in heaven ; if complaint there be, 
 
 it finds no voice in words. 
 
 But the second act opens in startling contrast to this 
 
 universal subjection. Lucifer himself enters, attended by 
 
 Beelzebub and other of his own familiar jfollowers. They 
 
 draw rein in this quiet place, and the leader opens discourse 
 
 as follows : — 
 
 Swift spirits, let us stay the chariot of the dawn, 
 
 For high enoiig'h, in sooth, God's morning-star is drawn, 
 
 Yea, driven up high enough ! 'tis time for my great car 
 
 To yield before the advent of this double star, 
 
 That rises from below, and seeks, in sudden birth. 
 
 To tarnish heaven's gold with splendour from the earth ! 
 
 Embroider no more crowns on Lucifer's attire, 
 
 And gild his forehead not with eminent dawn-fire 
 
 Of the morning-star enrayed, that rapt archangels prize, 
 
 For see another blaze in the light of God arise ! 
 
 The stars grow faint before the eyes of men below ; 
 
 "Tis night with angels, and the heavens forget to glow.^ 
 
 In this tone of almost petulant indignation the Stadt- 
 holder of Heaven proceeds, and only ceases to call the 
 attention of Beelzebub to the sound that reaches them from 
 far away. It is the trumpet of Cfabriel, who pronounces 
 the same disastrous message at another of the gates of 
 Angelborough. The melancholy of Lucifer is stirred and 
 roused by the passionate declamations of Beelzebub, who 
 ' Appendix WW. 
 
288 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 cries that an earth-worm has crept out of a clod of earth 
 that he, the lord of heaven, might with downcast eyes and 
 bended knees adore it. Lucifer had best not wait for the 
 order to lay down his sceptre, but leave his throne at once, 
 and take the lyre in hand, ready, at the first sight of man, 
 to smite its chords with a servile plectrum. All this 
 ironical advice is little to the taste of the prince. 
 
 Nay, til at will I resist, so be it in my power, 
 
 he cries ; and Beelzebub takes instant advantage of his 
 defiance to build him up in conceit of his own majesty and 
 power. His ever-crescent light, the first and nearest 
 God's, no captious decree can diminish, no upstart mortal 
 approach. Shall a voice of lower pitch thunder from the 
 throne ? To carry out this vain design of promoting man, 
 were to violate the sacred right of the eldest child's inherit- 
 ance. Such an assumption, actually forced on the angelic 
 orders, might provoke all heaven armed against one. 
 Lucifer replies in a spirit of patriotic devotion, which has 
 nothing of the rebel angel in it, but is rather inspired by 
 the recent memories of the holy struggle of the United 
 Provinces against Spain : ' If I am a child of the light, a 
 ruler over the light, I shall preserve my prerogative. I 
 budge before no tyrant, nor archtyrant Let who wi]] 
 budge, I will not yield a foot Here is my fatlierland. 
 Let me perish, so long as I perish with this crown upon 
 my head, this sceptre in my fist, and so many thousands 
 of dear friends around me. That fall will tend to honour 
 and imwithering praise, 
 
 En liever d'eerste Vorst in eenigli lager liof, 
 
 Dan iii't gezalight licht de tweede, of uocli een minder, 
 
'LUCIFER.' 289 
 
 . ' and better to be first prince of some lower court, than in 
 ] the blessed light to be second, or even less.' These two 
 lines are not less famous in Holland than is with us that 
 single line, in which Milton intensified the expression of 
 Vondel's idea in half the number of words. But in the 
 midst of these vague desires and unshaped instincts of 
 defiance, the chariot of GTabriel, in whose hands the book 
 of God's mysteries lies folded, is driven their way, and 
 Lucifer determines to question the herald further as to the 
 actual import of this message that so trenches on angelic 
 pride. Beelzebub leaves him, and the two great princes 
 meet. Lucifer addresses Grabriel with a frank statement 
 of his doubts and apprehensions. For what purpose has 
 the eternal Grace humiliated its children ? Why has the 
 angel nature been thus precipitated into dishonour ? Will 
 God unite eternity to a beginning, the highest to the lowest, 
 the Creator to the created ? Must innumerable God-like 
 spirits, unweighted by bodies, bow before the gross and 
 vile element of mortal clay? He closes by entreating 
 Gabriel to unlock the sealed book he holds, and explain to 
 his wondering intelligence this terrible paradox. To this 
 eloquent appeal Gabriel has no very intelligible reply to 
 give ; he repeats the statement of destiny, he charges the 
 Stadth older with obedience ; but he fails to give any very 
 salient reasons for a decree that must have startled and 
 perplexed himself. ' Obey God's trumpet ! you have heard 
 His will ! ' is the sum of the explanation that he has to give. 
 Lucifer then draws a picture of the misery of those coming 
 days, when he will have to see man sitting beside the Deity 
 upon His throne, and watch the incense-censers swinging to 
 the sound of thousand thousand unanimous chorales, each 
 
 u 
 
290 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 bar of which will dull the majesty and diamond rays of the 
 Morning Star, and echo like wailing in the courts of heaven. 
 Gabriel interposes occasionally with commonplaces about 
 obedience, duty, and contentment, while the lament of 
 Lucifer grows keener and shriller as he mourns beforehand 
 over the ruin of his dignity. Nay, even of Grod's dignity ; 
 for he declares that if the fountain of light is to plunge its 
 splendour into the pit of a morass, the heavens will be 
 struck blind, the stars whirl and fall dizzily into space, 
 and disorder and chaos rule in Paradise. It is to give Grod 
 His right that he thus presumes to oppose His decree. To 
 which Gabriel pertinently, if rather prosaically, answers : 
 ' You are very zealous for the honour of God's name ; but 
 without considering that God knows much better than you 
 do in what His greatness consists.' He quells the murmurs 
 of the Stadtholder with some sharp words about the necessity 
 of cheerful obedience, and bids him see to it that his feet 
 walk in the steps of God's revealed wisdom. Beelzebub, 
 being left alone with Lucifer, hastens to point out to him 
 that the obvious effect of this new edict will be to clip the 
 wings of the Stadtholder's authority, which, indeed, the 
 latter needs no argument to perceive. Lucifer vows to 
 take his honour into his own hands ; he will raise his seat 
 into the very centre of heaven, past all the circles with 
 their starry glory. The heaven of heavens shall furnish 
 him with a palace, the rainbow shall be his throne. On a 
 chariot of clouds, borne up on air and light, he will crush 
 ^nd override all opposition, even from the Lord of earth 
 himself. Or, if he falls, the transparent arch of heaven 
 shall burst like a bubble, and all the universe crash in chaos. 
 He summons Apollyon to council. In the dialogue that 
 
' LUCIFER.' 291 
 
 ensues some dramatic skill is shown, though Vondel's force 
 lies rather in description, in gorgeous expression, and in 
 lyric rhetoric, than in the true field of the drama. Lucifer 
 is flushed and arrogant; Beelzebub, an ethereal lago, hounds 
 him on to rebellion ; Apollyon is prudential and diffident, 
 a graceful courtier, who hints a weak point and hesitates 
 difficulties. The argument of the latter is that Michael, 
 God's Field-Marshal, holds the key of the armoury ; the 
 watch is entrusted to him, and not a star can move without 
 his thorough consciousness. He finally exemplifies the 
 serene strength of the Deity by saying that although the 
 Castle of Heaven should set its diamond gates wide open, 
 it would fear not craft, nor ambush, nor attack. Lucifer, 
 however, decides that the attempt must be made ; but first 
 of all Apollyon is sent to direct Belial to sound the minds 
 of the angels ; the ' persuasive accents ' of Belial, as in 
 ' Paradise Lost,' being set great store by for their power of 
 eloquent dissimulation, since 
 
 his tongue 
 Dropt manna, and could make the worse appear 
 The better reason, to perplex and dash 
 Maturest counsels. 
 
 It may be said, in passing, that the figure of Beelzebub, 
 though to less marked a degree, resembles the grand 
 figure so named in Milton's poem. Lucifer and Beelzebub 
 ascend and disappear : Belial enters with Apollyon, who 
 is now eloquent in the course he lately shunned, and Belial 
 needs no persuasion. They pass to whisper the project of 
 rebellion far and wide among the Orders. While they are 
 busied in this work, the stage is crowded with the Chorus 
 of loyal angels, who contemplate, as from the Primum 
 
 V 2 
 
292 THE LITERATURE OE NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Mobile, the Hierarchies circling in the Crystalline 
 Heaven, illuminated by the uncreated light, as Dante in 
 the 'Paradiso' gazed on the snow-white Rose of the 
 Blessed. They witness with alarm the change that comes 
 over the snowy, starry purity of the Orders. 
 
 Why seem the courteous angel-faces 
 
 So red ? Why streams the holy light 
 
 So red upon our sight, 
 Through clouds and mists from mournful places ? 
 
 What vapour dares to blear 
 
 The pure, unspotted, clear 
 
 And luminous sapphire ? 
 
 The flame, the blaze, the fire 
 Of the bright Omnipotence ? 
 Why does the splendid light of God 
 Glow, deepened to the hue of blood, 
 
 That late, in flowing thence, 
 Gladdened all hearts ? ^ 
 
 What is the cause, they cry ? Since, but now, all the 
 balconies and battlements of heaven were thronged by 
 myriads of happy faces, singing the praise of Man ! The 
 Anti-chorus takes up its parable in reply — 
 
 When we, enkindled and uplifted 
 
 By Gabriel's trumpet, in new ways 
 
 Began to chant God's praise, 
 The perfume of rose-gardens drifted 
 
 Through paths of Paradise, 
 
 And such a dew and such a spice 
 Distilled, that all the flowery grass 
 Rejoiced. But envy soon, alas ! 
 
 From the under-world came sneaking. 
 A mighty crowd of spirits, pale 
 And dumb and wan, came, tale on tale, 
 
 Displeased, some new thing seeking ; 
 With brows that crushed each scowling eye, 
 
 And happy foreheads bent and wrinkled ; 
 The doves of heaven here on high. 
 
 ' Appendix XX. 
 
' LUCIFER.' 293 
 
 Whose innocent pinions sweetly twinkled, 
 Are struck with mourning one and all, 
 As though the Heavens were far too small 
 For them, now Adam's been elected. 
 And such a crown for Man selected. 
 This blemish blinds the light of grace, 
 And dulls the flaniing of God's face.^ 
 
 This ode, which is here rendered with scrupulous adher- 
 ence to the original, is an interesting example of the alterna- 
 tion of exquisite with tawdry and prosaic imagery, and noble 
 with flat and poor expression, which is characteristic of 
 most of Vondel's writings. These choruses at the close 
 of each act are not peculiar to the ' Lucifer,' but common 
 to Dutch dramatic poetry generally. We have in English 
 an exactly analogous example in the ' Cleopatra ' of 
 Samuel Daniel, a tragedy wi'itten in rhymed verse, with 
 solemn choral variations. 
 
 In the second act the rebellion was confined to the 
 desires of a few princes ; in the third act it has taken 
 fast hold of the multitude. The whole process is precisely 
 that recounted in Book V., lines 616-710, of 'Paradise 
 Lost.' Belial and Apollyon have passed far and wide among 
 the ranks of the angels, and, while calling them together 
 under the banner of Lucifer, have ' cast between ambiguous 
 words and jealousies to sound or taint integrity.' The 
 angels are discovered huddling together, with all their 
 beauty tarnished, drowned in grief and deep sunk in their 
 own melancholy thoughts, and, ever and anon, with one 
 voice they cry — - 
 
 Alas ! alas ! alas ! where has our bliss departed ? 
 
 The loyal Chorus are properly displeased with this 
 ' Appendix YY 
 
294 THE LITERATUEE OF NOETHERN EUROPE. 
 
 excessive and groundless show of depression. They declare 
 that Heaven freezes with the wind of their lamentations. 
 The azure ether is not accustomed to hear a music of 
 affliction go up in vapour through its joyous vault. 
 Triumphs, songs, and symphonies on stringed instruments 
 befit the blessed. They call upon their fellow-choristers 
 to aid them in cheering these sorrowful souls. But the 
 Luciferists, as they are now called, only repeat their 
 monotonous cry — 
 
 Alas ! alas ! alas ! where has our bliss departed ? 
 
 The Chorus reminds them of their being. They were 
 born to be joyous ; brought forth, like flowers, upon a 
 beam of the gioiy of God ; created to hover and flash 
 through the unshadowed light of life. At last the Luci- 
 ferists inquire if the Chorus is really in earnest in asking 
 them why they mourn ; is it not well enough known that 
 the angels have fallen from their high estate to make 
 room for the dull brood of Man? The charter given by 
 Grod has been repealed ; the sun of spirits is suddenly 
 gone down, and, burying their faces in their folded wings, 
 they repeat once more their miserable refrain. The 
 Chorus, excellent persons with whom the reader finds it a 
 little difficult to have patience, exclaim : ' How dare you 
 censure the high ordinance ? This seems like a revolt I 
 my brothers, cease this lamentation and defiance, and 
 bow yourselves under the inevitable yoke ! ' This ex- 
 emplary advice is severely criticised by the Luciferists ; 
 and a long discussion ensues, in which each party says a 
 sinoie line, after the occasional manner of most Creek 
 plays. The ball of argument is tossed from hand to hand. 
 
' lucifer; 295 
 
 and both speak well, the Luciferists, however, with most 
 point and wit. The great seducers, Belial and Apollyon, 
 then come upon the scene, and affect the greatest surprise 
 at the appearance of the ranks of angels plunged in sorrow 
 and wrapped about with desolation. They inquire, with 
 simulated anxiety, into the cause of this ; but the Luci- 
 ferists are sad beyond speech, and the Chorus replies : 
 ' They mourn that the state of Man triumphs, that God 
 will entwine His being with Adam's, and spirits be subject 
 to human authority. There you learn briefly the ground 
 of their sorrow.' The Chorus further begs that Belial will 
 settle the dispute ; but without advantage to itself, for the 
 angel-princes take, of course, the rebel standpoint, and 
 argue with more subtlety than the lower Luciferists. The 
 wrangling progresses farther, the one side continually 
 preferring their charge of a promise broken, a charter 
 disannulled, and the other repeating in a variety of shapes 
 the formula that 
 
 Obedience pleases God, the ruler of our day, 
 
 Far more than incense clouds or godlike music may. 
 
 Belial at last sums up in saying — 
 I y Equality of grace would fit the Godhead best ; 
 
 / a rebellious assumption of superior justice, which rouses 
 I c^ the Chorus to a somewhat long-winded summary of the 
 ) contrast between the supremacy of the Creator and the 
 / subjection of the created. During the closing words of 
 V_-this harangue, the clouds and lurid fiery blaze increase, 
 and out of the sinister gloom appears Beelzebub. On his 
 appearance, the miserable Luciferists repeat their uniform 
 cry. The new-comer consoles them, and bids them be of 
 good cheer — 
 
296 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Oil cease from wailing ; rend your badges and your robes 
 No longer without cause, but make your faces bright, 
 And let your foreheads flash, children of the light ! 
 The shrill sweet throats, that thank the Deity with song, 
 Behold, and be ashamed that ye have mixed so long 
 Discords and bastard tones with music so divine.^ 
 
 The followers of Lucifer reply. They are now so 
 enraged that they declare themselves ready to smother Man 
 in his own blood, rather than permit his usm-pation. They 
 entreat Beelzebub to lead them on to battle, and they 
 swear to follow his standard. Beelzebub, ' than whom, 
 Satan except, none higher sits,' with dignified indignation 
 admirably displayed, rejects the proposition of the muti- 
 neers, and enters into a long argument with them, in 
 which he pretends to be slowly persuaded of their wrongs. 
 He further feigns to be exceedingly moved by the defalca- 
 tion of Apollyon and Belial, but he steadily refuses their 
 offer of leadership, unless they will permit him to lead 
 them, as suppliants for mercy, to the Throne of Grrace ; 
 and there is a peculiar motive for the unctuous zeal of this 
 last offer, for, while the words are in his mouth, the mag- 
 nificent presence of Michael is before us. The Field- 
 Marshal addresses Beelzebub, in a haughty tone, and, in 
 spite of this last flosculus which has fallen from his lips, 
 roundly accuses him of stirring up rebellion. Beelzebub, 
 nothing abashed, humbly rebuts the charge, and prays 
 Michael to assist him in interfering in favour of peace. 
 Michael thereupon offers, in a sufficiently peremptory 
 tone, to lay their petition before the Deity. The Luci- 
 ferists boldly insist on their right, and blaze up into the 
 most absolute defiance. Michael thereupon warns them 
 
 ' Appendix ZZ. 
 
'LUCIFER.' 297 
 
 that those who fight against him fight against Grod ; but 
 the rebel host shriek back that the Stadtholder, Lucifer, is 
 on their side. Michael can hardly believe it ; and then, 
 in thunderous rhetoric, he calls down divine vengeance 
 upon them, and, gathering the ranks of the faithful 
 about him, soars upward to lay the matter at God's feet. 
 Beelzebub raises the courage of the Luciferists by announc- 
 ing the advent of Lucifer, who approaches on his chariot, 
 and greets them with great dignity of speech. The Luci- 
 ferists pour out their anguish to him thus — 
 
 Forbid it, Lucifer, nor suiier that our ranks 
 
 Be mortified so low and sink without a crime, 
 
 AVhile Man, above us- raised, may flash and beam sublime 
 
 In the veiy core of light, from which we seraphim 
 
 Pass quivering, full of paui, and fade like shadows dim. 
 
 AVe swear, by force, beneath thy glorious flag combined, 
 To set thee on the throne for Adam late designed ! 
 We swear, with one accord, to stay thine arm for ever ; 
 Lift high thy battle-axe ! our womided rights deliver ! ^ 
 
 Lucifer, however, still deems it politic to feign a loyal and 
 pious mind ; but at length he gives way, especially to the 
 ^arguments of Beelzebub. To his own superior intelligence 
 the contest seems hopeless, the battle lost before it is 
 fought. But at last he cries — 
 
 I will content me, then, foi'ce to resist by force ! 
 
 But he stops the shouts of delight with which this con- 
 cession is greeted, to bid the princes take witness that he 
 is forced into this step by the need to protect Grod's realm 
 against usurpation. Beelzebvib, then, like some arch-heretic 
 or anti-pope, busies himself to prepare divine honours for 
 the new deity. The crowd take up the idea, and shout — 
 ' Appendix AAA. 
 
298 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Crown, crown with triumph great God Lucifer. 
 
 At the command of Beelzebub, they bring perfumes and 
 burn them before him, and in choral antiphonies they sing 
 his praise. 
 
 Follow the chief, whose trumpet and whose drum 
 
 Protect the crown of Angeldom ! 
 Behold, behold, hew the Morning Star outflashes ! ^ 
 
 They pass away in triumph, and the Heavenly Chorus 
 
 descends, filling the vacant scene, and trilling a mournful 
 
 epode to this dithyrambic passion, full of pain and anxious 
 
 wonder. 
 
 The fourth act opens with a most Miltonic blare of 
 
 martial melody. All heaven is in a blaze, and Gabriel 
 
 speeds to bid Michael prepare to defend Grod's name. The 
 
 third part of heaven has sworn fealty to the traitorous 
 
 Morning Star, and leads him on with shouts and singing. 
 
 Melancholy and depression have now seized the loyal 
 
 angels, and the unfaded seraphim sit brooding on their 
 
 woe. To Michael, who demands to learn what effect the 
 
 news produced at the Throne of Grod himself, Gabriel 
 
 replies — 
 
 I saw God's very gladness with a cloud of woe 
 O'er-shadowed, and there bm-st a flame out of the gloom 
 That pierced the eye of light, and hung, a brand of doom. 
 Ready to fall in rage. I heard the mighty cause 
 Where Mercy pleaded long with God's all-righteous laws, 
 Grace, soothly wise and meek, with Justice arguing well. 
 I saw the Cherubim, who on their faces fell, 
 And cried out ' Mercy, mercy ! God, let Justice rest ! ' 
 But even as that shrill sound to His great footstool pressed, 
 And God seemed almost moved to pardon and to smile. 
 Up curled the odious smoke of incense harsh and vile 
 
 ' Appendix BBB. 
 
'LUCIFER.' 299 
 
 Burned down below in praise of Lucifer, who rode 
 With censers and bassoons and many a choral ode ; 
 Then Heaven withdrew its face from such impieties, 
 Cursed of God and Spirits and all the Hierarchies.^ 
 
 Michael, thereupon, in a speech of great poetic vigour, 
 calls the battalions of heaVen to arms. They all pass out, 
 and the scene is filled by the Luciferists, who enter, 
 accompanying Lucifer and Beelzebub. They cry to be 
 instantly led to storm the ranks of Michael : but Lucifer 
 first inquires into the condition of his own army, and 
 then proceeds to take their oaths of allegiance. He bids 
 them remember that it is now too late to recede, but they 
 have taken a step at once fatal and fortunate which now 
 forces them with violence to tear from their necks the 
 yoke of slavery to Adam's sons. But whilst they shout in 
 answer, and rapturously pledge themselves to follow the 
 Morning Star, a herald is seen winging his way towards 
 them from the height of heaven. This is Eaphael, sent on 
 a last embassy of peace and reconciliation. The position 
 of Raphael in this act closely resembles that of Abdiel, 
 ' faithful foimd among the faithless, faithful only he,' 
 in the end of the Fifth Book of ' Paradise Lost.' In each 
 case a single seraph opposes Lucifer at the moment of his 
 violent action, alone, in his own palace, and undaunted by 
 the hostile scorn of myriads. There is, however, the im- 
 portant distinction that Raphael is an ambassador, while 
 the beautiful figure of Abdiel distinguishes itself by stand- 
 ing out in unshaken loyalty from the very ranks of the 
 insurgents themselves. The resemblance is least marked 
 in the opening words of Raphael's address. Instead of 
 adopting the lofty arrogance of Michael or the cold im- 
 ' Appendix CCC. 
 
300 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 partiality of Grabriel, Eaphael flings himself, overwhelmed 
 with grief, on the neck of the Stadtholder. He says that 
 he brings balsam from the lap of God ; all will still be 
 forgiven, if the rebel angels be disarmed, and if Lucifer 
 return to his loyalty. He weeps in picturing to the 
 assembly, in florid and impassioned language, how in the 
 old happier days Lucifer bloomed in Paradise, in the 
 presence of the sun of Grodhead, blossoming out of a 
 cloud of dew and fresh roses. He reminds Lucifer that 
 his festal robes stood out stiff with pearls and turquoises, 
 emeralds, rubies, diamonds, and bright gold. He describes 
 him, exactly as Memling or Van der Gfoes would have 
 painted him two centuries earlier, standing behind the 
 throne of some gorgeous Madonna, witli his gold hair 
 streaming against the clear green and blue of a distant strip 
 of landscape, or glancing among his jewellery, as he crushes 
 an enemy under his mailed foot. It would have well suited 
 a painter of that effluent period to paint the Stadtholder, 
 as Raphael describes him, with the heaviest sceptre of 
 heaven in his hand, and blazing like a sun among the 
 circling stars. The arguments of Raphael are more 
 worldly than those of Abdiel. He is afraid that Lucifer's 
 beauty will be changed into the semblance of a grif&n or 
 dragon or other monstrous thing, and stimulates his vanity 
 in the hope of changing his purpose. At last he interposes 
 force, or a courteous semblanceof force, and strives to wrest 
 the battle-axe out of one of the Stadtholde]-'s hands, and his 
 buckler out of the other. The arch-rebel replies with dignity 
 to these familiarities, and utterly rejects his overtures of 
 peace. Raphael argues, but in vain ; for Lucifer declares that 
 Adam's honour is the whetstone of his battle-axe, and that he 
 
' LUCIFER.' 301 
 
 has but to reflect on the indignity which has been threatened 
 to the angels, to grasp more tightly the weapon that must 
 wipe out the memory of that insolence. Eaphael takes it 
 absolutely for granted that the rebellion will instantly and 
 iitterly fail ; and, finding Lucifer deaf to his loving and 
 sentimental entreaties, he threatens him with the punish- 
 ment prepared for him. He declares that a pool of 
 sulphm-, bottomless, horrible, has in this very hour gaped 
 to receive him. To all this Lucifer cannot listen with 
 patience ; he repels him with indignation and defiance. 
 Eaphael continues, however, calling him the perjured 
 leader of a blind conspiracy, and declaring that the chains 
 are actually being forged for his limbs. In a brilliant 
 passage Lucifer wavers and sickens, wonders if he dare 
 return to his duty, seeks vainly for counsel and confidence, 
 but is constantly held up by his pride and rage. At the 
 moment that he wavers most, the trumpet of God sounds 
 through the circles of heaven, and it is too late. The 
 battle breaks upon his despair, but Apollyon is full of 
 hope and daring. Eaphael, in an agony of regret, and 
 with a breaking heart, remains on the scene, while the 
 Luciferists rush to battle. To him the Chorus of good 
 angels enters, and they with him join in a hymn of 
 passionate entreaty to God even now, if it be not too late, 
 to exercise the glorious privilege of pardon. 
 
 So closes the fourth act ; and when the fifth opens, 
 Eaphael is discovered at some distance from the field of 
 battle, giving rapturous thanks for its victorious issue. 
 He has not fought in it himself, but he has been watching 
 from far off, and now he sees the shields of good angels 
 returning, and glittering like suns, each shield-sun stream- 
 
302 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 ing triumphant day. Uriel comes to him out of the ranks, 
 and as he crosses the plain of heaven he swings his flaming 
 sword till its rays are flashed back from the facets of his 
 diamond helmet. Called upon by Eaphael to describe the 
 fight, Uriel tells how God commanded Michael, the prince 
 of his army, and faithful Gabriel, next to him in command, 
 to lead forth the invincible ranks of the angels against 
 the rebellious godless army, and to sweep them from the 
 pure azure of heaven into the gulf, 
 
 which ready opens wide 
 His fiery Chaos to receive their fall. 
 
 Straightway the heavenly army flew to victory like an 
 arrow from the bow. Unnumbered multitudes of celestial 
 warriors, well-marshalled, progressed in a three-cornered 
 phalanx, a triangle of advance, a unity in a three-pointed 
 light. Michael, with the lightning in his hand, led the 
 van. Meanwhile the rebel host was speeding to meet 
 them with no less velocity. 
 
 Their army waxed apace, and like a crescent moon 
 Threw out two points like horns that gained upon us soon, 
 Or like the star that fronts the Bull i' the Zodiack, 
 And the other monsters quaint that wheel around his track 
 With golden horns bedight.^ 
 
 One horn is led by Belial and one by Beelzebub, while 
 Lucifer brings on the van. The description of the 
 Apostate, though with barocco details omitted by the purer 
 taste of Milton, is closely parallel to the celebrated 
 analogous passage in the Sixth Book of ' Paradise Lost.' 
 Encircled by his staff-bearers and green liveries, in golden 
 harness, on which his coat of arms shone in glowing purple, 
 ' Appendix DDD. 
 
 i 
 
' lucifee; 303 
 
 he sat in his sun-bright chariot, the wheels of which were 
 thickly inlaid with rubies. Like a lion or fell dragon he 
 raged for the fight, and his soul iBamed athirst for destruc- 
 tion ; nor, as he flashed through the field, could any foe see 
 his back, sown all over with stars. With his battle-axe in 
 his hand, and on his left arm a buckler engraved with the 
 Morning Star, he rushed into the fray. Eaphael inter- 
 rupts again to mourn over the beauty of this phoenix, now 
 doomed to endless flame, but bids Uriel proceed. The 
 latter describes how the battle burst in a hail of bm-ning 
 darts, and the whole air was thunder. After this artillery 
 had expended its force the armies met on closer terms, 
 and, lighting down from their chariots, met hand to hand 
 with club and halbert, sabre, spear, and dagger. The 
 plumes of the angels were singed with lightning, and all 
 their gorgeous panoplies were mingled in undistinguishable 
 confusion, so that one saw turquoise-blue and gold, diamond 
 and pearl, mixed and jarred together, nor knew which 
 splendour belonged to which angel. Again and again 
 repulsed, still Lucifer brought back his shattered army, 
 still only to break like a wave on the iron ranks of the 
 blessed. At last from a height he poured his forces on 
 them : and Vondel, in describing the charge, adds a figure 
 of speech which may have been inspired by one of the 
 landscapes which Jacob Euysdael was just beginning to 
 exhibit at Amsterdam, but which can hardly be drawn 
 from the home-staying poet's own experience — 
 
 Like some great inland lake or northland waterfall 
 That breaks upon the rocks and raves with rushing brawl ; 
 A terror to wild beasts in deep sequestered valleys, 
 Through stones and down from heights in mighty jets it sallies.^ 
 ' Appendix EBE. 
 
304 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Then the battle raged more than ever ; the vaults of 
 heaven were deafened with ' the roar of an angel onset ; ' 
 but the point of Michael's array pierced the half-moon of 
 Lucifer's with a lurid blaze of red and blue sulphurous 
 flame, and with blow on blow, like thunder-clap on 
 thunder-clap, in spite of all Lucifer's fierce endeavour, 
 struck it apart and divided it. Then, soaring high above 
 the fight in his bright steel array, Lucifer gloomed like 
 a blue dragon, poisoning the whole air with his split 
 tongue and blowing odious vapours through his nostrils. 
 At last Michael and he were face to face, and around them 
 half the battle paused to watch the encounter of two such 
 magnificent princes. First Lucifer swung high his battle- 
 axe with intent to fell God's banner, on which the mystic 
 name of the Creator stood blazoned in crystalline splendour. 
 But Michael shouted to him to beware and to yield — to 
 lead off his godless rout, or else prepare to suffer the 
 worst pangs of punishment. But the maddened archangel 
 strove all the more to cleave the diamonds that formed 
 the sacred name, but the moment he touched them the 
 blade of his battle-axe sprang to atoms. Then Michael 
 grasped his lightning sword, and cleft the arch-enemy of 
 the blessed through helmet and head. He fell heavily 
 out of his chariot. Then Apollyon felt the flaming sword 
 of Uriel. Beelzebub still raged, Belial still defied the 
 hosts of Grod ; but the fall of the Stadtholder had fully 
 broken the half-moon of the rebel onset, although the 
 giant Orion attempted to lead a return charge. Uriel 
 compares the appearance of the fallen archangel to that 
 of an ass, a rhinoceros, and an ape, such an uncouth 
 monster did he seem lying prone on the battle-field. 
 
• LUCIFEE.' 305 
 
 Apollyon fled ; and soon he and all the rest were driven 
 thunder-struck before the sword of Michael till they came 
 to the abyss that gaped to receive them, and were hurried 
 down, roaring and yelping, into the jaws of hell itself, 
 while Michael, returning, was greeted with cymbals, 
 shawms, and tambours. 
 
 The remarkable points of resemblance between this 
 long and spirited description of the fall of the rebel angels 
 and that given in the Sixth Book of ' Paradise Lost ' are, 
 of course, far too close and too numerous to be mere coin- 
 cidences. There can be no doubt whatever that the deep 
 impression made on Milton's imagination by the battle in 
 the ' Lucifer ' remained vividly before him when he came 
 to deal with the same branch of his subject. In some 
 respects the earlier poet has distinctly the advantage. 
 He g-ives but one fight ; while Milton, for no intelligible 
 reason, divides the action between three days. The addi- 
 tions of the gunpowder and the ridiculous tossing about 
 of mountains torn up from their bases are certainly no 
 improvements upon the simpler, more human description 
 of Vondel. In volume of melody and in the beauty of 
 individual passages the English poet, of course, far exceeds 
 the Dutch. 
 
 Uriel ceases his discourse as Michael and the victorious 
 Chorus enter. They sing this ode, curious for its varia- 
 tions of metre and the eccentric distribution of its 
 
 rhymes- 
 Blest be the hero's hour, 
 "VSTio smote the godless power, 
 And his might, and his light, and his standard, 
 Down toppling like a tower ; 
 His crown was near God's own, 
 But from his lofty throne, 
 X 
 
306 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 With his might; into night he hath vanished ; 
 
 God's name must shine alone. 
 
 Outblazed the uproar fell, 
 
 When valorous JNIichael 
 With the brand in his hand quenched the passion 
 
 Of spirits that dared rebel. 
 
 He holds God's banner now ; 
 
 With laurels crown his brow ! 
 Peace shall reign here again, and her forehead 
 
 Shall vanquished Discord bow. 
 
 Amid the conquering throng 
 
 Praises to God belong ; 
 Hououi" bring to the King of aU kingdoms ! 
 
 He gives us stuiFfor song.' 
 
 Michael, in a triumphal harangue, proclaims the victory 
 of the loyal cause, and points to the hosts of the fallen 
 angels, ever sinking dizzily downwards, writhing, accursed, 
 misshapen. It is at this minute that Gabriel hastily enters 
 bearing most startling tidings — 
 
 Gabriel. Alas ! alas ! alas ! to adverse fortune bow ! 
 
 What do ye here ? In vain are songs of triumph now, 
 In vain of spoil of arms and gonfalons ye boast I 
 
 Michael. What hear I, Gabriel ? 
 
 Gabriel. Oh ! Adam is fallen and lost ! 
 
 The father and the stock of all the human race 
 Most grievously hath erred and lies in piteous case.^ 
 
 Lucifer has gathered together the remnants of his 
 army in the bowels of hell, and, to hide them from God's 
 eye, has concealed them in a cloud, a dark cavern of 
 murder. Seated in the midst of them, in hellish council, 
 he addresses them, precisely as in Milton, and proposes to 
 them to attack man by force or subtlety ; the seduction of 
 the human race is agreed upon. Lucifer gloats over the 
 future misery of man, fallen like themselves, and rejoices 
 to imagine that this will complete their revenge on God, 
 ' Appendix FFF. - Appendix GGG. 
 
' LUCIFER.' 307 
 
 and ensure the defeat of His purposes. Belial is then de- 
 puted to make his way up from hell to the Terrene Para- 
 dise, and, having accomplished the journey, he tempts 
 Eve exactly as recounted in Grenesis, and she falling is the 
 cause of the fall of Adam. How Eve gives her husband 
 the apple, and how they awake in dolorous plight from 
 their state of hapjjy innocence, is pathetically told. Grod 
 thunders among the trees of the garden ; and Michael 
 bids Uriel undertake the duty, that in ' Paradise Lost ' 
 he undertakes himself, of cbiving the guilty pair out 
 of Eden with the two-edged flaming sword. Michael then 
 charges other archangels with the final punishment of the 
 rebel and now intriguing angels, and with this doom of 
 endless pain the drama closes — 
 
 Ozias, to whose fist the very Godhead gave 
 
 The heavy hammer framed of diamond beaten out, 
 
 And chains of ruby, clamps and teeth of metal stout, 
 
 Go hence, and take and bind the hellish host that rage, 
 
 Lion and Dragon fell, whose banners dared to wage 
 
 War with us thus. Speed swift on their accm'sed flight, 
 
 And bind them neck and claw, and fetter them with might. 
 
 The key which to the gates of their foul pit was fitted 
 
 Is, Azarias, now mto thy care committed ; 
 
 Go hence, and thrust therein all that our power defied. 
 
 Maceda, take this torch I to your zeal confide, 
 
 And flame the sulphur-pool in the centre of the world ; 
 
 There torture Lucifer, and leave his body curled 
 
 In everlasting fire, with many a prince accursed, 
 
 Where Sorrow, wretched Pain, numb Horror, Hunger, Thirst, 
 
 Despair without a hope, and Conscience with her sting 
 
 May measure out their meed of endless suffering.' 
 
 When we consider to how great an extent an Englisli 
 
 writer was about to borrow from this poem, it is singular 
 
 to find its Dutch author acknowledging a debt to a now 
 
 • Appendix HHH. 
 
 X 2 
 
308 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 forgotten English writer. In the learned and interesting 
 preface to his play, Vondel notes, while citing earlier 
 writers on the same subject, 'among English Protestants, 
 too, the learned pen of Kichard Baker has discussed very 
 broadly in prose the fate of Lucifer and all the matter of 
 the rebellious spirits.' This was Sir Richard Baker whose 
 'Chronicle' Sir Roger de Coverley was so fond of; a 
 wealthy but imprudent gentleman, who ended his days in 
 the Fleet Prison. The passage referred to by the Dutch 
 poet is to be found in section Which art in Heaven, of 
 Baker's ' Meditations and Disquisitions upon the Lord's 
 Prayer,' 1637, a work which Sir Henry Wotton commends 
 as having ' not a little of the African style of St. Austin.' ^ 
 The ' Lucifer ' was not received very favourably in 
 Holland. It was true that the violent and internecine 
 strife of the two great religious parties, the burning and 
 parching zeal to which the noble Barneveldt had fallen a 
 victim thirty years before, had in a great measure cooled 
 down. But still fanatic rage ran very high in the United 
 Provinces, and one attack after another was made upon 
 ' the false imaginations,' 'hellish fancies,' and 'irregular 
 and un scriptural devices ' of Vondel's beautifid drama. 
 An effort was made in February 1654 to prevent the re- 
 presentation of ' the tragedy made by Joost van den 
 Vondel, named Luisevar, treating in a fleshly manner the 
 high theme of God's mysteries.' When this fell through, 
 and the piece had been acted, a still more strenuous effort 
 was made to prevent the printing and to prohibit the sale ; 
 
 ' Sir Richard Baker seems to have reflected much on the story of 
 the Fallen Angels ; I find it discussed again in' his ' Meditations and 
 Disquisitions on the Seven Penitential Psalms,' 1639, and in ' On the 
 First Psalm of David,' 1 640. 
 
POLITICAL IMPORT. 309 
 
 but at last, through a perfect sea of invective and obloquy, 
 the poem sailed safe into the haven of recognised literature. 
 Its political significance, real or imagined, give it no 
 doubt an interest that counterbalanced its supposed ^ns 
 against theology. It was considered — and the idea has 
 received the support of most modern Dutch critics — that 
 in ' Lucifer ' Vondel desired to give an allegorical account 
 of the rising of the Netherlands against Philip II. Ac- 
 cording to this theory, Grod was represented by the King 
 of Spain, Michael by the Duke of Alva, Adam by the 
 Cardinal Granvella, and Lucifer by the first stadtholder, 
 William the Silent, who was murdered in 1584. There 
 are several difficulties in the way of consenting to this 
 belief: in the first place, the incidents occurred more 
 than seventy years before the writing of the poem ; and, 
 secondly, the event of the one rebellion was diametrically 
 opposed to that of the other. William of Orange, indeed, 
 was murdered by a hired assassin, but not until he had se- 
 cured the independent existence of the new State ; and 
 there would be a curious inappropriateness in describing 
 the popular hero as a fallen and defeated angel thrust 
 into hell. There is, however, another theory of the poli- 
 tical signification of the ' Lucifer,' which seems to me 
 much more plausible. It is that which sees in the figure 
 of the rebel archangel the still dominant prince of the 
 English Commonwealth, Cromwell, the enemy of Holland, 
 and in the God and the Michael of Vondel's drama, 
 Charles I. and Laud still surviving in their respective 
 successors. Considered as a prophecy of the approaching 
 downfall of the still flourishing English Kepublic, the 
 allegory has a force and a spirited coherence that are en- 
 tirely lacking in the generally received version. 
 
310 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 If Milton had preserved his original design, it is 
 probable that the resemblance of his poem to Vondel's 
 tragedy would have been still greater than it is. In the 
 Library of Trinity College, Cambridge, are, or were, two 
 drafts of Milton's first scheme for ' Paradise Lost,' and 
 they show that his earliest intention was to treat the theme 
 in a di'amatic form. It is strange that in this day of in- 
 cessant reproduction and republication these most inter- 
 esting documents have never been presented to the public. 
 It would be exceedingly interesting to note in what form 
 the essentially epic story of the Fall of Man originally 
 impressed the imagination of Milton before his unening 
 instinct for art led him on the better Avay. 
 
 Soon after the representation of ' Lucifer ' heavy 
 sorrows fell upon the aged poet. His son mismanaged the 
 business in Warmoesstraat, and in order to stem the 
 approaching bankruptcy Vondel sacrificed his own little 
 fortune of 40,000 gulden, but in vain. In spite of his 
 infirmities he travelled to Denmark to treat with his son's 
 creditors, and on his return was obliged to accept a wretched 
 clerkship to support himself. In this misery Holland 
 allowed her greatest poet to drudge from his seventieth to 
 his eightieth year, and his employers had the insolence 
 to reproach the old man with sometimes writing verses 
 in his office hours. I doubt if in all the tragical annals 
 of literatm-e there is a sadder story than this, and that 
 London should have let Otway starve seems to me less in- 
 famous than that Amsterdam should have plagued the aged 
 Vondel so harshly for a pittance of fourteen pence a day. 
 Nothing extinguished the flame of his genius, however. 
 He recommenced his series of biblical tragedies. The 
 ' Jephta ' appeared in 1 659, the ' Samson ' and ' King David 
 
VONDEKS LAST YEAKS. 311 
 
 Eestored' in 1660. In the latter year he completed his 
 translations of the ' (Edipus Tyrannus ' and of the ' ^Eneid.' 
 I can but enumerate his next dramatic productions, the 
 ' Adonis ' of 1661, the ' John Calling to Eepentance ' and 
 the ' Batavian Brothers ' of 1662, the ' Phaeton ' of 1663, 
 and the epic poem of'De Heerlijkheid der Kerke ' (The 
 Glory of the Church) of the same year. We must however 
 pause an instant before the ' Adam in Ballingschap ' 
 (Adam in Exile), 1664, a biblical drama the choruses of 
 which are among the most lovely productions of the age. 
 In this play we find a lyrical poet of nearly eighty 
 warbling his wood-notes as delicately and as freely as the 
 young sereuader that sings to his lady-love at twenty-five. 
 If we consider the time of life at which it was composed, 
 and the circumstances, the ' Adam in Ballingschap ' is 
 certainly one of the most marvellous works on record. In 
 1666, Vondel celebrated the naval triumphs of the Dutch 
 over the English in some spirited odes, and in 1667 
 published his last tragedy, the 'Noah.' On Augaist 10, 
 1668, having nearly completed his eightieth year, he 
 was called before the Burgomaster and released from 
 his drudgery by the gift of a small state pension. He 
 continued to amuse himself by publishing translations of 
 Sophocles in 1668, and of Ovid in 1670, retaining his 
 faculties and his force of mind until the last. He lived to 
 see all his poetical pupils die before him, except Antonides 
 van der Goes, who survived until 1684. But the young 
 men of genius whom Vondel had loved best passed away 
 very early, — Jan Vos, the promising author of ' Aaron and 
 Titus,' dying in 1667, and Keyer Anslo, whose epic of ' The 
 Plague at Naples ' still lives in Dutch literature, meeting 
 his fate from the pest he sung of, at Perugia, in 1669. 
 
312 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Vondel suffered from no disease in his old age, and 
 succumbed at last to the cold of sheer senility. His last 
 couplet was improvised to his friend and biographer Brandt, 
 who tells us that the old man remarked the numbness of 
 extreme age creeping to his heart, and, laughing, said that 
 this must be his epitaph : — 
 
 Here lies Vondel, still and old, 
 Who died because he was so cold. 
 
 He drew his last breath on February 5, 1679, 
 dying five years after Milton, although more than twenty 
 years his senior. He was ninety-one years and three 
 months old, and his enormous span of life had embraced 
 the death of Spenser and the birth of Addison. 
 
 Almost till the day of his death he laboured at the im- 
 provement of the literature of his coimtry. But he had 
 the mortification, whilst outliving every one of his great 
 contemporaries, whether in poetry or philosophy — for even 
 Spinoza, the last great Dutchman, died before him— of 
 seeing the romantic and lyrical practice of his youth 
 entirely set aside in favoiu- of the rhetorical and artificial 
 manner of the French, which, spreading over Europe like 
 a plague, did not spare the literature of Holland, and this 
 in spite of the Forty Years' War and all the pei'sonal hatred 
 for France. In the year 1672, the poet Antonides, the 
 last friend of Vondel, and lover of the old school, lamented 
 that the whole literature of his country bad become the 
 ape of the French ; and by the time of VondeFs death 
 this sterile rhetoric had deformed every branch of letters 
 and learning. A history of the lifetime of Joost van den 
 Vondel is a chronicle of the whole rise and decline of the 
 literature of Holland. 
 
THE OERA LINDA BOOK. 
 
 We are accustomed to pride ourselves on the progress that 
 we have made during the past century in the matter of 
 critical insight. Without doubt the elements of technical 
 knowledge are more widely spread than they were in the 
 days of George Psalmanazar. We no longer believe in the 
 highly-polished mahogany-coloured old masters that our 
 forefathers cherished ; we have reduced our belief in the 
 music of the ancients to scientific limits ; but it is ques- 
 tionable, after all, whether we are much less in thraldrom 
 to tradition, or much more ready to give an independent 
 opinion on an undiscussed subject, than our ancestors of 
 the eighteenth century were. In the particular matter of 
 literary forgeries, it is hard to say positively whether oiu- 
 generation would or would not be deceived by the produc- 
 tions of a Chatterton or a Walpole whose skill and learning 
 were in due ratio advanced beyond the average culture of 
 a hundred years ago. It is more a question, perhaps, of 
 ingeuidty in the forger than of intuition in the reader. 
 A blunderer like Ireland is detected almost at once ; and 
 there has never, in all probability, been a believer in 
 ' Vortigern ' since the solitary performance of that unique 
 drama. On the other hand there are still people of educa- 
 
314 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 tion and taste who uphold the comedies of the Terentian 
 mm Hroswitha, and pin their faith to the antiquity of 
 Clotilde de Sm'ville. These celebrated productions may 
 be said to reach the high-water mark of intelligent forgery ; 
 their inherent value is so great that there may always be 
 admirers too blind to be critical. But it is one thing to 
 be delighted with a rondeau like ' Au clair de lune,' and 
 another to be taken in by a ' History of Formosa 'in the 
 language of that island. Yet there is just now being 
 circulated and discussed throughout the learned societies 
 of the North of Europe a hoax that bears a remarkable 
 likeness to the geographical and linguistical revelations of 
 the mysterious Mr. George Psalmanazar. 
 
 The ' Oera Linda Book ' — which, from being translated 
 out of Frisian into Dutch and Grerman, has now been 
 exalted into an EngKsh translation, and which is expected 
 by its faithful band of admirers presently to revolutionise 
 the history of Europe — has had a variety of evasive stages 
 in its long and singular history. As at present published 
 it is understood to be taken from a MS. of the thirteenth 
 century, and its more rational adherents no longer seek 
 to claim for it a greater antiquity. But when it first 
 appeared on the scenes, and indeed still in Friesland 
 itself, no more modest pretensions were put forth on its 
 behalf than that it was ' the oldest production, after 
 Homer and Hesiod, of Em-opean literature.' It can be 
 imagined what excitement has been caused by the sudden 
 appearance on the quiet horizon of Frisian letters of a 
 meteor so portentous as this. It is well known that the 
 industrious and intelligent inhabitants of the north-eastern 
 provinces of Holland preserve in remarkable purity the 
 
THE OERA LINDA BOOK. 315 
 
 old Frisian language ; and tliat, though Dutch has super- 
 seded it in the towns and in business relations, yet that a 
 strong conservative process is going on there as elsewhere 
 in Europe, having for its object a patriotic preservation of 
 the national language, lawg, and customs. The capital of 
 this peculiar district, Leeuwarden, boasts a variety of 
 Frisian institutions, and the strength of feeling and the 
 literary activity of the people has been more obvious than 
 their critical acumen in this wordy warfare about the 
 ' Oera Linda Book.' Friesland is by no means ready to 
 allow itself to be snuffed out by its wealthier and more 
 influential neighbours. It claims for itself and its lan- 
 guage all the dignity due to a most ancient noble stock 
 fallen into decay. It produces learned little books, 
 intended as trumpet-blasts to waken slumbering philology, 
 and bearing such titles as the ' Old Friesic above all others 
 the Fons et Origo of the Old English, and Archaic ' — 
 little books which are too apt to give an uncertain sound 
 when the supreme moment of trumpeting arrives. Fries- 
 land, moreover, does not forget that it has twice contri- 
 buted a great name to European poetry and art : in the 
 sixteenth century, Grijsbert Japix ; in the nineteenth, 
 Laurence Alma Tadema. In the ferment of patriotic feel- 
 ing it becomes quite a sin against the fatherland not to 
 believe in any great memorial of the national glory. As 
 we shall see, if only the ' Oera Linda Book ' were trust- 
 worthy, Greece and Egypt and Rome would be obliged to 
 come down from their pedestals of honour, and do obeisance. 
 Friesland is thirsty after national glory, and a MS. 
 suddenly appears, showering a whole deity of magnificence 
 into the lap of its respectable and sleepy history. That it 
 
316 THE LITEKATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 should be difficult to be critical under such circumstances 
 is pardonable ; and yet the 'Oera Linda Book ' might have 
 taxed our credulity a little less. With the sincerest 
 affection for Friesland, this is too much : — ' Hitherto we 
 have believed that the historical records of our people 
 reach no farther back than the arrival of Friso, the 
 presumptive founder of the Frisians ; whereas here we 
 become aware that their records mount up to more than 
 2,000 years before Christ, surpassing the antiquity of 
 Hellas, and equalling that of Israel ! ' This is a quotation 
 from a paper read by a well-known scholar before a 
 meeting of the Frisian Society, at Leeuwarden, iu 1871, 
 and warmly commended by all present. These are big 
 words, and we cannot do better than examine the document 
 on which such assumptions are founded. 
 
 In the first place, the publisher of the ' Oera Linda 
 Book' has an advantage over Mr. Macpherson and other 
 producers of strange works, in that the ancient MS. from 
 which he took his text has not been burned to ashes at 
 the moment when the task of transcription was complete, 
 or been stolen and destroyed by some person ignorant of 
 its value, or even carried up into heaven by a young 
 gentleman with wings, as befell the hapless golden books 
 of the Mormons. None of these unfortunate accidents 
 has arrived to baffle students of primeval Frisian history. 
 The ' Oera Linda ' MS. remains in the possession of 
 Mr. C. Over de Linden, Chief Superintendent of the Eoyal 
 Dockyard at the Helder. Some rather scrappy infor- 
 mation has been published, from which we gather that 
 the present possessor received the MS., in August, 1848 
 (we are very particular about dates), from his aunt, 
 
THE OERA LINDA BOOK. 317 
 
 Mrs. Aafje Meylhoff, who had preserved it for twenty-eight 
 years in her house at Enkhuizen, in Friesland. This takes 
 us back to 1 820 ; and we learn that on April 1 5 of that 
 year it was delivered to Mrs. Meylhoff, then Miss Aafje 
 Over de Linden, by her father, Mr. Andries Over de Linden, 
 at his death. Here the chain breaks, and we are blandly 
 told that the document had been handed down to the last- 
 named gentleman by generation after generation from 
 time immemorial. The tradition of the great antiquity of 
 this record seems to have been accepted by the family ; 
 but no attempt was made to decipher or analyse it until 
 Br. E. Verwijs requested permission, about ten years ago, 
 to examine the MS. He, we are told, ' immediately re- 
 cognised it as very ancient Fries.' A letter at the com- 
 mencement, which we shall presently examine, gave the 
 year 1256 as that of the present copy, attributing the 
 actual composition to a certain Adela, who lived and wrote 
 about twenty centuries and a half before the Christian era, 
 and to some other persons of a less extreme antiquity. 
 This record,- consequently, assumes to be 3,900 years old 
 in its contents, and to belong to the thirteenth century in 
 its present and physical form. It is a large quarto volume, 
 of cotton paper, and written upon with large uncial 
 letters in a previously unknown, but easy and consistent, 
 alphabet. As a specimen of thoroughly intelligent modern 
 criticism, I will quote at this juncture some remarks by the 
 Frisian enthusiast. Dr. Ottema, who first saw the book 
 through the press : — 
 
 In old writings the ink is very black or brown ; but while there 
 has been more writing since the thirteenth century, the colour of the 
 ink is often grey or yellowish, and sometimes quite pale, showing that 
 
318 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 it contains iron. All this affords convincing proof that the manuscript 
 before us belongs to the middle of the thirteenth centm-j, written 
 with clear black letters between fine lines carefully traced with lead. 
 The colour of the ink shows decidedly that it does not contain iron. 
 By these evidences the date given, 1256, is satisfactorily proved, and 
 it is impossible to assign any later date. Therefore all suspicion of 
 modern deception vanishes. 
 
 Was there ever such a sweet simplicity in any man 
 since that poor dear Abbe blinded himself in deciphering 
 the scribblings of a German schoolboy in the Mexican 
 Cave I Here is a man after Horace Walpole's own heart. 
 Dr. Ottema is a phenomenon in the modern life of a 
 European philosopher. He ought to have been a don at 
 Oxford when GTeorge Psalmanazar was made Professor of 
 Formosan. I return again and again to this reminis- 
 cence. There seems to me no parallel in literary history 
 closer than that between the eighteenth-century ' History 
 of Formosa ' and this ' Pre-historic Chronicle of Frieslaud ' 
 in our own days; and when I find Dr. Ottema saying, 
 as he does, ' As a specimen of antiquity in language and 
 writing, I believe I may venture to say that this book is 
 unique of its kind,' I cannot help pausing to call his 
 attention to that earlier and once so famous masterpiece. 
 
 The letter which claims 1256 as the date of the MS., 
 and which all the Frisian scholars point to with especial 
 insistence, it may be as well to quote here in full and 
 literal translation : — 
 
 Okke, my Son, — These books thou must preserve with body and 
 soul. They contain the history of all om- folk and of oiu- ancestors. 
 Last year I saved them out of the flood with thee and thy mother. 
 Then they became wotted : they in consequence began to perish. In 
 order not to lose them I have copied them on to foreign paper {vp 
 wrlandisk jpampjjer) . In case thou inheritest them, thou also must 
 copy them. Thy children also, that they may never be destroyed. 
 
THE OERA LINDA BOOK. 319 
 
 Written at Ljuwert. After Atland sank the three thonsand four 
 hundred and forty-ninth year ; that is, after Christian reckoning, the 
 twelve hundred six and fiftieth year. 
 
 (Signed) Hidde, surnamed Oera Linda. AVatch. 
 
 Below this, and, as far as we can discover, written on 
 the same paper, is a letter dated four hundred years 
 earlier. This also has a peculiar importance. It reads as 
 follows : — 
 
 Beloved Successors, — For the sake of our dear forefathers, and of 
 our dear liberty, T entreat you a thousand times never let the eye of 
 a monk look on these writings. They are very insinuating, but they 
 destroy in an underhand way all that relates to us Frisians. In order 
 to gain rich benefices, they conspire witli foreign kings, who know 
 that we are their greatest enemies because we dare to speak to their 
 people of liberty, rights, and duties of princes. Therefore they seek 
 to destroy all that we derive from our forefathers, and all that is left 
 of our old customs. 
 
 Ah ! my beloved ones ! I have visited their courts ! If Wr-alda 
 permits it, and we do not show ourselves strong to resist, they will 
 altogether exterminate us. 
 
 Written at Ljudwerd. Eight hundred and three years after 
 Christ. 
 
 LiKO, surnamed Oviea Linda. 
 
 It will be noticed that an air of superior archaism is 
 introduced by the spelling of the signature, Ovira Linda, 
 in 803, becoming Oera Linda in 1256. Unfortunately 
 this difference of language is not kept up consistently, 
 exactly the same forms and the same spelling occurring in 
 the first document as in the last; this paradox being the 
 result, that during the four centuries in which the Gothic 
 languages were undergoing the most rapid and complete 
 transfiguration, the Frisian dialect alone preserved its 
 forms with inflexible rigidity; which is absurd. 
 
 The narrative is opened with very considerable in- 
 
320 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 ^enuity. In order to avoid the awkwardness of an intro- 
 duction Ave are suddenly plunged into the middle of things. 
 Adela, the priestess-prophetess, is discoursing, and we learn 
 from her words that a crisis has just taken place in the 
 Frisian polity. The commander Magy, for whose name 
 an ingenious Dutch note accounts by saying ' King of the 
 Magjars or Finns,' has murdered the Folksmother, or 
 female president of the Frisian Commonwealth. On this 
 deed of violence other misfortunes have followed, and the 
 same ' Magjars or Finns ' have wi'ested from Friesland all 
 the lands beyond the Weser. To stem the tide of conquest, 
 and to consider in what way best to prevent the total 
 extinction of the Frisian power, a council is called of the 
 sovereign women and the men who hold office under them. 
 We see at once that we have before us the curious idea of 
 a republic governed by august maidens. At this council 
 Adela rises and demands a hearing, and recapitulates for 
 the benefit of her people, and for our amusement, the 
 various matters that follow. She opens with a denuncia- 
 tion of the infidel policy which has disregarded the com- 
 mands of the tutelary goddess Frya, and has negligently 
 relaxed those god-given laws on which the whole frame- 
 work of the community subsists. She harangues the 
 assembly witli very considerable eloquence, and charges 
 the maidens to carry out instant reforms. They are to 
 visit all the citadels, and to write down the Laws of Frya 
 on the walls of each. The internal machinery of govern- 
 ment is to l)e subdivided and put into full working order, 
 and this significant exhortation is subjoined: — 
 
 If I might add more, I would recommend that all respectable girls 
 in the towns should be taught ; for I say positively, and time will 
 
THE OERA LINDA BOOK. 321 
 
 show it, tliat if you wish to remain true children of Frya never to be 
 vanquished by fraud or arms, you must take care to bring up your 
 daughters as true Frya's daughters. 
 
 And this, which sounds sweet in the ears of Leeuwarden 
 to-day: — 
 
 You must teach the children how great our country has been, 
 what great men our forefathers were, how great we still are if we 
 compare ourselves to others. 
 
 Adela's advice, we are told, was followed, and a tedious 
 list of apparently meaningless names is added in due course. 
 Then an account is given of the earliest history of Fries- 
 land: how Wr-alda, the Infinitely Old, the only eternal and 
 good God, breathed upon the Earth so that she brought forth 
 three maiden daughters, Lyda the fierce, Finda the sweet- 
 voiced and treacherous, and Frya the mild and beneficent. 
 The description of Frya has a real charm of style in it. 
 Her body is of the colour of snow at sunrise. Her hair, as 
 fine as a spider's web, shines like the sun itself. When she 
 opens her lips, the birds stop singing, and not a leaf rustles 
 in the forest; the lion lies down at her feet, and the asp 
 forgets its poison. She has three lessons for her children: 
 the first is self-control, and the second the love of virtue, 
 and the third the value of freedom ; for, she says, ' Without 
 liberty all other virtues serve to make you slaves.' When 
 she had gathered around her her children to the seventh 
 generation, she was taken suddenly up to heaven and 
 made divine. Her children were gathered around her, 
 when suddenly she was not. The earth shook, the air grew 
 black and leaf-green with tears, and at last, as they gazed 
 upwards, they saw the lightning flash out for one moment 
 the word ' Watch ' written across the firmament. Her 
 
 Y 
 
322 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 children consoled themselves by building a great citadel, 
 on which they wrote her laws, called the Tex. They are 
 the Frisians of this wondrous history. 
 
 After this prologue the Laws themselves, Frya's Tex, 
 are given in full. Here the ' Oera Linda Book ' challenges 
 comparison with the most important fragment of genuine 
 mediaeval PMsian which we possess — the Old Laws of 
 Friesland, put down at various times dming the Middle 
 Ages, but all claiming to have been originally drawn up by 
 Charlemagne. There is no doubt whatever of the genuine 
 authenticity of these very remarkable documents; and in 
 point of style they resemble, sometimes very closely, this 
 primaeval Tex of Frya. The old Parisian laws were printed 
 so early as the end of the fifteenth century ; again revived, they 
 were published by Christian Sehotanus, in 1664, in his ' De- 
 scription of the Glory of Friesland.' More than a century 
 elapsed before they were printed again ; and then they 
 appeared in the form which I have before me at this 
 moment, printed at Campen and Leeuwarden, in 1782, by 
 J. A de Chalmot and J. Seydel. This edition of the Old 
 Frisian Laws is worthy of some note ; it might even 
 suggest itself to a sceptical mind to inquire whether this 
 volume was not the real nucleus and *fons et origo,' to use 
 the true Frisian phrase, of Adela and Frya and the whole 
 structure of the ' Oera Linda Book.' 
 
 It must be understood, however, that the compilers of 
 the Old Laws knew no such strange gods as Linda and 
 Wr-alda. Their straightforward statement, on the contrary, 
 opens thus : — ' To the honour of Grod, of his dear mother 
 Mary, and of the whole heavenly host, and of all free 
 Frisian freedom.' These last words, on which much 
 
 i 
 
THE OERA LINDA BOOK. 323 
 
 interesting speculation might be founded, reveal to us a 
 high level of national vitality at that early period The 
 sturdy alliterativeness, aire fria Fresena fridam, has in 
 itself the ring of a watchword, and a noble music of liberty 
 in it. Again and again it is repeated, and throughout the 
 code Di fria Fresa, the free Frisian, is invariably used for 
 citizen or inhabitant. 
 
 Either this characteristic is of an infinite age, or the 
 Oera Linda has cunningly borrowed it, for the Tex abounds 
 in such spirited enactments as this: — 
 
 If an}'' man shall deprive another, even his debtor, of his liberty, 
 let him be to you as a vile slave ; and I advise you to burn his body 
 and that of his mother in an open place, and bmy them fifty feet 
 below the ground, so that no grass shall grow upon them. It would 
 poison your cattle. 
 
 There is something ' sans-cidottish ' about this. This 
 lawgiver has the soul of a Eobespierre. Again we note 
 the date of the edition of the Frisian Laws, 1782, 
 
 We now come to the passages which are wholly ridicu- 
 lous, if taken in the serious, historical way affected by Dr. 
 Ottema and his Frisian friends, and which might have 
 shown them, without a moment's hesitation, that, whatever 
 the MS. was, it was a relation not of fact, but of fiction. 
 We are told that Minno, obviously Minos, was a Frisian 
 king, born at Lindawrda in Friesland, and that lie 
 wandered about the world till he came to Kreta, where he 
 gave laws to the inhabitants. An extract from his insti- 
 tutions has a good deal of the antique Teuton flavour 
 about it : — 
 
 The toad blows himself out, but he can only crawl. The frog 
 cries, ' Work, work,' but he cau do nothing but hop and make him- 
 
324 THE LITEEATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 self ridiculous. The raven cries 'Spare, spare' (spar, spSr), but lie 
 steals and wastes everything that he pets into his beak. 
 
 Minos settled a Frisian colony in Kreta, and, retm-ning 
 home, left a virgin ruler to govern the island in his stead. 
 Her suggestive title was Nyhellenia ; but her real name, 
 we are told, was Min-Erva. There is here some obscurity 
 in the narrative ; but, if we understand aright the mean- 
 ing of the author, this lady Min-Erva, in her turn, sailed 
 from Kreta and settled in Krekalanda. A Dutch note to 
 the Frisian text kindly explains that ' Krekaland means 
 Mao-na Grecia, as well as Greece.' We feel a curiosity to 
 know who supplied this note, and from what authority. 
 Min-Erva teaches the Krekalanders to worship one God ; 
 to be wise and self-restrained, and tolerant. 
 
 At this point there comes a break, and the story is 
 told, in somewhat different fashion, in the form of an ex- 
 tract of some autobiography of Minos. It is primarily 
 interesting because he says that he started from ' Athenia ' 
 on his way to Kreta, and thus supplies us with another 
 familiar name. The historical style of the author is very 
 molluscous, and we find it difficult to state precisely what 
 he intends us to learn. This passage, however, is plainly 
 enough intended to add an original testimony to the fact 
 of the disappearance of that mysterious continent of 
 Atlantis whither the ancients timidly set sail to gather 
 precious dragon's blood, and of which it has been supposed 
 that the Azores and the Canaries, Madeira and the Cape 
 Verdes, are the loftiest summits, too high to be sub- 
 merged : — 
 
 Now the bad time came. During the whole simimer the sun had 
 been hid behind the clouds, as if unwilling to look upon the earth. 
 
THE OERA LINDA BOOK. 325 
 
 There was perpetual calm, and the damp mist hiiug like a wet sail 
 over the houses and the marshes. The air was heavy and oppressive, 
 and in men's hearts was neither joy nor cheerfubiess. In the midst of 
 this stillness the earth began to tremble as if she were dying. The 
 mountains opened to vomit forth tire and flames. Some sank into 
 the bosom of the earth, and in other places mountains rose out of the 
 plain. Aldland, called by the seafaring people Atland, disappeared, and 
 the wild waves rose so high over hill and dale that everything was 
 buried in the sea. Many people were swallowed up by the earth, and 
 others who had escaped the lire perished in the water. It was not 
 only in Finda's land that the earth vomited tire, but also in Twisk- 
 land. Whole forests were burned one after another, and when the 
 wind blew from that quarter our land was covered with ashes. Rivers 
 changed their course, and at their mouths new islands were formed 
 of sand and drift. 
 
 Twiskland is Grermany. "We seem, in the early part 
 of this description, to be listening to a man whose imagi- 
 nation was full of the horrors of the earthquake at Lisbon. 
 
 One hundred and one years after the event just re- 
 corded, we are told, a people came up out of the East, 
 driven onward by another people. They called themselves 
 Magjars, and their king was named Magy. We now find 
 ourselves brought down to the age of Adela herself, who 
 began her narration thirty years after the murder of the 
 Volksmoeder by the commander of the Magjars. We can 
 therefore supply some outlines of chronology ; for since 
 Hiddo Oera Linda made the present copy of the MS. in 
 'the three thousand four hundred and forty-ninth year 
 after Atland was submerged ' — that is, in a.d. 1256 — the 
 date of the disappearance of Atlantis may be placed at B.C. 
 2193, the incm-sion of the Magjars at B.C. 2092, ;md the 
 event narrated so suddenly at the opening of the book in 
 B.C. 2062. In the year B.C. 1982, then, to continue the 
 Oera Linda chronology, Wodin, a Danish viking, invited by 
 
326 THE LITEEATUEE OF XOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 the Frisians, went out to fight the Magjars, and, after re- 
 pulsing them for some time, was captured by them and — 
 made their king. We are next introduced to two Frisian 
 brothers, Nef Tunis and Inka, who start for the southern 
 seas to win their fortunes : they proceed together in amity 
 as far as a town in Spain, called Kadik, where there is a 
 stone quay. It is very instructive to note that nearly two 
 thousand years before the Christian era, Cadiz existed and 
 flourished. Here they fell to a disagreement, and it was 
 determined that one brother should go west, the other 
 east. Inka, accordingly, set out to try whether there 
 might not be, far beyond the Hesperides, some remnant of 
 the vanished Atlantis, The ' Oera Linda Book ' says that 
 he was never heard of again, but I am inclined to think 
 that we have met with him in the history of Peru. Nef 
 Tunis went eastward ujd the Mediterranean, and after 
 divers troubles arrived, in the year B.C. 2000, at ' an island 
 with two deep bays so that there appeared to be three 
 islands. In the middle one they established themselves, 
 and afterwards built a city wall round the place. Then 
 they wanted to give it a name, but disagreed about it. 
 Some wanted to call it Fryasburch, others Xef Timia (I) ; 
 but the Magjars and Finns begged that it might be called 
 Thyrhisburch.' The Dutch annotator has again been 
 afraid that we should not recognise this name, and has 
 added ' Tyrus.' 
 
 With the inhabitants of the coast, and as far as the 
 town of Sydon, they traded, exchanging amber and iron 
 for wine, honey, and various products of the land. It is 
 a pity that they did not elect the name Neftunia ; it 
 would have formed an elegant pendant to ]Min-Erva ! 
 
THE OERA LINDA BOOK. 327 
 
 We meet with other familiar names as we proceed — 
 Athens, Ulysus, Troja, and so on ; but we find nothing 
 very important or interesting till near the end of the first 
 part, the Book of Adela. This, as being in my opinion 
 the most vigorous episode in the work, I give in sum- 
 mary. 
 
 One stormy winter night the watchman on the citadel 
 of Texland heard, above the roar of the tempest and the 
 sea, a noise of ruin in the watch-tower. In another 
 moment he saw the sacred immortal light fall from its 
 high station on to the bastion, and by its glare he saw 
 thousands of men battering the gates and scaling the walls. 
 Without a moment's warning war had fallen upon the 
 Frisian peojjle. It was the old foe, jMagy, come with a 
 fleet of light vessels to steal the sacred lamp. The 
 watchman gave the alarm, but it was too late ; the mul- 
 titudes rushed into the city, and one l)rutal Finn pierced 
 to the chamber of the Mother herself. He ran a sword 
 through her before a guardsman of her own could cleave 
 his skull. Her still living body was borne on board 
 the ship of Magy. When she was in measure restored, the 
 insolent conqueror offered her humiliatingterms for her life, 
 and attempted to make use of her prophet's power. The 
 dying maiden made as if she heard him not ; but at last she 
 took up her speech against him, and cried : ' Before seven 
 days have passed, your soul shall haunt the tombs with 
 the night-birds, and your body shall be at the bottom of 
 the sea.' She fell fainting on the deck, and her captive 
 maidens clustered around her ; but the raging conqueror 
 thrust them all aside, and bade his soldiers throw her still 
 breathing body into the deep. This episode is invented 
 
328 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 with extraordinary force and skill, and is well worthy of 
 attention. In the figure of the Maiden, ]\Iother of her 
 People, the author whom Dr. Ottema and his friends 
 traduce by supposing him capable of a monstrous chro- 
 nicle, has not thought of history, but typifies from the 
 point of view of a romance-writer the fervour of liberty, 
 the passion of Frisian freedom and unity, which has al- 
 ways characterised this remarkable little nation. Judged 
 as a romance, the ' Oera Linda Book ' is a fairly interest- 
 ing and novel Utopia ; judged as a veracious piece of 
 ancient history, it only casts ridicide on the critical 
 faculty of those who have discussed it. 
 
 With the event last described, the Book of Adela 
 closes ; but not so the manuscript. A certain Adelbrost 
 immediately takes up the thread, and states himself to be 
 the son of Adela. But before he has written more than 
 a page and a half, he comes to a horrid end. Two and 
 thirty days after his mother's death, Adelbrost was found 
 murdered on the wharf, his skull fractured, and liis limbs 
 torn asunder. It is his brother Apollonia, who continues 
 the narrative, to whom we owe these harrowing particulars. 
 After dwelling on them, he gives us an account of his 
 mother Adela's death, who was also murdered by the Mag- 
 jars. Friesland would seem to have fallen on very troublous 
 times about the year b.o. 2000. We learn that Adela, 
 like Queen Gruenevere, was seven feet high, and that her 
 wisdom exceeded her stature. There were giants on the 
 earth in those days. 
 
 On the occasion of the death of Adela, there was in- 
 scribed on the outside wall of the city tower a long state- 
 ment of religious opinion, which was to serve as doctrine 
 
THE OERA LINDA BOOK. 329 
 
 to the inhabitants. This is a sort of impersonal deistic 
 creed, dealing more largely in morality than faith, and 
 apparently the result of a well-digested course of the works 
 of Jean Jacques Eousseau. We learn therefrom that the 
 causes of sin are dulness, carelessness, and ignorance ; 
 that the principles of Calvinism and elective grace are 
 base and false ; and that the existence of man ought to 
 be a constant advance towards that absolute perfection 
 which is Wr-alda, or the One Grod ; but that the human 
 spirit is not the Spirit of God, but a shadow of it. There 
 is also happily defined the familiar reflection that without 
 the powers of the senses we should have had no proper 
 thoughts at all. ' If Wr-alda had given us no organs, 
 we should have known nothing, and been more irrational 
 than a piece of seaweed driven up and down by the ebb 
 and flood.' 
 
 It can serve no critical purpose to follow the disjointed 
 narrative any farther. One narrator after another takes 
 it up, recording the deeds of successive generations ; but 
 there is no alteration of style, and the characteristics of 
 the history remain unaltered. An attempt to give an 
 account, from the Frisian point of view, of the rise of the 
 Christian religion, is grotesquely ingenious, and would 
 hardly have disgraced a speculative encyclopaedist. In 
 the heart of Cashmere the daughter of a king brought 
 forth a child, whose father was a high priest. To save 
 herself from destruction the princess entrusted her babe 
 to a poor couple, who brought him westward till he fell 
 into the hands of a Frisian sailor, who taught him to 
 value the wisdom of Texland, and become, in short, a good 
 frla Fresa. There follows a piece of brilliant comparative 
 
330 THE LITEKATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 mythology, the force of which is less apparent in the 
 English version, because Mr. Sandbach, in a fit of inex- 
 plicable prudery, has outraged the Frisian text by dis- 
 guising the first name as Jessos : — 
 
 His fii'st name was Jes-us ; but the priests, who hated him, called 
 him Fo, that is, false; the people called him Kris-en (Iviishna), that 
 is, shepherd ; and his Frisian friend called him Btida (Buddha), purse, 
 because he had in his head a treasure of wisdom, and in his heart a 
 treasure of love. 
 
 This fourfold deity combines in himself all the virtues 
 of the Orient, and the benefits of four great philosophic 
 systems. Shortly after his death we find kingly tyranny 
 and priestly aggression, the two great bugbears of the 
 autlior of the ' Oera Linda Book,' rapidly undoing all the 
 lovely work of the man-god's blameless life, and the 
 rhetoric rises to passionate eloquence as the corruption 
 and enthralment of the world are bewailed. 
 
 Soon after this lyric outburst the narrative incon- 
 tinently closes in the middle of a sentence, and the 
 weary reader hardly wishes it completed. The monotony 
 of the style has been excessive, and the invention has 
 seldom had the power of riveting the student's attention 
 or persuading his conviction. 
 
 In summing up, this much-discussed MS. chronicle of 
 primaeval history must be regarded as a romance of the end 
 of the last century, written in all probability by a radical 
 and free-thinker whose mind was steeped in the scep- 
 tical ideas of the eighteenth century, but still more in 
 the intense and passionate patriotism which has never 
 ceased to characterise the Frisian people. He was evi- 
 dently a man of learning and talent, but of no genius ; 
 
THE OEKA LINDA BOOK. 331 
 
 for a man of genius would have arranged his narrative 
 with more art, would have given it shape and proportion, 
 and would have set here and there some jewel of sugges- 
 tion or insight which would have constrained our belief, 
 though only for a moment. These gifts we cannot re- 
 cognise in the writer of the Oera Linda MS. His book 
 is replete with feeling, elevation, and sentiment : it is, 
 above all, what the Germans call a Tendenz-Buch ; it 
 strives to teach an earnest moral lesson in the form of a 
 romance. All this is characteristic of the period to which 
 I am inclined to assign its authorship. I would go 
 farther, and dare to conjecture that its composition dates 
 from the earliest years of reaction, when the ideas of the 
 Encyclopsedia had fully blossomed in the French Eevolu- 
 tion, and had borne such bitter fruit that men began, still 
 clinging fast to Rousseau, to give up all other free-thinking 
 supports, and return to a modified deism and a modified 
 conservatism. The tide once turned, the flood rushed 
 back with violence ; in a few years Joseph de Maistre and 
 Chateaubriand were the leaders of opinion. The ' Oera 
 Linda Book ' seems to me to mark the instant of reaction, 
 and to stand midway between Diderot and the Seraphic 
 Epos. But while giving the author credit, not only for 
 most pure and exalted desires, but for very considerable 
 talent and ingenuity in putting them fortli, I am at a 
 loss how to characterise the critics who have palmed this 
 romance upon the world as a genuine primaeval history. 
 They are seriously to be blamed for having wasted their 
 time in attempting to persuade European scholarship of 
 the truth of such a frivolity — time that might better have 
 been spent in discovering the exact date of composition 
 
332 THE LITERATL'EE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 of the MS., and tlie name and purpose of its author. It 
 is to be hoped that they will at length be persuaded to 
 give their attention to this investigation. To find out 
 who wrote the ' Oera Linda Book,' and what its subse- 
 quent history has been, cannot, to say the least, be more 
 difficult than to discover what song the Sirens sang to 
 Ulysses ; and this we know, on the authority of Sir 
 Thomas Brown, is a legitimate subject for scientific 
 inquiry. 
 
 The above was written in the early part of 1876, and 
 was received here and still more in Holland with reproaches 
 against what was termed its extravagant scepticism. But 
 a French critic, ^I. Jules Andrieu, in the summer of the 
 same year, in a very grave and learned analysis of the 
 ' Oera Linda Book,' rejected, as I had done, without dis- 
 cussion, the assumption of the great antiquity of the MS., 
 but was inclined to place the date of composition at the 
 end of the seventeenth, and not of the eighteenth century. 
 He cited a variety of passages showing beyond a doubt that 
 the author was largely . indebted to the ' Atland eller 
 Manheim ' of Olof Eudbeck the elder, to the ' Origo rerum 
 Celticarum et Belgicarum ' of Adriaan Schrieck, and to the 
 ' Becceselana ' of Goropius Becanus, all of them pedantic 
 and now forgotten moniunents of the lumbering learning 
 and false philology of the seventeenth century. M. Andrieu 
 seemed to prove so conclusively that the ' Oera Linda Book ' 
 was the work of a man who had outlived the murder of the 
 brothers De Witt, that I was afraid I had been, as they 
 said, too sceptical. But there followed a pamphlet by a 
 
THE OERA LINDA BOOK. 333 
 
 professor at Haarlem, Dr. Beckering Vincker, which fully 
 bore out my original view, and went even farther. In this 
 little work, entitled ' De Onechtheid van het Oera Linda- 
 Bok' (The Oera Linda Book not genuine), the Frisian 
 style was minutely and trenchantly criticised, and the 
 utter worthlessness of its pretensions to antiquity exposed. 
 Dr. Vincker was inclined to consider the date of composition 
 posterior to 1853. Mr. C. Over de Linden being now dead, 
 his son Leendert Flores Over de Linden was persuaded to 
 send a page of the MS. to be examined by a famous expert 
 at Amsterdam. He gave a very decided opinion that the 
 writing was certainly not more than seventy-five, and 
 perhaps only twenty-five years old. Before communicating 
 this reply, however, to the Over de Linden family, he sent 
 on the page to the head of the great paper factory at 
 Apeldoorn, and received from him the opinion that the 
 paper in question was undoubtedly fabricated at the 
 factory of Messrs. Zielens & Schrammen, about the year 
 1845. It is now very generally supposed that the MS. 
 was written about 1848 by Mr. C. Over de Linden in his 
 official rooms at the Helder. The ' Oera Linda Book ' is 
 thus an exploded antiquity, but as a curious piece of 
 Frisian literature it may still be read with interest, especially 
 as a few farces, some translations, and the poems of Grijsbert 
 Japix are the only specimens of belles-lettres to attract a 
 student to the language. 
 
APPENDIX, 
 
 TEXT OF THE POEMS TRANSLATED. 
 
 Atter hseved 
 
 Sig min Sjel. Jeg Svalen saae, 
 
 Ssenkende sig under over 
 
 Skyens melkelivide Vover, 
 
 Og jeg fiydedes paany. 
 
 Hvor den svseved ! 
 
 Hvor den svinged i det Blaa, 
 
 Solfoigyldt, skjiiudt i sit Gry 
 
 Solen bagom Aasen laae ! 
 
 Hvor den svinged ! hvor den svseved, 
 
 Somom den optrak i Luften 
 
 Med sin blanke 
 
 Vingespids et straalelet 
 
 Gylden-og blaastribet Net ! 
 
 Jeg den fulgte mod min Tanke, 
 
 Hvor dens Flugt nion videst vanke, 
 
 Hvor de Balsamdryp, den bar, 
 
 Foran tindred 
 
 Som et Tvillingstjernepar. 
 
 Wergeland : Svalen, ii. 131-149. 
 
336 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 B. 
 
 Hvor i blaaneiide Gelecl 
 Alper frem af Dalen stige, — 
 Hvor vecl den ki'ystalne Brse 
 Blomstrer snelividt Abildtrse, 
 Medens i en Snefonns Spor 
 Vilde Rose lystigt gi-oer, — 
 Hvor en Kilde fiirst sin Sang 
 Knn mundhai-pespfed begjaider 
 Murmlende blandt Mos og Stene ; 
 Men saa under Orregrene 
 Fra sin Afdal ud sig skynder, 
 Dreven af ungdomlig Trang 
 Til med Hoveddalens Ynder 
 I sin Glands sig at forene ; 
 Og, liig David Harpeslager, 
 Fra en Hyrde bleven til 
 Dalens Konning ved sit Spil 
 Stolt og msegtig gjennemdrager 
 Alt sit skjbnne Rige, Dalen, 
 
 Wergeland : Den engelshe Lods, xi. 55-73. 
 
 G.-TIL MIN GYLDENLAK. 
 
 Gyldenlak, for D\i din Glands bar tabt 
 Da er jeg Det bvoraf Alt er skabt ; 
 Ja, for Du mister din Kiones Guld, 
 Da er jeg Miild. 
 
 Idet jeg raaber : med Vindvet op ! 
 Mit .sidste Blik faaer din Gyldentop. 
 Min Sjsel dig kysser, idet forbi 
 Den flyver fri. 
 
APPENDIX. 337 
 
 Togange jeg ky.sser din sUde Mund ; 
 Dit ei- det fdrste med Rettens Gi-und, 
 Det caudet give du, Kjseve husk, 
 Mill Rosenbii.sk I 
 
 Udspi-ungen feaevjeg den ei at see ; 
 Thi bring min Hilsen, naar det vil skee ; 
 ^S siig, jeg onsker, at paa min Grav 
 Den l^lomstrer af. 
 
 Ja siig, jeg onsker, at paa minBryst. 
 Den Rose ]aa, du fra uiig ],ar kyst; 
 Og, Gyldenlak, va3r i Dodens Huus 
 Dens Brudeblus! 
 
 Wekx; ELAND : Fra DddsUjet. 
 
 ^^—AFTEXSTEMNIXG. 
 
 Nil synker Aftenen sagte ned 
 
 Med gylden Rodme paa Sij og Lier, 
 Og lydlos Taushed og yndig Pi-ed 
 Til rolig Skimmer Katuren vier. 
 De gronne Strande 
 Sig stille blande 
 I Soens Spil med de blanke Vande, 
 Der flmge dem. 
 
 Se Fiskerbaaden bvor slaiik og let, 
 
 Hoit paa den glimrende Flade blaven, 
 Hvor Karlen biJier sig mod sit Net, 
 Men stille Pigerne liolde Aaren. ' 
 Den tau.se Tale 
 Fra So og Dale 
 Al Dagens Higen liar kunnet svale, 
 Og l)inde dem. 
 z 
 
338 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Men sciclt hensunken en Pige staar 
 
 Og fremad ser i den klare Himmel, 
 Mens Isengselsvakt liendes Tanke gaar 
 Til Julelegen og Dandsens Viimmel. 
 Den I'ijde Liae 
 Paa Afteneus Bue 
 Hai- kastet Funkier vi ej kan skiie — 
 Hnn stirrei' ud. 
 
 Dii rige, rodmende Sommernal, 
 
 De eiei- Meer end de lyse Dage, 
 O, bring den Fagi-e din bedste Skat, 
 Lad Drommen kjserlig til hende di'age : 
 Kaar snart de lande 
 Ved gronne Strande, 
 Lseg Solverkronen oni hendes Pande 
 Som salig Brud ! 
 
 MoE : Bland ede lyrisTce Digte. 
 
 E. 
 
 I Skogen Smaagiitten gik Dagen lang ; 
 Der havde lian hbrt slig en nnderlig Sang. 
 
 Gixtten en Flujte af Selju skar, — 
 Og proved, om Tonen derinde var. 
 
 Tonen den hvisked' og na?vnte sig ; 
 
 Men bedst som ban lytted,' den lob sin Yej. 
 
 Tit, naar ban sov, den til bam smog, 
 Og over bans Pande med Elskov strog. 
 
 Vilde den fange og vaagned' brat ; 
 ^len Tonen bang fast i den blege JSat. 
 
 Herre, min Gud, tag mig derind ; 
 Thi Tonen bar faaet mit bele Sind, 
 
APPENDIX. 339 
 
 Herren han svared' : ' Den er din Yen, 
 SkjiJnt aldiig en Time du ejer den. 
 
 ' Alle de andre dog lidt forslaai* 
 
 Mod dennc, dii soger, men aldrig naar ! ' 
 
 Bjornson : Ar7ie, xiv. 
 
 Solgiad Dag i hegnet Have 
 
 Skabtes dig till Lyst eg Leg ; 
 Tfenk ej paa, at Hostens Gave 
 
 Tidtnok Vaarens Lofter sveg, 
 -^bleblomsten, livid og vakker, 
 
 Breder over dig sit Tjeld, — 
 Lad den saa langs alle Bakker 
 
 Drysses vejrslaat nseste Kveld ! 
 
 Hvad vil du om Frugten spbrge 
 Midt i Tvssets Blomstertid 1 
 Hvorfor sukke, hvorfor sbrge, 
 
 Slovet under Slaeb og Slid ? 
 Hvorfor lade Fugleskrfemmen 
 
 Klappre Dag og Natt paa Stang 
 Glade Broder, Fuglestemmen 
 
 Ejer dog en bedve Klang ! 
 
 Hvorfor vil du Spurven jage 
 
 Fra din rige Blomstergren ! 
 Lad den for soni Sanglbn tage 
 
 Din Foihaabning en for en. 
 Tro mig, du ved Byttet vinder, 
 
 Tusker 8ang mod sildig Frugt : 
 Husk Moralen ' Tiden rinder ; ' 
 
 Snart din Friluftslund er lukkt. 
 
340 thp: literature of northern europe. 
 
 Jeg vil leve, jeg vil synge, 
 
 Til den dijr, den sidste Hsekk ; 
 Fej da trbstig alt i Dynge, 
 
 Kast saa liele Stadsen vsek. 
 Grinden op ; lad Faar og Kvigev 
 
 Gramse graadigt, hver som bedst ; 
 Jeg briJd Blomsten ; lidt det siger, 
 
 Hvem der tar den dbde Rest ! 
 
 Ibsen : Kjcurlighcde'iis Komi'di'- 
 
 G. 
 
 STYVER. 
 
 Ja, det var nu i 
 Den Tid, jeg var forelsket. 
 
 FALK. 
 
 Er da den forlii 1 
 Jeg trode ej din Elskovsrus udsovet ! 
 
 Nu er jeg jo o&.c\eit forlovet ; 
 
 Det er jo mere endi forelsket, ved jeg ! 
 
 Ibsen : KjccrligJiedens Komedie, i. 
 
 H, 
 
 FALK. 
 
 Det gjbr hver Glsedens Rigmand till en Tigger ! 
 Hvis jeg som Sprogets Sultan maatte raade 
 En Time kun, det Silkesnoren fik, 
 Og skill de ud af Verden uden Naade. 
 
 STYVER. 
 
 Hvad bar du da imod det Haabets Ord '/ 
 
APPENDIX. 341 
 
 FALK. 
 
 At det formorker os Gucls fagre Jord. 
 
 ' Vor nseste Kjserlighed,' ' vor nseste Viv,' 
 
 * Vor nseste Maaltid ' og ' vor nteste Liv,' 
 
 Se, den Forsynliglbed, som heri ligger, 
 
 Den er det, som gjtir Glsedens Son till Tigger. 
 
 Saalangt du ser, forstygger den vor Tid, 
 
 Den drseber Nydelsen af Ojeblikket ; 
 
 Du hai- ej Ro for dii faar Baaden vrikket 
 
 Imod ' den nseste ' Strand med SIseb og Slid : 
 
 Men er du fremme — mon du da tor hvile 1 
 
 Nej, du maa atter mod et ' Nseste ' ile. 
 
 Og saadan gaar det — fortvsek — udaf Livet, — 
 
 Gud ved, om bag et Stoppested er givet. 
 
 FROKEN SKJ^KE. 
 
 Men fy, Herr Falk, hvor kan De tale saa ! 
 SHgt inaa min Kjfereste ej hijre paa, 
 Han er excentrisk nok. — Aa hoi-, min Kjaere ; 
 Kom hid et Ojeblik ! 
 
 STYVER (heskjceftiget med at rense sin Pibespids). 
 Jeg kommer snart. 
 Ibsen : Kjcerlighedens Komedie, i. 
 
 I. 
 
 Saa ubarmhjertigt, som en strasbvirgsk Gaas, 
 Med rimet Sludder og med metrisk Vaas, 
 Saa alt bans Indre, Lever, Sjsel og Kraas, 
 Naar ud det krsenges, findes ganske fuldt 
 Af lyrisk Ister og rethorisk Smult. 
 
 Ibsen : Kjoirlighedens JComedif, i. 
 
342 THE LITERATURE OE NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 J. 
 
 Dsekk mine Ojnes Spejl mecl Blindheds Skimiuel, 
 Saa skal jeg digte om den lyse Himmel. 
 . Skaff mig, om blot en JNIaanedstid paa Borg, 
 En Kval, en knusende, en Kjsempesorg, 
 Saa skal jeg synge Livets Juljel ud. 
 Og heist, min Fi'oken, skafF mig blot en Bi-nd. 
 
 Ibsex : Kjcerlighedens Xomedie, 
 
 K. 
 
 SVANHILD. 
 
 Da Troen truedes ifjoi- i Syrien, 
 Gik De da did som Korsets svoiiie Mand ? 
 Nej, paa Papiret var De varm som Taler, — 
 Og sendte ' Kirketidenden ' en Daler. 
 
 (Falk gaar ojjpover i Haven). 
 Falk, er De vred 1 
 
 FALK, 
 
 Nej Aasst ; jeg gaar og stuici-, — 
 Se, det er alt. 
 
 SVAKHILD. 
 
 De er som to Naturer — 
 To uforligte — 
 
 FALK. 
 
 Ja det ved jeg vel. 
 
 SVANHILD. 
 
 Men Grunden ! 
 
 FALK. 
 
 Griinden 1 Jo, fordi jeg hader 
 At gaa omki'ing med fra?kt udringet Sjfel, 
 
APPENDIX. 343 
 
 Lig Godtfolks Kjserlighed i alle Gader, — 
 At gaa omkring med blottet Hjeitevarme, 
 8om imge Kvinder gaar med niigne Arme ! 
 De var de eneste, — De, Svanhild, De, — 
 Saa taenkte jeg, — naa den Ting er forbi — 
 
 {^Hun (jaar over og seer ud). 
 Delytter? 
 
 SVANHILD. 
 
 Till en anden Heist, som taler, 
 Hyss ! Hiirer De ? Hver Kveld, uaar Solen daler, 
 Da kommer flyvende en liden Fugl, — 
 Se der, — der kom den frem af Lovets Skjul, — 
 Ved De, livad fuldt og fast jeg ti-or 1 Hver den, 
 Som her paa Jord blev nsegtet Sangens Gave, 
 Hnn fik af Gud en liden Fugl till Ven, 
 For en kun skabt og for den enes Have. 
 
 [tager en Sten opp fra Jorden). 
 Da gjselder det, at Fugl og Ejer modes, 
 Skal ej dens Sang i fremmed Have odes. 
 
 SVANHILD. 
 
 Ja, det er sandt ! men jeg har fundet min. 
 
 Jeg fik, ej Ordets Magt, ej Sangerstemme ; 
 
 Men kviddrer Fuglen i sit griJnne Gjemme, 
 
 Det er som Digte daled i mit Sind — 
 
 (Falk kaster Stenen ; Svanhild udstoder et Skrig.) 
 
 O Gud, der slog De den ! Hvad bar De gjort ! 
 
 det var syndigt, syndigt ! 
 
 FALK {i lidenskaheligt Oj)pr'6r). 
 
 Nej — kun Oje 
 For Oje, Svanhild — ikkun Tand for Tand ! 
 ISTvi faar De ingen Hilsen fra det hcije, 
 Og ingen Gave mer fra Sangens Land. 
 Se, det ei- Hsevnen over Dei'es Vserk ! 
 
344 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 SVANHILD. 
 
 Mit V^rk 1 
 
 TALK. 
 
 Ja Deres ! Indtill denne Time 
 Slog i mit Biyst en Sangfugl kjsekk og stierk. 
 Se — nu kan Klokken over begge kime, 
 De har den draebt ! 
 
 SVANHILB. 
 
 Hai- jeg ! 
 
 FALK. 
 
 Ja, da De slog 
 Min iinge, glade Sejerstro till Jorden 
 Da Deforloved Dem ! 
 
 Ibsen : Kjcerliglbedens Komedie, i. 
 
 Han fordum vai' paa Mod so rig ; 
 
 Han stred med Verden om en elsket Kvinde ; 
 
 Hom Vedtsegts Kiikestornier Manden gjaldt, 
 
 Hans Kjserlighed slog nd i glade Sange ! 
 
 Se paa ham nu ! I Kisteklpeder lange, 
 
 Et Tobensdi-ama om hvor dybt ban faldt ! 
 
 Og Fruentimret med de slukne Skjiii't, 
 
 Med skja?ve Sko, soni klaskei^ mider Ha?lene, 
 
 Hun er den VingenuJ, som skulde fort 
 
 Ham ind till Samfimdsliv med Sklinhedssjoelene. 
 
 Hvan er igjen af Flammen 1 Nep})e Rogen ! 
 
 Sit transit gloria amoris, Fi-oken ! 
 
 Ibsex : Kj(f'rlvjhe(hns Komedie, i, 
 
 M. 
 
 Vi vil ej sogne mei- till Platheds Kiike, 
 Som Led af Trivialitetens Meniwhed ! 
 
APPENDIX. 345 
 
 Se, Maalet for Personlighedens Virke 
 Er dog at staa selvstisndig, sand og fri. 
 
 Ibsen : Kjmrlvjhedens KomecHe, i. 
 
 . N. 
 
 FAlJv. 
 
 Saa mange Hoveder, saa mange Sind ! 
 
 Nej, alle famler de paa gale Veje. 
 
 Hvei- Lignelse er skjsev ; men hor nu min ; — 
 
 Den kan paa hver en Vis De sno og dreje. 
 
 Der gror en Plante i det fjerne Ost ; 
 
 Dens Odelshjem er Solens Fsetters Have — 
 
 DAMEHNE. 
 
 Aa, det ei- Theen ! 
 
 TALK. 
 
 Ja . . . 
 Den liar sit Hjem i Fabellandets Dale, 
 Vel tnsind Mile bagom Orkner golde ; — 
 Fyld Koppen, Lind ! Saa Takk ! Nu skal jeg holde 
 Om The og Kjserlighed en Thevandstale. 
 
 {Gjcesterne rykker ncermere sammen). 
 Den har sit Hjem i Eventyrets Land ; 
 Ak der har ogsaa Kjserligheden hjemme. 
 Kun Solens Sonner, ved vi, fik Forstand 
 Paa Urtens Dp-kning, paa dens E,ogt og Fremme. 
 Med Kjserligheden er det ligesan. 
 En Draabe Solblod maa i Aaren slaa, 
 Hvis Kjperlighed skal skyde Rod derinde. 
 Skal grlJunes, gro, og frem till Blomstring vinde. 
 
 FROKEN SKJ.ERE. 
 
 Men Kjserlighed og Kjaerlighed er et ; 
 Af The der gives baade god og slett. 
 
346 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 FRU STEAAMAND. 
 
 Ja , man har The i mange Kvaliteter. 
 
 ANNA. 
 
 De gronne Foraarsspirer allerfcirst — 
 
 SVANHILD. 
 
 Den Slags er kxm for Solens Dottres Toi-st. 
 
 EN UNG DAME. 
 
 Man skildrer den bernsende som ^tlier, — 
 
 EN ANDEN. 
 
 8om Lotos duftende, og sod som Mandelen. 
 
 GULDSTAD. 
 
 Den forekommer aldrig lier i Handelen. 
 
 FALK. 
 
 Ak, mine Darner, livei- i sin ISTatur 
 
 Har og et sferligt lidet ' liimmelsk Rige.' 
 
 Der knopped sig af Spirer tusind slige 
 
 Bag Blyheds feldende Kinesermur. 
 
 Men Fantasiens smaa Kineserdukker, 
 
 Som sidder i Kioskens Ly og sukkev, 
 
 Som drommer vidt — saa vidt — med SliJr om Lajndeiiie, 
 
 Med gyldne Tulipaners Flor i Hfenderne, — 
 
 Till dem I Fbrstegrodens Knopper sanked. 
 
 Og saa det siste store Lighedspunkt ; 
 Se hvor Kulturt ns Haand hai' lagt sig tungt 
 Paa ' Himmeli'iget ' i det fjerne Osten ; 
 Dets Mur forfalder og dets Magt er sprseng-t, 
 Den sidste jegte Mandaiin er hfengt, 
 Proftme Hsender alt besorger Hosten. 
 Snart ' Himlens Rige ' er en Saga blot, 
 Et Eventyi", som ingen Isenger tror paa ; 
 
APPENDIX. 347 
 
 Den hele Verden er et graat i graat ; 
 Vidunderlandet bar vi kastet Joid paa. 
 Men har vi det, hvor ev da Kjperligheden t 
 Ak, da er ogsaa den jo vandret heden. 
 Naa, lad forgaa, hvad Tiden ej kan bsere ; 
 En Thevandsskaal till salig Amors ^re ! 
 
 Ibsen : Kjwrligliede'iis Komedie, ii. 
 
 0. 
 
 EJNAR. 
 
 Agnes, min dejlige Sommerfugl, 
 
 Dig vil jeg legende fange ! 
 Jeg fletter et Gam med Masker sma 
 
 Og Maskerne er mine Sange. 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 Er jeg en Sommerfugl, liden og skjer, 
 
 Sa lad mig af Lyngtoppen drikke ; 
 Og er du en Gut, som lyster en Leg, 
 
 Ha, jag mig, men /(nig mig ikke ! 
 
 EJNAR. 
 
 Agnes, min dejlige Sommerfugl, 
 
 Nil har jeg Maskeme flettet ; 
 Dig hjselper visst aldrig din flagrende Flugt, — 
 
 Snart sidder du fangen i Nettet ! 
 
 AGNES. 
 
 Er jeg en Sommeifugl, mig og l)lank, 
 
 Jeg lystig i Legen mig svinger ; 
 Men fanger du mig under Nettets Spind, 
 
 Sa ror ikke ved mine Vinger. 
 
 EJNAK. 
 
 Nej, jeg skal lofte dig varligt pa Hand 
 
 Og lukke dig ind i mit Hjerte ; 
 Der kan du lege dit hele Liv 
 
 Den gladeste Leg, du l?erte ! Ibsen : Brand, i. 
 
3-48 THI>: LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 PIGERNES KOK. 
 
 Profeten er kommen ! 
 Profeten, Herren, den alting vidende, 
 Till OS, till OS, er lian kommen. 
 Over Sandhavet lidende ; 
 Profeten, Heiren, den aldrig fejlende. 
 Till OS, till OS er han kommen 
 Gjeixaem Sandhavet sejlende ! 
 Ror Flojten og Trommen ; 
 Profeten, Profeten er kommen ! 
 
 Hans Ganger er Mselken, den hvide, 
 Som strommer i Pai-adisets Flodei-. 
 Boj eders Knse ! Sft-nk eders Hoder ! 
 Hans Ojne er Stjerner, blinkende, blide. 
 Intet Jordbarn dog taaler 
 Glansens Glans af de Stjerners Straaler ! 
 Gjermen Orken ban kom. 
 Guld og Perler sprang frem paa bans Bryst. 
 Hvor han red blev det lyst. 
 Bag ham blev Morke ; 
 Bag ham foer Samum og Tbrke. 
 Han, den herlige, kom ! 
 Gjennem Orken han kom, 
 Som en Jordson pyntet. 
 Kaba, Kaba staar torn : — 
 Han bar selv forkyndt det ! 
 
 KOR. 
 
 Roi' Flojten og Trommen ; 
 Profeten, Profeten er kommen ! 
 
 Ibsen : Peer Gynt, iv, 
 
APPENDIX. 349 
 
 Q. 
 
 HUHU. 
 
 Saa Lmu mig Ore — 
 Fjernt i Ost, som Krans om Pande. 
 Staar de malebarske 8ti-ande, 
 Portugiser og Hollsendei- 
 Landet med Kultur bespaender. 
 Desforuden l)oer der Skai-er 
 Af de a5gte Malebai'er. 
 Disse Folk liar Sproget blandet ; 
 De er Herrer nvi i Laiidet. 
 Men i Tiden Itengst forgangen 
 Raaded der Qrangutangen, 
 Han var Skogens Mand og Herre ; 
 Frit han turde slaa og snserre. 
 Som Naturens Haand hain skabte, 
 Saa hau gren og saa lian gabte. 
 Uforment ban turde skrige ; 
 Han var Herskei- i sit Rige. 
 Ak, men saa kom Fremmedaaget 
 Og forplumred Urskogs-Sproget. 
 Firehundredaarig Natten 
 Ruged over Abekatten ; 
 Skal vi vore Tankei- male, 
 Maa det ska ved Hjajlp af Tale. 
 Jeg bar provet paa at feegte 
 For vort ITrskogs-Maal, det a^gte, — 
 Provet at belive Liget, — 
 Hsevdet Folkets Rett till Skriget,— 
 Skreget selv, og paavist Trangen 
 Till dets Brug i Folkesangen. 
 
 Ibsen : Peer Gynt, iv. 
 
350 THJ: LITEEATURE of northern EUROPE. 
 
 R. 
 
 I Loufod Norden hen, i Noriigs Konge-riige, 
 Een Strom befindes stoor, som ej liar mange Liige, 
 Den kaldes Moske-strom, af Mosker spits liin hoje, 
 Som Strommen runden om ret artig veed at ploje. 
 Naar denne gjcir sin fliid oc Maanens Yerk forretter, 
 Oc nogen kommer neer, hand Verden snart forgfetter. 
 Den Bylge reis' i vser som and re Bierge hoje, 
 Mand der igiennem kand see Soolen Yerdens Oje. 
 Er Yinden Strommen mod, to helte sammen riide, 
 Oc med sligt bulder stoor imod hver andre striide. 
 At Land oc Huus der ved, ja Dor oc Yindvi ryste, 
 Oc tage saa af sted, som Jorden skulde bryste. 
 Den stserke Trolde-hval kand dei- ej giennem hryde. 
 Men trecker vred derfra, forfserdelig maae skryde. 
 
 Arrebo : Ilexaemeron, ed. lOGl, p. 102. 
 
 Min Meening er der om, at der af Klipper liiije 
 En Skser'gaard i det Dyb maa sig tilhobe fdje, 
 Som een Indkiorsel haer, men ellers steen liernnded, 
 Oc midt i samme Gaard en runder Klippe fundet. 
 Naar Strommen kommer nti, foifa?rdelig den bnuiser, 
 Oc ind ad samme Poort som tusend fosse fnnser, 
 Oc ingen Udgang haer, den svii-er oc regierer, 
 Oc hojen middel Steen ret rimden om spatserer, 
 Thi sn\irrer den med Mact, som qvfernen, naar ninnd maler, 
 Arrebo : Ilexaemeron, ed. IGGl, ]>. 103. 
 
 Som da ett varmoln hviler sin glans Inland traden pu kulleu. 
 Buskarne frujdas och bjorkarna sta i stilla forundran, 
 
APPENDIX. 351 
 
 Skarlancle morgonens pi-akt och tlet I'osenfargade molnet. 
 Tills ur sitt skiite det siinder en fliikt, da svigta de spada 
 Grenanies skott, och de krusiga lofven skiilfva af vallust ; 
 Mindve hiifvav ocksa, ej gossen, da Hedda ban aliiir. 
 
 RuNEBERC : Elyskyttarne, iii. 111-116. 
 
 U. 
 
 Jcke sa rik ar pS, blommor en ang i den varmeste sommai-, 
 Barn, som pa gladje den vag, der vi ga mot grafven bestandigt, 
 Endast vi akta oss viil, alt ej hoppet, det hala, bedragei* ; 
 Ty hvar vi stanna en stnnd att njuta en lycka, i blinken 
 >Spi'inger der hoppet forut och vi'-ar en battre pa afstand. 
 Daren foljer den lysten fran en till en annan och ratar, 
 Aldrig fornojd, tills slutligt ban snckande hinnes af doden. 
 
 EuNEBEiwj : Elgshjttarne, v. 345-351. 
 
 Rodnande syntes hon dei', i sin blyghet Ijud till forundran : 
 Lik en strimma af sjon, som, af morgenstralar begjuten, 
 Smyger sig in och rodnar emellan skuggiga hinder. 
 
 RuNEBERG : Hanna, i. 134 13G. 
 
 W. 
 
 ' 8ei' du den rodnande sjun/ sa, sade ban, ' ser du, bur olik 
 Hafvet, som suckande slar mot din hembygds klippiga striindei- i 
 Har iir grijnska och farger och lif. Otaliga holmar 
 Skjuta ur vagoma upp, och svajande vinka fran alia 
 Luinmiga tran, som bjuda den ti-ottade roddaren skugga. 
 Nalkas dii udden, som nu tycks traffa det mcitande landet, 
 ( )ppnas en vidare rymd af vatten, och trefliga byar 
 Skymtit pa striinderna fram, och kyi-kan lysei- i fjeii-an. 
 
 RuNEBERG : Hanna, iii. 9-16. 
 
3o2 THE LITERATUKE OF NORTHERN EUROPK. 
 
 X. 
 
 Kom, Oihonna, mig folj i lifvet, 
 Jagai'n alskar dig, rosiga sky ! 
 H(5ga fjallarnes fiirste 
 Ber dig dela hans banors lust. 
 
 Sag du i'\Tiideiuas glada sjaier 
 Hogt fran bergen i morgonens stund, 
 Sag du vakuade strsilar 
 Dricka skalfvande dimmors dagg 1 
 
 Mins du skogarnes Ijud, dfi vinden 
 Rbr med vingen de dan-ande liif, 
 Fogeln jublar, och lusig 
 Mellan hallarne backeii flyi- 1 
 
 Eller vet du, liur hjertat klappar, 
 Nar vid homens och hundames skall 
 Busken prasslar, och hjorten 
 StSr for cigat med hejdadt sprang? 
 
 Flicka, alskiU- d\\ dunkla qvallen 
 Bleka stjeruornas bafvande Ijus 1 
 Kom, fran toppen af Mallmor 
 Lat OSS skada, hur natten fdds. 
 
 O, jag suttit pa fjallet ofta, 
 Nar i vester sin skimrande port 
 Solen shitit, och rodnan 
 Stilla vissnat pjl molnets hy. 
 
 Druckit svalkau n£ qvallens ande, 
 Skuggans vandring i dalderna sett, 
 Latit tankarue iiTa 
 Kring den nattliga tystnans haf. 
 
APPENDIX. 353 
 
 Skbnt 'dv lifvet pa skyars hojdar, 
 Lcitt man anclas i doftande sko£f ; 
 Blif min brud, och jag oppnar 
 For ditt hjerta en verld iif fiojd. 
 
 RuNEBERO : I{u7ig Fjdlar, ii. 103-144. 
 
 Y.— TORPFLICKAN. 
 
 Ocli solen sjunk och qviillen kom, den milda sommarqvallen, 
 Ett sken af mattad piu'pur guts kiting bygderna och tjallen, 
 Frtln dagens mcidor glad och trott en skara landtman kom, 
 De fylt sitt vJirf, de vande nu till sina hyddor om. 
 
 De fylt sitt viirf, de gjoit sin skord, en dyrbar skord den gangen, 
 En djerf, fiendtlig krigartrupp var nedgjord eller fangen, 
 De dragit i;t till kamp mot den vid moi-gonsolens sken, 
 Nar allt i seger iindadt var, da var det afton re'n. 
 
 Helt nara fiiltet, der den stutt, den langa, beta striden, 
 Vid vagen big ett litet torp, balft ode da for tiden, 
 Pa stugans laga trappa satt en flicka tysc och sag, 
 Hur skavan kom och drog foibi i fiidsamt atertag. 
 
 Hon sag som den, som suker, ser, hvem vet, pa hvad hen tankte ? 
 Pa kinden brann en hijgre fiirg, an aftonrodnan skankte, 
 Hon satt sa stilla, men sS, varm, sa spanande anda, 
 Att, om hon lyssnat, som hon sag, hon hort sitt hjerta sla. 
 
 Men truppen gick sin bana fram, och flickan sag den tslga, 
 Till hvarje led, till hvarje man hon blickade en fraga, 
 En fraga, biifvande och skygg, en fraga iitan riJst, 
 Mer tyst an sucken sjelf, som smog ur hennes fulla brost. 
 
 Niir hela skaran gatt fijrbi, de foi-sta som de sista, 
 Da svek den arma flickans lugn, da sags dess stjTka brista, 
 Hon grat ej hijgt, men pannan sjiink mot hennes oppna hand 
 Och stora taiai- skoljde Ijuft den friska kindens brand. 
 
 A A 
 
354 THE LITEEATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 * Hvad ar at grata 1 Fatta mod, an stS.r oss hoppet fiter, 
 
 dotter, hor din moders rost, en faf ang tar du grater ; 
 Den, som ditt oga sokte nyss, och nu ej aterfann, 
 Han lefver iin, han fankt pa dig, och derfcir lefver han. 
 
 ' Han tankt pa dig, han fbljt mitt rad att ej gablindt mot faran, 
 Det var mitt tysta afskedsord, dS, hen drog han med skaran. 
 Af tvang han fdljde trnppan at, hans hag var ej at slass, 
 Jag vet, han ville icke do fran lifvets frojd och oss.' 
 
 Och flickan sag med bafven npp, nr sorgsna driimmer vacknad, 
 Det var som om en aning stort det stilla hjertats saknad, 
 Hon drojde ej, hon sag en gang ditat, der striden brann; 
 Och smog pa vag och flydde tyst och skymdes och forsvann. 
 
 En stnnd flot bort, en stund iinnu, det led mot natten i-edan, 
 
 1 skyudsam molnet silfverhvitt, men skymning lag der nedan. 
 ' Hon drojer an ; o dotter, kom, din oro faf ang ar, 
 
 I morgon, innan solen gryr, ar le'n din brudgum har.' 
 
 Och dottem kom, med tysta fjiit hon nalkades sin moder, 
 
 Det bKda ciget skymdes nu af inga tarefloder, 
 
 Men hennes hand, till helsning rackt, var kail som nattens 
 
 vind, 
 Och hvitare an fastets sky var hennes svala kind. 
 
 ' Red mig en graf, o moder kar, min lefnadsdag ai' liden ; 
 
 Den man, som fick mitt hjertas tro, har flytt med skam vtr 
 
 striden ; 
 Har tankt pa mig, har tiiukt pa sig, har foljt ert varningsord 
 Och svikit sina bruderg hopp och sina f aders jord. 
 
 ' Nar skaran kom, och han ej kom, begrat jag nyss hans ode, 
 Jag trodde, att han lag som man jjti f altet bland de diide, 
 Jag sorjde, men min sorg var Ijnf, det var ej bitter da, 
 Jag velat lefva tusen ar, att honom sorja fa. 
 
APPENDIX. 355 
 
 * O moder, jag har sokt bland lik till sista skymt af dagen, 
 Men ingen af de slagna bar de kiira anletsdragen, 
 Nu vill jag icke dvaljas mer pd denna svekets '6, 
 Han fans ej bland de dcida der, och derf or vill jag dii.' 
 
 RuNEBERG : Fdnrik Stcds SUgner. 
 
 Z. 
 
 Men ved min Side strakte 
 En Yngling sig paa Boenken 
 I I'olig Eftertpenken 
 Og med et Drommesmil, 
 Som diinkle Minder vakte 
 Om Kiuistens Oldtidsstil. 
 
 Sandalen, som omgjorded 
 Hans Fod, var ziirlig knyttet. 
 En Arm bans Hoved stotted, 
 Den anden med sit Glas 
 Laa nogen benad Bordet, 
 Som stobt af Phidias. 
 
 Og da jeg Ojet sfenked, 
 
 Traf mig biin Ynglings Blikke, — 
 
 Nei, Midnat ejer ikke 
 
 Saa stserkt et Stjernespil, 
 
 Mit Oje bang som Ijenket 
 
 Til denne mnntre lid ! 
 
 BoDTCHER : Modet med Bacchus. 
 
 AA. 
 
 Han ssenkede Pokalen, 
 Der kom en Ildcascade, 
 En Brusen, som i Blade, 
 Og saa en Duft af Viin, 
 Der fyklLe Klippesalen 
 Med Eoser oix Jasmin. 
 
 A A 2 
 
356 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Jeg drak, mens Ojet stirred 
 Bag Gnister og bag Dami^e, — 
 Det var en magisk Lampe, 
 Et mystisk PerleslUr, 
 Hvori jeg saae forvirret, 
 Men skjonnere end for. 
 
 Mig var det, som Colonner 
 Fra Grdvet steg med Bnlder 
 Og skjod en Marmorskiilder 
 Ind under Kupplens Last, 
 Og Epheu bandt Festonner 
 Om Murens Alabast. 
 
 En sfelsoni Taage var der ! 
 Med Eet de miuitre Fade 
 Forsvandt fra deres Stade, 
 Og alvorsfuldt der laa 
 Syv gule Leoparder 
 Med Labben ki'vdset, skraa. 
 
 BoDTCHER : Model med Bacchus. 
 
 BB. 
 
 War leitet nu die lieben scliar ? 
 Wer wiset diz gesinde ? 
 Ich \v?ene, ich si wol vinde, 
 Din die baniere fiieren sol : 
 Ir meisterinne kan ez wol, 
 Diu von der Vogelweide. 
 Hei wie diu iiber heide 
 Mit boher stimme schellet ! 
 Waz wunders si gestellet, 
 Wie sp?ehe s'organieret ! 
 Wie si ir sane wandelieret ! 
 
APPENDIX. 357 
 
 Ich meine ab in dem done 
 Da her von Zitherone, 
 Da diu gotinne Minne 
 Gebiutet iif nnd inne. 
 Gottfried von Strassbueg : Tristan, 4794-4808. 
 
 CO. 
 
 Zahi wie'cli danne sunge von den vogellinen, 
 
 Von der heide und von den bluomen, als ich wilent sane ! 
 Swelch schcene wip mir danne gsebe ir habedanc, 
 Der lieze icb liljen unde rtisen iiz ir wangel schinen. 
 Walther von der Vogelweide : Ed. Bartsch. cxlix. 4-7. 
 
 DD. 
 
 Der rife tet den kleinen vogelen we, 
 
 Daz sie niht ensungen, 
 Nu horte ich s' aber wiinnecliche als e ; 
 
 Nil ist dill heide entsprungen. 
 Da sach ich bhiomen strlten wider den kle 
 
 Weder ir lenger wsere. 
 Miner froiiweu seite ich disiu msere. 
 
 Tins hat der winter kalt und ander not 
 
 Vel getan ze leide. 
 Ich wande, daz ich iemer bluomen rot 
 
 Ssehe an gi-iienei- heide. 
 Joch schate ez giioten liuten, wsere ich tot, 
 
 Die nach fieiiden riingen 
 Und je gerne tanzten unde sprungen. 
 
 Versumde ich disen wiinnichlichen tac, 
 
 So wsei-' ich vei-wazen 
 Und wfere an freiide ein angestlicher slac : 
 
 Dennocli miiese ich lazen 
 
358 THE LITEKATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Al mine freude, der icli wilent pflac. 
 
 Got gesegen' iucli alle : 
 Witnscliet nocli, daz mu- ein lieil gevalle. 
 
 Walther : Ed. Bartscli. Ixxiii. 
 
 EE. 
 
 Got, dine lielfe uns sende ! 
 Mit diner zesewen hende 
 Bewar luis an dem ende, 
 
 So uns der geist verlat, 
 Vor helleheizeu wallen, 
 Daz wii- dar in ilit vallen ! 
 Ez ist wol kunt uns alien, 
 
 AVie jsemerliche ez stat, 
 Daz hei'e lant vil reine. 
 Gar helfelos vind eine. 
 Jerusalem, nu weine, 
 
 Wie din vergezzen ist ! 
 Walther : Ed. Bartsch. Ixxviii. 61-72. 
 
 FF. 
 
 Owe war sint verswunden alliu miniu jar ! 
 Ist mir min leben getroumet oder ist ez war 1 
 Daz ich ie wande daz iht wsere, was daz iht ? 
 Dar nach han icli geslafen unde enweiz es niht. 
 
 Nu bin ich erwachet und ist mir unbekant 
 Daz mir hie vor was klindic als min ander hant. 
 Liut unde lant, da icli von kinde bin erzogen, 
 Die sint mir fremde worden, reht' als ez si gelogen. 
 
 Mich grliezet maneger tiage, der mich bekande e wol. 
 Diu werlt ist allenthalben ungenaden vol ; 
 Als ich gedenke an manegen wiinniclichen tac, 
 Die sint mir enpfallen gar als in daz mer ein slac. 
 
APPENDIX. 359 
 
 Owe wie jsemerliche junge lint tuont ! 
 
 Den vuivil riuwecliclie ir gemiiete e stuont, 
 
 Die kitnnen nu wan soi-gen : owe wie tuont sie so ? 
 
 Swar ich zer werlte kere, da ist nieman fro. 
 
 Tanzen, Lichen, singen zei-gat mit sorgen gar. 
 Nie ki'istenman gesach so jsemerliche schar. 
 Nu market, wie den frouwen ir gebende stat ; 
 Die stolzen ritter tragent dbrperliche wat. 
 
 Dar zuo die vesten scliilte und din gewibten swert ! 
 Wolte got, wser' ich den sigeniinfte wert ! 
 So wolte ich notic man verdienen richen solt, 
 Joch meine ich niht die huoben, noch der herren golt, 
 
 Ich wolte selbe krone eweclichen ti'agen ; 
 Die mohte ein soldensere mit sine sper bejagen. 
 Mbht' ich die lieben reise gevaren tiber se, 
 So wolte ich denne singen ' wol ' und niemer m^re * ouwe,' 
 Niemer mere ' ouwe ! ' 
 
 Walther : Ed. Bartsch. clxxxviii. 
 
 GG. 
 
 Under der linden 
 
 An der heide, 
 
 Da unser zweier bette was, 
 
 Da muget ir vinden 
 
 Schone beide 
 
 Gebrochen bluomen unde gias. 
 
 Vor dem walde in einem tal, 
 
 Tandaradei ! 
 
 Schone sane diu nahtegal. 
 
 Ich kam gegangen 
 Zuo der ouwe : 
 
360 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 Do was min friedel koraen c. 
 
 Da wart er enpfangen,' 
 
 Here fi-ouwe ! 
 
 Daz ich bin sa^lic iemer me. 
 
 Kuste er mich 1 wol tuseutstuut : 
 
 Tandaradei ! 
 
 Sehet, wie rot mir ist der mixnt. 
 
 Do liet er gemachet 
 
 Also riche 
 
 Von bluomen eine bettestat ; 
 
 Des wirt noch gelachet 
 
 Innecliche, 
 
 Komt iemen an daz selbe pfat, 
 
 Bi den rosen er wol mac 
 
 Tandai-adei ! 
 
 Merken wa mir'z houbet lag. 
 
 Daz er bi mil' Isege, 
 
 Wesse ez jemen 
 
 (Nu enwelle got !) so schamte ich mich. 
 
 Wes er mit mir pflsege, 
 
 Niemer niemen 
 
 Bevinde daz wan er und ich 
 
 Unde ein kleinez vogellin : 
 
 Tandaradei ! 
 
 Daz mac wol getriuwe sin. ■ 
 
 Walther : Ed. Bartsch. ix. 
 
 TIH. 
 
 Hat der winter kurzen tac, 
 So hat er die langen naht, 
 Daz sich liep bi liebe mac 
 Wol erholn, daz e da vaht. 
 Waz ban ich gesprochen 1 owe, ja hsete ich baz geswigen. 
 Sol ich iemer so geligen ! 
 
 Walther : Ed. Bartsch. Iviii. 13-18. 
 
appp:ndix. 361 
 
 II. 
 
 Got hate ir wengel hohen fliz : 
 
 Er streich so tiiire varwe dar, 
 So reine rot, so reine wiz, 
 
 Hie I'oeseloht, dort liljenvar. 
 Ob ich'z vor slinden tar gesagen, 
 
 So ssehe ich s'iemer gerner an 
 Dan bimel oder hinielwagen. 
 
 Owe waz lobe ich tumber man 1 
 Mach' ich mil- sie ze her 
 
 Vil lihte wirt mins mundes lop mins herzen sei'. 
 Walther : Ud. Bartsch. xvii. 21-30. 
 
 JJ. 
 
 Fro Sfelde teilet umbe mich 
 
 Und keret mir den rucke zuo. 
 Da enkan si niht erbarmen sich : 
 I'n weiz waz ich dar umbe tuo. 
 Si stet ungerne gegen mir : 
 Louf ' ich bin vimbe, ich bin doch iemer hinder ir, 
 Si' n rviochet mich niht ane sehen, 
 Ich wolte, daz ir ougen an ir nacke stlienden — so miieste ez ^ne 
 ir danc geschehen. 
 
 Walther : Ed. Bartsch. xxix. 
 
 KK. 
 
 Von der Elbe nnz an den Rin 
 Und her wider nnz an der linger lant 
 
 Mugen wol die besten sin, 
 Die ich in der werlte ban erkant. 
 
362 THE LITEKATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Kan icli rehte scliouwen 
 Guot gelaz imd lip, 
 Sam mir got, s6 swiiere icli wol daz hie din wip 
 Bezzer sint dann' ander frouwen. 
 
 Walthek : Ed. Bartsch. xxxix. 25-32. 
 
 LL. 
 
 Do den sumer komen was, 
 
 Und die bluonien durcli daz gras 
 
 Wiinnecliclie enspi'ungen, 
 
 Alda die vogele sungen, 
 
 Dar kom ich gegangen 
 
 An einen anger langen ; 
 
 Da ein luter brunne entspranc ; , 
 
 Vor dem walde was sin ganc, 
 
 Da din nahtegale sane. 
 
 Walther : Ed. Bartsch. iv. 1-9. 
 
 MM. 
 
 Had hy Holland dan gedrageii 
 
 Onder't hart, 
 Tot sijn af-geleefde dagen 
 
 Met veel smart, 
 Om't meyneedigh swaert te laven 
 
 Met sijn bloet 
 En te mesten kray en I'aven 
 Op sijn goet ? 
 
 VoNDEL : Genze-Vesper. 
 
 NN. 
 
 Een Vrouw die niet als singht en tuyt, 
 Die garen danst, en die de Lnyt 
 Schier nimmer uyt haer handen leydt, 
 Fy, fy, dat is lichtveerdigheydt. 
 
APPENDIX. 363 
 
 Maer is het niet een hemel schier, 
 Te sien hoe dat een geestigh dier, 
 Met sangh of spel haer man verquickt, 
 Als't noodigli huyswerck is beschickt ? 
 
 Misbruyck verkeeyt het soetste soet 
 In "walchelijck en bitter roet, 
 Ja heylsaem uutte medicijn, 
 T'ontijdt gebruyckt, keert in fenijn. 
 
 Dan die sijn oogh op't eeuwigh slaet, 
 De tijdelijcke fiaeyheydt laet : 
 De met al't wereltsche gespoock 
 Verdwijnen .sal als windt en roock. 
 
 Anna Roemers : Zinne-Poppen, 1669. 
 
 00. 
 
 Somtijds kiest gij't zeskant huisken 
 Voor nw afgescheiden kkiisken ; 
 
 En zijt, in dees eenzaamheen, 
 
 Nimmer min dan dus alleen. 
 In dit kkiisken werd geboren 
 (t'Was zoo van uw lot beschoren) 
 
 's Grooten Hendriks groote faam, 
 
 En de gvootheid van zijn naam 
 Kwam uit deze kleenheid rennen, 
 Vlug geworden door uw pennen. 
 VoNDEL : Nog een Brief aan den Brost van Muiden, 29-38. 
 
 PP. 
 
 PHYLLIS KLACHTE. 
 
 Mijn schaepjes, die uw honger bluste 
 
 Met weeldrig thijm, boat nu uw luste 
 
 Met rooseblaedtjes van mijn krans, 
 
364 THE LITERATUKE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Die al haer geiir ten offer brachten, 
 Mijn breyn, dat hart en ziel verkrachte, 
 Wanneer ick viytstack aen den dans. 
 
 't Is beter, dat de bloempjes voeden • 
 
 Mijn lamm'ren, die ick stervend hoedde, 
 
 Als dat ze, van haer eer berooft 
 Door suchten, die mijn leven quellen 
 En heete traentjes trouw versellen, 
 
 Ontschuldigh dorren op mijn hooft. 
 
 Erkauwse menighmael met smaeckjens, 
 Onnoosel vee ; maer als uw kaeckjens 
 
 Vermoeyt zijn, ende slaep u groet, 
 Peinst dan eens om mijn doode leven, 
 Wat oorsaeck dat mijn sinnen dreven 
 
 Tot schennis van mijn i-oosen-hoet. 
 
 Ghy waert er by, toen my Philander 
 Zijn trouw toe swoer, die nu een ander 
 
 Met geyle tochten besich houdt ; 
 Ghy waert er by, toen my zijn eden 
 In't hiiwlijk met hem deden treden, 
 
 Dat in den Hemel was gebouwt, 
 
 Doch'k wensch geen straf, maer bid voor sonde ; 
 'k Eysch balsem voor een' vuyle wonde, 
 
 'k Eysch balsem die den Hemel voed, 
 Maer is uw wil tot straf genegen, 
 Soo straf 't bedroch, en wel ter degen, 
 
 Met wroegingh van zijn snood gemoet. 
 
 Dan sal gewis mijn leet hem deeren, 
 Mijn liefde tot zijn liefde keeren, 
 
 Zijn liefde wederom tot mijn ; 
 Als ghy ons dan hebt t' saem gebonden, 
 Nooyt is er trouwer paer gevonden, 
 
 Dan Phyllis en Philander zijn. 
 Tesselschade • llet Amsterdamfich Minneheeckje. 
 
APPENDIX. 365 
 
 QQ. 
 
 WILDE ZAXGSTER, 
 
 Prijst vry den Nacbtegael, 
 Als hy u meenigniael 
 Verlust en scliatert uyt, 
 Een zingencl vedevtje en een gewieckt geluyt. 
 
 Wiens qninckelei'e soet, 
 De oore luystren doet, 
 Gaiiw, nae het tiei'eliertje 
 Der vlngge luchtiglieyd van't oolijk vrolijk diertje. 
 
 Wiens tijlpend schril geluyt 
 Gelijck een orgel fluyt, 
 Veel losse toontjes speelt, 
 En met een tong alleen, als duyzent tongen queelt. 
 
 Zijn hoogh' en laege zwier 
 Met Ueflfelijk getier 
 Van't he lie schelle zoetje 
 Vermeestert al't gesang van't zingend springend goetje. 
 
 Een diei'tje wiens gelaet 
 In zeldzaemheyd bestaet, 
 Om dat het niet en heeft 
 Als zangh die maer een maent in't gansche jaer en leeft. 
 
 Maer't meeste wonder dat 
 Zijn roem ooit heeft gehadt, 
 Is dat zoo kleine leden 
 Herbergen zulk een kracht van die luydruchtigheden. 
 
 TAMME ZANGSTEK. 
 
 Maer wilde Zangstei' zwijg, 
 En nae uw adeni hijgh ! 
 Uw tjukken heeft geen klem, 
 Nocli konit niet by den aerdt van Rosemondtjes stem. 
 
366 THE LITEKATUEE OF NOKTHEEN EUEOPE. 
 
 Die na een liever trant 
 Doet luystren liet verstandt, 
 Met wisse maet en snikjes, 
 Die vriendlijkheytjes sluyt in vaster toonestrikjes. 
 
 Wiens rede stem vertaelt 
 En waerdigei' onthaelt 
 De geestjes van 't gehoor, 
 En hupplen doet de ziel van 't hartje tot aen 't oor. 
 
 Als zy met grof gedi'eun, 
 En dan met teei- gekreun 
 Van minnelijke treeken 
 Doet onderscheidelijk versclieyde tongen spreeken. 
 
 Geen veelheyt ons verveelt, 
 Hoe veel haer keeltje kweelt, 
 Maer eenen verschen lust 
 Bekoort het graege oor als 't maer een snikje rust. 
 
 'T is zeldzamer geneught, 
 Die staegh op nieuw verheught, 
 Geen stemmigheyt zoo lustigh, 
 Als deez' die zomers is en 's winters even rustigh. 
 
 Tesselschade : Verscheidene Gedichten, 1653 
 
 Mingod, streng van heerschappy, 
 
 Ziet ghy wel die Maeght aen't Y, 
 Op het eelste van haer daegen, 
 Die uw' moeder heeft ontdraegen 
 
 Bios van kaeken, en den slagh 
 
 Van die lieflelijke lach ! 
 
 Wat, zich, trekt zy zorgen aen 1 
 Zinnen wei-ken, handen gaen, 
 
APPENDIX. 367 
 
 Doonde zijn haer oogen zedigli, 
 Keel en lippen zijn onleedigh ; 
 
 Magh een jevighdt zoo green en Ms 
 
 Tegen zoo veel moeyenis 1 
 
 "Vat zy diamant ; een kras 
 
 Spreeken doet het stomme glas ; 
 Ziet dien duim, met gouden draeden, 
 Maelen kostele gewaeden ; 
 
 Vingers voeren pen, penseel, 
 
 Knockels kittelen de veel. 
 
 Ziet dan gaet dat mondjen we^r, 
 
 Met de nooten, op en neer ; 
 't Oogh zich aen de letters lijmen, 
 De gedachten aen liet rijnien ; 
 
 Tong zich krommen in de klank 
 
 Van den Roomer en den Frank. 
 
 HooFT : Bruyloftzcmg. 
 
 SS. 
 
 Onttooyt of tooyt ghy u, Maria Magdalene, 
 
 Als ghy uw hayr ontvlecht, verweqit de luystersteenen, 
 
 Verbreeckt het perlensnoer, versmaedt het scheinbaer goed, 
 En keurt voor vuyl en vals, al wat dat voordeel doet. 
 Om dees uw malsche jeucht het eeuwigh te beletten, 
 En op een stronckelsteen uw tdeverlaet te setten ? 
 
 GodvTuchte vrouw ! Ghy haeckt vast nae een stalen muvu', 
 Die niet beswijcken kan door tijt oft droevig uur. 
 
 Tesselschade : Maria Magdalena. 
 
 TT. 
 
 Als van twee ghepaerde schelpen 
 
 De eene breeckt, of wel verliest ; 
 Niemant zal u konnen helpen, 
 
 Hoe men soeckt, hoe nau men kiest, 
 
368 THE LITEEATUEE OF NOETHERN EUROPE. 
 
 Aen een, die met efFen randen 
 
 Jiiyst op d'ander passen sou ; 
 D'outste sijn de beste panden 
 
 Kiets en gaet voor d'eerste trouw. 
 
 Cats. 
 
 UU. 
 
 Dit is Tesselschades Giaf. 
 
 Liet niemand zicli vermeeten 
 Haer onwaerdeerlijkheid in woorden uit te meeten : 
 Al Avat men van de Zon kan zeggen gaet haer af. 
 
 Hoe dat ze om't leven kwam 
 
 Verhael ik even noode. 
 Wat dunkt n, Moeders ! 't was haer Dochter die haer doodde, 
 En die zy't leven gaf, was die haer't leven nam. 
 
 Maer't kind had weinig schuld ; 
 
 De Moeder zag het sterven, 
 En stierf cm dat zy't haer geliet te kunnen derveu. 
 Zoo sneefde Tesselschae door al te veel geduld. 
 
 HuYGHENS : Korenhloemen. 
 
 VV. 
 
 Bejegent Engelen, hoe schoonze uw oogh behaeghden, 
 Het zijn wanschapenheen by 't morgenlicht der maeghden. 
 
 BEELSEBUB. 
 
 Het schijnt, ghy blaeckt van minne om 't vrouweKjcke dier. 
 
 APOLLIOX. 
 
 Ick heb mijn slaghve^r in dat aengename vier 
 Gezengt. Het vielme zwaer van onder op te stijgen, 
 Te roeien, om den top ynw Englebnrgh tc krijgen. 
 
APPENDIX. 369 
 
 Ick scheide, doch met pijn, en zag wel driewerf om. 
 
 Nu blinckt geen Serafijn, in 't hemelsch heilighdom, 
 
 Als deze, in 't hangend hair, een goude nis van stralen, 
 
 Die schoon gewatei't van den hoofde nederdalen, 
 
 En vloeien om den rugh. Zoo komtze, als nit een liclit, 
 
 Te voorschijn, en verheught den dagh met haer geziclit. 
 
 Laet perle en perlemoer u zuiverheit beloven ; 
 
 Haer blanckheit gaet de perle en perlemoer te boven. 
 
 BEELSEBUB. 
 
 Wat baet al 's menschen roem, indien zijn sclioonheit smelt, 
 En eindelyck verwelckt, gelijck een bloem op 't velt 1 
 
 VoNDEL : Lucifer, i. 162-177. 
 
 WW. 
 
 LUCIFER. 
 
 Ghy siielle Geesten, houdt nu stant met onzen wagen : 
 
 Al hoogh genoegh in top Godts Morgenstar gedragen ; 
 
 Al hoogh genoegh gevoert : 't is tijdt, dat Lucifer 
 
 Nu duicke voor de komst van deze dubble star, 
 
 Die van beneden rijst, en zoekt den wegh naer boven, 
 
 Om met een aertschen glans den Hemel te verdooven. 
 
 Borduurt geen kroonen meer in Lucifers gewaet ; 
 
 Vergult zijn voorhooft niet met eenen dageraet 
 
 Van morgenstarre en strael, waer voor dAertsenglen nijgen ! 
 
 Een andre klaerheit komt in 't licht der Godtheit stijgen, 
 
 En schijnt ons glansen doot ; gelijck de zon by daegh 
 
 De starren dooft, voor 't oogh der schepselen, om laegh. 
 
 't Is nacht met Engelen, en alle Hemelzonnen. 
 
 VoNDEL : Lucifer, ii. 1-13. 
 
 B B 
 
 <»■ 
 
370 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 XX. 
 
 KEY VAN ENGELEN. 
 
 Hoe zien de hofFelijcke gevels 
 
 Zoo root ] hoe straelt het heiligh licht 
 
 Zoo root op ous gezlcht, 
 Door wolcken en bedroefde nevels 1 
 
 "Wat damp, wat mist betreckt 
 
 Dat zuiver, noit bevleckt, 
 
 En loutere saffier 1 
 
 Die vlam, dien glans, dat vier 
 Van 't heldere Alvermogen ? 
 
 Hoe schijnt ons nu de diepe gloet 
 
 Der Godtheit toe, zoo zwart als bloet, 
 
 Die flus zoo klaer alle oogen 
 
 Verheugbde 1 
 
 VoNDEL : Lucifer, ii. 385-397. 
 
 YY. 
 
 TEGENZANG. 
 
 Toen wy, op Gabriels bazuinen, 
 
 Ontvonckten, en een nieuwe wijs 
 
 Aenhieven, Godt ten prijs ; 
 De rozegaerden, en de tuinen 
 
 Van 't hemelschi paradijs, 
 
 Door zulck een dau en spijs 
 Van lof en zang vei-blijt, 
 
 Ontloken ; scheen de Nijt 
 Van onder in te sluipen. 
 
 Een groot getal der Geesteu, stom 
 
 En bleeck en dootscli, ging, drom by drom, 
 Misnoegend henedruipen : 
 
 De winckbraeu hing verslenst op 't oogb, 
 Het gladde voorbooft zette een rimpel ; 
 
 De Hemelduiven, hier om hoogh., 
 
APPENDIX. 371 
 
 Onnozel eerst, opreclit, en simpel, 
 
 Aen 't zuchten sloegen, zoo het scheen ; 
 
 Als of de Hemel viel te kleen 
 "Voor haer, toen Adam wert verkoren, 
 En zulck een kroon den mensch beschoren. 
 
 Dees smet ontstelt het oogh van 't Licht. 
 
 Z' ontsteeckt die vlam in Godts gezicht. 
 
 VoNDEL : Lucifer, ii. 407-428. 
 
 ZZ. 
 
 Houdt op van kermen : scheurt veltteeckens en gewaden 
 Niet langer zonder reen, maer heldert uw gezicht 
 En voorhooft met een strael, o kinders van het licht ! 
 De schelle keelen, die met zang de Godtheit dancken, 
 Zien cm, en belgen 't zich, om dat ghy valsche klancken 
 En basterttoonen mengt in 't goddelijck muzijck. 
 
 VoNDEL : Lucifer, iii. 222-227. 
 
 AAA. 
 
 Ontferm u, Lucifer ! Gedoog niet, dat onze Oi'den 
 
 Zoo laegh vernedevt worde, en zonder schult verzink', 
 
 De mensch, gelijck een hooft der Englen, strale, en blinck', 
 
 In 't ongenaeckbi-e licht, waer voor de Serafijnen, 
 
 Al bevende van angst, als schaduwen verdwijnen. 
 
 Wy zweeren u met kracht, in voile majesteit, 
 Te zetten op den troon, aen Adam toegeleit. 
 Wy zweeren uwen arm eendraghtigh t' onderstutten, 
 Aenvaert dees heirbijl : help, och help ons Recht beschutten ! 
 
 VoNDEL : Lucifer, iii. 422-434. 
 
 B B 2 
 
372 THE LITERATURE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 BBB. 
 
 Volglit dezen Helt, op zijn bazuin en trom, 
 
 Beschiit de kroon van 't Engelsdom ! 
 Ziet, ay ziet nu de Morgenstar bKncken ! 
 
 VoNDEL : Lucifer, iii, 507-509. 
 
 COO. 
 
 Ick zagh Godts blyschap zelf zich met een wolck van rou 
 Beschaduwen, in 't endt de wraeck een vlam ontsteecken 
 lu d' oogen van bet licbt, eer, om dien slagb te breecken, 
 Het last gaf tot den toght. Ick hoorde een wijl bet pleit, 
 Hoe d' opperste Genade, en Godts gerecbtigbeit 
 Elckandre in wederwigbt, met pit van reden, bielen. 
 Ick zagb de Cbervibijns, boeze op bun aenzicbt vielen, 
 En riepen vast : Gena, gena, o Heer ! geen Recbt. 
 Men bad dit zwaer gescbil gezoent, en scbier geslecbt, 
 Zoo scbeen de Godtbeit tot genade en zoen genegen ; 
 Maei^ als de wyroockstanck in top komt opgesteegen, 
 De smoock, die Lucifer om laegb wort toegezwaeit, 
 Met wyroockvat, bazu.in, en lofgezangen, draeit 
 De Hemel zijn gezicbt van zulcke afgoderyen, 
 Gevloeckt van Godt, en Geest, en alle Hierarcbyen. 
 
 YoNDEL : Lucifer, iv, 34-48. 
 
 DDD. 
 
 Het groeide snel, en wies, gelijck een bah^e maen. 
 Het wet zijn punten, zet twee borens op ons aen ; 
 Gelijck 't gestarrent van den Stiei- de Hemeldieren 
 En andie monsters, die rondom bem benezwieren, 
 Met goude boornen dreigbt. 
 
 VoNDEL : Lucifer, v, 53-57, 
 
APPENDIX. 373 
 
 EEE. 
 
 Gelijck een binnenzee, of noortsche waterval, 
 Die van de rotsen bruisclit, en ruischt, met een geschal, 
 Dat dier en ondier schrickt,'in diepgezoncke dalen, 
 Daer steenen, van de steilte, en dicke waterstralen. 
 
 VoNDEL : Luciftr,\. 161-164. 
 
 FFF. 
 
 KEY. 
 
 Gezegent zij de Helt, 
 
 Die 't goddeloos gewelt, 
 En zijn maght, en zijn kracht, en zijn standert 
 
 Ter neder heeft gevelt. 
 
 Die Godt stack naer Zijn kroon, 
 
 Is, nit den hoogen troon, 
 Met zijn maght in den nacht neergezoncken. 
 
 Hoe blinckt Godts naem zoo scboon ! 
 
 Al brant het oproer fel, 
 
 De dappre Michael 
 Weet den brant met zijn hant uit te blusschen, 
 
 Te straffen dien rebel. 
 
 Hy hanthaeft Godts banier, 
 
 Bekranst hem met laurier. 
 Dit palais groeit in pais, en in vrede ; 
 
 Geen tweedraght hoort men hier. 
 
 Nu zingt de Godtheit lof, 
 
 In 't onverwinbaer hof. 
 Prijs en eer zij den Heer aller Heeren ! 
 
 Hy geeft ons zingens stof. 
 
 VoNDEL : Lucifer, v. 275-294. 
 
374 THE LITERATUEE OF NORTHERN EUROPE. 
 
 GGG. 
 
 GABRIEL. 
 
 Helaes, helaes, helaes, hoe is de kans gekeert ! 
 Wat viert men hier 1 't is nu vergeefs getriomfeert : 
 Yergeefs met wapenroof en standerden te brallen. 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 Wat hoor ick, Gabriel ? 
 
 GABRIEL. 
 
 Och, Adam is gevallen ; 
 De vader en de stam van 't menschelijck geslacht 
 Te jammeilijck, te droef alree ten val gebraght. 
 
 YoNDEL : Lucifer, v. 313-311 
 
 HUH. 
 
 Ozias, aen wiens vuist de Godtheit zelf vereerde 
 Den zwaren liamer van gekloncken diamant, 
 En ketens van robijn, en krammen, spits van tant, 
 Ga bene, vang en span bet heir der belscbe dieren, 
 Den Leeu, en fellen Draeck, die tegens ons banieren 
 Dus woeden : vaegb de lucbt van dees vervloeckte jagbt, 
 En boeize aen neck en klaeu, en ketenze met kracbt. 
 Dees sleutel van den put des afgronts en zijn bolen 
 Wort, Azarias, n en iiwe zorg bevolen. 
 Ga bene, sluit in 't bol al wat ons magbt bestrijt. 
 Maceda, neem dees torts, die vlam is u gewijt : 
 Ontsteeckt den zwavelpoel in 't midde.lpunt der aerde, 
 En pijnigb Lucifer, die zoo veel gruwlen baerde. 
 
APPENDIX. 375 
 
 Tu 't eeuwighbranclend vier, gemengt met killen vorst ; 
 Daer Droeflieit, Gruwzaemheit, Veisteentheit, Honger, Dorst, 
 De Wanhoop, zonder troost, de prickel van 't Geweten, 
 En Onverzoenbaerlieit, een straf van 't boos vermeten. 
 
 VoNDEL : Lucifer, v. 448-463. 
 
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 23 
 
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24 
 
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