HAD the Foreign Quarterly Review* no other claim upon the gratitude and good-will of the reading public, it might, perhaps, safely found one on having drawn its attention, by a lofty, though by no means exaggerated, encomium, to the beautiful Swedish poem of "Frithioff;" which, no longer locked up, as it unfortunately was, in its own soft, yet sonorous dialect, from all save its native Scandinavians, has lately afforded, in more than one German translation, a high treat to the kindred imagination and feelings of the other northern nations. We too are, by more ties than one, Northmen and though the mythology of the Edda, and the exploits of the Sagas, have been replaced in our nurseries, and our fancy, by the softer dreams of our Southern invaders, we may, nevertheless, hail an occasional interview with the grim heroes of Valhalla, with feelings not altogether alien to their grandeur and their gloom. That such congeniality of sentiment is not entirely imaginary, is proved by the favourable reception which Gray's and other translations of Runic rhyme met with in a country to whose inhabitants they must, but for some such unsuspected associations, have spoken a language both uncouth and unintelligible. The specimens of northern poetry hitherto presented to the English reader, have been chiefly of that fierce and gloomy character, which, pervading as it does both the history and mythology of Scandinavia, is, nevertheless, sometimes relieved-and with tenfold effect, from the very power of contrast-by passages of exquisitely natural pathos and beauty; like a rainbow on the thunder cloud, or like that well-known spot, amid the glaciers of Mount Blanc, called the "Jardin," whose verdure derives its chief charm from the eternal barriers of "thick-ribbed ice" which form its boundary. It might seem wonderful to one even slightly acquainted with the Northern Mythology, to observe how sweetly fanciful are some of its personifications, how apparently inconsistent with its human saerifices, and * To this most excellent Periodical we wish all success. Its distinguished Editor was instrumental, along with others, in creating a taste for foreign literature, by admirable articles in THE MAGAZINE. We have still among us, however, many writers of at least equal erudition in that department; and shall from time to time present our friends with such articles as this our opening one, most interesting, we do not hesitate to say, in its subject matter, and of admirable execution. VOL. XXIII. S C. N. a faithful picture of its passions, its usages, and its pastimes, both curious and amusing. The modern Swedish poet, it is said-in a preface to that beautiful German translation by Baroness Helvig, which has all the spirit of the original, and in which the similarity of two kindred dialects has enabled her to retain much of its energetic brevity Saga; and whatever slight departures he may have occasionally indulged in, are such as in no degree to impair the antique cast of the characters and sentiments. blood-stained groves; had not even the luxuriant imagination, and flowery rites of Indian superstition, been found in still more unnatural alliance with shocking penances, and reckless self-immolation. Man is a strange compound in everything-in nothing more so than in the systems of religion, which his unassisted fancy (for reason it cannot be called) has devised. The Norwegian pirate, who propi--has adhered faithfully to the ancient tiated Odin with the blood of his first born, and drank mead from the skulls of his enemies, could invest Freya-the Venus of his Olympuswith attributes ethereal and graceful as those which formed the girdle of her Grecian prototype; and to tread on higher and more sacred ground, the mild and benign virtues ascribed to the God Baldur, (through envy of which he falls a sacrifice to the rage of the powers of evil,) served in the early and rude ages of Christianity to identify him in the wild imagination of the new converts, with its benevolent founder. The epithet of White, so frequently applied by them to the Saviour, though as symbolical of purity no inappropriate adjunct, was merely transformed from the only one among their former Gods, who could by any effort be brought within the pale of a mild and merciful dispensation. The anomalies presented by the religion of a barbarous people, are sure to exist equally in their character and history, and the Sagas are full of the heterogeneous elements of heroism and cruelty, terror and pity, hatred and love. So is the Iliad; so are all genuine histories of uncivilized, perhaps also of civilized man-at least of that inner world, where passions rage not the less for their exterior bondage. The Saga, or adventures of Frithioff -the work, according to the erudite Muller, of the end of the thirteenth, or beginning of the fourteenth century -has always been held as one of the finest relics of northern antiquity. The date of the adventures themselves, and the period at which their hero flourished, have given rise to much speculation; but seem, from concurring testimonies, to be somewhere about the eighth century, nearly two hundred years before the reign, or at least the death of Harold the Fairhaired; a period surely remote enough to render Tegner, bishop of Wexio, a name idolized in Sweden, and rapidly rising to equal fame in Germany, had, in his poem of "Axel," given, perhaps, to a simple tale of love and jealousy, all the tender pathos of which it is susceptible. That short work teemed with beautiful and original images, the peculiarity and felicity of which betrayed an imagination revelling amid a field whose treasures had been skimmed, not exhausted. When he compares the dark tresses on the cheek of Beauty to "midnight slumbering on a bed of roses," or represents night, as brooding over a field of carnage, "like a sated raven," the images appear as true as unhackneyed; and when Madness, Death's younger brother," arises from the central abyss, and walks the world in bodily shape, few spirits more striking and terrible have been evoked from their dread abode, since the Sin and Death of Milton. 66 But Frithioff is a composition of a bolder and loftier character. It for ever enshrines a precious Runic medal in a setting so exquisitely appropriate and characteristic, that one may be allowed to question if the most experienced eye could detect their amalgamation. The polished languor of modern poesy derives marvellous and superhuman energy from the contact such as pervades the souls of heroes from quaffing the horn of the immortals, or such as is infused into a relaxed and enfeebled imagination, by the influence of what Madame Helvig beautifully styles the invigorating breeze, which sweeps through this poem, not indeed like the "sweet South o'er a bank of violets," but like the fresh Northern gale over the sparkling wave, breathing life, and freshness, and inspiration. An analysis of the story of this primitive Epic, and an almost hopeless attempt to translate a few of its most admired passages, may perhaps have the effect of calling into so worthy a field, some master spirit, capable of transfusing into the "Well of English undefiled," the singular and unhackneyed strains of the Northern Min strel. The Poem-which, in division of parts or chapters, follows the Chroniele, begins with a description of the companionship and early education of the hero and heroine, Frithioff and Ingeborg, under the roof of a peasant foster-father, in a forest far removed from courts and camps. "The course of true love never could run smoth," between King Bela's daughter and a peasant's son; though Thorsten Wikingsohn, the father of Frithioff, is rich and valiant withal, a bosom friend and brother in arms of the old King's. One foresees peril too, from the characters of the two brothers of Ingeborg; the elder, a dark sinister bigot, self-appointed to the congenial office of high priest of the bloody grove, and the younger, a weak contemptible youth, a mere puppet in the hands of his future partner in empire. Amid such stormy and unpromising elements, or rather, in happy forgetfulness of them all, it is beautiful to trace the growth of the lovely pair, 139 from infancy, to those riper years when love and care awake together in their bosoms. The sapling oak affords an apt, but often used simile for the liken the maiden to a rose, without young hero; but Tegner could not telling us that "it was a rosebud in which Spring yet lay dreaming!" The simplicity of Nature which pervades be taken singly, would render its transthis whole ballad, for as such it might lation no easy task. with a prophetic warning from the It terminates old foster-father, and an indignant appeal from the young hero, to those exploits against the wild beasts of the forest, which were already to him in of future glory, if not sovereignty. lieu of ancestral trophies, and a pledge this scene of woodland courtship, with The next strain is a fine contrast to its grave and solemn images of the old faithful Thorsten; and their dying age and death of the king, and his advices to the three young men, whom they seem to consider, almost indiscriminately, as their sons. The two aged silver-haired warriors, leaning on grey pillars of some long-forsaken their swords, are finely compared to temple, "whose Runic inscriptions whose former mysterious sanctity still teem with the wisdom of the past, and inspires a reverential awe." The enture:trance of the youths is a perfect pic First enter'd Helga, with his brow of gloom Next Halfdan came, a slender fair-hair'd boy, Last Frithioff came-his blue vest floating free, The oracular brevity of the old King's admonitions almost defies translation, at least into English-for in one harsh, but expressive line, is usually comprised, what, in our diffuse idiom, would require a stanza. Let one of the latter serve as a sample: Boast not of Day, till Night has made it thine, But battle proves the sword-and need the friend. He thus indirectly reproves and guards against the illiberal bigotry and natural harshness of his son and successor : Helga! if Gods in Temples deign to dwell, 'Tis not as insects pent in narrow cell Where'er light streams, or sound can cleave the air, The hawk to yield false auguries may bleed, Helga! be firm-not stern-the polish'd steel How poor the pride a father's honors lend! Is the bow thine, unless thine arm can bend? Can the dead's buried glories profit Thee? On its own waves the stream must reach the sea! He then recommends mutual union between his high-born sons, and their more nobly gifted comrade: If brethren-like, united thus ye stand, No mightier three shall grace our northern land. Is the steel ring that clasps the gold shield round. The dying warriors then beautifully recall their long friendship, and desire to be buried near each other: On either margin of the deep blue wave, Sons! raise twin hillocks o'er your fathers' grave. When streams pale moonlight o'er the distant hi To hold sweet converse through the silent hours. Next comes the description of Frithioff taking possession of his inheritance; a rich and fair one truly, and one which might recall, in some of its features, the patriarchal state, did not heathen idols, and warlike weapons, and spoils of rapine, come into startling contact with its flocks and herds. There is something very delightful in the following picture of Framnäs, the young hero's paternal domain, encircled on three sides by mountains, and open on the fourth to the sea. A birch wood crown'd the hill, whose sunny flank Which Spring winds sport with o'er the face of Heaven. Then follows the description of the vast drinking-hall, built of pine logs, which five hundred, or twice five hundred guests could scarce fill on festive occasions; with its table of polished oak shining like steel. Then come the household gods-the two elm-tree images of Odin and Freya, emblems of might and love; and placed between them, the elevated patriarchal seat of old Thorsten himself, characteristically covered with a huge bear's skin of his own killing, its jaw still tinged with red, and its claws tipped with silver. Here we are told sat the old man of yore, with his friends, "like hospitality over against joy," and narrated his adventures in all climes, while the guests hung on his lips like bees on roses. In the midst of the hall blazed the lofty hearth, and through its ample chimney, the stars, "man's heavenly friends," looked pleased upon him. Then follows the usual furniture of spears and helmets, and shields, hung round the walls; but the shields far most numerous; so much so, that when the fair maiden, whose office it was to fill the drinkinghorns, chanced to come down and blush, a thousand shields reflected her blushing image, to the diversion of the bearded carousers. Next come spoils of all kinds-cups and caskets, gold ins cribed with runic characters, and silver curiously wrought by art. Three treasures, however, claim the pre-eminence. A sword, the heir-loom of the family, "brother to the lightning"-with its fine legend, which we have not room to transcribe. Next a bracelet, the masterpiece of the Northern Vulcan, representing the gods in their various abodes; a sort of zodiac, beautifully described, but too deep in the mythology of the Edda for the uninitiated. Last, not least, comes Ellida, the magic ship evidently Frithioff's favourite as well as our own-a gift to his ancestor for disinterested hospitality to a sea god, and endowed with the marvellous powers of steering, manoeuvring, and anchoring itself. Its construction is no less extraordinary. Its oaken ribs were not joined by Man, but Nature-they grew together. It resembled in form a Dragon-a frequent simile of ships throughout the north-its lofty crest glowing with red gold-its body spangled with gold and blue, and its powerful tail forming the stern in scaly wings of silver. Dark tipped with red were its wings, and when full extended they flew with the storm, and left the eagle behind. When filled with her gallant crew, Ellida might have been taken for a great king's castle, a floating fortress; and her fame transcended that of all the ships of the North. Frithioff, the worthy heir of all these marvels, boasts a yet more precious heritage-twelve long-tried aged champions, and one faithful friend, the youthful Biorn, playful as a child, yet wise as a greybeard-his sworn brother in life or in death-with whom he sadly celebrates the obsequies of his aged and stalwart father. We next hear of a very natural, but in some respects imprudent, act of hospitality in the young heir, viz. inviting to his board the dark Helga and childish Halfdan, and fair Ingeborg, his early love. He seems after the manner of lovers, to have confined his attention, somewhat injudiciously, to the latter, for we hear of much sitting hand in hand, and many a gentle-whispered allusion to their childish pastimes, and days of unconscious enjoyment, that can never never return. They depart, and Frithioff is left in a dreaming melancholy, which greatly scandalizes his friend Biorn, who evidently prefers war and hunting to love and musing, and finally stirs up Frithioff, by his characteristic queries and reproaches, to more decided proceedings. The effect of these remonstrances is a desperate resolve. The magic ship is unbound, and carries Frithioff to the abode of the princes, then assembled with their people at the "Thing,' or National Council, at the tumulus of King Bela. Frithioff's request of the hand of Ingeborg has all the simplicity of nature, and the dignity of conscious, worth. "Give me your sister," says he, "for I love her, and the king |