Bjornstjerne Bjornson | Page 3

been the native country of many Danish writers, even of Ludvig Holberg, the greatest writer that the Scandinavian peoples have yet produced, but she could point to nothing that might fairly be called a Norwegian literature. The young men of the rising generation were naturally much concerned about this, and a sharp divergence of opinion arose as to the means whereby the interests of Norwegian literature might be furthered, and the aims which it should have in view. One party urged that the literature should break loose from its traditional past, and aim at the cultivation of an exclusively national spirit. The other party declared such a course to be folly, contending that literature must be a product of gradual development rather than of set volition, and that, despite the shifting of the political kaleidoscope, the national literature was so firmly rooted in its Danish past that its natural evolution must be an outgrowth from all that had gone before.
Each of these parties found a vigorous leader, the cause of ultra-Norwegianism being championed by Wergeland, an erratic person in whom the spark of genius burned, but who never found himself, artistically speaking. The champion of the conservatives was Welhaven, a polished writer of singular charm and much force, philosophical in temper, whose graceful verse and acute criticism upheld by both precept and practice the traditional standards of culture. Each of these men had his followers, who proved in many cases more zealous than their leaders. The period of the thirties and forties was dominated by this Wergeland-Welhaven controversy, which engendered much bitterness of feeling, and which constitutes the capital fact in Norwegian literary history before the appearance of Ibsen and Bj?rnson upon the scene. A sort of parallel might be drawn for American readers by taking two such men as Whitman and Longfellow, opposing them to one another in the most outspoken fashion, assuming for both a sharply polemic manner, and ranging among their respective followers all the other writers of their time. Then imagine the issue between them to be drawn not only in the field of letters, but also in the pulpit, the theatre, and the political arena, and some slight notion may be obtained of the condition of affairs which preceded the advent of Bj?rnson and the true birth of Norwegian literature with "Synn?ve Solbakken."
The work which was thus destined to mark the opening of a new era in Norwegian letters was written in the twenty-fifth year of its author's life. The son of a country pastor, Bj?rnstjerne Bj?rnson was born at Kvikne, December 8, 1832. At the age of six, his father was transferred to a new parish in the Romsdal, one of the most picturesque regions in Norway. The impression made upon his sensitive nature by these surroundings was deep and enduring. Looking back upon his boyhood he speaks with strong emotion of the evenings when "I stood and watched the sunlight play upon mountain and fiord, until I wept, as if I had done something wrong, and when, borne down upon my ski into one valley or another I could stand as if spellbound by a beauty, by a longing that I could not explain, but that was so great that along with the highest joy I had, also, the deepest sense of imprisonment and sorrow." This is the mood which was to be given utterance in that wonderful lyric, "Over the Lofty Mountains," in which all the ardor and the longings of passionate and impatient youth find the most appealing expression. The song is found in "Arne," and may be thus reproduced, after a fashion, in the English language.
"Often I wonder what there may be Over the lofty mountains. Here the snow is all I see, Spread at the foot of the dark green tree; Sadly I often ponder, Would I were over yonder. "Strong of wing soars the eagle high Over the lofty mountains, Glad of the new day soars to the sky, Wild in pursuit of his prey doth fly; Pauses, and, fearless of danger, Scans the far coasts of the stranger. "The apple-tree, whose thoughts ne'er fly Over the lofty mountains, Leaves, when the summer days draw nigh, Patiently waits for the time when high The birds in its boughs shall be swinging, Yet will know not what they are singing. "He who has yearned so long to go Over the lofty mountains-- He whose visions and fond hopes grow Dim, with the years that so restless flow-- Knows what the birds are singing, Glad in the tree-tops swinging. "Why, oh bird, dost thou hither fare Over the lofty mountains? Surely it must be better there, Broader the view and freer the air; Com'st thou these longings to bring me; These only, and nothing to wing me? "Oh, shall I