Bjornstjerne Bjornson | Page 3

kingdom (save for the forced Swedish partnership), the country had
practically no literary tradition save that which centred about the

Danish capital. She might claim to have 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 Björnson
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 Björnson and the true
birth of Norwegian literature with "Synnöve 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, Björnstjerne Björnson 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