"Another peculiarity of the Norseman's character is a certain tendency to sadness and melancholy which is habitual with all deeper natures. An elegiac tone pervades all our old national melodies, and, generally speaking, all that is of significance in our history; for it rises from the very bottom of the nation's heart. There is a certain joyousness (commonly attributed to the French) which in the last instance is only levity. But the joyousness of the North is fundamentally serious; for which reason I have in Frithjof endeavored to give a hint of this brooding melancholy in his repentance of the unintentional burning of the temple, his brooding fear of Balder,
"Who sits in the sky, and the thoughts he sends down,
Which forever are clouding my mind."
It will be seen from this that Tegnér was fully conscious of what he was doing. He civilized Frithjof, because he was addressing a civilized audience which would have taken little interest in the rude viking of the eighth century, if he had been presented to them in all his savage unrestraint. He did exactly what Tennyson did, when he made King Arthur the model of a modern English gentleman and (by implication) a Protestant a thousand years before Protestantism existed. Ingeborg, too, had to be a trifle modified and disembarrassed of a few somewhat too naturalistic traits with which the saga endows her, before she became the lovely type that she is of the faithful, loving, long-suffering, womanhood of the North, with trustful blue eyes, golden hair, and a heart full of sweet and beautiful sentiment. It was because Oehlenschläger had neglected to make sufficient concessions to modern demands that his "Helge" (though in some respects a greater poem than "Frithjof's Saga") never crossed the boundary of Scandinavia, and even there made no deep impression upon the general public.
Though the story of "Frithjof" is familiar to most readers, I may be pardoned for presenting a brief résumé. The general plot, in Tegnér's version, coincides in its main outlines with that of the saga. Frithjof, the son of the free yeoman Thorstein Vikingson, is fostered in the house of the peasant Hilding, with Ingeborg, the daughter of King Belë of Sogn. The King and the yeoman have been life-long friends, and each has a most cordial regard for the other.
"By sword upheld, King Belë in King's-hall stood,
Beside him Thorstein Vikingson, that yeoman good,
His battle-friend with almost a century hoary,
And deep-marked like a rune-stone with scars of glory."
The yeoman's son and the king's daughter, thrown into daily companionship in their foster-father's hall, love each other; and Frithjof, after the death of their fathers, goes to Ingeborg's brothers, Helge and Halfdan, and asks her hand in marriage. His suit is scornfully rejected, and he departs in wrath vowing vengeance. The ancient King Ring, of Ringerike, having heard of Ingeborg's beauty, sends also ambassadors to woo her. Her brothers make sacrifices in order to ascertain the will of the gods. The omens are inauspicious, and they accordingly feel compelled to decline the King's offer.
Ingeborg is shut up in Balder's Grove, where the sanctity of the temple would make it sacrilege for any one to approach her. Frithjof, however, braves the wrath of the god, and sails every night across the fjord to a stolen rendezvous with his beloved. The canto called "Frithjof's Happiness," which is brimming over with a swelling redundance of sentiment, is so cloyingly sweet that the reader must himself be in love in order to enjoy it. It is written in the key of the watch-songs of the German minnesingers and the aubades of Provençal troubadours. The Norse note is not only wanting, but would never fit into that key:
"'Hush! 'tis the lark.' Nay, those soft numbers
Of doves' faith tell that knows no rest.
The lark yet on the hillside slumbers
Beside his mate in grassy nest.
To them no king seals his dominions
When morning breaks in eastern air;
Their life is free as are their pinions
Which bear aloft the gladsome pair.
"'See day is breaking!' Nay, some tower
Far eastward sendeth forth that light;
We yet may spend another hour,
Not yet shall end the precious night.
May sleep, thou sun, thee long encumber,
And waking may'st thou linger still,
For Frithjof's sake may'st freely slumber
Till Ragnarök, be such thy will.
"Vain hope! The day its gray discloses,
Already morning breezes blow,
Already bend the eastern roses,
As fresh as Ingeborg's can glow;
The winged songsters mount and twitter
(The thoughtless throng!) along the sky,
And life starts forth, and billows glitter,
And far the shades and lover fly.