the Norseman had a sense of the ludicrous, and could
jest grimly in the face of death. Of the sadness of his life, no one
needs to be told who has read a saga or two. Kingsley says: "There is,
in the old sagas, none of that enjoyment of life which shines out
everywhere in Greek poetry, even through its deepest tragedies. Not in
complacency with Nature's beauty, but in the fierce struggle with her
wrath, does the Norseman feel pleasure."[28]

This lecture shows a deeper acquaintance with Old Norse literature than
Kingsley was willing to acknowledge. Not only are the stories well
chosen which he uses throughout, but the intuitions are sound, and the
inferences based upon them. He anticipated the work of this
investigation in the last words of the address. He has been telling the
fine story of Thormod at Sticklestead:

"I shall not insult your intelligence by any comment or even epithet of
my own. I shall but ask you, Was not this man your kinsman? Does not the
story sound, allowing for all change of manners as well as of time and
place, like a scene out of your own Bret Harte or Colonel John Hay's
writings; a scene of the dry humor, the rough heroism of your own far
West? Yes, as long as you have your _Jem Bludsos_ and _Tom Flynns of
Virginia City_, the old Norse blood is surely not extinct, the old Norse
spirit is not dead."[29]

EDMUND GOSSE (1849-).

Among contemporary English poets who have taught the world of readers
that things Norse are worthy of attention, is Edmund Gosse. He has been
more intimately connected with the popularization of modern Norwegian
literature, notably of Ibsen, but he has also found in Old Norse story
themes for poetic treatment. We mention "The Death of Arnkel," found in
the volume _Firdausi in Exile_, more because it shows that our poets are
turning to _the gesta islandicorum_ for themes, than because it is a
remarkable poem. More pretentious is _King Erik, a Tragedy_, London,
1876. Here is a noble drama which displays an intimate acquaintance with
the literature that gave it its themes and inspiration. The author
dedicates it to Robert Browning, calling it:

... this lyric symbol of my labour,
This antique light that led my dreams so long,
This battered hull of a barbaric tabor,
Beaten to runic song.

I have often thought that fate was very unkind to keep Browning so
persistently in the south of Europe, when, in Iceland and Norway, were
mines that he c