University of Virginia Library

5. WERGELAND, THE POET.

Wergeland was one of the most popular poets
Norway has ever produced. He rhymed with
wonderful facility, and sometimes, when a rush of
inspiration came upon him, he would write verses
during a whole day and night, with untiring rapidity,
scarcely pausing to eat, or to rest his hand.
In the poems which expressed his own inward life
there was often something above common comprehension;
but, in addition to those higher efforts,
he wrote a great number of verses for the peasantry,
in all the peculiar dialects of their various
districts. The merest trifle that flowed from his
pen is said to have contained some sparkling fancy,
or some breathing of sentiments truly poetic. He
was an impassioned lover of nature, and in his
descriptions of natural objects was peculiar for
making them seem alive. Thus in one of his
poems he describes the winds coming through
clefts of rock, forming a powerful current in the

fiord, driving white-crested waves before them,
like a flock of huge storm-birds. A lawyer, who
passes through the current in a boat, imagines the
great waves to be angry spectres of the many poor
clients whom he has wronged. He throws one
ten dollars, another twenty, another fifty, to pacify
them. At last, a wondrous tall wave stretches
forth his long neck, as if to swallow him. The
terrified lawyer throws him a hundred dollars,
imploring him to be merciful. Just then, the boat
turns a corner of the rock, out of the current.
The great wave eagerly bends his long arm round
the rock, and tries to clutch him; then retreats,
disappointed at his escape.

Wergeland had a strongly marked head, full of
indentations, like a bold rocky shore. He was an
athletic, earnest, jovial man, and enjoyed life with a
keen zest. His manner of telling a story was inimitably
funny and vivacious. While he was settling
his spectacles, before he began to speak, a smile
would go mantling all over the lower part of his
face, announcing that something good was coming.
His soul went forth with warm spontaneousness to
meet all forms of being; and this lively sympathy
seemed to attract both men and animals toward
him magnetically. He was accustomed to saddle
his own horse, which stood loose in the barn,
among pet rabbits, pet pigeons, pet birds, all sorts
of poultry, and a favourite cat. These creatures
all lived in the greatest friendship together. They

knew their master's voice perfectly well; and the
moment he opened the door, they would all come
neighing, purring, cooing, singing, crowing, capering
and fluttering about him. His cottage was a
picturesque place, ornamented with all sorts of
mosses, vines, and flowers. Under it was a grotto
made of rocks and shells, in which were an old
hermit, with a long beard, and various other grotesque
figures, carved in wood. The grotto was
occasionally lighted up in the evening, and the
images, seen among flickering shadows, excited
great awe in the minds of peasant children.

This gifted and genial man, who lived in such
loving companionship with nature, was called
away from the earth, which seemed to him so
cheerful, before he had passed the middle term of
human life. The news of his death was received
with lamentation by all classes in Norway.
Crowds of people went to Christiana to bid farewell
to the lifeless body of their favorite poet.
While in the last stage of consumption, in May,
1845, he wrote the following verses, which were
read to me by one of his countrymen, who translated
them literally, as he went along. Even
through this imperfect medium, my heart was
deeply touched by their childlike simplicity and
farewell sadness. The plaintive voice seemed to
become my own, and uttered itself thus, in English
rhyme, which faithfully preserves the sense of the
original:

The following lines, written two days before he
died, were addressed to a fragrant, golden-coloured
flower whose English name I cannot ascertain