In olden times there ruled in Norway a King of great renown called Bele, whose wife died early, leaving him two sons and a daughter. When the latter had reached her sixth year, the King said to Thorsten, his brother-in-arms and lifelong friend, “My rosebud, Ingeborg, is the joy of my heart, but none the less I must send her away and entrust her to the guardianship of Hilding the Wise, so that, far from the turmoil and distractions of a court, the light of true knowledge shall be hers. But lest she should miss the companionship of her beloved playfellow, I pray thee permit thy son Frithiof to accompany her, that they may be reared together.” “Gladly will I do so,” replied Thorsten; “not alone to honor thy request, but because I know thou hast my son’s welfare also at heart in sending him as the companion of thine own child to be taught by the wise Hilding. My King’s will shall be done.” Hilding’s abode lay on the sea-coast, surrounded by gardens and wooded hills, and there Ingeborg and Frithiof spent the years of their childhood, faithfully taught and cared for by the good old man. Two rare blossoms of the Northland were these children, both richly endowed with gifts of mind and body: Ingeborg was like the swelling rosebud within whose heart the promise of the spring lies dreaming, while Frithiof grew up tall and strong as a young oak tree crowned with its crest of rustling leaves. So blessed by the gods were they with health and beauty that never had their like been seen in all the North. Now listening to the wondrous tales of their wise master, with clear eyes uplifted to his; now racing over the sunny meadows or dancing lightly under the dark boughs of the fir trees in the silvery moonlight, they were like the Light Fairies, whose appearance betokens blessing and fills the heart with anticipations of joy. Frithiof was but little older than Ingeborg, and when he first learned from Hilding to read the Runic signs, it was his delight to teach them in turn to his beloved playmate. Ofttimes they would sail out upon the wind-tossed sea, and when the shifting of the sail sent foam and spray dashing into the boat, Ingeborg would clap her small hands in glee. No tree was too high for the bold lad when he wished to capture a nest of young birds for the King’s child; even the osprey’s eyrie, high among the rocky crags, was not safe from his daring quest. ’Twas he that found for her the first pale blossoms of the springtime, the first ripe strawberry, the summer’s first golden ear of corn. Joyously they wandered together in the forest, Frithiof armed to protect his playmate in case of need; for he early strove to train himself in all a hero’s duties. Thus, like a beautiful dream, the happy days of childhood glided by. Ingeborg blossomed into maidenhood, and Frithiof became a stalwart youth. The King’s daughter spent more time in her own chamber now, learning the tasks of women, chief of which was the weaving of garments, while Frithiof was often abroad with the men in quest of game or booty. Inheriting not only his father’s strength and daring, but also his discretion and cheerfulness, he was beloved by all and soon aroused the wonder of his companions in the chase by the boldness with which he would attack the fiercest beasts, felling them with a blow from his spiky club, or piercing them through with the sharp-pronged spear. As in earlier days he had been wont to bring his playmate gifts of flowers or fruit as greetings of the season, so now he laid at her feet the trophies of his prowess—shaggy bears or grisly wild boars, often revealing upon his body bloody traces of the struggle. Admiringly Ingeborg’s gaze would rest at such times on the young hero, while her heart beat fast in terror for his life.

Mr. Henderson's beautiful prose translation of the “Frithiof Saga” ought to make that famous work, originally a poem, better known in English-speaking countries than it is today. How it has happened that a work which has been translated into the Danish, Norwegian, German, English, French, Russian, and Latin languages, and which is to be found in almost every house in Sweden, should be so little known amongst ourselves, it is difficult to explain; but that such is the case, we may gather from the translator's candid avowal that he had sent his own version to be printed before he discovered that any previous translation existed; nevertheless, no fewer than four Englishmen had preceded him in the undertaking, the earliest in 1835. The Scandinavian Saga upon which Bishop Tegnér founded his beautiful poem, is the most popular, and one of the best authenticated of all the northern legends, and is attributed by Müller to the end of the thirteenth, or beginning of the fourteenth century. Mr. Henderson's translation is very faithful and spirited, but those acquainted with the original Swedish will hardly agree with him in thinking that it would not have been better still had it been made from that, and not from the German, which, however excellent and worthy of its author's fame as a poet, is not the language in which Esaias Tegnér thought. This edition is beautifully illustrated with works of the Swedish painter August Malmström.