551 
THE AMERICAN-SCANDINAVIAN RE VIE W 
that to me they seem almost pagan. And what could be more Ice¬ 
landic than a pagan Icelander? 
There is in the verse of these younger poets no fulsome glorifica¬ 
tion of their beloved “Mountain Lady” or her remarkably gifted 
biood. They are no idle chauvinists. But there are more convincing 
ways of showing filial affection than by talking about it; and giving 
the old “Mountain Lady” an occasional affectionate pat on the cheek 
may be more eloquent than a beautiful sonnet or a whole ballad. The 
distinction of the younger chorus lies, I think, in this; that its members 
have bathed in the glory of the light of those fires which burn eternally, 
somewhere, within the bleak hills and cliffs of old Iceland and are so 
devoutly attended by Iceland’s vaettir —that invisible host of pagan 
patron saints which has always guarded this land of frost and fire. 
From every line, it seems, of these younger poets, you catch glimpses 
of a green-elad woman or a slender lad in a tight jersey, or perhaps 
the menacing form of a real troll. These are Iceland’s eternal guard¬ 
ians and the particular friends of children, artists, and poets. Every 
mountain, hillock, lake, cascade, or brook has a family of these de¬ 
lightful folk. 
In other words, by delving into Iceland’s innumerable legends, 
by steeping themselves in the rich folk-lore—the poetry of the race 
itself—»I believe the younger poets have made a closer approach to the 
soul of the little saga land than most of their predecessors in letters. 
The poets are not alone doing this. Einar Jonsson, the sculptor, finds 
his most inspiriting themes in legends, as witness his striking figure of 
the night troll with his maiden captive, showing the beast caught by 
the first rays of the rising sun and impotently threatening the light 
with a monstrous fist as he is turned into stone, while the maiden exult¬ 
antly greets her deliverer, the light, with outstretched arms. 1STo less 
significant than this tendency to draw on the race poetry for their 
themes is the new form in which these writers and artists clothe their 
ideas. It is the heroic gesture which one sees in forms of versification, 
in single phrases, in the rough outline of Jonsson’s sculpture, and in 
the bold design of craftsmen in silver, gold, and wood. This heroic 
gesture has never been absent from Icelandic literature, but it seems 
to be becoming more pronounced and more evenly prevalent. It is par¬ 
ticularly suited to the spiritual descendants of the rare old monks and 
lay scholars who penned the sagas. It really becomes Iceland. There 
is in it a noble frankness, a clean scorn for affectation, and a fine un¬ 
mindfulness for petty detail and the patient polishing process of the 
lapidary. 
And so Erlingsson called his first volume of verse Thirnir, that is 
“Thistles.” His thistles were beautiful, but they did sting. David 
Stefansson’s first book of verse is called Svartar Fjathrir, “Black 
Feathers,” and one of his most striking lyrics is addressed to his old 
