ABSTRACT
Much vexation of spirit arisesfrom seeing work ill done, and as ample cause for it is provided by translators as by any class of literary men. Usually, indeed, translations are either depressing or exasperating. The fatuity of some, the criminality of others, weighs heavily upon the reader's mind or painfully disturbs his liver. Now and then, however, a most agreeable exception to the rule presents itself: and a version from some foreign tongue appears which is in itself a work ofart, not only satisfying the just demands of the foreign original, but also gratifying the ear and the taste of the native reader. Of such a nature are the versions from the Icelandic for which we are indebted to Mr. Eirfkr Magnusson and Mr. William Morris, the most recent ofwhich is now before us. Ofit, as of its predecessors, too high praise cannot be spoken, both as regards the grace and vigour of its own language and its fidelity to that which it interprets.
