_Before he reached those heights, he had tried life as coal-heaver and school teacher, as road-mender and surveyor’s attendant, as farm hand and street-car conductor, as lecturer and free-lance journalist, as tourist and emigrant. Twice he visited this country during the middle eighties, working chiefly on the plains of North Dakota and in the streets of Chicago. Twice during that time he returned to his own country and passed through the experiences pictured in “Hunger,” before, at last, he found his own literary self and thus also a hearing from the world at large. While here, he failed utterly to establish any sympathetic contact between himself and the new world, and his first book after his return in 1888 was a volume of studies named “The Spiritual Life of Modern America,” which a prominent Norwegian critic once described as “a masterpiece of distorted criticism.” But I own a copy of this book, the fly-leaf of which bears the following inscription in the author’s autograph:_ _“A youthful work. It has ceased to represent my opinion of America. May 28, 1903. Knut Hamsun.”_ _In its original form, “Hunger” was merely a sketch, and as such it appeared in 1888 in a Danish literary periodical, “New Earth.” It attracted immediate widespread attention to the author, both on account of its unusual theme and striking form. It was a new kind of realism that had nothing to do with photographic reproduction of details. It was a professedly psychological study that had about as much in common with the old-fashioned conceptions of man’s mental activities as the delirious utterances of a fever patient. It was life, but presented in the impressionistic temper of a Gauguin or Cezanne. On the appearance of the completed novel in 1890, Hamsun was greeted as one of the chief heralds of the neo-romantic movement then spreading rapidly through the Scandinavian north and finding typical expressions not only in the works of theretofore unknown writers, but in the changed moods of masters like Ibsen and Björnson and Strindberg._ _It was followed two years later by “Mysteries,” which pretends to be a novel, but which may be better described as a delightfully irresponsible and defiantly subjective roaming through any highway or byway of life or letters that happened to take the author’s fancy at the moment of writing. Some one has said of that book that in its abrupt swingings from laughter to tears, from irreverence to awe, from the ridiculous to the sublime, one finds the spirits of Dostoyevski and Mark Twain blended._