CHAPTER VI.

THE NORSE MYTHOLOGY FURNISHES ABUNDANT AND EXCELLENT MATERIAL FOR THE USE OF POETS, SCULPTORS AND PAINTERS.

In a previous chapter it was claimed that the time must come when Norse mythology will be copiously reflected in our elegant literature and is our fine arts; and we insist that we who are Goths, and branches of the noble ash Ygdrasil, ought to develop some fibre, leaves, buds and flowers with nourishment drawn from the roots of our own tree of existence, and not be constantly borrowing from our neighbors. If our poets would but study Norse mythology, they would find in it ample material for the most sublime poetry. The Norse mythology is itself a finished poem, and has been most beautifully presented in the Elder Edda, but it furnishes at the same time a variety of themes that can be combined and elaborated into new poems with all the advantages of modern art, modern civilization and enlightenment. With the spirit of Christianity, a touch of beauty and grandeur can be unconsciously thrown over the loftiness of stature, the growth of muscle, the bold masses of intellectual masonry, the tempestuous strength of passions, those gods and heroes of impetuous natures and gigantic proportions, those overwhelming tragedies of primitive vigor, which are to be found in the Eddas. If our American poet would but pay a visit to Urd’s fountain, to Time’s morning in our Gothic history, and tarry there until the dawn tinges the horizon with crimson and scarlet and the sun breaks through the clouds and sends its inspiring rays into his soul,—then his poetry and compositions would reflect those auroral rays with intensified effulgence; it would shine upon and enlighten and gladden a whole nation. We need poets who can tell us, in words that burn, about our Gothic ancestors, in order that we may be better able to comprehend ourselves. It has heretofore been explained how the history of nations divides itself into three periods—the imaginative, the emotional, and reflective; poetry, history, and philosophy; and how these have their miniature counterparts in the life of any single person—childhood, manhood, and old age; and now we are prepared to present this claim, that the poetic, imaginative and prophetic period of our race should be compressed into the soul of the child. The poetic period of _his own_ race should be melted and moulded into poetry, touched by a spark of Christian refinement and love, and then poured, so to speak, into the soul of the child. The child’s mind should feed upon the mythological stories and the primitive folklore of his race. It should be nourished with milk from its own mother’s breast. Does any one doubt this? Let him ask the Scandinavian poets: ask what kindled the imaginative fancy of Welhaven; ask what inspired the force and simplicity of phrase in Oelenschlæger’s poetry; ask what produced the unadorned loveliness with which Björnstjerne Björnson expresses himself, and the mountain torrent that rushes onward with impetuous speed in Wergeland; ask what produced the refinement of phrase of Tegner, and the wild melodious abandon of Ibsen;—and they will tell him that in the deep defiles of that sea-girt and rock-bound land called Norseland, where the snow-crowned mountains tower like castle-walls, they found in a leafy summer bower a Saga-book full of magic words and beautiful pictures, and, like Alexander of old, they made this wonderful book their pillow. They may tell you that the Scandinavian schools, like the American, are pretty thoroughly Latinized, but that they stole out of the school-room, studied this Saga-book, and from it they drew their inspiration.

The writer once asked the famous Norse violinist, Ole Bull, what had inspired his musical talent and given his music that weird, original, inexplicable expression and style. He said, that from childhood he had taken a profound delight in the picturesque and harmonious combination of grandeur, majesty, and gracefulness of the flower-clad valleys, the silver-crested mountains, the singing brooks, babbling streams, thundering rivers, sylvan shores and smiling lakes of his native land. He had eagerly devoured all the folk-lore, all the stories about trolls, elves and sprites that came within his reach; he had especially reveled in all the mythological tales about Odin, Thor, Balder, Ymer, the Midgard-serpent, Ragnarok, etc.; and these things, he said, have made my music. Truthfully has our own poet Longfellow, who has himself taken more than one draft from Mimer’s fountain, and communed more than once with Brage—said of Ole Bull:

He lived in that ideal world Whose language is not speech, but song; Around him evermore the throng Of elves and sprites their dances whirled; The Strömkarl sang, the cataract hurled Its headlong waters from the height, And mingled in the wild delight The scream of sea-birds in their flight, The rumor of the forest trees, The plunge of the implacable seas, The tumult of the wind at night, Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing Old ballads and wild melodies Through mist and darkness pouring forth Like Elivagar’s rivers flowing Out of the glaciers of the North.

These are the things that make poets, and musicians are poets. Then continues the same author:

And when he played, the atmosphere Was filled with music, and the ear Caught echo of that harp of gold Whose music had so weird a sound, The heeled stag forgot to bound, The leaping rivulet backward rolled, The bird came down from bush and tree, The dead came from beneath the sea, The maiden to the harper’s knee.

Only these few lines make it clear that Longfellow has not only communed with Brage, but has also refreshed himself at the Castalian fountain; that he has not only penetrated the mysteries of the Greek mythology, but has also visited the deities of the North.

If you do not believe that the Norse mythology furnishes suitable themes for poetry, then do not echo the voice of the multitude and cry the idea down because it seems new. Men frequently act like ants. When a red ant appears among the black ones, they all attack it, for they have once for all made up their minds that all ants must necessarily be black; they have themselves been black all their lives, and all their ancestors were black, so far as they know anything about them. Thus it has become a fixed opinion with many, that mythology necessarily means Greek or Roman. We said to one of our friends: We are writing a book on Norse mythology. Says our learned friend: Are not those old stories about Jupiter and Mars pretty well written up by this time? We said we thought they were, too much so; but we are writing about Odin and Thor. Then our learned friend shook his head in surprise and said that he never heard of those gentlemen before. If our reader’s case is the same as that of our learned friend, then let him examine the subject for himself. Let him read the Norse mythology through carefully. Let him then tell us what themes suggestive of sublime poetry he found in the upper, the middle and the lower worlds of the Odinic mythology; how he was impressed with the regions of the gods, of the giants, and of the dwarfs; what he thought of the various exploits of the gods; how he was impressed with the great and wise Odin, the good and shining Balder, the mighty Thor, the subtle and malicious Loke, the queenly Frigg, the genial Frey, the lovely Idun reclining on the eloquent Brage’s breast, and the gentle Nanna. Let him read and see whether or not he will be delighted with all the magnificent scenery of Gladsheim, Valhal, Midgard, Niflheim, Muspelheim, and Ginungagap; with the norns Urd, Verdande, and Skuld; with the glorious ash Ygdrasil; with the fountain of Mimer (let him take a deep drink, while he is there);, with the heavenly bridge Bifrost (the rainbow), upon which the gods daily descend to the Urdar-fountain; and with the wild tempest-traversed regions of Ran (the goddess of the sea, wife of Æger). The celebrated poet Oelenschlæger found in all these things inexhaustible scope for poetic embellishments, and he availed himself of it in his work, entitled _Gods of the North_, with the zeal and power of a genuine poet. He revived the memories of the past. He bade the gods come forward out of the mists of the centuries, and he accomplished in less than fifty years what _Latin_ versions of the Eddas had not been able to accomplish in three centuries. Two of Oelenschlæger’s poems are given translated in _Poets and Poetry of Europe_, and Mr. Longfellow has given us permission to present them here. We will now avail ourselves of his kindness and not discuss this portion of the subject of this chapter any further, knowing that the reader will find the poems _Thor’s Fishing_ and _The Dwarfs_ far more pleasing and convincing than any additional arguments we might be able to produce. Here they are:

THOR’S FISHING.

On the dark bottom of the great salt lake Imprisoned lay the giant snake, With naught his sullen sleep to break.

Huge whales disported amorous o’er his neck; Little their sports the worm did reck, Nor his dark, vengeful thoughts would check.

To move his iron fins he has no power, Nor yet to harm the trembling shore, With scaly rings he is covered o’er.

His head he seeks ’mid coral rocks to hide, Nor e’er hath man his eye espied, Nor could its deadly glare abide.

His eye-lids half in drowsy stupor close, But short and troubled his repose, As his quick heavy breathing shows.

Muscles and crabs, and all the shelly race, In spacious banks still crowd for place A grisly beard, around his face.

When Midgard’s worm his fetters strives to break, Riseth the sea, the mountains quake; The fiends in Naastrand merry make

Rejoicing flames from Hecla’s caldron flash, Huge molten stones with deafening crash Fly out,—its scathed sides fire-streams wash.

The affrighted sons of Ask do feel the shock, As the worm doth lie and rock, And sullen waiteth Ragnarok.

To his foul craving maw naught e’er came ill; It never he doth cease to fill; Nath’ more his hungry pain can still.

Upward by chance he turns his sleepy eye, And, over him suspended nigh, The gory head he doth espy.

The serpent taken with his own deceit, Suspecting naught the daring cheat, Ravenous gulps down the bait.

His leathern jaws the barbed steel compress, His ponderous head must leave the abyss; Dire was Jormungander’s hiss.

In giant coils he writhes his length about, Poisonous streams he speweth out, But his struggles help him naught.

The mighty Thor knoweth no peer in fight, The loathsome worm, his strength despite, Now o’ermatched must yield the fight.

His grisly head Thor heaveth o’er the tide, No mortal eye the sight may hide, The scared waves haste i’ th’ sands to hide.

As when accursed Naastrand yawns and burns, His impious throat ’gainst heaven he turns And with his tail the ocean spurns.

The parched sky droops, darkness enwraps the sun; Now the matchless strength is shown Of the god whom warriors own.

Around his loins he draws his girdle tight, His eye with triumph flashes bright, The frail boat splits aneath his weight;

The frail boat splits,—but on the ocean’s ground Thor again hath footing found; Within his arms the worm is bound.

Hymer, who in the strife no part had took, But like a trembling aspen shook, Rouseth him to avert the stroke.

In the last night, the vala hath decreed Thor, in Odin’s utmost need, To the worm shall bow the head.

Thus, in sunk voice, the craven giant spoke, Whilst from his belt a knife he took, Forged by dwarfs aneath the rock.

Upon the magic belt straight ’gan to file; Thor in bitter scorn to smile; Mjolner swang in air the while.

In the worm’s front full two-score leagues it fell; From Gimle to the realms of hell Echoed Jormungander’s yell.

The ocean yawned; Thor’s lightnings rent the sky; Through the storm, the great sun’s eye Looked out on the fight from high.

Bifrost i’ th’ east shone forth in brightest green; On its top, in snow-white sheen, Heimdal at his post was seen.

On the charmed belt the dagger hath no power; The star of Jotunheim ’gan to lour; But now, in Asgard’s evil hour,

When all his efforts foiled tall Hymer saw, Wading to the serpent’s maw, On the kedge he ’gan to saw.

The Sun, dismayed, hastened in clouds to hide, Heimdal turned his head aside; Thor was humbled in his pride.

The knife prevails, far down beneath the main, The serpent, spent with toil and pain, To the bottom sank again.

The giant fled, his head ’mid rocks to save, Fearfully the god did rave, With his lightnings tore the wave.

To madness stung, to think his conquest vain, His ire no longer could contain, Dared the worm to rise again.

His radiant form to its full height he drew, And Mjolner through the billows blue Swifter than the fire-bolt flew.

Hoped, yet, the worm had fallen beneath the stroke; But the wily child of Loke Waits her turn at Ragnarok.

His hammer lost, back wends the giant-bane, Wasted his strength, his prowess vain; And Mjolner must with Ran remain.

THE DWARFS.

Loke sat and thought, till his dark eyes gleam With joy at the deed he’d done; When Sif looked into the crystal stream, Her courage was well-nigh gone

For never again her soft amber hair Shall she braid with her hands of snow; From the hateful image she turned in despair, And hot tears began to flow.

In a cavern’s mouth, like a crafty fox, Loke sat ’neath the tall pine’s shade, When sudden a thundering was heard in the rocks, And fearfully trembled the glade.

Then he knew that the noise good boded him naught, He knew that ’t was Thor who was coming; He changed himself straight to a salmon-trout, And leaped in a fright in the Glommen.[6]

But Thor changed, too, to a huge sea-gull, And the salmon-trout seized in his beak; He cried: Thor, traitor, I know thee well, And dear shalt thou pay thy freak!

Thy caitiff’s bones to a meal I’ll pound, As a mill-stone crusheth the grain. When Loke that naught booted his magic found, He took straight his own form again.

And what if thou scatter’st my limbs in air? He spake, will it mend thy case? Will it gain back for Sif a single hair? Thou’lt still a bald spouse embrace.

But if now thou’lt pardon my heedless joke,— For malice sure meant I none,— I swear to thee here, by root, billow and rock, By the moss on the Bauta-stone,[7]

By Mimer’s well, and by Odin’s eye, And by Mjolner, greatest of all, That straight to the secret caves I’ll hie, To the dwarfs, my kinsmen small;

And thence for Sif new tresses I’ll bring Of gold ere the daylight’s gone, So that she will liken a field in spring, With its yellow-flowered garment on.

Him answered Thor: Why, thou brazen knave, To my face to mock me dost dare? Thou know’st well that Mjolner is now ’neath the wave With Ran, and wilt still by it swear?

O a better hammer for thee I’ll obtain; And he shook like an aspen-tree, For whose stroke shield, buckler and greave shall be vain, And the giants with terror shall flee!

Not so! cried Thor, and his eyes flashed fire; Thy base treason calls loud for blood, And hither I’m come with my sworn brother Frey, To make thee of ravens the food.

I’ll take hold of thy arms and thy coal-black hair, And Frey of thy heels behind, And thy lustful body to atoms we’ll tear, And scatter thy limbs to the wind.

O spare me, Frey, thou great-souled king! And, weeping, he kissed his feet; O mercy, and thee I’ll a courser bring, No match in the wide world shall meet.

Without whip or spur round the earth you shall ride; He’ll ne’er weary by day nor by night; He shall carry you safe o’er the raging tide, And his golden hair furnish you light.

Loke promised as well with his glozing tongue That the asas at length let him go, And he sank in the earth, the dark rocks among, Near the cold-fountain, far below.

He crept on his belly, as supple as eel, The cracks in the hard granite through, Till he came where the dwarfs stood hammering steel, By the light of a furnace blue.

I trow ’t was a goodly sight to see The dwarfs, with their aprons on, A-hammering and smelting so busily Pure gold from the rough brown stone.

Rock crystals from sand and hard flint they made, Which, tinged with the rosebud’s dye, They cast into rubies and carbuncles red, And hid them in cracks hard by.

They took them fresh violets all dripping with dew, Dwarf-women had plucked them, the morn,— And stained with their juice the clear sapphires blue, King Dan in his crown since hath worn.

Then for emeralds they searched out the brightest green Which the young spring meadow wears. And dropped round pearls, without flaw or stain, From widows’ and maidens’ tears.

And all around the cavern might plainly be shown Where giants had once been at play; For the ground was with heaps of huge muscle-shells strewn, And strange fish were marked in the clay.

Here an ichthyosaurus stood out from the wall, There monsters ne’er told of in story, Whilst hard by the Nix in the waterfall Sang wildly the days of their glory.

Here bones of the mammoth and mastodon, And serpents with wings and with claws; The elephant’s tusks from the burning zone Are small to the teeth in their jaws.

When Loke to the dwarfs had his errand made known, In a trice for the work they were ready; Quoth Dvalin: O Lopter, it now shall be shown That dwarfs in their friendship are steady.

We both trace our line from the selfsame stock; What you ask shall be furnished with speed, For it ne’er shall be said that the sons of the rock Turned their backs on a kinsman in need.

They took them the akin of a large wild-boar, The largest that they could find, And the bellows they blew till the furnace ’gan roar, And the fire flamed on high for the wind.

And they struck with their sledge-hammers stroke on stroke, That the sparks from the skin flew on high, But never a word good or bad spake Loke, Though foul malice lurked in his eye.

The thunderer far distant, with sorrow he thought On all he’d engaged to obtain, And, as summer-breeze fickle, now anxiously sought To render the dwarfs’ labor vain.

Whilst the bellows plied Brok, and Sindre the hammer, And Thor, that the sparks flew on high, And the sides of the vaulted cave rang with the clamor, Loke changed to a huge forest-fly.

And he sat him all swelling with venom and spite, On Brok, the wrist just below; But the dwarf’s skin was thick, and he recked not the bite, Nor once ceased the bellows to blow.

And now, strange to say, from the roaring fire Came the golden-haired Gullinburste, To serve as a charger the sun-god Frey, Sure, of all wild-boars this the first.

They took them pure gold from their secret store, The piece ’t was but small in size, But ere ’t had been long in the furnace roar, ’T was a jewel beyond all prize.

A broad red ring all of wroughten gold, As a snake with its tail in its head, And a garland of gems did the rim enfold, Together with rare art laid.

’T was solid and heavy, and wrought with care, Thrice it passed through the white flames’ glow; A ring to produce, fit for Odin to wear, No labor they spared, I trow.

They worked it and turned it with wondrous skill, Till they gave it the virtue rare, That each thrice third night from its rim there fell Eight rings, as their parent fair.

’T was the same with which Odin sanctified God Balder’s and Nanna’s faith; On his gentle bosom was Draupner laid, When their eyes were closed in death.

Next they laid on the anvil a steel-bar cold, They needed nor fire nor file; But their sledge-hammers, following, like thunder rolled, And Sindre sang runes the while.

When Loke now marked how the steel gat power, And how warily out ’t was beat (’T was to make a new hammer for Ake-Thor), He’d recourse once more to deceit.

In a trice, of a hornet the semblance he took, Whilst in cadence fell blow on blow, In the leading dwarf’s forehead his barbed sting he stuck, That the blood in a stream down did flow.

Then the dwarf raised his hand to his brow for the smart, Ere the iron well out was beat, And they found that the haft by an inch was too short, But to alter it then ’t was too late.

Now a small elf came running with gold on his head, Which he gave a dwarf woman to spin, Who the metal like flax on her spinning wheel laid, Nor tarried her task to begin.

So she span and span, and the gold thread ran Into hair, though Loke thought it a pity; She span and sang to the sledge-hammer’s clang This strange, wild spinning-wheel ditty;

Henceforward her hair shall the tall Sif wear, Hanging loose down her white neck behind; By no envious braid shall it captive be made, But in native grace float in the wind.

No swain shall it view in the clear heaven’s blue, But his heart in its toils shall be lost; No goddess, not e’en beauty’s faultless queen, Such long glossy ringlets shall boast.

Though they now seem dead, let them touch but her head, Each hair shall the life-moisture fill; Nor shall malice nor spell henceforward prevail Sif’s tresses to work aught of ill.

His object attained, Loke no longer remained ’Neath the earth, but straight hied him to Thor, Who owned than the hair ne’er, sure, aught more fair His eyes had e’er looked on before.

The boar Frey bestrode, and away proudly rode, And Thor took the ringlets and hammer; To Valhal they hied, where the asas reside, ’Mid of tilting and wassal the clamor.

At a full solemn ting, Thor gave Odin the ring, And Loke his foul treachery pardoned; But the pardon was vain, for his crimes soon again Must do penance the arch-sinner hardened.

For the benefit of those who can read Danish, we will give in the original the last ten stanzas of the latter poem of Oehlenschlæger, beginning with the spinning of Sif’s hair:

Nu kom med Guldet en Dværgeflok Og gave det til Dværginden; Hun satte, som Hör, det paa sin Rok, Hvis Hjul hensused for Vinden.

Og spandt og spandt, mens Guldtraaden randt Til Haar for den deilige Dise; Hun snurred og sang, ved Kildernes Klang, En underlig Spindevise:

Gudinden i Vaar skal bære sit Haar Hel frit for Vinden herefter, Ei flette det mer, at yndig sig ter Dets Glands med straalende Kræfter.

Hver Svend, som det saa, fra Himmelens Blaa, Hans Hjerte skal Haarene fange. Selv Lokker vist ei paa veneste Frey Nedbölge saa blöde, saa lange.

Skjönt Guldet er dödt, saasnart det har mödt Gudindens Tinding, den höie, Det levende blier og efter sig gier, Og lader, som Hörren, sig böie.

Beholder sin Glands, i Vindenes Dands, Og lader sig aldrig udrykke; Som Middagens Skin, det svöber sig ind Bag Hjelmens ludende Skygge!—

Saa sang hun og gik med ydmyge Blik For Thor, og rakte ham Haaret; Paa Lokken han saa og maatte tilstaa: Saa fager var ingen baaret.

Fra Bjerget valt nu Frey paa sin Galt Og Thor med Haaret og Hammer, Til Valhal de for, hvor Hærfader bor I Lysets salige Flammer.

Da satte paa Sif lig Tang paa et Rif, Sig fast Guldhaaret paa stande, Og monne sig slaa i Lokker saa smaa, Trindt om den hvælvede Pande.

Paa straalende Thing fik Odin sin Ring, Man tilgav Loke sin Bröde, Men snart dog igjen Bjergtroldenes Ven Maa for sin Trolöshed böde.

There remains now to discuss briefly whether the Norse mythology furnishes subjects for painting and sculpturing. If the reader has become convinced that there is material in it worthy of the greatest poet, then it is not necessary to say much about painting and sculpturing; for we know that most things that can be said in verse can be made visible on the canvas, or be chiseled in marble. We shall therefore be brief on this particular point, but after the presentation of a few subjects for the painter or sculptor, we shall have something to say about nude art.

Can the brush or the chisel ask for more suggestive subjects than Odin, Balder, Thor, Frey, Idun, Nanna, Loke, etc.? or groups like the norns at the Urdar-fountain? or Urd (the past) and Verdande (the present), who stretch from east to west a web, which is torn to pieces by Skuld (the future); the valkyries in the heat of the battle picking up the slain; or when they carry the fallen Hakon Adelsten to Valhal? Cannot a beautiful picture be made of Æger and Ran and their daughters, the waves? of the gods holding their feast with Æger and sending out Thor to fetch a caldron for them from Jotunheim? or of Thor clapping the pot on his head like a huge hat and walking off with it? What more touching scene can be perceived than the death of Balder? Only in that short poem Hamarsheimt (fetching the hammer) there are no less than three beautiful subjects: (1) Thor wakes up and misses his hammer; he feels around him for it; he is surprised and hesitates; he wrinkles his brows and his head trembles. Loke looks down upon him from above; the rogue is in his eye; he would like to break out in a roar of laughter, but dare not. (2) All the gods are engaged in dressing Thor in Freyja’s clothes; he is a tall straight youth with golden hair and a fine brown beard; lightning flashes from his eyes; while Fulla puts on him Freyja’s jewels there is a terrible conflict going on in his breast with this humiliation of his dignity, which he cannot overcome. Loke stands half-ready near by as maid-servant; he dresses Thor’s hair and is himself half-covered by the bridal-veil which Thor is to wear. All take an intense interest in the work, for they are so anxious to have the stratagem succeed. (3) The giants have laid the hammer in the lap of the bride; Thor seizes it, and as he pushes aside the veil he literally grows into his majestic divinity, for whenever he wields his mighty Mjolner his strength is redoubled. The disappointed desire of Thrym, the astounded giants, the amused Loke; all furnish an endless variety of excellent material for the brush of the painter. The plastic art can find no more exquisite group than Loke bound upon three stones, and his loving wife, Sigyn, leaning over him with a dish, wherein she catches the drops of venom that would otherwise fall into his face and intensify his agonies. A volume of themes might be presented, but it is not necessary. Suffice it then to say that for poetry, painting and the plastic arts, there is in the Norse mythology a fountain of delight whose waters but few have tasted, but which no man can drain dry.

We promised to say something about nude art. It is this: We Goths are, and have forever been, a _chaste_ race. We abhor the loathsome nudity of Greek art. We do not want nude figures, at least not unless they embody some very sublime thought. The people of southern Europe differ widely from us Northerners in this respect; and this difference reaches far back into our respective mythologies, adding additional proof to the fact that the myths foreshadow the social life of a nation or race of people. The Greek gods were generally conceived as nude, and hence Greek art would naturally be nude also. Whether the licentiousness and lasciviousness of the Greek communities were the primary causes of the unæsthetical features of their mythology or their Bacchanalian revels sprang from the mythology, it is difficult to determine. We undoubtedly come nearest the truth when we say that the same primeval causes produced both the social life and mythology of the Greeks; that there thenceforward was an active reciprocating influence between the religion on the one side and the popular life on the other, an influence that we may liken unto that which operates between the soul and the body; and thus it may be said that the mythology and the popular life combined produced their nude art. To say that the popular character of the Greeks, taken individually or collectively, was stimulated into life by their mythology; that the virtues and the vices of the people originated in it _alone_; would certainly be an incorrect and one-sided view of the subject. The Greeks brought with them, from their original home into Greece, the germs of that faith which afterwards became developed in a certain direction under the influence of the popular life and the action of external circumstances upon that life, but which in turn reacted upon the popular life with a power which increased in proportion as the system of mythology acquired by development a more decided character. The same is true of the Norsemen and of the Goths in general. When it is found, for instance, that the mythological representation of Odin as father of the slain (Val-father), and that Valhal (the hall of the slain), the valkyries and einherjes, contain a strong incentive to warlike deeds, then it must not be imagined that this martial spirit, that displayed itself so powerfully among the Goths generally, and among the Norsemen particularly, was the offspring of the mythology of our ancestors; but we may rather conceive that the Norsemen were from the beginning a race of remarkable physical power, that accidental external causes, such as severe climate, mountainous country, conflicts with neighboring peoples, etc., brought this inherent physical force into activity and thus awakened the warlike spirit; and then it may be said that this martial spirit stamped itself upon their religious ideas, upon their mythology, and finally that the mythology, when it had received this characteristic impress from the people, again reacted to preserve and even further inflame that martial spirit. And there is no inconsistency between this view of the subject and that which was presented in the third chapter.

It was said at the outset that we Goths are a chaste race, and abhor the loathsome nudity of Greek art. We were a chaste people before our fathers came under the influence of Christianity. The Elder Edda, which is the grand depository of the Norse mythology, may be searched through and through, and there will not be found a single nude myth, not an impersonation of any kind that can be considered an outrage upon virtue or a violation of the laws of propriety; and this feature of the Odinic religion deserves to be urged as an important reason why our painters and sculptors should look at home for something wherewith to employ their talent, before they go abroad; look in our own ancient Gothic history, before going to ancient Greece.

But the artist who is going to chisel out an Odin, a Thor, a Balder, a Nanna, or a Loke, must not be a mere imitator. He must possess a creative mind. He must not go to work at a piece of Norse art with his imagination full of Greek myths, much less must he attempt to apply Greek principles to a piece of Gothic art. He will find the Norse chisel a somewhat more ponderous weapon to swing; and you cannot turn as rapidly with a railroad car as you can with a French _fiacre_ or American gig. To try to chisel out the gods of _our_ forefathers after South European patterns would be like attempting to write English with the mind full of Latin syntax. Hence we repeat, that we do not want an imitator, but an original genius. Greek mythology has been presented so many times, and so well, that the imitation, the repetition, is comparatively easy. He who would bring out Gothic art (and but little of it has hitherto been brought out) must himself be a poet, and what a mine of wealth there is open to him! Would that genuine art fever would attack our artists and that some of the treasures that lie hid in the granite quarries of the Norse mythology might speedily be exhumed!

In his work, entitled _Science of Beauty_, Dr. John Bascom has taken decided grounds against nude figures in art. We would recommend the eighth chapter of that work to the careful consideration of the reader. We are not able for want of space to give his opinion in full, but make the following brief extract:

There is one direction in which art has indulged itself in a most marked violation of propriety, and that too on the side of vice. I refer to the frequent nudity of its figures. This is a point upon which artists have been pretty unanimous, and disposed to treat the opinions of others with _hauteur_ and disdain, as arising at best from a virtue more itching and sensitive than wise, from instincts more physical than æsthetical. This practice has been more abused in painting than in sculpture, both as less needed, and hence less justifiable, and as ever tending to become more loose and lustful in the double symbols of color and form, than when confined to the pure, stern use of the latter in stone or metal. Despite alleged necessities,—despite the high-toned claims and undisguised contempt of artists,—our convictions are strongly against the practice, as alike injurious to taste and morals. Indeed, if injurious to morals, it cannot be otherwise than injurious to taste, since art has no more dangerous enemy than a lascivious perverted fancy.

Nay, in the radiant dawn of our Gothic history our poets and artists may, if they would but look for them, find chaste themes to which they may consecrate the whole ardor of their souls for the æsthetical elevation and ennoblement of our race. As a people we are growing too prosaic and, therefore, too ungodly; we nourish the tender minds of our children too early and too extensively on dry reasoning, mathematics and philosophy, instead of strengthening, stimulating and beautifying their souls with some of the poetic thoughts, some of the mythology and folk-lore of our forefathers. These mythological stories, these fairy tales and all this folk-lore, illuminated by the genial rays of the Christian religion shining upon them, should be made available in our families and schools, by our poets, painters and sculptors, and then our children would in turn get their æsthetical natures developed so as to be able to beautify their own life and that of their posterity with still finer productions in poetry, painting, and sculpture.

Footnote 6:

A river in Norway.

Footnote 7:

A stone raised over a grave.