e of horror in turn, while the unhappy sister sinks under these
inanimate accusations.

In the Greek myths we find none of these mysterious elements. The
supernatural creations we meet with are innumerable, and no less strange
in themselves. But there is nothing in Polyphemus, in Circe, in the
Sirens, beyond their physical natures, which can make us look beyond
ourselves to understand and fully sympathize with them. Once fully grasp
their superhuman endowments, and you feel they act like men on a large
scale. Not so with the Northern supernatural beings. In themselves they
approach nearer to men, and are but little above them in endowments and
character, but it is their mode of action which makes them superior to
us; their divinity and power lie not in themselves, but in the agents,
visible and mysterious, that they employ. They are not like Jupiter,
omnipotent. They are brought to a stand quite as often as more humble
mortals. Thor, without his hammer, is no longer Thor himself. His trusty
Mjoelner is more to him than the thunderbolt of Zeus to the Grecian
father of the gods. The eagle and thunderbolt of Jove, the aegis of
Minerva, the girdle of Venus and Mercury's wands, are mere emblems of
what powers their own natures give them. With the Northern deities their
whole strength lies in the possession of these. Without them they are
powerless, and in spite of all their might, they are often obliged to
call on one another for assistance, and sometimes even stand in need of
mortal aid. We may, perhaps, consider the Grecian gods as mere
personifications and idealities, but those of the North are essentially
real. They are the creations of a powerful but vague imagination, forms
which resemble a Norwegian mountain, distinct in itself by its
glittering snows and icy rocks, but which shrouds its head in a
perpetual mist, except when some adverse wind with its indiscreet
blowing, displays it in all its nakedness, and plain though grand
reality.

Analogous to the story of Circe and Ulysses is a myth which forms the
foundation of some of the most beautiful and pathetic ballads of Sweden,
Denmark and Norway. The mountain king bears to his cavern in the
hill-side a fair maiden, and with him

'For eight long years, I ween, she lived in the mountain there,
And sons full seven she bore him, and eke a daughter fair.'

And here the resemblance ceases, and the Northern legend assumes a more
beautiful tone. The maiden longs for h