el,
as the warrior by his blade and his bloody exploits. Art, in the North,
finds no existence, and strikes no sympathizing chord in the bosoms of
the sturdy Northmen. Art, to be perfect, requires a distinctness of
conception, and an assimilation to human nature in its subjects,
entirely at variance with the dim, mysterious character of the
Scandinavian imagination. Painting is a thing utterly unknown, and
sculpture, where found, deals in shapeless blocks and huge, massive,
ill-proportioned forms, analogous to the primitive Egyptian art. In the
Northern mythology and legendary history, minstrels play an important
part. They are as indispensable as the Welsh bards, though not invested
with the same authority as they. At the table of the gods, Braga strikes
his wonderful harp and chants the triumphal hymns of dead warriors as
they enter the Walhalla. Round the boards of the rougher Vikings, among
the muscular, sun-browned champions, hardened to blood and strife, the
minstrel is ever present, and as the huge cups pass around the long
line, they sing the triumphs and praises of their hosts. They are like
the old Grecian minstrels; like Phemius and Demodocus, they chant old
memories of great sea-kings and champions, legends of magic elves and
dwarfs, and wondrous and often touchingly beautiful stories of love and
passion. The vague impressions of music seem to harmonize marvelously
with the Northern nature. It is wild and weird in its character, for
much of it, with the innumerable ballads of those days, have reached us
from father to son, and vividly recall the times whence they date, and
the men whose characters they mirror. There is often a magic element
connected with their music. The music of the elves is like that of the
sirens and of Orpheus, often irresistible. Through many of their ballads
runs the same legendary undertone. A maiden's song moves the king's
heart, and one by one he offers in vain every gift in his power, to the
very half of his kingdom, and ends by placing a crown of gold upon her
head, and seating her beside him on his throne as his lawful queen. The
story of the two sisters, one ugly and one beautiful, reappears in the
North in various forms. The younger and more lovely of the two is
murdered, and the elder is to wed her bride-groom. Pilgrims who meet
with the body, make a lyre from the bones, and string it with the golden
hair of the maiden, and as they play at the bridal, each string tells
its tal