just　the　qualities；　combining　with　the　Scandinavian　（and　in　Scotland
  with　the　Angle）　elements　of　character　which　have　produced；　in
  Ireland　and　in　Scotland；　two　schools　of　lyric　poetry　second　to　none
  in　the　world。
  And　so　they　were　converted　to　what　was　then　a　dark　and　awful　creed；
  a　creed　of　ascetic　self…torture　and　purgatorial　fires　for　those　who
  escape　the　still　more　dreadful；　because　endless；　doom　of　the　rest　of
  the　human　race。　　But；　because　it　was　a　sad　creed；　it　suited　better；
  men　who　had；　when　conscience　re…awakened　in　them；　but　too　good
  reason　to　be　sad；　and　the　minsters　and　cloisters　which　sprang　up
  over　the　whole　of　Northern　Europe；　and　even　beyond　it；　along　the
  dreary　western　shores　of　Greenland　itself；　are　the　symbols　of　a
  splendid　repentance　for　their　own　sins　and　for　the　sins　of　their
  forefathers。
  Gudruna　herself；　of　whom　I　spoke　just　now；　one　of　those　old　Norse
  heroines　who　helped　to　discover　America；　though　a　historic
  personage；　is　a　symbolic　one　likewise；　and　the　pattern　of　a　whole
  class。　　She　too；　after　many　journeys　to　Iceland；　Greenland；　and
  Winland；　goes　on　a　pilgrimage　to　Rome；　to　get；　I　presume；　absolution
  from　the　Pope　himself　for　all　the　sins　of　her　strange；　rich；　stormy；
  wayward　life。
  Have　you　not　readmany　of　you　surely　haveLa　Motte　Fouque's
  romance　of　〃Sintram？〃　　It　embodies　all　that　I　would　say。　　It　is　the
  spiritual　drama　of　that　early　Middle　Age；　very　sad；　morbid　if　you
  will；　but　true　to　fact。　　The　Lady　Verena　ought　not；　perhaps；　to
  desert　her　husband；　and　shut　herself　up　in　a　cloister。　　But　so　she
  would　have　done　in　those　old　days。　　And　who　shall　judge　her　harshly
  for　so　doing？　　When　the　brutality　of　the　man　seems　past　all　cure；
  who　shall　blame　the　woman　if　she　glides　away　into　some　atmosphere　of
  peace　and　purity；　to　pray　for　him　whom　neither　warnings　nor　caresses
  will　amend？　　It　is　a　sad　book；　〃Sintram。〃　　And　yet　not　too　sad。　　For
  they　were　a　sad　people；　those　old　Norse　forefathers　of　ours。　　Their
  Christianity　was　sad；　their　minsters　sad；　there　are　few　sadder；
  though　few　grander；　buildings　than　a　Norman　church。
  And　yet；　perhaps；　their　Christianity　did　not　make　them　sad。　　It　was
  but　the　other　and　the　healthier　side　of　that　sadness　which　they　had
  as　heathens。　　Read　which　you　will　of　the　old　sagasheathen　or　half…
  Christianthe　Eyrbiggia；　Viga　Glum；　Burnt　Niall；　Grettir　the
  Strong；　and；　above　all；　Snorri　Sturluson's　〃Heimskringla〃　itself
  and　you　will　see　at　once　how　sad　they　are。　　There　is；　in　the　old
  sagas；　none　of　that　enjoyment　of　life　which　shines　out　everywhere　in
  Greek　poetry；　even　through　its　deepest　tragedies。　　Not　in
  complacency　with　Nature's　beauty；　but　in　the　fierce　struggle　with
  her　wrath；　does　the　Norseman　feel　pleasure。　　Nature　to　him　was　not；
  as　in　Mr。　Longfellow's　exquisite　poem；　｛3｝　the　kind　old　nurse；　to
  take　him　on　her　knee　and　whisper　to　him；　ever　anew；　the　story
  without　an　end。　　She　was　a　weird　witch…wife；　mother　of　storm　demons
  and　frost　giants；　who　must　be　fought　with　steadily；　warily；　wearily；
  over　dreary　heaths　and　snow…capped　fells；　and　rugged　nesses　and
  tossing　sounds；　and　away　into　the　boundless　seaor　who　could　live？…
  …till　he　got　hardened　in　the　fight　into　ruthlessness　of　need　and
  greed。　　The　poor　strip　of　flat　strath；　ploughed　and　re…ploughed
  again　in　the　short　summer　days；　would　yield　no　more；　or　wet　harvests
  spoiled　the　crops；　or　heavy　snows　starved　the　cattle。　　And　so　the
  Norseman　launched　his　ships　when　the　lands　were　sown　in　spring；　and
  went　forth　to　pillage　or　to　trade；　as　luck　would　have；　to　summerted；
  as　he　himself　called　it；　and　came　back；　if　he　ever　came；　in　autumn
  to　the　women　to　help　at　harvest…time；　with　blood　upon　his　hand。　　But
  had　he　stayed　at　home；　blood　would　have　been　there　still。　　Three　out
  of　four　of　them　had　been　mixed　up　in　some　man…slaying；　or　had　some
  blood…feud　to　avenge　among　their　own　kin。
  The　whole　of　Scandinavia；　Denmark；　Sweden；　Norway；　Orkney；　and　the
  rest；　remind　me　ever　of　that　terrible　picture　of　the　great　Norse
  painter；　Tiddeman；　in　which　two　splendid　youths；　lashed　together；　in
  true　Norse　duel　fashion　by　the　waist；　are　hewing　each　other　to　death
  with　the　short　axe；　about　some　hot　words　over　their　ale。　　The　loss
  of　life；　and　that　of　the　most　gallant　of　the　young；　in　those　days
  must　have　been　enormous。　　If　the　vitality　of　the　race　had　not　been
  even　more　enormous；　they　must　have　destroyed　each　other；　as　the　Red
  Indians　have　done；　off　the　face　of　the　earth。　　They　lived　these
  Norsemen；　not　to　livethey　lived　to　die。　　For　what　cared　they？
  Deathwhat　was　death　to　them？　what　it　was　to　the　Jomsburger　Viking；
  who；　when　led　out　to　execution；　said　to　the　headsman：　　　〃Die！　with
  all　pleasure。　　We　used　to　question　in　Jomsburg　whether　a　man　felt
  when　his　head　was　off？　　Now　I　shall　know；　but　if　I　do；　take　care；
  for　I　shall　smite　thee　with　my　knife。　　And　meanwhile；　spoil　not　this
  long　hair　of　mine；　it　is　so　beautiful。〃
  But；　oh！　what　waste！　　What　might　not　these　men　have　done　if　they　had
  sought　peace；　not　war；　if　they　had　learned　a　few　centuries　sooner　to
  do　justly；　and　love　mercy；　and　walk　humbly　with　their　God？
  And　yet　one　loves　them；　blood…stained　as　they　are。　　Your　own　poets；
  men　brought　up　under　circumstances；　under　ideas　the　most　opposite　to
  theirs；　love　them；　and　cannot　help　it。　　And　why？　　It　is　not　merely
  for　their　bold　daring；　it　is　not　merely　for　their　stern　endurance；
  nor　again　that　they　had　in　them　that　shift　and　thrift；　those　steady
  and　common…sense　business　habits；　which　made　their　noblest　men　not
  ashamed　to　go　on　voyages　of　merchandise。　　Nor　is　it；　again；　that
  grim　humourhumour　as　of　the　modern　Scotchwhich　so　often　flashes
  out　into　an　actual　jest；　but　more　usually　underlies　unspoken　all
  their　deeds。　　Is　it　not　rather　that　these　men　are　our　forefathers？
  that　their　blood　runs　in　the　veins　of　perhaps　three　men　out　of　four
  in　any　general　assembly；　whether　in　America　or　in　Britain？
  Startling　as　the　assertion　may　be；　I　believe　it　to　be　strictly　true。
  Be　that　as　it　may；　I　cannot　read　the　stories　of　your　western　men；
  the　writings　of　Bret　Harte；　or　Colonel　John　Hay；　for　instance；
  without　feeling　at　every　turn　that　there　are　the　old　Norse　alive
  again；　beyond　the　very　ocean　which　they　first　crossed；　850　years
  ago。
  Let　me　try　to　prove　my　point；　and　end　with　a　story；　as　I　began　with
  one。
  It　is　just　thirty　years　before　the　Norman　conquest　of　England；　the
  evening　of　the　battle　of　Sticklestead。　　St。　Olaf's　corpse　is　still
  lying　unburied　on　the　hillside。　　The　reforming　and　Christian　king
  has　fallen　in　the　attempt　to　force　Christianity　and　despotism　on　the
  Conservative　and　half…heathen　partythe　free　bonders　or　yeoman…
  farmers　of　Norway。　　Thormod；　his　poetthe　man；　as　his　name　means；
  of　thunder　moodwho　has　been　standing　in　the　ranks；　at　last　has　an
  arrow　in　his　left　side。　　He　breaks　off　the　shaft；　and　thus　sore
  wounded　goes　up；　when　all　is　lost；　to　a　farm　where　is　a　great　barn
  full　of　wounded。　　One　Kimbe　comes；　a　man　out　of　the　opposite　or
  bonder　part。　　〃There　is　great　howling　and　screaming　in　there；〃　he
  says。　　〃King　Olaf's　men　fought　bravely　enough：　　　but　it　is　a　shame
  brisk　young　lads　cannot　bear　their　wounds。　　On　what　side　wert　thou
  in　the　fight？〃　　〃On　the　best　side；〃　says　the　beaten　Thormod。　　Kimbe
  sees　that　Thormod　has　a　good　bracelet　on　his　arm。　　〃Thou　art　surely
  a　king's　man。　　Give　me　thy　gold　ring　and　I　will　hide　thee；　ere　the
  bonders　kill　thee。〃
  Thormod　said；　〃Take　it；　if　thou　canst　get　it。　　I　have　lost　that
  which　is　worth　more；〃　and　he　stretched　out　his　left　hand；　and　Kimbe
  tried　to　take　it。　　But　Thormod；　swinging　his　sword；　cut　off　his
  hand；　and　it　is　said　Kimbe　behaved　no　better　over　his　wound　than
  those　he　had　been　blaming。
  Then　Thormod　went　into　the　barn；　and　after　he　had　sung　his　song
  there　in　praise　of　his　dead　king；　he　went　into　an　inner　room；　where
  was　a　fire；　and　water　warming；　and　a　handsome　girl　binding　up　men's
  wounds。　　And　he　sat　down　by　the　door；　and　one　said　to　him；　〃Why　art
  thou　so　dead　pale？　　Why　dost　thou　not　call　for　the　leech？〃　　Then
  sung　Thormod：
  〃I　am　not　blooming；　and　the　fair
  And　slender　maiden　loves　to　care
  For　blooming　youths。　　Few　care　for　me；
  With　Fenri's　gold　meal　I　can't　fee；〃
  and　so　forth；　improvising　after　the　old　Norse　fashion。　　Then　Thormod
  got　up　and　went　to　the　fire；　and　stood　and　warm