Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 3, Issue 15, January, 1859 | Page 8

to abstractions and transcendentalism. The old Teuton abhorred
the abstract. He loved the concrete, the substantial. The races of
Southern Europe, what are now called the Latin races, were more

temperate than the Teutonic, but they were far less brave, honest, and
manly. Their sensuality might not be so boisterous, but it was more
bestial and foul. Strength and manliness, and a blithe, cheery spirit,
were ever the badges of the Teuton. But though originally gross and
rough, he was capable of a smoother polish, of a glossier enamel, than a
more superficial, trivial nature. He was ever deeply thoughtful, and
capable of profounder moods of meditation than the lightly-moved
children of the South. Sighs, as from the boughs of Yggdrasil, ever
breathed through his poetry from of old. He was a smith, an artificer,
and a delver in mines from the beginning. The old Teutonic Pan was far
more musical and awe-inspiring than his Grecian counterpart The
Noon-spirit of the North was more wild than that of the South. How all
the ancient North was alive in its Troll-haunted hillocks, where clanged
the anvil of the faery hill-smith, and danced and banqueted the Gnome
and Troll,--and in its streams and springs, musical with the harps of
moist-haired Elle-women and mermaids, who, ethnic daemons though
they were, yet cherished a hope of salvation! The myth-spirits of the
North were more homely and domestic than those of the South, and had
a broader humor and livelier fancies. The Northern Elf-folk were true
natives of the soil, grotesque in costume and shape.
The Teuton of to-day is the lineal descendant of the old worshipper of
Thor. Miöllnir, the hammer of Thor, still survives in the gigantic
mechanisms of Watt, Fulton, and Stephenson. Thor embodied more
Teutonic attributes than Odin. The feats which Thor performed in that
strange city of Utgard, as they are related in the old "Prose Edda," were
prophetic of the future achievements of the race, of which he was a
chief god. Thor once went on a journey to Jötunheim, or Giant-land,--a
primitive outlying country, full of the enemies of the Asgard dynasty,
or cosmical deities. In the course of the journey, he lodged one night
with his two companions in what he supposed to be a huge hall, but
which turned out to be the glove of a giant named Skrymir, who was
asleep and snoring as loud as an earthquake, near by. When the giant
awoke, he said to Thor, who stood near,--"My name is Skrymir, but I
need not ask thy name, for I know that thou art the god Thor. But what
hast thou done with my glove?" Sure enough, on looking, Thor found
that he had put up that night in Skrymir's handshoe, or glove. The giant
and Thor breakfasted amicably together and went on their way till night,

when Skrymir gave up his wallet of provisions to Thor and his two
companions, and bade them supply themselves,--he meanwhile
composing himself to sleep, snoring so loudly that the forest trembled.
Thor could not undo the giant's wallet, and in his wrath he smote the
somnolent lubber with his mallet, a crushing blow. Skrymir simply
awoke, and inquired whether a leaf had not fallen upon his head from
the oak-tree under which he was lying. Conceive the chagrin and shame
of Thor at this question! A second time Thor let fly at the giant with his
mallet. This time it sank into his skull up to the handle, but with no
more satisfactory result. The giant merely inquired whether an acorn
had not dropped on his head, and wanted to know how Thor found
himself, whether he slept well or not; to which queries Thor muttered
an answer, and went away, determined to make a third and final effort
with his mallet, which had never failed him until then. About daybreak,
as Skrymir was taking his last snooze, Thor uplifted his hammer,
clutching it so fiercely that his knuckles became white. Down it came,
with terrific emphasis, crushing through Skrymir's cheek, up to the
handle. Skrymir sat up and inquired if there were not birds perched on
the tree under which he had been lodging; he thought he felt something
dropping on his head,--some moss belike. Alas for Thor and his
weapon! For once he found himself worsted, and his mightiest efforts
regarded as mere flea-bites; for Skrymir's talk about leaves and acorns
and moss was merely a sly piece of humor, levelled at poor crestfallen
Thor, as he afterwards acknowledged. After this incident, Thor and his
two companions, the peasant's children, Thjalfi and Röska, and Skrymir
went their ways, and came to the high-gated city of Utgard, which
stood in the middle of a plain, and was so lofty that Thor had to throw
back his