grow, and die, and do not die! There are twigs of that great world-tree of
Norse Belief still curiously traceable. This poor Jack of the Nursery,
with his miraculous shoes of swiftness, coat of darkness, sword of
sharpness, he is one. _Hynde Etin_, and still more decisively _Red Etin of
Ireland_, _in_ the Scottish Ballads, these are both derived from Norseland;
_Etin_ is evidently a _Jotun_. Nay, Shakspeare's _Hamlet_ is a twig too of
this same world-tree; there seems no doubt of that. Hamlet, _Amleth_ I
find, is really a mythic personage; and his Tragedy, of the poisoned
Father, poisoned asleep by drops in his ear, and the rest, is a Norse
mythus! Old Saxo, as his wont was, made it a Danish history; Shakspeare,
out of Saxo, made it what we see. That is a twig of the world-tree that
has _grown_, I think;--by nature or accident that one has grown!

In fact, these old Norse songs have a _truth_ in them, an inward perennial
truth and greatness,--as, indeed, all must have that can very long preserve
itself by tradition alone. It is a greatness not of mere body and gigantic
bulk, but a rude greatness of soul. There is a sublime uncomplaining
melancholy traceable in these old hearts. A great free glance into the
very deeps of thought. They seem to have seen, these brave old Northmen,
what Meditation has taught all men in all ages, That this world is after
all but a show,--a phenomenon or appearance, no real thing. All deep souls
see into that,--the Hindoo Mythologist, the German Philosopher,--the
Shakspeare, the earnest Thinker, wherever he may be:

"We are such stuff as Dreams are made of!"

One of Thor's expeditions, to Utgard (the _Outer_ Garden, central seat of
Jotun-land), is remarkable in this respect. Thialfi was with him, and
Loke. After various adventures, they entered upon Giant-land; wandered
over plains, wild uncultivated places, among stones and trees. At