England once had in common with all the Aryan race.

For these Norse Tales one may say that nothing can equal the
tenderness and skill with which MM. Asbjoernsen and Moe have collected
them. Some of that tenderness and beauty may, it is hoped, be found
in this English translation; but to those who have never been in the
country where they are current, and who are not familiar with that
hearty simple people, no words can tell the freshness and truth of
the originals. It is not that the idioms of the two languages are
different, for they are more nearly allied, both in vocabulary and
construction, than any other two tongues, but it is the face of
nature herself, and the character of the race that looks up to her,
that fail to the mind's eye. The West Coast of Scotland is something
like that nature in a general way, except that it is infinitely
smaller and less grand; but that constant, bright blue sky, those
deeply-indented, sinuous, gleaming friths, those headstrong rivers
and headlong falls, those steep hillsides, those long ridges of
fells, those peaks and needles rising sharp above them, those hanging
glaciers and wreaths of everlasting snow, those towering endless pine
forests, relieved by slender stems of silver birch, those green spots
in the midst of the forest, those winding dales and upland lakes,
those various shapes of birds and beasts, the mighty crashing elk,
the fleet reindeer, the fearless bear, the nimble lynx, the shy wolf,
those eagles and swans, and seabirds, those many tones and notes of
Nature's voice making distant music through the twilight summer
night, those brilliant, flashing, northern lights when days grow
short, those dazzling, blinding storms of autumn snow, that cheerful
winter frost and cold, that joy of sledging over the smooth ice, when
the sharp-shod horse careers at full speed with the light sledge, or
rushes down the steep pitches over the crackling snow through the