which takes delight in seeing power counteracted by cunning, and revenges itself for the perfection of its heroes by sometimes exposing them to ludicrous defeat. But even Loki was at first the friend and associate of the gods: he was united with them by the most sacred bonds of brotherhood, and his skill and wisdom secured them victory in many a dangerous encounter. Like Lucifer, he had been a tenant of heaven: why he and the gods ultimately parted in anger we are not told; but we find him pursuing them with the utmost malice, till at length he causes the death of Baldr. He is then bound and cast beneath the worlds, the poisonous snake hangs over him distilling torturing venom: his faithful wife sits by and catches the drops as they fall, but when the vessel in which she receives them is full and she turns for a moment to empty it, the deadly juice reaches the prostrate god, and in his agony he trembles in every limb. This convulsion is known to men as the earthquake. It is only in the twilight of the gods that he will break his chain and lead the sons of Muspel to avenge him upon the race of Oþinn. But Loki is no devil in the Anglosaxon sense of Satan and his son; he is no deceiver or persecutor of men; least of all is he their torturer in another world. He suffers indeed, but like Prometheus, or Entelechus, or Ægeon, and his hour of triumph is to come. There is in his genuine character nothing mean or little,—much indeed that is terrible, gloomy and vague, but nothing ridiculous or disgusting. The Saxon devil with horns, tail, cloven feet, sulphur and pitch, torches, red-hot tongs, pincers and pitchforks is less creditable to the imagination, and more dangerous to the moral being, of his inventors. Nor are the occupations of such a fiend less vulgar than his form: he blasts the corn, wounds the cattle, fetters the hands of the doomed, enters the mouth of those who have not guarded it by the sign of the cross, and in a future state becomes the torturer—in the most material and mechanical way—of those whose life has been spent in the service of sin. The coarse fancy of Marlowe himself halts after the descriptions of the Anglosaxon divines and poets, revelling in this fruitful theme. Unpleasant as such records are, and revolting to our sense of right, it is necessary that we should know what was taught or permitted by the clergy, if we are to know anything of the mode of life and mode of belief of our forefathers.