2i 6 LETTERS FROM HIGH LATITUDES. [XII. 



and wealth, and empty titles born of the king's breath — their 



ancient Udal rights, their Bonder privileges ; others have 



sunk their proud hearts to bear the yoke of the stronger 



hand, yet gaze with yearning looks on the misty horizon that 



opens between the hills. A dark speck mars that shadowy 



line. Thought follows across the space. It is a ship. Its 



sides are long, and black, and low ; but high in front rises 



the prow, fashioned into the semblance of a gigantic golden 



dragon, against whose gleaming breast the divided waters 



angrily flash and gurgle. Along the top sides of the deck 



are hung a row of shining shields, in alternate breadths of 



red and white, like the variegated scales of a sea-monster, 



whilst its gilded tail curls aft over the head of the steersman. 



From either flank projects a bank of some thirty oars, that 



look, as they smite the ocean with even beat, like the legs 



on which the reptile crawls over its surface. One stately 



mast of pine serves to carry a square sail made of cloth, 



brilliant with stripes of red, white, and blue. 



And who are they who navigate this strange, barbaric 

 vessel ? — why leave they the sheltering fiords of their beloved 

 Norway? They are the noblest hearts of that noble land — 

 freemen, who value freedom, — who have abandoned all 

 rather than call Harald master, and now seek a new home 

 even among the desolate crags of Iceland, rather than submit 

 to the tyranny of a usurper. 



// 



9teb— ober @ub ! tt>emt mtr btc Seelett gfityen ! " 



Another picture, and a sadder story ; but the scene is 

 now a wide dun moor, on the slope of a seaward hill ; the 

 autumn evening is closing in, but a shadow darker than that 

 of evening broods over the desolate plain, — the shadow of 

 Death. Groups of armed men, with stern sorrow in their 

 looks, are standing round a rude couch, hastily formed of 

 fir branches. An old man lies there — dying. His ear is 

 dulled even to the shout of victory ; the mists of an endless 

 night are gathering in his eyes ; but there is passion yet in 



