CARL LINNAEUS. 



IT was on the 24th of July that we left Stock- 

 holm, the Venice of the North, built on her 

 nine islands, for the famous university town of 

 Upsala, Sweden. The ride, of about two hours 

 by rail, lay along fine fields of wheat, blue with 

 corn-flowers, and past comfortable-looking red farm- 

 houses and barns. 



The town, of thirteen thousand people, is quaint 

 and quiet, yet most interesting to a stranger. We 

 wander over the grand old Gothic cathedral, begun 

 six hundred years ago. Here is the silver-gilt sar- 

 cophagus of King Eric IX., who died in 1160, and 

 of John III. Here, also, that of Gustavus Vasa, 

 the deliverer of Sweden, on a high marble pedes- 

 tal supported by pillars, a recumbent figure of a 

 wife on either side. A third wife is buried near 

 by. The walls of the chapel where he lies are 

 covered with frescoes, depicting scenes in that 

 wonderful life; from the rags of the miner, to 

 the sumptuousness of the throne. 



But especially are we interested in a plain slab, 

 underneath which sleeps the man who, more than 

 any other, has immortalized Upsala University, 



