368 
LETTERS FROM HIGH LATITUDES. 
What a picture that is, in the swine-stye, those two 
haggard faces, travel-stained and worn with want of 
rest, watching each other with hot, sleepless eyes, 
through the half darkness, and how true to nature is 
the nightmare of the miserable Jarl! 
It was on my return from Lade, that I found your 
letters; and that I might enjoy them without inter¬ 
ruption, I carried them off to the churchyard—(such 
a beautiful place!)—to read in peace and quiet. The 
churchyard was not u populous with young men, striving 
to be alone,” as Tom Hood describes it to have been in 
a certain sentimental parish; so I enjoyed the seclusion 
I anticipated. 
I was much struck by the loving care and ornament 
bestowed on the graves; some were literally loaded 
with flowers, and even those which bore the date of a 
long past sorrow had each its own blooming crown, or 
fresh nosegay. These good Throndhjemers must have 
much of what the French call la religion des souvenirs , 
a religion in which we English (as a nation) are sin¬ 
gularly deficient. I suppose no people in Europe are 
so little addicted to the keeping of sentimental anniver¬ 
saries as we are; I make an exception with regard to our 
