Zigzag Journeys in Northern Lands by Hezekiah Butterworth (fiction books to read .txt) 📕
- Author: Hezekiah Butterworth
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The whole army was now in motion, the king leading amid the darkness and gloom of the mist.
The battle opened with an immediate success for the Swedes. But in the moment of victory the king was wounded and fell from his horse.
“The king is killed!”
The report was like a death-knell to the Swedes, but only for a moment.
The king’s horse with an empty saddle was seen galloping wildly down the road.
“Lead us again to the attack,” the leaders demanded of George of Saxe-Weimar.
The spirit of the dead king seemed to infuse the little army with more than human valor. The men fought as though they were resolved to give their lives to their cause. The memory of the king’s words in the morning thrilled them. Nothing could stand before such heroism. Pappenheim fell. The Imperialists were routed. The Swedes at night, victorious, possessed the field, but they had lost the bravest of kings, and one of the most unselfish of rulers.
“We left Stockholm for Upsala, the student city. The paddles of the boat brushed along the waters of the Mälar; the old city retreated from view, and landscape after landscape of variegated beauty rose before us.
“The Mälar Lake is margined with dark pines, bright meadows and fields, light green linden-trees, gray rocks, and shadowy woods. Here and there are red houses among the lindens.
“We pass flat-bottomed boats, that dance about in the current made by the steamer.
“The hills of Upsala come into view. The University next appears, like a palace; then a palace indeed, red like the houses; then the gabled town.
“We went to the church, and were conducted into a vaulted chamber where were crowns and sceptres taken from the coffins of dead kings. We wandered along the aisle after leaving the treasure-room of the dead, and gazed on cold tombs and dusty frescos.
“Here sleeps Gustavus Vasa.
“In the centre aisle, under a flat stone, lies the great botanist, Linnæus.
“We visited the garden of Linnæus, or the place where it once bore the blossoms and fruits of the world. Nettles were there; the orangeries were gone; the winter garden had disappeared. The place wore a desolate look; the master had departed, leaving little there but the ghost of a great memory.
“We left Stockholm for Norway.
CASCADE IN NORWAY.
“We were landed from the steamer at Christiansand. This sea-port is a rude town, and except from the wild, strange expression of both land and sea, which affects one gloomily, yet with a kind of poetic sadness, revealed little to interest us or to remember. There was a Lazaretto, or pest-house, on a high rock, from which we felt sure that no disease would ever be communicated.
LAZARETTO.
“The scenery of Norway is unlike any other in the world. Take the map and scan the western coast. It looks like a piece of lace-work, so numerous are the inlets or fiords.
“These fiords are many of them surrounded by headlands as high as mountain walls. They are little havens, with calm water of wondrous beauty and with walls that seem to reach to the sky. On a level spot in the mountainous formation, a hamlet or a little church is sometimes seen, one of the most picturesque objects with its setting in the world.”
[The artist can give one a better view of these fiords than any description, and he has faithfully done it here.]
THE NAERO FIORD.
“The mountains and valleys of Norway are unlike any other. Summer finds them as winter leaves them. Great hills are worn into cones by the snow and ice. The cataracts are numerous and wonderful. The water scenery has no equal for romantic beauty and wildness.
“A twelve hours’ farther sail brought us to Christiania. It is situated in a lovely valley on the northern side of Christiania Fiord. It has a population of about eighty thousand. Here are the Royal Palace and University.
“All of the cities of the North have great schools and libraries. The University at Christiania has nearly a thousand students, and a library of one hundred and fifty thousand books.
“The port is covered with ice during some four months in the year. During the mild seasons some two thousand vessels yearly enter the harbor.
“Olaf, the Saint, the King of ‘Norroway,’ who preached the Gospel ‘with his sword,’ is the hero of the western coast. I might relate many wonderful stories of him, but I would advise you to read ‘The Saga of King Olaf,’ by Longfellow, in the ‘Wayside Inn.’
“His capital was Drontheim, far up among the northern regions, where the sun shines all night in summer, and where the winters are wild and dreary, cold and long. It is a quaint old town. Summer tourists to the western coast of Norway sometimes visit it. Its cathedral was founded by Olaf, and is nearly a thousand years old.
“And now in ten nights’ entertainments, you have taken hasty views of Germany and the old Kingdom of Charlemagne. Narratives of travel and history have been mingled with strange traditions and tales of superstition; all have combined to give pictures of the ages that are faded and gone, and that civilization can never wish to recall. Men are reaching higher levels in religion, knowledge, science, and the arts. Kingcraft is giving way to the governing intelligence of the people, and superstition to the simple doctrines of the Sermon on the Mount and to the experiences of a spiritual life. The age of castles and fortresses, like churches, is gone. The age of peace and good-will comes with the fuller light of the Gospel and intelligence. The pomps of cathedrals will never be renewed. The Church is coming to teach that character is everything, and that the soul is the temple of God’s spiritual indwelling.”
The tenth evening was closed by Charlie Leland. He read an original poem, suggested by an incident related to him by a fisherman at Stockholm.
LAKE IN NORWAY.
THE FISHERMAN OF FAROE.O’er ocean’s crystal floor;
In the fiords alee was the dreaming sea,
And the deep sea waves before.
The Faroe fishermen used to call
From the pier’s extremest post:
“Strike out, my boy, from the ocean wall;
There’s danger near the coast.
Beware of the drifting dunes
In the nights of the watery moons,
Beware of the Maelstrom’s tide
When the western wind blows free,
Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,
Of the shoals of the Cattegat;
Strike out for the open sea,
Strike out for the open sea!”
You know in the ocean wall.”
“No, no, my boy, I only know
Where there are no rocks at all,
Where there are no rocks at all, my boy,
And there no ship is lost.
Strike out, strike out for the open sea;
There’s danger near the coast.
Beware, I say, of the dunes
In the nights of the watery moons,
Beware of the Maelstrom’s tide
When the western wind blows free,
Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,
Of the shoals of the Cattegat;
Strike out for the open sea,
Strike out for the open sea!”
And the flash of peaking oars
Grew faint and dim on the sheeny rim
Of the harbor-dented shores.
And far Faroe in the light lay low,
Where rode like a dauntless host
The white-plumed waves o’er the green sea graves
Of the rock-imperilled coast.
And I thought of the drifting dunes
In the nights of the watery moons,
And I thought of the Maelstrom’s tide
When the western wind blew free,
Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,
Of the shoals of the Cattegat,
And I steered for the open sea,
I steered for the open sea.
When bright the summer burned,
And I told in the old Norse kirk one day
The lesson my heart had learned.
Then the grizzly landvogt said to me:
“Of strength we may not boast;
But ever in life for you and me
There’s danger near the coast.
Then think of the drifting dunes
In the nights of the watery moons,
And think of the Maelstrom’s tide
When the western wind blows free,
Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,
Of the shoals of the Cattegat;
Strike out for the open sea,
Strike out for the open sea!”
Wherein my feet may fall.”
“Oh, no, my boy, I only know
The ways that are safe to all,
The ways that are safe to all, my boy,
And there no soul is lost.
Strike out in life for the open sea,
There’s danger near the coast.
Then think of the drifting dunes
In the nights of the watery moons,
And think of the Maelstrom’s tide
When the western wind blows free,
Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,
Of the shoals of the Cattegat;
Strike out for the open sea,
Strike out for the open sea!
The reef the land wave hides,
And the ship goes down in sight of the town
That safe the deep sea rides.
’Tis those who steer the old life near
Temptation suffer most;
The way is plain to life’s open main,
There’s danger near the coast.
Beware of the drifting dunes
In the nights of the watery moons,
Beware of the Maelstrom’s tide
When the western wind blows free,
Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,
Of the shoals of the Cattegat;
Strike out for the open sea,
Strike out for the open sea!”
Where free the waters flow,
As I sailed from the old home port that day
For the islands of far Faroe.
And when I steer temptation near,
The pilot, like a ghost,
On the wave-rocked pier I seem to hear:
“There’s danger near the coast.
Beware of the drifting dunes
In the nights of the watery moons,
Beware of the Maelstrom’s tide
When the western wind blows free,
Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,
Of the shoals of the Cattegat;
Strike out for the open sea,
Strike out for the open sea!”
THE COAST.
CHAPTER XVII. THE GREATER RHINE.The Return Homeward.—On the Terrace,—Quebec.
THE Class made their return voyage by the way of Liverpool to Quebec, one of the shortest of the ocean ferries, and one of the most delightful in midsummer and early autumn, when the Atlantic is usually calm, and the icebergs have melted away.
As the steamer was passing down the Mersey, and Liverpool with her thousands of ships, and Birkenhead with its airy cottages, were disappearing from view, Mr. Beal remarked to the boys,—
“We shall return through the Straits, and so shall be probably only four and a half days out
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