The whole of Scandinavia, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Orkney, and the rest, remind me ever of that terrible picture of the great Norse painter, Tiddeman, in which two splendid youths, lashed together, in true Norse duel fashion by the waist, are hewing each other to death with the short axe, about some hot words over their ale.  The loss of life, and that of the most gallant of the young, in those days must have been enormous.  If the vitality of the race had not been even more enormous, they must have destroyed each other, as the Red Indians have done, off the face of the earth.  They lived these Norsemen, not to live—­they lived to die.  For what cared they?  Death—­what was death to them? what it was to the Jomsburger Viking, who, when led out to execution, said to the headsman:  “Die! with all pleasure.  We used to question in Jomsburg whether a man felt when his head was off?  Now I shall know; but if I do, take care, for I shall smite thee with my knife.  And meanwhile, spoil not this long hair of mine; it is so beautiful.”

But, oh! what waste!  What might not these men have done if they had sought peace, not war; if they had learned a few centuries sooner to do justly, and love mercy, and walk humbly with their God?

And yet one loves them, blood-stained as they are.  Your own poets, men brought up under circumstances, under ideas the most opposite to theirs, love them, and cannot help it.  And why?  It is not merely for their bold daring, it is not merely for their stern endurance; nor again that they had in them that shift and thrift, those steady and common-sense business habits, which made their noblest men not ashamed to go on voyages of merchandise.  Nor is it, again, that grim humour—­humour as of the modern Scotch—­which so often flashes out into an actual jest, but more usually underlies unspoken all their deeds.  Is it not rather that these men are our forefathers? that their blood runs in the veins of perhaps three men out of four in any general assembly, whether in America or in Britain?  Startling as the assertion may be, I believe it to be strictly true.

Be that as it may, I cannot read the stories of your western men, the writings of Bret Harte, or Colonel John Hay, for instance, without feeling at every turn that there are the old Norse alive again, beyond the very ocean which they first crossed, 850 years ago.

Let me try to prove my point, and end with a story, as I began with one.

It is just thirty years before the Norman conquest of England, the evening of the battle of Sticklestead.  St. Olaf’s corpse is still lying unburied on the hillside.  The reforming and Christian king has fallen in the attempt to force Christianity and despotism on the Conservative and half-heathen party—­the free bonders or yeoman-farmers of Norway.  Thormod, his poet—­the man, as his name means, of thunder mood—­who has been standing in the ranks, at last has an arrow in his left side.