And call forth from our youthful race
The heroes of their father's days,
Then—come what may of loss or gain,
One Scandinavia we remain!

They also sang Bjärne Bargane's March: a very
popular, spirit-stirring air, with martial words
by Rundurg. I knew the tune well, from often
hearing the two sons of my landlady sing it to
their mother. She sometimes makes little
musical attempts herself. I once heard her
send one of her boys for the air of Villikins and
his Dinah, with some Swedish version of the
song.

I was delighted with a pleasant rural picture,
the Bridal Procession on Hardanger Fjörd. I
wish it were possible to give a translation of
this lovely picture-song, with its imagery of the
summer-day sun shining on the sparkling waters
of the fjord, the mountains piercing the blue
sky, the verdure and joyousness of the scene,
all clad, as it were, in holiday attire, to welcome
the procession that is bringing home the bride:
whose attendants sing the while, a sweet pastoral
chorus to the ringing of the bells of the little
church that stands on the receding promontory.

Very different to this was the first piece in
the second part—a drum-march—in which the
lines

           Fire! and carry off the fallen,
           Clear the deck, and sweep it clean!

produced almost a sickening effect, reminding
me of what a veteran blue-jacket told me was
the most awful moment to him in a naval
engagement: the moment when the deck was
strewn with sawdust preparatory to the bloodshed
of the encounter.

These songs were followed by the sweetest
little Folk-songs, some Norwegian which I wish
I could give here: so full are they of the spirit of
those half-mournful pictures of strong earnest
northern life, both in-doors and out, which we
all saw and enjoyed in the International Exhibition.

I do not wonder at the enthusiasm of the
Stockholmers on this occasion, for, independently
of the intention, which was a very popular
one, the spirit of the whole was more than
national, and seemed to embrace the entire
Scandinavian north as one great nation. These
concerts were entirely successful in a money
point of view: realising about eighteen thousand
riks dollars, weighing a quarter of a ton.

Of course, for days afterwards nothing was
talked of but the young fellows whose white
caps, frecking the yet. wintry streets like
sunshine, were a very pleasant sight. Where-
ever you went you saw white caps; white caps
calling on acquaintance; white caps seeing the
lions of Stockholm; white caps driving out by
themselves, or being driven out by their
entertainers to places of resort. White caps mingled
with the crowd which assembled to gaze on the
Royalties when they really made their long-expected,
but long-delayed, spring appearance on
Whitsun-eve, in their customary drive to the
park. There was but one shadow to the pleasant
sunny picture of the visit of the white caps,
and that was, the quantity of punch which many
of them drunk, and which certain wise and sober
people mourned over considerably.

  THE GRUMBLETON EXTENSION LINE

Two or three years ago a great discovery was
made, which took everybody by surprise.
Grumbleton had been for centuries famous only within
the bounds of its own parish. But the world
learned suddenly that Grumbleton was great.

For some months before this happened, a
number of suspicious-looking fellows—so Drowse
called them—were prowling about the parish
wanting to see the tithe map, asking leave to
make extracts from it, wanting to know the
acreage from the tithe award, and generally how
much Grumbleton would grow per acre if well
farmed. Besides going to the vicar, they were
observed counting the haystacks and the
cornstacks, and the number of milk-cows on some of
the dairy farms, and one man testifies that he
was asked how many pigs he kept. That was the
finishing stroke to a series of impertinent
questions. The Grumbleton farmers believed them
to be outward signs of a conspiracy of landlords
for the raising of their rents, and so, after
abusing the intruders to their hearts' content—
and that is not saying a little—they caught
them in the middle of a clover-field one fine
morning in spring, and broke two or three heads,
as well as one thing called a theodolite, and thus,
as they supposed, effectually quelled the mischief.

Upon this, Grumbleton got great credit for its
enlightened public spirit, and was talked about
in all the country towns within as many as
twenty miles. But what was our surprise at
finding the vicar, and Grobey, and Stobey, and
the whole pack of the magnates of the parish,
fraternising with a number of people, one of
whom was recognised as the man whose head
was the worst broken in the mêlée aforesaid!
This occurred in one of the committee-rooms of
the New Houses of Parliament. Drowse was
holding one of the county members by the
button-hole, while the other men were giving
evidence on behalf of the "Grumbleton
Extension Railway!"

Nor was this all. We never knew our worth,
but let concealment, like a worm in the bud,
&c. "The land, if well farmed," said our
friend, who had a bandage still on his forehead,
"would produce twice as much as at present,
and be worth, when means of uniting
Grumbleton with the metropolis were given by the
proposed line, double the rent" All the landowners
thought that man with the broken head
a martyr and a patriot. But our old farmer
Jogglehead, who shot the theodolite with a
blunderbuss that had not been fired for thirty
years, and whose house was to have the line
right through it, fairly danced in the committee-
room with rage and fury when he heard all the