inhabitants of the Orkney and the Shetland
Isles may gratify their palates with unknown
savours, and delight their eyes with unwonted
forms of vegetation. What would be more
ornamental than an apricot-tree in fruit, or a
pyramidal peach in blossom, to decorate a
dessert in the Hebrides? In the extreme north
of Scotland even, forest-trees beg for an Orchard
House to shelter them. In Caithness there is,
or was, a plantation of ash-trees beside a long low
wall. The trees, of several years' growth, were
dwarfs, constantly pinched in by the wind. They
were exactly as tall as the wall—not an inch
higher. They were suddenly stopped, as if by
an invisible roof, or as if clipped by shears. The
wind was the agent. Put a Lean-to Orchard
House against that wall, and, instead of ash-
trees, plums and pears would thrive.

THE NORSEMAN.

A SWARTHY strength, with face of light,
As dark sword-iron is beaten bright;
A brave frank look, with health aglow,
Bonny blue eyes and open brow;
A man who will face to his last breath
The sternest facts of life and death;
His friend he welcomes heart-in-hand,
But foot to foot his foe must stand:
       This is the daring Norseman.

The wild wave-motion, weird and strange,
Rocks in him: seaward he must range.
His life is just a mighty lust
To wear away with use, not rust.
Though bitter wintry cold the storm,
The fire within him keeps him warm.
Kings quiver at his flag unfurled:
The sea-king's master of the world:
       For conquering comes the Norseman.

He hides, at heart of his rough life,
A world of sweetness for the wife;
From his rude breast a babe can press
Soft milk of human tenderness,
Make his eyes water, his heart dance,
And sunrise in his countenance;
In merry mood his ale he quaffs
By firelight, and his blithe heart laughs,
       The mild great-hearted Norseman.

But when the battle-trumpet rings,
His soul's a war-horse clad with wings!
He drinks delight in with the breath
Of battle and the dust of death!
The axes redden, spring the sparks,
Blood-radiant grow the grey mail-sarks:
Such blows might batter, as they fell,
Heaven's gates, or burst the booms of hell:
       So fights the fearless Norseman.

Valiant and true, as Sagas tell,
The Norsemen hated lies like hell;
Hardy from cradle to the grave,
'Twas their religion to be brave;
Great silent fighting men, whose words
Were few, soon said, and out with swords!
One, saw his heart cut from his side,
Living—and smiled, and smiling, died!
       The unconquerable Norseman.

They swam the flood, they strode in flame,
Nor quailed when the Valkyrie came
To kiss the chosen for her charms,
With “Rest, my hero, in mine arms.”
Their spirits through a grim wide wound,
The Norse doorway to Heaven found,
And borne upon the battle-blast,
Into the Hall of Heroes passed:
       And there was crowned the Norseman.

The Norseman wrestled with old Rome
For freedom in our island home:
He taught us how to ride the sea,
With hempen bridle, horse of tree.
The Norseman stood with Robin Hood,
By freedom in the merry green wood;
When William ruled the English land,
With cruel heart and bloody hand:
       For freedom fights the Norseman.

Still in our race the Norse king reigns,
His best blood beats along our veins;
With his old glory we can glow,
And surely sail where he could row.
Is danger stirring? Up from sleep
Our war-dog wakes, his watch to keep;
Stands with our banner over him,
True as of old, and stern and grim:
       Come on, you'll find the Norseman.

When swords are gleaming you shall see
The Norseman's face flash gloriously,
With look that makes the foeman reel:
His mirror from of old was steel.
And still he wields, in battle's hour,
That old Thor's hammer of Norse power;
Strikes with a desperate arm of might,
And at the last tug turns the fight:
       For never yields the Norseman.

THE GREAT PUGILISTIC REVIVAL.

THERE was a period, not more than some
six months ago, when most of us thought we
could never publicly state that we had seen a
prize-fight. We had some notion that the
“Ring” was dead; and that its ropes and stakes
had never been properly disinterred since their
burial, some years back, at Mousley Hurst. We
had some notion that its exhibitions were illegal,
and that its professors were compelled to live
upon the traditions of the past, and bite their
motheaten boxing-gloves in pugilistic bar-
parlours. It is probable that we did not regard
these professors as a down-trodden race, because
we considered them at war with our present
civilisation. We looked upon them as melancholy
relics of a departed fashion—as men who
persisted in supplying an article that the public
no longer called for or desired. The present
writer, for one, set them down, in his notes
for a great history of England, as having
practically gone out with watchmen, oil-lamps, and
stage-coaches.

During the last five years, however, the
World (meaning, of course, the United Kingdom
of Great Britain and Ireland) has witnessed
many full-blown revivals, and, last among
them and not least, a thorough revival of
Pugilism. There has seldom been any
demonstration so sudden, so successful, and so
complete. I have seen the late contest between the
immortal Sayers and the immortal Heenan,
apologetically described as an “exceptional
event.” The journalist was timid, and was