In an old war song, entitled “The Son of England’s King,” it says,—
And the anchor was gilded with gold,
Each rope was woven with silk,
With riches and pomp untold.”
These words rose to the mind of one who saw this ship leave the coasts of Spain. Here was the same pomp, the same luxury, and the same parting wish:
Once mote in peace and joy.”
It blew a fair wind when they left the Spanish coast, so that they hoped to arrive at their destination in a few weeks. But when they reached the broad ocean, the wind sank down, the sea became smooth, and the ship was becalmed. However, the stars of heaven shone brightly, and many festive evenings were spent in the sumptuous cabin. At length the voyagers began to wish for wind, for a favouring breeze. But they wished in vain, for not a breeze stirred; and when, after some weeks, the wind did arise, it was contrary, for it blew from the south-west, and after two months carried them into the North Sea, between Scotland and Jutland. Then the wind increased, till they were in the condition described in the old song,—
To seek for shelter was all in vain;
No hope of throwing, with eager hand,
Their anchor of gold near the Danish Land.”
At the time this happened, King Christian V1I., who sat on the Danish throne, was still a young man. Much has changed or been changed since then. Lakes and marshes have been converted into green meadows, heath has become arable land, and in the shelter of the peasants’ houses, on the West Jute, grow apple-trees and rose-bushes; but they require care, to protect them from the keen north-west wind.
While in West Jutland, the mind can easily go back to the old times, even long before the days of King Christian VII. The purple heath extends now, as it did then, for miles. There are the still “Huns’ graves,” the supernatural appearances in the sky, and the sandy, uneven roads crossing it in every direction. Westward, where large rivulets run into the bay, extend marshes and meadow land, girded with lofty sand-hills, which, like a row of Alps, raise their peaked summits, on the side nearest the sea, to a great height. Here and there are ridges of clay, from which the sea, year after year, bites out huge mouthfuls, causing the overhanging shores to fall as if by the shock of an earthquake. Thus it is even at this day, and thus it was many, many years ago, when the happy pair were sailing in the richly appointed ship. It was Sunday, and a bright sunny morning towards the latter end of September. The bells of the churches in the Bay of Nissum were chiming sweetly, and their music rolled through the air like a chain of sounds. The churches there, are built almost entirely of hewn boulder stones, each like a piece of rock. The North Sea might foam over them,
