"Farewell, he said, and sailed away.

 In an old war song, called "The King of England's Son," it says:



                 "Farewell, he said, and sailed away.

                  And many recollect that day.

                  The ropes were of silk, the anchor of gold,
chanel 2.55 bag
chanel crossbody bag
chanel evening bag
                  And everywhere riches and wealth untold."



    These words would aptly describe the vessel from Spain, for here

was the same luxury, and the same parting thought naturally arose:



                 "God grant that we once more may meet

                  In sweet unclouded peace and joy."



    There was a favourable wind blowing as they left the Spanish

coast, and it would be but a short journey, for they hoped to reach

their destination in a few weeks; but when they came out upon the wide

ocean the wind dropped, the sea became smooth and shining, and the

stars shone brightly. Many festive evenings were spent on board. At

last the travellers began to wish for wind, for a favourable breeze;

but their wish was useless- not a breath of air stirred, or if it

did arise it was contrary. Weeks passed by in this way, two whole

months, and then at length a fair wind blew from the south-west. The

ship sailed on the high seas between Scotland and Jutland; then the

wind increased, just as it did in the old song of "The King of

England's Son."



                "'Mid storm and wind, and pelting hail,

                  Their efforts were of no avail.

                  The golden anchor forth they threw;

                  Towards Denmark the west wind blew."



    This all happened a long time ago; King Christian VII, who sat

on the Danish throne, was still a young man. Much has happened since

then, much has altered or been changed. Sea and moorland have been

turned into green meadows, stretches of heather have become arable

land, and in the shelter of the peasant's cottages, apple-trees and

rose-bushes grow, though they certainly require much care, as the

sharp west wind blows upon them. In West Jutland one may go back in

thought to old times, farther back than the days when Christian VII

ruled. The purple heather still extends for miles, with its barrows

and aerial spectacles, intersected with sandy uneven roads, just as it

did then; towards the west, where broad streams run into the bays, are

marshes and meadows encircled by lofty, sandy hills, which, like a

chain of Alps, raise their pointed summits near the sea; they are only

broken by high ridges of clay, from which the sea, year by year, bites

out great mouthfuls, so that the overhanging banks fall down as if

by the shock of an earthquake. Thus it is there today and thus it

was long ago, when the happy pair were sailing in the beautiful ship.

    It was a Sunday, towards the end of September; the sun was

shining, and the chiming of the church bells in the Bay of Nissum

was carried along by the breeze like a chain of sounds. The churches

there are almost entirely built of hewn blocks of stone, each like a

piece of rock. The North Sea might foam over them and they would not

be disturbed. Nearly all of them are without steeples, and the bells

are hung outside between two beams. The service was over, and the

congregation passed out into the churchyard, where not a tree or

bush was to be seen; no flowers were planted there, and they had not

placed a single wreath upon any of the graves. It is just the same

now. Rough mounds show where the dead have been buried, and rank

grass, tossed by the wind, grows thickly over the whole churchyard;

here and there a grave has a sort of monument, a block of half-decayed

wood, rudely cut in the shape of a coffin; the blocks are brought from

the forest of West Jutland, but the forest is the sea itself, and

the inhabitants find beams, and planks, and fragments which the

waves have cast upon the beach. One of these blocks had been placed by

loving hands on a child's grave, and one of the women who had come out

of the church walked up to it; she stood there, her eyes resting on

the weather-beaten memorial, and a few moments afterwards her

husband joined her. They were both silent, but he took her hand, and

they walked together across the purple heath, over moor and meadow

towards the sandhills. For a long time they went on without speaking.

    "It was a good sermon to-day," the man said at last. "If we had

not God to trust in, we should have nothing."

    "Yes," replied the woman, "He sends joy and sorrow, and He has a

right to send them. To-morrow our little son would have been five

years old if we had been permitted to keep him."

    "It is no use fretting, wife," said the man. "The boy is well

provided for. He is where we hope and pray to go to."