the Four Evangelists, and
ascribed to the Moesogothic Archbishop Ulphilas.]

There once stood ancient Upsala, here now are but a few peasants'
farms. The low church, built of granite blocks, dates from a very
remote age; it stands on the remains of the heathen temple. Each of
the hills is a little mountain, yet each was raised by human hands.
Letters an ell long, and whole names, are cut deep in the thin
greensward, which the new sprouting grass gradually fills up. The old
housewife, from the peasant's cot close by the hill, brings the
silver-bound horn, a gift of Charles John XIV., filled with mead. The
wanderer empties the horn to the memory of the olden time, for Sweden,
and for the heart's constant thoughts--young love!

Yes, thy toast is drunk here, and many a beauteous rose has been
remembered here with a heartfelt hurra! and years after, when the same
wanderer again stood here, she, the blooming rose, had been laid in
the earth; the spring roses had strown their leaves over her coffined
clay; the sweet music of her lips sounded but in memory; the smile in
her eyes and around her mouth, was gone like the sunbeams, which then
shone on Upsala's hills. Her name in the greensward is grown over; she
herself is in the earth, and it is closed above her; but the hill
here, closed for a thousand years, is open.

Through the passage which is dug deep into the hills, we come to the
funereal urns which contain the bones of youthful kindred; the dust of
kings, the gods of the earth.

The old housewife, from the peasant's cot, has lighted half a hundred
wax candles and placed them in rows in the otherwise pitchy-dark,
stone-paved passage. It shines so festally in here over the bones of
the olden time's mighty ones, bones that are now charred and burnt to
ashes. And whose were they? Thou world's power and glory, thou world's
posthumous fame--dust, dust like beauty's rose, laid in the dark
earth, where no light shines; thy memorials are but a name, the name
but a sound. Away hence, and up on the hill where the wind blows, the
sun shines, and the eye looks over the green plain, to the sunlit,
dear Upsala, the student's city.

SALA.

* * * * *

Sweden's great King, Germany's preserver, Gustavus Adolphus, founded
Sala. The little wood, close by, still preserves legends of the heroic
King's youthful love--of his meeting here with Ebba Brahe.

Sala's silver mines are the largest, the deep