moderns with astonishment and awe. Reader, have you ever pored days and
nights over the pages of Snorro?--probably not, for he wrote in a
language which few of the present day understand, and few would be
tempted to read him tamed down by Latin dragomans. A brave old book is
that of Snorro, containing the histories and adventures of old northern
kings and champions, who seemed to have been quite different men, if we
may judge from the feats which they performed, from those of these days;
one of the best of his histories is that which describes the life of
Harald Haardraade, who, after manifold adventures by land and sea, now a
pirate, now a mercenary of the Greek emperor, became king of Norway, and
eventually perished at the battle of Stamford Bridge, whilst engaged in a
gallant onslaught upon England. Now, I have often thought that the old
Kemp, whose mouldering skull in the Golgotha of Hythe my brother and
myself could scarcely lift, must have resembled in one respect at least
this Harald, whom Snorro describes as a great and wise ruler and a
determined leader, dangerous in battle, of fair presence and measuring in
height just _five ells_, {19} neither more nor less.

I never forgot the Daneman's skull; like the apparition of the viper in
the sandy lane, it dwelt in the mind of the boy, affording copious food
for the exercise of imagination. From that moment with the name of Dane
were associated strange ideas of strength, daring, and superhuman
stature; and an undefinable curiosity for all that is connected with the
Danish race began to pervade me; and if, long after, when I became a
student I devoted myself with peculiar zest to Danish lore and the
acquirement of the old Norse tongue and its dialects, I can only explain
the matter by the early impression received at Hythe from the tale of the
old sexton, beneath the pent-house, and the sight of the Danish skull.

And thus we went on straying from place to place, at Hythe to-day, and