The author does not aim to lift the Scandinavians into an air of ungained merit, he does not aim to clothe them with undeserved encomium, but seeks to paint their dues in a straightforward way, thoughtless of sailing the sea of hyperbole, or entering any strait of unearned exploit.

In order, however, to give the reader a clear conception of the spirit, the intrepidity, the characteristic worth of the northern peoples, my pen cannot refrain from plowing into the annals of the past. History is plain and authentic on the subject, and the same chivalric blood ebbs through the veins of the Vikings today as of yore. They have shared and do share the burdens of adventure, discovery and colonization. They have nurtured their sons and daughters with patriotic zeal, and unfurled to their love the folds of freedom. They have braved the foam-crest waves minus compass and sympathy—stars of night and sun of day guided them over the traceless billows. Their dauntless sails have wafted in sun and storm from shore to shore and woven together distant climes.

From the dawn of navigation and soldiery the Scandinavians have evinced skill and dexterity, filled with a whim to roam, see and conquer. They were, perhaps, sometimes rough in their daring expeditions, but always actuated with a will to plant the scepter of liberty and to raise the standard of civilization.

In 860 the valorous Naddodd discovered Iceland, and fourteen years later a republic form of government was established, which flourished four centuries. In 984 Erik The Red discovered Greenland, and in the name of his native country, Norway, took possession of the frozen territory, and unfolded to the breeze the banner of liberty.

"To the West! To the West!" thought Leif Erikson, son of Erik The Red, "spite waves and breakers," and in the year 1000 pointed the bow of his bark for the shore of America, landed at Helluland, now known as Newfoundland. He reconnoitered the coast as far south as Massachusetts, and christened the New World, Vinland.

Not here do the Vikings stop. In 1002 Thorwald Erikson set sail for Vinland, spent three years exploring the green-clad banks of New England with zealous desire to unveil to his countrymen the characteristic features of the new possession. In a collision with the SkrÆllings (Indians) his precious life was blown out, the first European to succumb to the arrows of the red race.

Not here do their voyages for the New World cease. The sagas plainly picture their pilgrimages across the howling waste for Vinland in 1005, 1007, 1011, 1121, 1347.

True, the Scandinavians have been heroes on sea, but no less so on land. King Gustavus Adolphus, of Sweden, poured his life blood on the battlefield of Lutzen, not for military glory, but to liberate millions of innocent souls from the fire of tyranny, the poisonous hands of the chief of superstition, the narrow-minded Philip II., of Spain. He was not only a military genius but the father of his people, a benefactor of humanity.

In 1638 a company of Swedes colonized in the New World, who made the hills and forests of Delaware ring with the music of their picks and axes. As years rolled by emigration started from Sweden, Norway and Denmark. The wilderness of America was their object, the building of homes their love. They braved the interior, fought the lion and the bear, conquered the frowning forests and subdued the spreading prairies. First huts of logs and sods, then quaint dwellings rose to mark their energy. Fields and gardens smiled, school-houses reared the air, and happy lads and lasses pranced their way to school to drink freely from the fountain of knowledge. Home, sweet home echoed from rocks and trees. The frontier was their chance, and thither they steered their lots. They knew how to swing the axe and use the hoe, climb mountains and make themselves contented in the most hazardous exposure.

What to them the soft pillow? when a stone was near at hand. They slept under the blue sky and drank health from the floating clouds. A home for my son and daughter, or my sweetheart, gave them fresh courage. Not only a home, but a pleasant home in a congenial clime, where the heaven smiles serenely, where the rose-bud bursts and thrives the year round. Thunder and cyclones had shaken their tranquility. More peaceful air, tired of the friction and disagreement in the upper regions, and fire that seems eager to eat the whole firmament. Away from the boisterous thunderbolts which make it a business to blast and burn every cloud. "To the West! Sweet Westland!" rolled in their souls, where the air is pure, where the birds sing, where the scenery is grand.