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                               BENTLEY'S
                             POPULAR WORKS.

                               *   *   *

                       One Shilling and Sixpence.

   Tales from Bentley, Vols. 1, 2, 3, and 4.


                      Two Shillings and Sixpence.

   What to do with the Cold Mutton.
   Everybody's Pudding Book; or, Puddings, Tarts, &c., for all the Year
       round.
   The Lady's Dessert Book. By the Author of 'Everybody's Pudding
      Book.'
   Nelly Armstrong. A Story of Edinburgh Life.
   Rita: an Autobiography.
   The Semi-Detached House. Edited by Lady Theresa Lewis.
   The Semi-Attached Couple. By the same Author.
   The Ladies of Bever Hollow. By the Author of 'Mary Powell.'
   Village Belles. By the same Author.
   Easton. By Hon. Lena Eden.
   The Season Ticket.
   Notes on Noses. By Eden Warwick.
   Salad for the Social. Books, Medicine, Lawyers, the Pulpit, &c.
   Say and Seal. By the Author of 'Wide Wide World.'


                     Three Shillings and Sixpence.

   Quits. By the Author of 'The Initials.'
   Anthony Trollope's The Three Clerks.


                            Four Shillings.

   Dr. M'Causland's Sermons in Stones; or, Scripture confirmed by
      Geology.
   Lady Chatterton's Translations from Plato.
   Julia Kavanagh's Madeline, a Tale of Auvergne. Gilt edges.


                            Five Shillings.

   The Ingoldsby Legends; or, Mirth and Marvels. 58th Thousand.
   Francatelli's Cook's Guide. 100 Recipes and 40 Woodcuts. 15th
      Thousand.
   Bentley Ballads. The best Ballads and Songs from Bentley's
      Miscellany. 5th Thousand.
   Lord Dundonald's Autobiography, with Portrait. 6th Thousand.
   Anecdotes of Animals. A Boy's Book, with eight spirited
      Illustrations by Wolff. Handsomely bound, with gilt edges.
   Ellet's Lives of Women Artists of all Ages and Countries. A Girl's
      Book. Handsomely bound, gilt edges.
   Mrs. Ellis' Mothers of Great Men.
   Hayes' Arctic Boat Voyage. Beautifully bound.
   Lamartine's Celebrated Characters. Nelson, Cromwell, Tell, Bossuet,
      Milton. &c.
   Smith's Anecdotes of the Streets of London, and of their more
      Celebrated Residents.
   Colonel Graham's History of the Art of War.
   Dr. Maginn's Shakespeare Characters, Polonius, Falstaff, Bottom the
      Weaver, Macbeth, Hamlet, &c.


                             Six Shillings.

   Ned Locksley. With two Illustrations.
   The Last of the Cavaliers. With two Illustrations.
   The Initials. With two Illustrations.
   Mrs. Wood's East Lynne.
   ------------The Channings.
   ------------Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles.
   Buckland's Curiosities of Natural History, First Series.
   -------------------------------------------Second Series.
   Wilkie Collins' Notes taken afoot in Cornwall; or, Rambles beyond
      Railways.
   Mignet's Life of Mary Queen of Scots. Two Portraits.
   Guizot's Life of Oliver Cromwell. Portrait.
   James' Naval History of Great Britain. 6 vols. 6_s_. each.
   Timbs' Anecdote Lives. With Illustrations. First Series, Statesmen.
   -----------------------Second Series, Painters.
   -----------------------Third Series, Wits and Humourists.
   -----------------------Fourth Series, Wits and Humourists.
   Rev. Herman Douglas' Jerusalem the Golden, and the Way to it.
   Thiers' History of the Great French Revolution. 5 vols. 6_s_. each,
      with 41 exquisite Engravings.
   Dr. Stebbing's Lives of the Principal Italian Poets.






                               THE DANES

                        Sketched by Themselves.

                A SERIES OF POPULAR STORIES BY THE BEST
                            DANISH AUTHORS,



                       TRANSLATED BY MRS. BUSHBY.



                      _IN THREE VOLUMES.--VOL. I_.



                                LONDON:
                RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
                                 1864.

                           *   *   *   *   *

               [_The right of Translation is reserved_.]






        LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET,
                           AND CHARING CROSS.






Most of the following stories have appeared, from time to time, in the
'New Monthly Magazine,' and a few in other periodicals. They are now
gathered together, and it is hoped that they may convey a favourable
impression of the lighter literature of Denmark,--a country rich in
genius, science, and art.




                          CONTENTS OF VOL. I.


   Cousin Carl.--By Carl Bernhard.
   The Doomed House.--By B. S. Ingemann.
   The Felon's Reverie.
   Morten Lange. A Christmas Story.--By Hans Christian Andersen.
   A Tale of Jutland.--By S. S. Blicher.
   The Secret Witness.--By B. S. Ingemann.
   Agnete and the Merman.--By Jens Baggesen.
   A Waking Dream.
   The Confessional.--By Christian Winther.
   The Ancestress; or, Family Pride.--From the Swedish of the late
      Baroness Knorring.
   The Man from Paradise.--By Hans Christian Andersen.




                               THE DANES

                        Sketched by Themselves.

                           *   *   *   *   *

                              COUSIN CARL.

                   FROM THE DANISH OF CARL BERNHARD.


                                PART I.

When I was a young man about twenty years of age, I was a sad
hair-brained fellow. I lived entirely in the passing hour, the time
gone by was quite forgotten, and about the future I never took the
trouble to think a moment. Inclined to every possible species of
foolish prank, I was always ready to rush headlong into any kind of
frolic--anything that promised fun, even if that were a row; and never
did I let slip the opportunity of amusing myself. I was a living proof
that proverbs are not always infallible; for if 'bought wit is best,'
that is to say, wisdom bought by experience, I must have become wise
long ago; if 'a burned child or a scalded cat dreads the fire,' I was
singed and scalded often enough to have felt some dread; and 'to pay
the piper' had frequently fallen upon me. But I was none the wiser or
more prudent. This preface was necessary in order to introduce the
following episode of my mirth-loving youthful days.

My father thought that the best way of breaking off my intimacy with a
somewhat riotous clique of young men, in whose jovial society I passed
a good deal of my time, was to send me to Hamburg, where I was placed
in the counting-house of a merchant, who was expected to keep a strict
watch over me, on account of his well-known reputation for the most
rigid morality; as if one could not find pleasant society in Hamburg if
one were inclined to be gay! Before fourteen days had elapsed, I had at
least three times outwitted the worthy man's vigilance, and twice out
of these three times had not got home till close upon the dawn of day,
without having been engaged in any fray; a pretty fair evidence that I
sought good company, where the risk of getting a drubbing existed
between the hours of one and three. But fate spread her protecting hand
over me, and at the expiration of a year I returned safe and sound to
Copenhagen, bringing back with me much experience in all manner of
jolly diversions, and no small desire to carry my knowledge of them
into continued practice.

I was of course destined to be bound hand and foot with the
counting-house chains; but before putting them on I obtained leave to
take a month's holiday in the country, and visit my uncles and my aunts
in various parts of Zealand. One fine afternoon in the month of
September, I sought out a common conveyance, such as is used by the
peasantry, to take me the first few miles of my journey; and with my
knapsack in my hand I was standing in the court-yard of the inn ready
to step into the rustic carriage, when a servant entered the court and
asked if there were any opportunity for Kjöge.

'That person standing there is going straight to Kjöge,' said the
ostler of the inn.

The servant touched his hat. 'Here is a letter which it is of great
consequence to my master should reach Kerporal's Inn at ----, where a
private carriage will be waiting for him; he is not able to go where he
is expected, as he has been taken ill. I would give the letter to the
driver, but fear he might lose it.'

'Well, let me have it,' said I. 'I will be your master's messenger.
What is his name?' He mentioned a name quite unknown to me. I pocketed
the letter, and drove off.

My usual good luck did not attend me on this journey. In general I
seldom drove a mile without meeting with some little adventure, if no
better than taking up a passenger on the road, or mystifying some
good-natured countryman, or playing the fool with some coquettish
barmaid; but this time everything seemed bewitched, and I was tired to
death. The Kjöge road is the stupidest of all possible roads--the
wayfarers are too ragged and dirty for anyone to venture to take them
up, the peasantry are deeper than coal-pits in cunning, and the
barmaids are either as ugly as sin or engaged to the tapsters and
cellarmen--in both cases disqualified for the situations they fill. I
was dreadfully _ennuyé_, and, as if to add to my despair, one of the
horses became lame, and they proceeded leisurely, step by step, at a
snail's pace.

Whoever has felt as weary of his own company on a journey as I did, if
he will put himself in my place, will not think it strange that I
sometimes got out of the vehicle and walked, sometimes jumped in again,
sometimes sang, sometimes whistled, sometimes thrust my hands into my
pockets playing with everything there, then dragged them out and
buttoned up my coat. But all this impatient rummaging in my pockets did
no good to the stranger's letter, which became so crushed and crumpled
that at last I discovered with some dismay that it looked more like a
scrap of soiled paper than a respectable letter. It was in such a
condition that it would be scarcely possible to deliver it--it was
really almost in tatters. There was nothing to be done but to gain a
knowledge of its contents, and deliver the same verbally to the
coachman. Luckily the person who had sent it did not know who I was.

With the help of a little conjecture, I at length extracted from the
maltreated epistle pretty much what follows:--


'Dear Uncle,--I have duly received your esteemed favour of the 7th
instant, and see by it that my father had informed you of my arrival in
Copenhagen by the steam-boat, and that you are so good as to say you
would send your carriage to meet me on the 11th, about seven o'clock in
the evening, at Kerporal's Inn, in order to convey me from thence to
your house. A severe cold, which I caught on the voyage, obliges me to
keep my room for the present, and to put off my visit to your dear
unknown family for eight days or so. In making this communication I beg
to assure you of my sincere regret at the delay, and to offer my best
compliments to my beautiful cousins.' Then came one or two inflated and
pedantic paragraphs, and the letter was subscribed

                             'Respectfully yours,

                                               'Carl.'


The short and the long of the matter was that he would come in a week,
being detained by a bad cold. 'Well, these interesting communications
can be made in a few words to the coachman. It is surprising how much
paper people think it necessary to waste when they want to trump up a
reason for not doing anything!' With this sage remark I threw the
letter down on the road, where it must speedily have become utterly
illegible, for--one evil more--a shower came on, and it soon increased
till the rain fell in torrents. Misfortunes, it is said, never come
alone; on the contrary, pieces of good fortune seldom come in pairs.

At length we approached Kerporal's Inn. It was pouring of rain, it was
eight o'clock, and it was already almost dark. A travelling-carriage
was waiting under a shed, and its horses were stamping as if with
impatience at a long detention. The gifts of fortune are surely very
unequally distributed, methought, as I reflected on the solitary
journey before me, and that it was impossible I could reach my uncle's
parsonage until very late at night.

'To whom does that carriage belong?' I asked.

'It belongs to the Justitsraad,[1] at ---- Court,' replied the
coachman. This place was situated about a mile[2] from my uncle's
house.

'Oh! then it is you who are waiting for a gentleman from Copenhagen?'
said I.

'Yes, sir. And since you are the gentleman, we had as well set off as
fast as we can. The horses are baited, and we shall have no better
weather this evening, sir,' said the coachman.

'Done!' thought I. 'This is not such a bad idea. I shall get so far dry
and snugly; I can get out at the gate, or else carry the message
myself. People are so hospitable in the country that they will surely
offer me a night's lodging, and at an early hour to-morrow I shall
proceed on foot to my uncle's house.' So the journey was not to be
ended without an adventure.

It is pleasant to exchange a hard, wet conveyance, little better than a
cart, which goes crawling along, for a comfortable carriage getting
over the ground at a brisk pace; so I yielded to the temptation, and
deposited myself in the latter, whilst I envied the pedant who could
travel in such luxurious ease to beautiful unknown cousins--I who had
neither equipages nor cousins--and he could stay at home to take care
of his cold! _I_ would not have done that in _his_ place. The three
miles[3] were soon got over--in fact, they did not seem more than one
mile to me; for during the two last I was fast asleep, the carriage
having rocked me into slumbers as gently as if it had been a cradle.

Suddenly it stopped, and as suddenly I awoke in a state of utter
unconsciousness as to where I was. In a moment the door was opened,
lights and voices around bewildered me still more, and I was almost
dragged out of the carriage.

'It is he--it is cousin Carl!' was shouted in my ears, and the circle
pressed more closely around me.

I was at ---- Court. I was about to execute my commission in the best
manner I could, and make some apology for having brought the message
myself instead of having delivered it to the coachman, when I spied a
charming-looking little cousin, who thrust her pretty head forward with
evident curiosity. How pretty she was! I could not take my eyes off of
her, and stood staring at her for a moment in silence; but during that
moment's silence I had been kindly welcomed by the family as 'Cousin
Carl'--I who was only his unworthy messenger. Was I not in luck?

The Justitsraad carried me straight to the dining-room, and they sat
down immediately to table, as if their repast had been retarded on my
important account. I know not how I carried off my embarrassment; every
moment my situation was becoming more and more painful; my spirits
sank, and my usual effrontery ... ah! it failed me at the very time
that I needed it most.

We were quite a family party. There were but the uncle; his wife, who
was a pleasant, good-looking, elderly lady, apparently about fifty;
cousin Jettè, who was pale and silent, but seemed very interesting;
cousin Hannè, the charming little Venus who had caused my awkward
position; and cousin Thomas, a lanky, overgrown boy, about twelve years
of age, with long arms in jacket-sleeves too short for them. From sheer
flurry I ate as if I had not seen food for a fortnight, and with each
glass I emptied down my throat I started in my own mind one plan after
another to escape from the dilemma into which my thoughtlessness had
plunged me.

'I am very glad to see that you do not make strangers of us, but really
are eating heartily,' said the Justitsraad as he filled my plate for
the fifth time. 'I can't bear to see young men, or anyone, under
restraint in my house; here everyone must do exactly as if he were at
home. I am very glad you are not sitting like a stick, or looking as if
you were afraid of us and of the viands before you. And now let us
drink to your happy return to your native land. I am pleased to see
that you are able now to pledge one in a glass of wine. When you were a
boy, you had every appearance of turning out a regular milksop. But, to
be sure, eleven years make great changes in everybody.'

I drank to the health of my father and mother, then to the welfare of
the whole family, and then a special toast to cousin Jettè's health,
which was proposed by her father himself. When we were about to drink
it, he nodded to me with an air of intelligence, as if we were
_d'accord_ with each other; but the pretty cousin scarcely touched the
glass with her lips, and did not vouchsafe me a single glance; it
seemed as if she were far from pleased at the compliment paid her.
Cousin Hannè, who sat near me, filled my glass every time it was empty,
and she had so industriously employed herself in this manner, that my
head was beginning to be a good deal confused.

'And now it is time to go to bed, my children!' said the Justitsraad.
'It is late; to-morrow we will hear all that your cousin has to tell
us.'

I was on the point of requesting a moment's private conversation with
him; but the moment for doing so passed away unseized--in the next it
was no longer possible. The family bade each other good night, a
servant showed me to my room, and I was left to my reflections. The
reflections of a harum-scarum fellow of one-and-twenty! You are right,
dear reader, they certainly were not worth much. Hannè's pretty face
and the Justitsraad's good wine had taken a somewhat potent effect upon
my brain; I hastened to seek repose, and, like the Theban tyrant,
deferred grave business till the morrow.

But I could not fall asleep, for conscience plagued me; it is its
custom to wake up when everybody is sleeping, and without the least
mercy it compelled me to listen to its lectures. It became so
importunate that it drove me out of bed, and induced me to admit that
it would be better to jump out of the window, and carry my baggage on
my shoulders to my uncle's parsonage, than to be treated to-morrow as
an impudent puppy--_that_ I should not so much mind--but also as a
scamp of an impostor who had palmed himself upon them for the sake of
obtaining a drive and a good supper gratis--_that_ I should mind a
great deal, for it would touch my honour. It is thus one reasons at
twenty-one.

It rained no longer, but it was as dark as pitch. Darkness would favour
my intention; but how was I to find my way in a place utterly unknown
to me? I determined to keep awake till the dawn of day, then take
myself off, and leave the family to make inquiries about the cousin,
until the real one thought fit to recover from his cold. But that
little Hannè's charming face, was I never to behold it again? Well, it
was very foolish to have come there, but after all, it would be still
more foolish to remain.

I left a little piece of my window open, and sat down near it in order
to watch for the first streaks of daylight. I had, however, a long time
to wait, for it was just half-past twelve o'clock. As I sat there,
fretting at myself for my folly, I heard something or some one,
stirring beneath the window, and a moment afterwards among the branches
of a tree close by. It was some person climbing the tree, but his visit
was not intended for me, for he crept up much higher, and appeared to
have mounted to a level with an upper window, as one was opened very
gently and cautiously. Ah! an assignation! a secret appointment!

It is really an advantage to have a tender conscience; without that I
should have been fast asleep, and should never have known what was
going on so near me. But who could it be? Could cousin Thomas, though
only twelve years of age, be making love to one of the housemaids? Let
us listen.

'For God's sake make no noise!' said a whispering voice at the window
above mine. 'He has arrived; he occupies the room just below, and he
can hardly be asleep yet.'

'The light has been extinguished for at least half an hour,' replied
the voice in the tree. 'Such an ape has nothing to wake or watch for.'

An ape, forsooth! as if I were not quite as wide awake as himself.

'Dear Gustav, think of my distress,' continued the voice at the window;
'my father drank my health at table, and nodded to him in such a
significant manner! Oh, how I hate that man! Tomorrow, perhaps, he will
begin to treat me as his betrothed; my father will give him every
opportunity, and he will take upon himself to be intimate, and to make
me presents. Oh! how unhappy I am!'

'You see, dearest Jettè, this is the consequence of our silence; if we
had spoken to him before the accursed cousin came here, perhaps your
father might have been persuaded to have given up this absurd childish
betrothal.'

'No--no; he would never have done that,' replied Jettè; 'he is too much
attached to his brother; and he will do everything in his power to have
the agreement fulfilled, which eleven years ago they entered into with
each other at their children's expense.'

'Why did not that man break his neck on the way! Such fellows can
travel round the whole world without the slightest accident ever
happening to them,' said Gustav. 'But he may, perhaps, repent coming
here; I shall pick a quarrel with him, I will call him out, he shall
fight with me, and either he or I shall be put out of the way.'

'May God protect you, my dearest Gustav!' exclaimed my cousin. 'But how
can you have the heart to frighten me with such threats? Am I not
wretched enough? Would you increase the burden that is weighing me down
to the grave? I see nothing before me but misery and despair; no
comfort--no escape.' Poor Jettè was weeping; I could hear how she
sobbed in her woe. I now perceived why the poor girl had been so pale
and distant--I was betrothed to her.

'Forgive me, dearest girl! I hardly know what I am saying; but take
comfort, do not weep so bitterly. Heaven will not desert us, and we
shall find some means of softening your father; besides, no rational
man would wish to obtain a wife upon compulsion. If he has the least
pride or spirit, he will himself draw back.'

'Ah, Gustav! if there were any chance of his drawing back, he would not
have come here. His father wrote that he was coming expressly to claim
his--his promised rights; and that--and that we should learn to know
each other before the wedding. We had been betrothed for eleven years,
he wrote, and it was time that ... No! I cannot think of it without
despair.'

'What sort of looking person is he? Is he handsome? Whom does he
resemble?'

'He is not in the least like what he was as a boy, he is very much
changed; he has improved very much in looks, and, indeed, may be called
handsome now.'

'That is a girl with a good taste,' thought I; 'I wish I could help her
out of her troubles.'

'Handsome!--I congratulate you, Miss Jettè--handsome people generally
make a favourable impression, and by degrees one becomes quite
reconciled to them, and pleased with them--don't you think so?'

The lover grasped the branch nearest him so roughly in his anger, that
he made the whole tree shake.

'Gustav! are you in earnest?' exclaimed Jettè, in a tone of voice that
would have gone to the heart of a stone, if stones had hearts.

'Dearest, dearest Jettè! Sweet, patient angel!' He stretched himself so
far out from the tree that I think he must have reached her hand and
kissed it.

'Indeed, you have no reason to be jealous of him,' said Jettè, 'for one
quite forgets his being handsome, when one observes how awkward he is.
He does not seem to be at all accustomed to society; he eats like a
shark, and you should have seen how he drank. Hannè amused herself in
filling his glass, and I do believe that for his own share alone he
emptied two bottles of wine. And he never uttered a single word. Oh! he
is my horror--that man; but my father seems pleased with him, and
praised him after he had left the room. Dear Gustav! how unfortunate we
are!'

Should I allow these imputations to rest upon me? A blockhead--a
glutton--and a drunkard! And cousin Hannè had been making a fool of me,
forsooth!--the little jade, with her pretty face. I was certainly in a
pleasant position.

'I will speak to your father to-morrow,' said Gustav, after a little
consideration. 'He is very fond of you, he will not be deaf to our
prayers, or expect impossibilities from you. What can he bring forward
against me? I shall soon be in a position to maintain a wife, my family
are quite on an equality with his own, my father is not poor, and my
situation in life is now, and always will be, such, that I can satisfy
any inquiry he can make into it. Deny then no longer your consent,
dearest Jettè; let us no longer conceal our attachment from him, and
depend on it all will go well.'

'Ah, Gustav! you do not know my father. He will positively insist that
I shall fulfil this engagement. Vows are sacred in his eyes, and he
himself has never broken his word. When I gave that promise I was but a
child, and I wore the plain gold ring without ever reflecting that it
was a link of that never-to-be-broken chain which was to bind me to a
life of misery. Oh, God, have mercy upon me!'

'Doubt not _His_ help, my beloved girl! He will spread His protecting
hand over us, even if all else shall fail us.'

The sorrowing lovers whispered then so softly that I could not overhear
what further they said, but I concluded they were comforting each
other. The first streak of day cast a pale line of light across the
tops of the trees and the roofs of the outhouses near. It was almost
time for me to commence _my_ flight, but everything must be quiet
first. I gathered together my effects with as little noise as possible.
The conversation on the outside recommenced, and I approached the
window impatiently.

'How long is he going to stay here?' asked Gustav.

'I do not know; perhaps only a few days. Alas! my only hope is in him,'
replied Jettè. To-morrow I shall have a private conversation with him,
which, of course, will lead to an explanation. I will make an
appointment with him in the garden,--if you will promise me not to be
jealous,' added Jettè, with a degree of archness in her tone which
enchanted me.

'It is hard that my rival is to be my sheet anchor,' said Gustav; 'but,
since it must be so, speak to him, dearest. However, if that fails,
then, my sweet girl, then ...'

'Then I promise you ... But what noise is that? I thought I heard some
one stirring. For God's sake go! Let no one see you here!'

'To-morrow night, then, at one o'clock. Farewell, dear Jettè.'

Then came a kiss. Was it on the hand or the lips?

'Take care how you get down. To-morrow night. Adieu till then!'

The faithful knight-errant swung himself from branch to branch with an
adroitness which proved that he was experienced in that mode of
descent. As soon as he set foot on the ground the window above was
closed.

It was now my turn to get into the trees. Gustav had taught me that
trick. I wondered what sort of a looking fellow he was. Poor Jettè--to
have chosen for herself, and yet to be condemned to be sacrificed to a
man who could begin a letter about his intended bride with, 'I have
duly received your esteemed favour of the 5th instant,' and who could
absent himself from such a charming girl, merely because he had a
slight cold! Well! it is a wretched world, this, in which we live. It
was becoming more and more light. To-day she wished to have a private
conversation with me--her only hope was in me; there was to be an
explanation between us, an assignation in the garden. Who the deuce
could run away from all this? But.... Well! nobody knew me--the real
cousin was not coming for a week ... surely I might stay _one_ day on
the strength of personifying him? I am a fatalist; destiny has sent me,
and it will aid me.... I will not forsake Jettè ... and I will revenge
myself upon that little Mademoiselle Hannè, who wanted to drink me
under the table, and I will show the whole accomplished family that I
have studied good manners in Hamburg, and am neither a blockhead, a
glutton, nor a drunkard. It is a matter that touches my honour; I will
stay!... But ... suppose they take it into their heads to question me?
Humph! If the worst comes to the worst, I can but stuff a little linen
into my great-coat pocket, make a pretext to get outside the gate, and
take to flight at once. In the meantime, I will make some inquiries
about the neighbourhood and the roads, for at present I have not the
most remote idea whether I ought to turn to the right hand or the left.
And to-morrow night--good-by to this darling family, with many thanks
for their kind welcome. Whilst they are all sleeping, or keeping
nocturnal assignations, I shall vanish without leaving the slightest
trace behind. It will give them something to talk of till Christmas.

Whilst this monologue was in progress of utterance, I was busily
undressing myself. I jumped into bed, and soon slept as soundly as if I
had a lawful right to be there, and were the dreaded cousin himself.

But when I was summoned to breakfast next morning I was in a very
different frame of mind. I had slept off the effects of the wine, sober
reason had resumed her sway, fear followed at my heels like a bad
spirit; and I would assuredly have made my escape if the well-dressed
valet-de-chambre had left me a moment to myself. I was compelled to
resign myself to my fate, and allow myself to be marshalled to the
breakfast-parlour; but as I approached the scene of my threatened
exposure, despair restored my courage, I remembered that it was
incumbent on me to wipe out the disgrace of the preceding evening, and
I found my habitual impudence and lightness of heart upon the very
threshold of the door.

I went up to them all, and shook hands with them, and as I now knew
that I was engaged to Jettè, I kissed her hand with all possible
amorous gallantry. The poor girl looked as if she could have sunk into
the earth, and I coloured up to my temples, for I just recollected that
I had on no betrothal ring. Jettè wore the plain gold ring I had heard
her mention, but it was almost hidden by another ring, with a simple
enamelled 'Forget-me-not.' Might not _that_ have been a gift from the
unknown Gustav?

'How are you this morning, my dear?' said the Justitsraad. 'Jettè has
not been very well lately,' he added; 'she looks poorly, and has no
appetite. It must be that abominable _nervousness_, of which young
ladies now-a-days are always complaining.'

Jettè assured him that she felt quite well. I doubted if her mother or
her sister were so much in her confidence as I was at that moment; but
neither of them had been sitting at an open window between twelve
o'clock at night and three o'clock in the morning.

At first all went on smoothly, for the conversation was on the safe
subjects of wind and weather; but a change for the worst was coming.

'Now, nephew, tell us something about the old people yonder. How is my
brother looking?'

'Extremely well, uncle. He is looking quite fresh.'

'But the gout--the gout in his feet? that sticks to him yet--and it is
not the most pleasant of companions.'

'Oh, yes--the gout! But he is accustomed to that.'

'And your mother?'

'She is also well, only she is getting older every day.'

'Ah! that is what we are all doing. And aunt Abelonè? How goes it with
her?'

'She is very well too.'

'What! _very well_--with her broken leg! Why, you must be joking?'

'Oh dear, no! I ... I only meant to say as well ... as well as anyone
can be with a broken leg,' I stammered out. In truth, I knew nothing
about, and cared as little for, Abelonè's mishap.

'Listen to that madcap. He speaks of a broken leg as if it were
absolutely a trifling matter.'

The danger was over for a moment, but another attack soon followed. I
had scarcely swallowed a cup of tea, before my _soi-disant_ uncle
demanded from me a particular account of the new system of agriculture
my father had introduced on his property--I, who did not even know
where that property lay! But this time his wife came to the rescue, for
she declared that we could discuss systems of husbandry when we were
strolling in the fields together, or out hunting, and that she and her
daughters did not take much interest in agricultural questions.

'Well, we will talk of this another time,' said the Justitsraad. 'But
tell us at present something of your travels. Women-folk are always
pleased to hear adventures of travellers. You have visited Paris,
Berlin, Vienna, and many other places. A man who has travelled so much
might talk for a whole month without being at a loss for a subject.'

Very well did I know that I had never beheld a single building either
in Paris or Berlin, except in engravings. What was I to say? I busied
myself in getting up a good tale.

'Upon my word, nephew, I should not suspect you of being very bashful;
but if you don't like to speak of your travels, let them alone, my
boy,--everybody shall do as he likes in my house. Many years ago, I
remember, I went to Hamburg, and when I came home I almost tired
them all out by describing what I had seen. But I suppose it is
old-fashioned now to make any comments on what one has witnessed
abroad.'

Here was a piece of good luck. I knew Hamburg as well as my own
pockets, and now I was like my uncle after _his_ return. There was no
end to my descriptions and anecdotes. The old man seemed to take real
delight in hearing about all the alterations which had been made in the
old town since the days of his youth, inquiring often for places which
no longer exist. I endeavoured to make my discourse as amusing as
possible. Cousin Thomas rested his elbows on the table, listened with
open mouth, and laughed outright several times; my aunt often let her
knitting-needle fall, to look at the pencil sketches with which I was
illustrating my descriptions; cousin Jettè looked less sourly at me
than before; and Hannè--the pretty, coquettish, little Hannè--for whose
sake I was sitting apparently so much at my ease among them, was
unwearied in her queries about the Hamburg ladies, fashions, and
theatres. Happily these had been the objects of my most intense study.

'I perceive now, that when once his tongue is set a-going, he has
plenty to say,' remarked my worthy uncle. 'How long were you in
Berlin?'

'Nay; stop, uncle! we are at Hamburg just now. I have still a great
deal to tell about that city. Everything should be arranged in due
order. Today I will confine myself to Hamburg; to-morrow we shall
travel to Berlin.' 'Catch me here tomorrow,' thought I to myself; 'if I
only can get through to-day, I will take French leave before we come to
Berlin.'

'Come! since you give such a good reason, we will let you off Berlin
just now. I am a lover of order myself, and here everything goes by
clockwork. During the first part of the morning every one must look out
for himself; at twelve we meet for luncheon--at three o'clock we dine.
Amuse yourself in the mean time as well as you can; you will find
plenty of books in the library--yonder hang fire-arms--and in the
stables there are horses at your service; do exactly as if you were at
home, and take care of yourself.'

'I will take a turn in the garden,' said I, with a glance at Jettè--one
of those looks _d'intelligence_ from which I expected great things; but
she took no notice of it, and I was under the necessity of remarking,
that being a stranger I did not know the way. But even this opening for
a _tête-à-tête_ she allowed to pass, and I could not imagine how she
intended to bring about our secret conference.

'A stranger!' cried my uncle. 'But true, in eleven years one forgets a
great deal. Let me see--how old were you then? you are three-and-twenty
now ... twelve years of age you were; who could have guessed then that
you would have become such a free-and-easy, off-hand sort of a fellow?
Well, let him be shown the grounds, children. Thomas must go to his
studies; my wife has her household matters to attend to; Jettè, you
must ...'

'I really am not able, my dear father--I have a dreadful headache,'
said the poor timid girl. And she looked as if she spoke nothing but
the truth,--she was so pale, and her eyes were so red.

'A woman's malady,' said her father, looking vexed; 'it is, of course,
incumbent on you to ... Well; all that will vanish when you are better
acquainted. _We_ know what these qualms mean,' he added, turning
towards me. I nodded, as if I would have said--_Sat sapienti_. 'Have
you also got a headache, Hannè? Are you also suffering from
nervousness? or can you stand the fresh morning air, my girl?' he
asked. I looked eagerly at the little gipsy.

'Oh! I can endure the fresh morning air very well,' she replied.

'Then take charge of your cousin Carl, and show him round the garden
and the shrubberies; and don't forget the pretty view from the rising
ground where the swing is.'

The Justitsraad held out his hand to me, and I pressed it with all the
warmth of sincere gratitude.

'Come, cousin,' said Hannè. 'Shall we call each other by our first
names, or not? But we can settle that as we go along.'

'For Heaven's sake, let us call each other by our baptismal names, else
we should not seem like cousins. Don't you think so, uncle?'

'You are of my own people, my boy. Always be merry and frank--that is
my motto. I am right glad that you have not adopted the stiff German
manners. Your father was always very grave; but you have rubbed off all
that solemnity abroad, I am happy to see.'

In my delight at the promised stroll with Hannè, I forgot that it was
my duty to kiss Jettè's hand on leaving her. Just as I had reached the
door I suddenly remembered it; and rushing back, I went through the
salutation in the speediest manner possible, expressing at the same
time my hope to find her better on my return. They all laughed, and
even Jettè could not help smiling,--there was something so comical in
my hurried return, and equally hurried performance of the ceremony
etiquette demanded.

Was I not right in calling myself a madcap? Here was I actually walking
with the charming little Hannè all over the grounds! I--her pretended
cousin; I--who ought to have been sent to the House of Correction, for
having, under another man's name, presumed to thrust myself into the
midst of a respectable family; I--who had committed, a positive
depredation, and broken the sacred privacy of a seal;--here was I
wandering about arm-in-arm with the Justitraad's daughter at ----
Court, the captivating, innocent, beautiful little Hannè; I--who
deserved to be driven away with all the dogs on the estate at my heels!
Well! goodness and justice do not always carry the day in this world!


                                PART II.

When I looked at my companion I was almost appalled at my audacity.
Think of the face you love the best in this world--the face that you
never can behold without a beating heart--which you dwell on with
rapture, which is the object of your waking and your sleeping dreams!
Ah! quite as charming as such looked Hannè in her pink gingham
morning-dress, with a little blue handkerchief tied carelessly round
her throat, and a becoming white bonnet. She was irresistible!

We strayed here and there like two children; plucked flowers to teach
each other their botanical names; gathered a whole handful to commence
a herbarium, and threw them away again to chase some gaudy butterfly.
Then we sauntered on slowly, and Hannè communicated many little things
to me of which she thought her cousin ought to be informed; and at
length I began to fancy that I actually was the real cousin Carl. Of
all the young girls that ever I beheld, Hannè was the most delightful;
such grace, such vivacity, such naïveté, were not to be met with either
in Copenhagen or in Hamburg.

'It is a pity Jettè could not accompany you,' said she; 'but to-morrow,
probably, her headache will be gone.'

I assured her that I did not regret Jettè's absence, since I had _her_
company.

'That is a pretty declaration from a bridegroom who has allowed himself
to be waited for eleven years,' said Hannè.

'Jettè did not look as if she were glad at my arrival.'

'You must not think anything of that; she has looked out of spirits for
a month past, at least: she is apt to be melancholy at times, but it
passes off. Her character is sedate. She is much better, therefore,
than I am, or than anyone I know. You can hardly fancy how good she
is.'

'But I want a lively wife, for I am myself of a very gay disposition,'
said I.

'That is not what we thought you were,' replied my fair companion. 'We
always looked upon you as a quiet, grave, somewhat heavy young man, and
you have been described to us as a most tedious, wearisome person. I
used often to pity Jettè in my own mind; for a stupid, humdrum man is
the greatest bore on earth. But I do not pity her anymore, now.'

I could have kissed her, I was so pleased.

'So you thought of me with fear and disgust, you two poor girls? Pray,
who painted my portrait so nicely?'

'Why, your own father did; and the letter which you wrote Jettè when
she was confirmed, and when you sent her the betrothal-ring, did not at
all improve our opinion of you. I'll tell you what, Carl; that was a
miserable epistle. It was with the utmost difficulty that my father
prevailed on Jettè to answer it, when she was obliged to send you a
ring in return. However, you were little more than a boy then--it is
long ago, and it was all forgotten when we never heard again from you.
I can venture to affirm that Jettè has not thought six times about you
in the six years that have elapsed since that time--and perhaps this is
lucky for you. It was not until your father wrote us that you had come
home, and until he began to bombard Jettè with presents and messages
from you, that you were mentioned again among us; but my father never
could bear our laughing at your renowned epistle.'

I listened with the utmost avidity to every little circumstance that
could elucidate the part I had taken upon myself to play. In this
conversation I learned more than I could have gathered the whole
morning.

'It is very absurd to betroth children to each other. What should they
know of love?' said Hannè.

'It is more than absurd, Hannè; it is positive barbarity. It is
trampling the most sacred feelings and rights under foot.'

'Nevertheless you may thank God for that barbarity,' said she; 'without
it you would never have got Jettè. She has plenty of admirers.'

'Indeed! And who are they, if I may take the liberty of asking? You
make me quite jealous.'

'Oh, I have observed that both the young clergyman at ---- Town and
Gustav Holm are much attached to her. And Jettè has no dislike to
Gustav.'

'Who is Gustav Holm? He appears to be the most dangerous.'

'He is learning farming, or rather, I ought to say, agricultural
affairs, with a country gentleman not far from this. He has been coming
to our house now about three years; I think, and I could wager a large
sum, that it is for Jettè's sake.'

'Or for your own, little Hannè?'

'Pshaw! nonsense! If anyone were dangling here after me, I should make
no secret of it. Jettè is a greater favourite than I am, and she
deserves to be so.'

'But perhaps Jettè cares more for Gustav Holm than for me, whom she
really does not know?'

One often asks a question in this hypocritical world about what one
knows best oneself.

'No, oh no! That would be a sad affair. Has she not been engaged to you
for eleven years, and is she not going to be married to you?'

'But if you had been in Jettè's place, how would you have felt?'

'I would perhaps have preferred ... No, I don't think I would though.
But I am not so mild and amiable as Jettè; and the day that I was
confirmed no one should have imposed a betrothal-ring upon me, I can
assure you, sir; and, least of all, accompanied by such an elegant
billet as yours.'

Hannè picked up a blade of grass, formed it into a string, and twisting
it round her finger in an artistic manner, made it into a knot.

'Can you make such?' said she.

I tried it, but could not succeed, and she took hold of my hand to do
it for me.

'But how is this, Carl?' she exclaimed. 'Where is your betrothal-ring?'

'It is ... I have ... I wear it attached to a ribbon round my neck; ...
it annoyed me to have to answer the many questions it was the cause of
my being asked. Therefore I determined to wear it near my heart.'

'It annoyed you! Did ever anyone hear such an assertion? Jettè has
faithfully worn hers, and placed a "_Forget-me-not_" into the bargain
by its side, to remind herself, I suppose, not to forget you. But _you_
found it a bore, even to be asked if you were engaged! Such gallants as
you do not deserve to be remembered. But come now, I will show you a
beautiful view.'

We passed together through a charming shady wood, where several paths,
diverging among the trees, crossed each other. Hannè walked before,
light and graceful as Diana in her fluttering drapery; I followed her,
like the enamoured Actæon. Alas! the resemblance would soon become
stronger, I thought--how soon might I not be discovered, driven forth
as a miserable intruder, and delivered over to regret and remorse,
which would prey upon me, and tear me to atoms, as the hounds tore
Actæon!

Upon a rising ground stood a swing, the posts of which towered above
the tops of the trees, and the erection looked at a distance like a
gallows. From this spot the view was very extensive--a number of
country churches could be seen from it, and among others that of my
uncle.

'But why have you placed that gallows upon this lovely spot?' I asked.

'Gallows! No one ever presumed to give such an appellation to my swing
before,' said Hannè, angrily. 'If it were not very uncivil, I would say
that it evinces an extremely debased and disordered state of the
imagination to make a gallows out of my innocent swing.'

The girl spoke the absolute truth. It will hereafter come to be called
gallows, thought I--and tomorrow my fair fame will hang dangling there,
as a terror and a warning to all counterfeit cousins.

'But never mind, cousin, I did not mean to be so sharp with you. Don't,
however, let my father hear you say anything disparaging of this place;
he would, not so easily forgive you. Come, you shall atone for your sin
by swinging me,' added Hannè, as she settled herself in the swing.

'Ah, Hannè! would that I could as easily atone for all my sins towards
you!'

I could have swung her for a lifetime, I do believe, without becoming
weary of gazing at her; but she compassionately stopped, fancying I
must be tired.

'You will be quite fatigued, poor fellow--it would be a shame to make
you work longer,' said she. 'Get in, and you shall find that the swing
stands in a good situation; that is to say, if you are not afraid of
the gallows,' she added, as she made room for me.

'For your sake, I would not shun even the gallows,' said I, as I sprang
up.

The swing went at full speed; it was pleasant to be carried thus over
the tops of the trees, and behold the earth as if stretched out beneath
one's feet. I felt as if in heaven. I was flying in the air with an
angel.

'How delightful this is!' I cried, throwing my arm round Hannè's waist.

'What, to be on a gallows? But pray hold on by the rope, cousin, and
not by me. Now let us get down--we have had enough of this pastime.'

'I have an earnest prayer to make to you, dear Hannè,' I said, seizing
her hand. 'Listen to me before we leave this place. I foresee that the
swing, at least in your recollection, will retain the name I
accidentally gave it. Promise me that you will come here when you hear
evil of me, and doubt my honour, and that you will then remember that
it was here I entreated you to judge leniently of the absent. Fate
plays strange tricks with us, dear Hannè; it throws us sometimes into
temptations which we are too weak to withstand. Promise me that you
will not condemn me irrevocably, although appearances may be against
me.'

The lovely girl looked at me for a moment with surprise and
earnestness, and then suddenly burst into an immoderate fit of
laughter; another moment, and my confession would have been made.

'I promise you,' said she, 'that I shall come here and think of you as
well as you deserve--that is to say, if I have nothing else to do, and
nothing else to think of. But at present I have no time to spare for
gallows'-reflections, the bell is ringing for luncheon, and my father
likes us to appear punctually at table.'

Jettè did not come down to luncheon, her headache confined her to her
room, poor girl! I felt very sorry for her, and when I reflected that
my principal, whose unworthy messenger I was, would torment her still
more, my heart really grieved for her. The family were very cheerful,
and it was long since I had been among so pleasant and sociable a
little party. Alas! half the day was now gone, and when the other half
were passed it would be all over with my enjoyments.

After luncheon, cousin Thomas came to me and begged that I would go out
with him for a few hours' shooting, the afternoon being his time for
exercise and amusement. I wished to be on good terms with all the
family, and therefore accepted his invitation; besides, I thought he
might be in a talkative humour, and that I might be able to extract
from him some particulars of their domestic history. We took a couple
of guns and sallied forth. I had already become so hardened that I
did not feel the slightest twinge of conscience at thus abusing the
open-hearted confidence of twelve years of age. 'Give the Devil an
inch, and he will take an ell,' says the proverb.

But cousin Thomas was too keen a sportsman to have ears for anything
except sporting anecdotes, and I soon began to grudge the time I had
wasted upon him. There was no help for me, however. I was in for it,
and I had to follow him from one moor to another, removing myself every
moment farther from his father's abode.

'Who is that person yonder?' I asked by mere chance, only not to seem
quite silent.

'Where? Oh! that is Gustav Holm,' said Thomas. 'He is coming, I dare
say, from Green Moor--the very best moor in the whole neighbourhood.'

'We must speak to him.--Mr. Holm! Mr. Holm! Good morning, Mr. Holm.'

The person thus hailed stopped for a moment, and then came up to us. I
forthwith introduced myself as a newly-arrived relative of the family
at ---- Court, and he cast on me the pleasant glance with which one
generally eyes a rival.

'What sort of sport have they to-day at Green Moor?' I asked; and I
attacked him with questions and stuck to him like a burr, though I saw
that he would fain have got rid of me. But that was impossible. Mr.
Holm was exceedingly chary of his words; therefore if either was a
blockhead, as I had been described the night before, it was he rather
than I.

'I will do poor Jettè a service while I can,' thought I; and I invited
Mr. Holm to return with us to ---- Court. 'You visit at my uncle's, I
think,' I added; 'it strikes me that I have heard my cousin speak of
you.'

He grew as red as fire, poor fellow.

'I don't think little Hannè will pick a quarrel with me because I beg
you to accompany us home,' said I, slily; and the luckless lover became
still more embarrassed. He tried to excuse himself, but I would take no
denial; he was obliged to give way, and in triumph I brought my
prisoner back with me. 'Thomas will bear witness to the ladies how much
trouble I had in prevailing on you to come, and they will therefore the
more highly appreciate your self-sacrifice,' said I.

When we reached the gate, he tried again to negotiate for his freedom,
but Thomas found his reluctance so amusing, that he would not allow him
to make his escape. Giving way at length, he exclaimed,

'You are going to afflict your party with a tiresome addition, for I
have a dreadful headache to-day.'

'You will feel better when you have dined,' I replied; 'and if you
would like to have some sal volatile, you can get some from my
_fiancée_; she has a headache also to-day. There must be something in
the air to cause it, since you are similarly affected.'

Mr. Holm evidently writhed under my mode of treatment; and at the term
_fiancée_ he looked as if I had trodden heavily upon his corns. It was
certainly very trying, but I had comfort in the background for him.

Neither the Justitsraad nor his wife seemed to be much pleased at the
arrival of their unexpected guest; nevertheless, they received him
politely, and assigned to him a place at table between them. He could
not have demanded a more honourable seat. Thomas was inexhaustible in
his descriptions of Mr. Holm's unwillingness to give himself up as a
captive, and how clever he had been in securing him. Poor Jettè dared
hardly look up from her plate.

'Mr. Holm ought to know that he is always welcome,' said the
Justitsraad; but it was evident that the remark was the result of good
breeding, rather than of any cordial pleasure he had in seeing him.

'Very true, uncle; that is just what I said. Hannè spoke of him to me
so highly this morning, that I really became quite eager to make his
acquaintance. The friends of the family must also be my friends. I knew
right well that Hannè would not be angry at me if I brought him home
with me.'

'I! What did I say?' exclaimed Hannè, colouring deeply. 'How can you
make such an assertion? I believe ...'

'That I am a sad gossip, and never can keep to myself what I hear--I
confess the truth of the impeachment.'

Her parents looked at her with surprise; Jettè cast an inquiring glance
towards her, and Gustav forced a smile. Hannè was very angry, but her
wrath did not last long; time was precious to me, and I speedily
effected a reconciliation with her.

'I do verily believe that you are not quite sober to-day, Carl,' said
Hannè in a whisper to me, when we rose from table.

'Truth to tell, Hannè, I am not, but that is your fault. Why did you
try to make me drink myself under the table last night? It is only a
judgment from Heaven on you; those who dig a pit for other people often
fall into it themselves.'

'Hark ye, cousin! I am very near wishing that you had been in reality
as stupid a nonentity as we were given to understand you were.'

'What if you should be taken at your word? You may get your wish more
easily than you imagine; by this day week the transformation may have
been brought about; see if you don't wish me back again then.'

Her father took my arm, and proposed adjourning to the garden with our
cigars. I had nearly fled the field at this invitation, so much did I
dread a _tête-à-tête_ with him; nothing on earth could have detained me
but the expected secret meeting with Jettè, whose good genius I was to
be. I felt that I could almost rather have faced his Satanic Majesty
himself at that moment, had the choice between the two companions been
mine; but what was I to do? There was nothing for it but to accompany
my host quietly.

'Listen, my son,' said the old gentleman, when we had exhausted our
first cigars; 'I cannot say I am much pleased at your having brought
that Mr. Holm back with you. He is a very respectable young man, but
... Why should we encumber ourselves with him?... To speak out, you
should have been the last person to have brought _him_ to this house.'

'_I!_ How so? I really had planned to make him one of my most intimate
friends. Hannè said so much in his favour.'

'Hannè does not care a straw for him--she is only a child.'

'A child! and on the 12th of November she will be seventeen years old!
No, no, uncle, girls give up thinking themselves children when they
arrive at ten years of age.'

'But I tell you, Hannè does not care in the least for him; nor does he
for her.'

'Very well, uncle, so much the better, for there is no sort of danger
then in his coming here.'

'Danger! Oh! I don't look upon him as at all dangerous; but I can't
bear to see him looking so woe-begone.'

'I shall soon enliven him. Only leave him to me, and you will see that
he shall become quite gay. I will take him in hand if he can come here
every day.'

'Confound the fellow! I must just tell you plainly out then--he is a
great admirer of Jettè. Do you understand me now?'

'May I ask how you know that, sir?'

'How I know that?... Well ... No matter how. Suffice it to say, I know
it. Jettè cannot endure him, that I know also; but his sighs might make
some impression on her, so it were better that he kept entirely away.
Besides, if he gets no encouragement, his fancy will wear out. Don't
you agree with me that he had better not come here?'

'I can't call it a sin to be in love with Jettè, for I am so myself;
she is a girl that it would be impossible not to admire. If we were to
drive away every one who was guilty of admiring her, we should be
compelled at last to live as hermits.'

'What the devil, nephew! Do _you_ say all this--you, who are to be her
future husband?'

'One must be somewhat liberal, uncle--one must seem not to observe
everything. Suspicion does a great deal of harm, and jealousy would
only encourage the evil. Jettè shall find me as gentle as a lamb.
Besides, you have assured me that she cannot endure him.'

'Well!... Perhaps she does not exactly hate him ... she has no
particular fault to find with him ... but he embarrasses her ... he
embarrasses her ... and when a person embarrasses one ...' The good man
had got into a dilemma, and he was not able to get out of it; so he
stopped short.

'Oh! that will pass off when she accustoms herself to see him. It is a
great misfortune to let oneself be embarrassed by the presence of
others; really, after a time this would lead one to become a
misanthrope--a hater of one's species.'

The Justitsraad looked at me with astonishment, while he replied:

'I wish you had not gone on your travels; I fear your morality has
suffered not a little in consequence. I hardly knew you again, you are
so much changed. You are not like the same being who, eleven years ago,
was such a quiet, bashful boy. And your father, who constantly wrote
that you were not the least altered, he must scarcely recognize you
himself.'

'That is very probable, uncle, for I hardly know myself again. But
travelling abroad is sure always to make some little change in people.'

'It must have been Berlin that has done the mischief, and made such a
transformation in you; for the letters your father sent me, which you
had written from Vienna, did not in the slightest degree lead me to
imagine that you had become such a hair-brained, thoughtless fellow.'

'True enough it is that I am thoughtless and hair-brained, but, believe
me, I have never been guilty of any deliberate wrong. I know I am too
often carried away by the impulse of the moment, and too often forget
what may be the consequences.'

'One must make some allowance for youth,' replied the old gentleman.
'So it was at Berlin you studied folly in all its branches--Berlin,
which I had always believed to be a most correct and exemplary city,
whither one might send a young man without the least risk! Well, well!
let us consign to oblivion all the pranks you must have played to have
been metamorphosed from a milksop to a madcap. We must all sow our wild
oats some time or other, and I hope you have sown yours, and are done
with them.'

'No, indeed, I fear not; on the contrary, I feel that I am in the midst
of that period; but I promise you that it shall soon be over, and that
then nothing shall tempt me to such follies. As to youthful imprudence,
if it be not carried too far, I shall rely upon your indulgence. Will
you not wink a little at it, and let your kind, generous heart plead
for me when your reason might condemn me?'

'You are a queer fellow, nephew, and a wild one, I fear; but it is not
possible to be angry with you.'

'Would to Heaven that you may always be inclined to entertain such
friendly feelings towards me!' I replied, as I pressed his hand. There
was good reason for my bespeaking his indulgence; it would be amply
required the very next day.

I skilfully managed to bring the subject back to Gustav Holm, and soon
perceived that he had really nothing to say against him. Holm's
position was good in all respects, and the old gentleman would have
considered him a very good match for one of his daughters, if he had
not had another project in his head. But he had set his heart so
entirely on the family alliance, that he could not admit the idea of
any other. In eleven years there had been time for it to become deeply
rooted in his mind.

When we sought the rest of the party, we found them all standing round
the swing. Hannè was busy attaching a piece of paper to one of the
poles.

'What are you doing there, child?' asked her father.

'It is Carl's name which I am putting on the gallows, as a
well-deserved punishment for all the follies of which he has been
guilty in word and deed to-day,' she replied, continuing her
employment. 'Only think, he disgraced my swing by pretending to mistake
it for a gallows. So there stands his name; and there it shall stand,
to his eternal shame and reproach, and in ridicule of him when he is
gone. We must have something to recall him to our recollection.'

'Nemesis,' thought I, 'already!' I was as much moved inwardly, as the
worthy emperor, Charles V., must have been when he witnessed his own
funeral. Humph! no one likes jesting about such serious matters. Who
knows in what it might end?

We amused ourselves with swinging--we chattered nonsense, or discoursed
gravely--we sauntered about, all together or in groups by turns. Hannè
was the life of the party, and by degrees everyone seemed to partake of
her gaiety. Even Jettè talked more. I had seized on the unhappy lover,
and held him fast by the arm, in the charitable intention of bringing
him near his lady-love, without anyone's remarking his proximity to
her; but the overcautious girl avoided us, and Gustav himself had not
courage to begin a conversation on different subjects. I was quite
distressed about them, poor things! 'We must try what can be done in
the wood,' thought I; 'there are paths enough in it, the party will
become more scattered, and I shall then be able to manage, perhaps, to
get them into some secluded spot.' But our progress was arrested by a
servant, who came to announce that some visitors had arrived.

_Visitors!_ At that word my ears tingled as if all the blood in my
body had rushed up into them. Visitors! I felt sure they would be
betrayers--they would be persons who either knew me, or the real
cousin, and then good-by to my _incognito_--good-by to the secret
interview! What would become of it when I had to take to flight?

'Visitors! How very tiresome,' exclaimed Hannè. The servant mentioned
a name unknown to me; that, as it appeared, of a family in the
neighbourhood. I was not acquainted with them--but the cousin, my other
self ...

'Visitors!' I exclaimed, in dismay. 'Do I know them? Will anybody have
the great kindness to tell me if they are acquainted with me?'

They all laughed, and assured me that I was not acquainted with them.
It was a family who had only lately settled in the neighbourhood,
having exchanged a property in Jutland for one in Zealand, and with
whom they were themselves but slightly acquainted. I recovered my
spirits, and we turned our steps back towards the house. Gustav seized
the opportunity to make his escape, the Justitsraad made no effort to
detain him, and I was too much occupied with my own affairs to trouble
myself at that moment about those of other people. The poor dear
Jutland family had made a most unseasonable visit.

I thanked Heaven that I had never seen them before; and I cannot say
that I should feel any regret at never beholding them more. They were a
set of tiresome bores, who deprived me of the brightest afternoon of my
life, and took the evening also; so that I had reason not to forget
them in a hurry. My cousins had to amuse the silly daughters, the elder
individuals on both sides discoursed together, and it fell to my share
to entertain the son and his tutor. I looked a hundred times at my
watch; I foretold that we were going to have thunder and lightning and
rain in torrents--in short, I left no stone unturned to get rid of them
early--but to no avail; I only reaped jeers and bantering from Hannè
for my pains; and when at length they seemed themselves to think it
expedient to go, she pressed them to stay longer, only to annoy me, and
was mischievous enough to say, 'You surely will not refuse my cousin
his first request to you,' thereby, as it were, making me pronounce my
own doom. It was enough to put one into a rage.

We went to supper with all due formality, and for the first time I
remembered that it was my duty to offer my arm to Jettè. She
accompanied me like a lamb led to the sacrificial altar, and took the
earliest opportunity of informing me that her headache had not yet left
her. Headache is an absolute necessity for ladies; I do not know what
they would do if no such thing as headache existed.

It was not possible to utter a word which could not be overheard by the
tutor, who sat on the other side of her; at length it occurred to me to
engage him in a conversation with Hannè, and with some difficulty I
managed to do this. But fate had no compassion on me that evening.
Presently I heard my real name pronounced by the father of the family
who were visiting us; I felt as much shocked and alarmed as if he had
shouted '_Seize that thief!_' I had nearly dropped my fork.

'He is a most respectable man, I can assure you; I recommend you to
send all your corn to him; he is very fair in his dealings. I have
known him for a long time.'

It was of my father he was speaking.

'I shall consider about it,' said the Justitsraad; 'I do not know the
house myself. And he has a son, you say. Is the son a partner?'

'It was intended that he should be,' said my personal enemy; 'but he is
such a sad scamp that I think the father will hardly venture to take
him into partnership. He played such foolish, wild pranks at home, that
he was sent to Hamburg; but he did not go on a bit better there, as I
have heard.'

'I am sorry for the poor father,' said the Justitsraad.

'A good character is valuable,' thought I. 'Here is the second time
to-day that my name has been stigmatized. Now, both my person and
my name are contraband at ---- Court. Cruel fate!' I became quite
silent--willingly would I also have taken refuge in a headache; there
was enough to give me one, at any rate; and I took leave in the coldest
and most distant manner of the party who had prolonged their visit on
my account.

'Pray come and see us soon with your betrothed,' said the old wretch
who had made so free with my town character.

It was with difficulty that I kept my temper, and poor Jettè seemed
also to be on thorns.

'What nice people they are!' exclaimed Hannè; 'the daughters have
promised me to come here at least twice a week. But you were quite
silent and stupid this evening, cousin.'

'It was what you wished me to be in the morning,' I replied; 'I only
conducted myself according to your desire.'

'Let me always find you so obedient. Goodnight! To-morrow I shall
command you to be gay again. That becomes you best, after all.' She
held out her pretty little hand as a token of reconciliation.

'And I beg of you to come into the grove to-morrow morning, after
breakfast; I wish very much to have a little private conversation with
you,' whispered Jettè, almost in tears, as I kissed her hand. She could
hardly bring herself to pronounce the words; I saw what a pang it cost
her. A warm pressure of her hand was my only reply; she little knew how
friendly my feelings were towards her.

'So my adventures are not finished even with this day,' said I to
myself as I opened a little of the window in my room; 'shall I make up
my mind to this delay, or shall I take myself off at once! What! leave
poor Jettè in the lurch? Yet how can I help her? What is the use of my
remaining longer here?--I shall but entangle myself still more deeply
in a net of untruth, which will bring me into disgrace. Have I not had
warnings enough--the gallows scene, my Hamburg reputation, and the many
uneasy moments I have passed to-day? I am vexed and annoyed this
evening; it will cost me less, therefore, perhaps, to recover my
freedom tonight than to-morrow night; another day with Hannè will only
make me feel the separation still more acutely. Then, in case of a
discovery, how shall I excuse this prolonged mystification? By
confessing my love for Hannè?--a pretty apology, to be sure! But am I
_really_ in love with her? _I_ in love! and if I were, what would be
the result? Is it at all likely that the Justitsraad would give his
daughter to an impertinent puppy, who had made her acquaintance first
by such an unwarrantable trick--to a "sad scamp" who had only made
himself remarkable by his wild pranks? Or--shall I climb up yon tree,
perch myself like a singing-bird before Jettè's window, make my
confession to her, and then start on my pedestrian journey? Or--shall I
go to bed, and let to-morrow take care of itself? I will consult my
buttons--I will try my fate by them. Let me see: I will ... I will not
... I will ... I will go to bed. ... Aha! I am to go to bed--chance has
so decided it for me. But to go to bed in love! that such a catastrophe
should happen to me! I had thought it was quite foreign to my nature;
however, here I am, up to my ears in love. Ah! why was that little
fairy, Hannè, so bewitching? why were the whole family so frank and
pleasant? It was all their own fault; they forced the cousinship
upon me. Heaven knows I came to them quite innocent of nefarious
designs--fast asleep and snoring--perfectly honourable.... _Apropos_ of
honour, let me close the window; what Gustav and Jettè have to talk
about is nothing to me--it would be very indelicate to play the
listener--wounding to my better feelings. My better feelings! I can't
help laughing at the idea of _my_ being inconvenienced by any symptoms
of honourable, or delicate, or _better_ feelings. It is my cursed
levity and folly that lead me astray; after all, there _are_ honesty
and uprightness in me, _au fond_, and my heart is in its right place. I
will no longer be the slave of caprice and impulse. I will be something
better than a mere madcap; and here, even here, they shall learn to
speak of me with respect.... Ah! it will be a confounded long time,
however, before I can teach them that ... and ... in the meantime, I
positively am in love.'

Having arrived at this conclusion, I betook myself to my couch, and
closed my eyes, at the same time burying my ears in my pillows, not to
overhear any portion of the discourse which was to be carried on about
one o'clock in the morning, on the outside of my window, and also the
sooner to dream of Hannè. I succeeded in both, for I heard or saw
nothing whatsoever of the two unfortunate lovers, and I dreamed of
Hannè the livelong night. The morning was far advanced, when Thomas
thrust his head into my room, and rated me for being as heavy a
slumberer as one of the seven sleepers;--the little wretch! I was at
that moment swinging with Hannè, and would have given the wealth of the
East India Company to have been permitted to end my dream undisturbed.

When I entered the breakfast-room they were all at table. Jettè looked
very pale, but she allowed that her headache was better, though she
said she still felt far from well. Hannè and her father teased me
unmercifully about the visitors of the day before, who had put me so
much out of humour, and about my predictions of a thunderstorm
wherewith I endeavoured to drive them away. 'But you are quite an
ignoramus in regard to the weather, cousin; that I perceived,' said
Hannè, 'I shall present you with a barometer on your birthday, so that
you may not make such mistakes again as that of yesterday evening.
Which is the important day?'

'It is quite old-fashioned to keep birthdays, Hannè; that custom has
been long since exploded,' said I, 'and therefore I am not going to
tell you.'

'But we are very old-fashioned here, and you will be expected to do as
we do in respect to keeping birthdays. First, let me refresh your
memory. When is my birthday?'

'On the 12th of November you will be seventeen years of age.'

'Right. And Jettè's? How old will she be her next birthday?'

It was a trying examination, but it was well deserved; why had I not
taken myself off the night before, when I could so well have made my
escape?

'Come, begin; tell us Jettè's birthday, and my father's, and my
mother's? Let us have them all at once. Now we shall see whether you
are skilled in your almanac.'

'Are you seriously bent on this examination? Do you fancy I have
forgotten one of them?' I asked, in an offended tone. 'I will not
answer such questions.'

This was one way of escaping. When do people most easily take offence?
Answer: When they are in the wrong.

'I see how it is,' said Hannè; 'as it annoys you to be asked if you are
betrothed, it probably annoys you to be expected to remember the
birthday of her to whom you are engaged. Only think,' she added,
addressing the rest of the party, 'he does not wear his betrothal-ring,
because he does not like answering any question to which his having it
on his finger might give rise. As if it were a question of conscience.'

'So it may be, sometimes,' I replied. 'But since questioning is the
order of the day, I beg to ask why _you_ wear that little ring on your
finger?'

'I never gratify impertinent curiosity,' said the little devil,
colouring up to the very roots of her hair. She seemed very much vexed,
and turned angrily away.

'Now--now--children! can you never agree?' said the Justitsraad. 'You
two will be getting into quarrels every moment, that I foresee; you
resemble each other too much; it is from the absolute similarity
between you that you cannot be in peace.'

'You flatter me very much, uncle,' said I; 'would that it were really
so.'

'I say nothing of the kind,' cried Hannè; 'I beg to decline the
compliment. Gentlemen full of whims are my aversion. But, happily for
both of us, you are not engaged to me. Jettè is much too good--she will
put up with your bad habits.'

Jettè smiled kindly to her, and that seemed immediately to appease her
wrath. She ran to her sister, kissed her, and said, 'For your sake I
will bear with him; but believe me, you will not make an endurable
husband of him if you do not begin in time to drive his caprices out of
him. He should be accustomed to do as he is bid, and answer the
questions that are put to him.'

Both Jettè and myself turned our faces away to conceal our confusion.
Hannè held out her hand to me. 'Do you repent of your sins?'

'With my whole heart.'

'Will you beg pardon, and promise henceforth to be better?'

'Yes. I confess that I am a great sinner, but I humbly beg pardon, and
will try to do better for the future.' So saying, I pressed a long,
long kiss on her hand; I could hardly get my lips away from it.

'So--that is enough. Now go and beg Jettè's pardon, because you have
been naughty in her presence; and,' she added, 'kiss her hand
prettily.'

I did so.

'Very well. But I don't think you have ever kissed her as your
betrothed yet. Let me see you go through that ceremony, properly too.'

Poor Jettè became crimson at this challenge, which did not in the least
embarrass me.

I felt that it was going a little too far, but what could I do? Dear
reader! I was compelled to kiss the young lady--do not judge of me too
severely because I did it. But I obeyed the command in as formal a
manner as possible; it was scarcely a kiss, yet it burned on my lips
like fire; as to how it burned my conscience--well, I will say nothing
of that.

'He is really quite timid,' exclaimed Hannè, who stood by with her
hands folded, watching the performance of her command; 'I did not
expect such an assured young gentleman to be so ceremonious; one would
think it were his first essay!'

'And peace being now restored and sealed,' said the Justitsraad, 'I
hope it will be a Christian, a universal, and an eternal peace, both
for the present and the future; that is to say, at least till you fall
out again. And in order that such may not be the case for a few hours,
we will leave the ladies, nephew, and pay a visit to the new horse I
bought the other day. We shall see if you are as good a judge of horses
as you are of the Hamburg theatricals.'

'You really should give poor Carl some peace,' said my considerate
aunt; 'you will make him quite tired of us all. One insists
upon catechizing him as to dates, another as to his veterinary
knowledge--there is only wanting that I should attack him about
culinary lore. You shall not be so plagued by them, Carl: as to the
horse it was my husband's own choosing; and if you should not instantly
discover, by looking at its teeth, that it is young and handsome, and
has every possible good quality, you will be called an ignoramus.'

'Any how he may be called that,' said Hannè; 'but I forgot, peace has
been proclaimed, so let my words be considered as unspoken.'


                               PART III.

About an hour before luncheon I stole away into the wood to wait for
Jettè, and it was with a beating heart I listened for any approaching
footsteps; had I not kissed her, I should have felt easier in my own
mind. Ought I now to confess to her the impositions of which I had been
guilty? Perhaps it would be better to do so ... But the kiss ... would
she forgive that?

I discerned her white dress a good way off, and I almost felt inclined
to hide myself, and let her take the trouble of finding me; but again I
bethought me that it was not the part of the cavalier to be shamefaced
in a secret assignation. I therefore went forward to meet her. As soon
as she caught a glimpse of me, she stopped, and suddenly changed
colour. The poor girl--how sorry I was for her! She could not utter one
word. I led her to a rural seat near.

'Cousin,' at length she said, 'it must doubtless surprise you, and
naturally so too, that I should in such a secret manner have requested
an interview with you. If you could conceive how painful this moment is
to me, I am sure you would compassionate me.'

'My dear young lady, I owe you an explanation, and I thank you for
having given me an opportunity ...'

'Dear cousin, be not offended with me--do not speak to me in that
distant and ceremonious manner--it makes the step more painful which I
am about to take, and which cannot be longer delayed. It is I who owe
you an explanation--alas! an explanation that will deprive me of your
esteem and your friendship. I am very unhappy.'

'Do not weep so, dear cousin; you cannot imagine how it grieves me to
see you so miserable. Believe me, I have your happiness sincerely at
heart. You little know what delight it would give me if I were able to
say to myself that I had contributed to it.'

The double signification which my words might bear drew forth more
tears. Jettè cried, without making any reply.

'There is comfort for every affliction,' I continued. 'God has
mercifully placed the antidote alongside of the poisonous plant. Tell
me, at least, what distresses you--let me at least endeavour to console
you, even if I cannot assist you, and do not doubt my good will, though
my power may be but limited.'

'For Heaven's sake, Carl, do not speak so kindly to me,' cried Jettè,
with some impetuosity. 'Do not speak thus--I have not deserved it. If
you would be compassionate, say that you hate me--that you abhor me.'

'And if I said so, I should only deceive you. No, Jettè, my
complaisance cannot go so far.'

'You would hate me--you would despise me!' she exclaimed, sobbing, 'if
you only knew ... oh! I shall never be able to tell ... if you only
knew ... how unfortunate I am ... how I ...'

'Dear Jettè,' said I, in some agitation, 'you have come to enter into
an explanation with me; allow me to assist your confession, and help to
lighten the burden which weighs so heavily on your heart. You have
come, I know, to break off with me.'

'_You know!_' she exclaimed, in consternation. And she seemed as if she
were going to faint. 'Take pity on me, Carl; leave me for a few
minutes; I dare not look you in the face.'

She buried her own face in her pocket-handkerchief, and wept bitterly.
I kissed her hand, and left her.

Very much out of spirits myself, I wandered to and fro under the trees.

'How is all this to end?' said I to myself; 'the poor girl will fret
herself to death if she cannot have her Gustav, and get rid of her
cousin. Gustav is a fine fellow, and a very good match; even the father
allows that. The cousin must be an idiot to let himself be betrothed by
his father's orders to a girl he knows nothing about--and a tiresome
one too, according to what is reported of him. Jettè is a girl with a
great deal of feeling--but he must be a clod with none; he can't care
in the least for her, or he would have been here long ere this. He
shall not have her. What, if I were to advise them to run away an hour
or two before I take myself off? or, suppose we were all three to elope
together? Nonsense! How can I think of such folly? Poor girl! it would
melt a heart of stone to see her crying there. What if I were to stay
and play the cousin a little longer--formally renounce her hand--give
her up to Gustav? I should like to act such a magnanimous part ... and
when it was all well over, and the real cousin arrived, to let him find
that he had come on a fool's errand, and go back to nurse his cold ...
or, it might be better to drop him a line by the post to save a scene?
I'll do it. By Jove! I'll do it! The god of love himself must have sent
me here; no man in the wide world could do the thing better than
myself. But what right have I to decide thus the fate of another man--a
man whom I have never even beheld? Right! It is time to talk about
_right_, forsooth, after I have been doing nothing but wrong for
thirty-six hours. No, no, let conscience stand to one side, for the
present at least; it has no business in this affair. I have acted most
unwarrantably, I know, but I will make up for my misdeeds by one good
deed--one blessing will I take with me; and when I am gone, two happy
persons at least will remember me kindly, and Hannè will be less harsh
in her judgment of my conduct, since it will have brought about her
sister's happiness. Let me set my shoulders to the wheel--there is no
time to lose. No, they shall not all execrate me.'

Jettè was still sitting on the bench where I had left her. I placed
myself beside her, and tried to reassure her.

'I said I owed you some explanation; allow me in a few words to tell
you all you wish to communicate. You do not care for me--you love
Gustav Holm--you will be wretched if you cannot find some good pretext
for breaking off the match with me--you have many reasons to love him,
none to love me--you want to let me know how the matter stands, and to
give me a basket,[4] but to do it in so amicable a manner, that you
hope I will accept it quietly like a good Christian, and not make too
much fuss about it. All this is what you would have told me sooner or
later. Am I not right, Jettè? or is there more you would have entrusted
to me?'

She hid her face with her hands.

'My window was partly open the other night,' I added. 'I overheard your
conversation with Gustav Holm, and I knew immediately, of course, what
I had to expect. You will believe, I hope, that I have sufficient
feeling not to wish to force myself upon one who cannot care for me.
Forgive me that I have caused you any uneasiness; it was against my own
will. I would much rather have convinced you sooner that you have no
enemy in me, but, on the contrary, a sincere friend.'

'Dearest, best Carl! Noblest of men! You restore me to freedom--you
restore me to life! The Almighty has heard my prayers! You do not know
how earnestly I have prayed that you might find me detestable.'

'Therein your prayers have not been heard, Jettè,' said I. 'If you
could have loved me, I could not have wished a better fate. I love you
and Hannè much more than you think.' I felt that every word I had just
spoken was positive truth. Jettè wrung my hand.

'You have removed a mountain from my heart,' she replied. 'Would that I
could thank you as you deserve!'

I was quite ashamed of all the thanks she poured out, and all the
gratitude she expressed. It is an unspeakable pleasure to promote the
happiness of one's fellow-creatures; it is an agreeable feeling which I
would not exchange for any other.

When the first burst of joy was over, Jettè consulted with me how it
would be best to break the matter to her father. I told her of his good
opinion of Gustav, and built upon it the brightest hopes.

Jettè shook her head. 'He will insist that I shall keep my promise,'
said she, mournfully. 'He will not relinquish a plan which he has
cherished for so many years. How dreadful it is for me to disappoint
him!'

'Very well, take me.'

'Oh! do not jest with me, dear Carl. My only dependence is on you.'

'I shall take my departure immediately, and leave a letter renouncing
my engagement to you. That will go far to help you.'

'For Heaven's sake, stay! You are the only one who can speak to him,'
said she. 'You have already acquired much influence over him.'

'Then let us proceed at once to the _éclaircissement_. I shall tell him
that I have discovered that your heart belongs to Gustav Holm, not to
me; and that I cannot accept any woman's hand unless her heart
accompanies it.'

'Oh! what a terrible moment it will be when that is said! I tremble at
the very idea of it. You do not know what he can be when his anger is
thoroughly roused.'

'Then would you prefer to elope with Gustav? Like a loyal cousin, I
will assist you in your escape.'

'That would enrage him still more; he has always been so kind and
gentle to me.'

'I wish we had Gustav here, that something might be determined on.
These anticipated terrible moments are never so dreadful in reality as
in expectation; you have had a proof of this in the one you have just
gone through.'

'Gustav will be here soon; he knows that I had requested this private
conversation with you ... he will meet me here in the wood ... he will
come when--when....' She stopped, and blushed deeply.

'He will come when I am gone,' I said, laughing. 'That was very
sensibly arranged, but the arrangement must be annulled nevertheless,
and he must make the effort of showing himself while I am here. I dare
say he is not many miles off--perhaps within hail. Mr. Holm! Mr. Holm!'
I roared at the top of my voice. 'He knows my manner of inviting him,
and you will see that he will speedily present himself. Good morning,
Mr. Holm!' I added.

'For God's sake do not shout so loudly, you will be overheard,' said
Jettè. 'Oh! how will all this end?'

'Uncommonly well,' thought I. 'Here comes the lover.'

Gustav came, almost rushing up; his countenance and manner expressed
what was passing in his mind, namely, uncertainty whether he was to
look on me as a friend or a foe.

'Gustav--Carl!...' exclaimed Jettè, sinking back on the bench. She
found it impossible to command her voice; but her eyes, which dwelt
with affection on us both, filled up the pause, and expressed what
words would not.

I took his hand and led him up to Jettè. He knelt at her feet, she
threw her arms round his neck, while I bent over them, and beheld my
work with sincere satisfaction. There was a rustling in the bushes, and
Hannè and her father stood suddenly before us! The lovers did not
observe them, although I did my utmost by signs to rouse their
attention.

'What the devil is all this?' exclaimed the Justitsraad, in a voice of
thunder. 'What does this mean? Carl, what are you doing?'

'I am bestowing my cousinly benediction and full absolution and
remission of sins, as you ought to do, my worthy uncle,' I replied, as
cheerfully as I possibly could. It was necessary to appear to keep up
one's courage. Gustav rose hastily, and Jettè threw herself into her
sister's arms.

'My dear sir!' said Gustav, imploringly.

'Mr. Holm!' cried the Justitsraad, drawing himself up.

'Dear uncle!' I exclaimed, interrupting them both, 'allow me to speak.
Gustav adores Jettè, and she returns his love. There can be no more
question about me; I am her cousin, and nothing either more or less. I
am not such an idiot as to wish to force a woman to be my wife whose
heart is given to another. I have dissolved the engagement between
Jettè and myself, deliberately, and after due reflection. I _could_ not
make her happy, and I _will not_ make her unhappy. There stands the
bridegroom, who only awaits your blessing. Give it, dear uncle, and let
this day become the happiest of my life, for it is the first time I
ever had an opportunity of doing good.'

'Heavens and earth! a pretty piece of work, indeed!' The Justitsraad
was as blustering as a German, and would on no account allow himself to
hear reason. A great deal of his anger was naturally directed against
me. I tried to smooth matters down. Jettè wept and sobbed. It was a
hundred to one against us. 'I shall write to your father this very
day,' he said, at length; 'he only can absolve me from my vow; but that
he will not do--that he certainly will not do on any account. This
marriage has been his greatest wish, for I do not know how many years,
as well as mine.'

'But he will be obliged to do it,' said I; 'this very afternoon I shall
take my departure, and you shall never hear of me more. My father's
power over me by no means extends so far as you seem to fancy. I will
not make Jettè miserable, merely to indulge his whims. Dear uncle, let
me persuade you to believe that your contract is null and void: give
your blessing to Gustav and Jettè, and leave me to settle the matter
with my father. Feelings cannot be forced. Jettè does not care for me,
and you ought not, in this affair, to be less liberal than I am.'

'Liberal--liberal indeed! He is always prating about such folly,'
exclaimed the Justitsraad, in a rage. 'It is that abominable Berlin
liberality that has entirely ruined him.'

Berlin liberality! It was the first time I had ever heard _that_
bewailed. But what absurd things do people not stumble upon when they
are angry, and speak without reflection.

'Well, it was Berlin that ruined me, according to my uncle, and so
utterly ruined me ... that I am betrothed in Berlin, and cannot be
betrothed again. It is against the law both here and in Prussia to have
two wives.'

This was an inspiration prompted by the exigency of the occasion; what
did one untruth more or less signify? I was a Jesuit at that moment,
and excused myself with Loyola's doctrine--that the motive sanctifies
the means.

'Betrothed!' exclaimed the Justitsraad--'betrothed in Berlin! Make a
fool of me! Hark ye, Carl ...'

'Betrothed!' interrupted Hannè. 'Upon my word, you are a fine fellow,
cousin. That is the reason he does not wear Jettè's betrothal-ring. And
I to be standing here admiring his magnanimity!'

Jettè silently held out her hand to me from one side, Gustav from the
other; these were well-meant congratulations.

'Yes, betrothed,' I continued. 'Abuse me at your will, hate me, curse
me, say and do what you please, but betrothed I am, and betrothed I
must remain.'

This was a settler. The wrath of the Justitsraad cooled by degrees;
that really kind-hearted man could not withstand so many anxious looks
and earnest prayers; and fear of all the gossip and ridicule to which
his holding out longer under the circumstances might give rise, also
had effect upon him.

'You are a sad scapegrace, Carl,' he said, 'and Jettè may be thankful
she is not to have you for her husband; but she shall not be left in
the lurch on account of your foolish freaks.' He took her hand and
placed it in Gustav's, saying, 'You must make up to me for the failure
of those hopes which I have cherished through so many years. But,' he
added, with a sigh, 'what will my brother say when he hears this
history?'

Jettè cast herself upon his neck; she almost fainted in his arms; the
rest of us surrounded him. There was no end to embraces and thanks.

'And now let us hasten to my mother,' said Hannè; 'the revolution shall
end there. I would not be in your place, cousin, for any money; you
will be soundly rated.'

'You shall be my advocate, Hannè, and shall defend my case; it is only
under your protection that I dare appear before my aunt. Take me under
your wing--I positively will not leave you.'

I slipped my arm round her waist, and I think, if I remember aright, I
was going to kiss her.

'Hands off, Mr. Cousin! Now that you are not to be my brother-in-law
you must not make so free. Remember your intended in Berlin.'

Alas! to help others I had injured myself. Hannè, her father, and I
walked on first, the lovers followed us a little way behind. As we came
along we met some of the peasantry on the estate going to their work.

'Hollo! good people!' cried I to them, 'this evening we must be all
merry, and drink your master's good health, and dance on Miss Jettè's
betrothal-day. Hurrah for Miss Jettè and Mr. Holm!'

'Hurrah!' cried the people. And the declaration was made.

'Be quiet, you good-for-nothing!' cried the Justitsraad, 'and don't
turn everything topsy-turvy in a place that does not belong to you. A
feast, forsooth--drink my health, indeed! It is easy for you to be
generous at another's man's expense. I declare the fellow is determined
to take the whip-hand of us all.'

My aunt heard the noise, and came out on the steps to ask what was the
matter. I crept behind Hannè and hid myself.

'A complete revolution, my dear, which that precious fellow Carl has
brought about. When the luncheon-bell had rung for some time in vain,
without their making their appearance, Hannè and I went to look for
Jettè and Carl in the wood; I expected to have found him at Jettè's
feet; but instead of him there lay another, and he was actually busying
himself in making up a match between them. Truly, it is an edifying
story. Come in, and I will tell you all about it, and you will see to
what purpose he has travelled. He has betrothed himself in Berlin,
fancy--and very probably in Hamburg, in Paris, in Vienna, wherever he
may have been. He is a fine fellow! A pretty viper we were nourishing
in our hearts!'

My aunt was easily reconciled to the course of events, and she gave the
young couple her maternal blessing. But it was me whom they all wanted
for a son-in-law and a brother-in-law. It was very flattering to be
such a favourite; however, as I was not to be had, they received Gustav
(for whom they had a great regard) with open arms. We all became as
sprightly as a parcel of children, and I would have been very happy had
not the many affectionate good wishes for the future welfare of myself
and my unknown _fiancée_ in Berlin fallen like burning drops of molten
lead on my soul, and had I not had constantly before me the remembrance
that I must soon leave this pleasant circle, and for ever! My
proposition to spend that day entirely by ourselves was agreed to, and
orders were given to admit no visitors.

'Let me but live this day undisturbed to the end,' thought I, 'and I
shall demand nothing more from Fortune, which has hitherto been so kind
to me.' It was a day, the like of which I have never spent. You will,
perhaps, think it strange, dear reader, that my conscience should be so
much at ease; but I must frankly confess that the good action I had
accomplished, and the happiness I had bestowed, had entirely had the
effect of quieting that internal monitor. Jettè was right when she said
that I had already obtained some influence over her father; for I can
positively assert that my sudden and public announcement of the state
of affairs had been taken in good part. I was all activity and
excitement; and my exuberant mirth, which was almost without bounds,
did not permit a serious word, scarcely a serious thought. I obliged
them all to exert themselves, and fly about in order to make
preparations for a little dance in a round summer-house at one end of
the garden: the Justitsraad had to send to the village for two
fiddlers; his wife had to give out sheets and curtains to make hangings
for the walls; the young ladies wove garlands; Gustav and I
manufactured chandeliers out of barrel-hoops and vegetables. Everybody
was set to work, and before the evening the prettiest little ball-room
that could be was arranged; and the people on the estate declared they
had never seen anything so splendid before; 'but, to be sure, there had
never been a betrothal feast in the family before.'

'You are a clever fellow, Carl,' said the Justitsraad; 'you have got
this up so prettily and so well, that one might almost give a real
ball. Were it not that I should have my wife and children up in arms
against me, I really fancy I should like a dance. But there would be
too many difficulties in the way.'

Hannè flew up to her father, and hugged him in her joy; he was taken at
his word, and nothing else was talked of but the ball, which in the
course of eight days was to be given to celebrate Jettè's betrothal.

'We will set about writing the invitations at once,' said Hannè; 'there
is an hour or more yet before the people are to begin to dance, and we
have nothing to do. Let us fetch pen, ink, and paper; I will dictate,
and Carl shall write; it will be done directly, almost, and early
to-morrow morning we shall send off the invitations. So, all the
difficulties are overcome. Now, cousin, mend your pen; you write a good
hand,' said Hannè.

'Write! No, that I won't,' thought I. 'I shall take good care not to
betray myself by that.'

'Gustav can write what you want; I have hurt my hand,' said I, looking
round; but Gustav and Jettè had both disappeared.

'How? Let me see,' said Hannè. 'It is not true. Gustav and Jettè have
gone into the garden; we must let them alone; so you shall come, and
you may as well do it at once.'

'But I have really hurt my finger, Hannè; it is extremely painful. I
shall not be able to make the most wretched pothooks--my finger is
quite swollen.'

'Or rather you are extremely lazy, and won't take the trouble,' said
Hannè. 'But at least you shall help me to write a list of the people to
be invited, before I forget half of them; I have got them all in my
head just now, and your pothooks are good enough for that. Begin now!
Put down first our neighbours who were here yesterday. Kammerraad[5]
Tvede, with his wife, his two daughters, his son, and the tutor. Have
you got them down?' Hannè looked over my shoulder at the paper. 'But
what in the world stands there?' she asked.

'Kammerraad Tvede, with his wife, his two daughters, his son, and the
tutor,' I replied. 'These are Greek characters, Hannè; I can write
nothing but Greek with this finger.'

'But I can't read Greek, you refractory monster!' cried Hannè,
dolefully.

'You must learn it, then, Hannè. Task for task; if you force me to
write the list, I will force you to read Greek.'

'That's right, my boy!' exclaimed the Justitsraad, laughing heartily.
'If one gives the girls an inch, they are sure to take an ell; they
would take the command of us altogether, if they could.'

After a great deal of joking and foolery, we accomplished making out
the list, and the last name given was that of my good uncle, the worthy
pastor, whom it was my purpose to visit, and whose guest I would be
before the sun rose on the following day.

'Do you know him, too?' I asked, with a feeling of mingled surprise and
annoyance.

'He confirmed both Jettè and me,' said Hannè; 'he is an excellent man,
therefore I kept him to the last. You can hardly imagine how much we
are all attached to him. If ever I marry, he shall perform the
ceremony, I think you must remember him; at least, you saw him in this
house more than once when you were here as a child.'

'Very true. I think I recollect him; he is a tall, old man, with a
hooked nose. Yes, I remember him distinctly.'

This time, at least, I had no need to help myself out with lies! In a
situation such as mine, one seizes with avidity every opportunity to
speak truth; it is so very refreshing when one is up to the ears in
untruth.

Our chandeliers answered their purpose exceedingly well: the fiddlers
scraped loudly and merrily, and the floor shook under the powerful
springs and somewhat weighty footing of the country swains and damsels
who were dancing in honour of Miss Jettè's betrothal. I had taken a
turn in the waltz with each of the village belles, and danced that
furious _Fangedands_ with Hannè--a dance that one must have seen the
peasantry execute, in order to form an idea how violent it is. Glee and
good-humour reigned around, and even the Justitsraad entered heartily
into the joyous spirit which seemed to prevail. And, although from time
to time, he whispered to me, 'I ought to be very angry at you--you have
played me a pretty trick,' yet he was not in the slightest degree
angry; on the contrary, he submitted with an extremely good grace to
what he could not help. But I--I who had been the originator and cause
of all this gaiety and gladness--I felt only profound melancholy, and
stole away to indulge in it amidst the most lonely walks of the garden,
or in the wood beyond. The hour of my departure was drawing rapidly
near.

Perhaps you may imagine, dear reader, that it would be impossible for
me to be sad or serious. Could you have beheld me wandering about the
grounds alone, that September evening, when every one else was dancing,
you would have found that you were mistaken in your opinion of me. I
ascended the sloping hill, on which stands Hannè's favourite swing. By
day the view from thence is beautiful; and even at night it is a place
not to be despised. The garden, stretching out darkly immediately
beneath, looked like an impenetrable wood. The moon was in its first
quarter, and therefore shed but a faint uncertain light over objects at
a little distance, while its trembling rays fell more brightly on the
far-off waves of the Baltic Sea, making them appear nearer than they
really were. On the right, the walls and chimneys of the dwelling-house
gleamed through the openings of the trees; on the left, light blazed
from the illuminated summer-house, whence came the sound of a hundred
feet, tramping in time to the overpowered music. All else was as still
around me as it generally is in the evening in the country, where the
occasional bark of some distant dog, with its echo resounding from the
wood, is the only sign of life. Behind me lay the pretty grove; and
above my head stood the swing, on one of whose tall supporters my name
was fastened in derision.

Had you seen how carefully I detached the piece of paper from the wood,
and placing myself in the swing where I had sat with Hannè, allowed
myself to rock gently backwards and forwards, while I gazed on the
strange name that had become dearer to me than my own, because _she_
had pronounced it and written it, you would have perceived that I also
could have my sad and serious moments. But people of my temperament
seek to avoid observation when a fit of blue-devils seizes them, and
only go forth among their fellow-beings when the fit has subsided.

Jettè and Gustav took me by surprise. They had passed in silence
through the garden, and arm-in-arm they had as silently ascended the
little eminence.

'What, you here! in solitude, and so serious, dear cousin?' said Jettè;
'you look quite out of spirits. Everyone connected with me should be
happy on this my betrothal day, and I must reckon you among the nearest
of those--you, whom I have to thank for my happiness. Come and take a
share in the joy you have created; if I did not know better, I might be
inclined to fancy that you are grieving over the irreparable loss you
have had in me: you really do assume such a miserable countenance.'

'Do not ridicule me, Jettè; I have perhaps just lost more than I can
ever be compensated for.'

'It is well that a certain person in Berlin cannot overhear what
politeness induces you to say in Zealand,' replied Jettè. 'But a truce
to compliments at present, they only cast a shade of doubt over your
truthfulness: keep them for those who know less of your affairs than I
do, and let us speak honestly to each other. In reality, you are glad
not to become more nearly connected with us than you are already: you
cannot deny that.'

'Do you think so? And if that were far from the fact?--if, on the
contrary, that were the cause of my melancholy--the knowledge of the
impossibility of my being so--what would you say?'

'I should be under the necessity of pitying you very much, poor
fellow!' said Jettè, laughing. 'But who would have thought that this
morning?'

'You may indeed pity me, Jettè, for when I leave this place my heart
and my thoughts will remain behind, with you--with all your dear
family; and I must leave you soon.'

'Soon! Are you going abroad again?' asked Gustav.

'Two days after your arrival among us!' exclaimed Jettè; 'no, no, we
cannot agree to that.'

'And yet it must be,' I said. 'I shall be gone, perhaps, sooner than
you think. I have my own peculiar manner of coming and going, and ...'

'But what whim is this, Carl?' asked Jettè, interrupting me. 'Did you
not come to spend some time with us? You may depend on it my father
will not hear of your going, though our wishes and requests may have no
influence over you.'

'I am compelled to go, dear Jettè; I must leave you for some time.
Perhaps we shall meet again ... but should that be impossible, I shall
write you, if you will permit me. And when I am gone, will you take my
part, if I should be made the subject of animadversion? Let me hope,
dear Jettè, that you and Gustav will think kindly of me, and that on
the anniversary of this day you will not forget me when you stroll
together through that wood which was this morning the scene of my
dismissal.'

They both shook hands with me.

'But Carl, I hardly understand you,' said Jettè; 'you are so grave, so
strange; you speak as if we were about to part for ever. Have you any
idea of settling in Berlin?'

'I beseech you, Jettè, speak not of Berlin--that was a subterfuge, a
story, which came suddenly into my mind; I could not pitch upon any
better excuse wherewith to upset your father's plan in a hurry, or I
would not have lied against myself. I assure you I have never put my
foot in Berlin, nor am I betrothed to anyone.'

Jettè stepped back a few paces, and fixed on me a look of surprise and
earnest inquiry.

'What!' she exclaimed, 'you have never been at Berlin? You have told
what is not true about yourself to help me? You are not engaged?'

'No; as certainly as that I stand at this moment in your presence, I am
not engaged, and have never attempted to become so. I have only put
myself in the way of receiving one refusal in my life,' I added,
smiling, as Jettè began to look suspiciously at me, 'and that was this
morning in yonder wood. Were it not superfluous, I could with ease give
you the most minute particulars.'

There was a short silence; then Jettè exclaimed,

'You are a noble creature, Carl; may God reward you, for I cannot. But
day and night I will pray for your welfare.' She was much affected, her
voice faltered. Gustav shook my hand cordially.

'My dear friends,' said I, 'do not accord to me more praise than I
deserve, for the higher one is praised the greater is the fall when
opinions change. Hear me before you promise to pray for me, and let me
tell you how ... but no, no, let me keep silence--let me say nothing.
Pardon my seeming caprice. Promise me that you will be my sincere and
unshaken friends, and let us go and dance again. May I have the honour
of engaging the bride for the next waltz?'

I had been on the point of confessing all my foolish pranks, and how I
was imposing on them; but false shame prevented me. Was it better or
not? I scarcely knew myself. I begged them to accompany me back to the
summer-house. In the alley of pine-trees which led to it we met Hannè,
who, according to her own account, was looking about for us; she almost
ran against us before she perceived us.

'But, good Heavens I have you all become deaf? I have been calling you
over and over, without receiving the slightest answer, and now I find
you gliding about in deep silence, like ghosts, scaring people's lives
out of them. I suppose Carl has been amusing himself, as usual, with
mischief, and has been haunting you two poor lovers, and disturbing
you. Do you not know, Carl, that you have no sort of business to be--in
short, are quite an incumbrance where Jettè and Holm are? Now answer
me--do you know this, or do you not, Carl?'

'No,' I replied, shortly.

'"_No!_" Is that a fitting answer to a lady? Be so good as to reply
politely. I must take upon myself to teach you good manners before you
go abroad again, else we shall have reason to be ashamed of you.'

And then she began to hum the song of 'Die Wiener in Berlin:'


                 'In Berlin, sagt er,
                  Musz du fein, sagt er,
                  Und gescheut, sagt er,
                  Immer sein, sagt er....'


'I wish Berlin were at the devil, Hannè!' I exclaimed, interrupting
her; 'that is my most earnest desire, believe me.'

'A very Christian wish, and expressed in choicely elegant phraseology,
everyone must admit.'

'Only think, Hannè, he has _never_ been at Berlin, and is _not_
betrothed there. Carl only made these assertions because he could think
of no other way of making my father agree to our wishes,' said Jettè,
almost crying.

'What! he is not engaged? He has never been in Berlin? Well! he is the
greatest story-teller I ever met. Did he not stand up, and make
positive declarations of these events, with the most cool audacity? It
is too bad. Lying is the worst of all faults--it is the root of all
evil.'

'No, my little Hannè, idleness is the root of all evil.'

'I dare say you abound in that root too. But I don't think you can ever
have studied the early lesson-books, from which all children should be
instructed. I shall myself hear you your catechism to-morrow, and
rehearse to you the first principles of right and wrong; so that when
you leave us, you may be a little better acquainted with the doctrines
of Christianity than you are at present.'

'But he leaves us to-morrow, Hannè; he has assured us of that.'

'We positively will not allow him to make his escape,' said Hannè. 'At
night we shall lock him in his room, and during the day Thomas shall
watch him. That boy sticks as fast as a burr,--he won't easily shake
him off.'

'But suppose I were to get out by the window? You cannot well fasten
that on the outside.'

'And break your neck, forsooth. No, no; that way of making your exit
won't answer.'

'Oh, people can climb up much higher than my window, and descend again
without breaking their necks,' said I.

Jettè and Gustav coloured violently.

'Well, we can discuss that point to-morrow. This evening, at least, you
will remain with us, on account of its being Jettè's betrothal day.
Come, give me your arm, and let us take a walk; it is charming, yonder
in the garden--within the summer-house one is like to faint from the
heat.'

We strolled on, two and two, in the sweet moonlight; sometimes each
pair sauntering at a little distance from the other--Hannè and I
chatting busily, while Gustav and Jettè often walked in the silence of
a happiness too new and too deep for the language of every-day life.

'Is it really true that you are going to leave us?' asked Hannè.

'It is, indeed, too true; I must quit this place.'

'Why? if I may venture to ask. But do not tell me any untruth.'

'Because I have been here too long already--because a longer residence
among you all ... near you, dear Hannè, would but destroy my peace.'

'I expressly desired you not to tell me any lies. Good Heavens! is it
impossible for you to speak truth two minutes together?'

'And is it impossible for you to speak seriously for two minutes
together? What I have just said is the honest truth.'

'Humph! However, tell me, is it true or not true that you are engaged
in Berlin? Who have you hoaxed--Jettè and me, or my father and mother?
I beseech you speak truth this once.'

'If any one is hoaxed, it is your father, Hannè; but at the moment I
could think of nothing else to shake his determination, or I certainly
should not have composed such a story, for telling which I blamed
myself severely.'

'Oh, of course I believe you! To make a fool of one's own excellent
uncle! It is a sin that ought to lie very heavy on your conscience,
Carl. It is almost as great a sin as to make fools of one's cousins.'

'That is a sin from which I hope you will absolve me. Ah, Hannè! what
has most distressed me was, that my character must have appeared
dubious in your eyes. From the first moment I was wretched, because I
could not tell you that it was only a pretended engagement.'

'I do not see what _I_ have to do with your being betrothed in Berlin
or not. As far as I am concerned, you might be betrothed in China, if
you liked.'

'Your gaiety of temper makes you take everything lightly, and yet it is
you who have taught me that life has serious moments. You have
transformed me, Hannè; if you could only know what an influence the
first sight of you, the night I arrived here, has exercised upon my
fate ...'

'Indeed! Do tell me all about it; what was the wondrous and fearful
effect of the sight of me?' said Hannè, laughing.

'Dear Hannè, without intending it, you have pitched upon the right
words, in calling it "wondrous and fearful." Yes, it will follow me
like a heavy sentence from a judgment-seat, ever reproaching me with my
thoughtlessness. Awake, and in dreams, will I implore forgiveness; I
will kneel and pray for it. Look at me once more with that captivating
glance which, yon evening, made me forget myself, and tell me that you
will not hate me--loathe me--despise me: see, upon my knee I entreat
one kind look--one kind word!'

I had actually fallen on one knee before Hannè, and had seized her
hand--

'Let my hand go, you are squeezing it, so that you quite hurt me. That
is not at all necessary to the part you are acting. Get up, cousin; you
will have green marks on your knees, and I can't endure to see men in
such an absurd, old-fashioned plight. You should be thankful that it is
no longer the mode, when one is making love in earnest, to fall down on
one's knees. These pastoral attitudes are very ridiculous; they savour
of a shepherd's crook, and a frisky lamb with red ribbon round its
neck.'

I arose quite crestfallen.

'At any rate I must allow that you promise to be a capital actor,'
added Hannè. 'Next Christmas, when you come back, we shall get up some
private theatricals: that will be charming! Last year we could not
manage them, because we had no lover; Holm positively refused to act
the part, unless I would undertake to be his sweetheart; and a play
without love is like a ball without music.'

'Hannè, let us speak seriously for once. I really am going away, and
shall be gone, perhaps, before you expect it; for I hate farewell
scenes. It is not without emotion that I can think of leaving my
amiable cousins, and God only knows if we shall ever meet again. Laugh
at me if you will, I cannot forbid your doing that; but believe me when
I tell you that your image will be present with me wherever I may go,
and ...'

'You will travel in very good company, then,' said Hannè, interrupting
me.

'Let me take the happy hope with me that I shall live in your friendly
remembrance. Sink the cousin if you choose, dear Hannè; cousinship is
not worth much, and let the term _friend_ supersede it. That is a
voluntary tie, for which I should have to thank but your own feelings.
It is as a friend that I shall think of you when I go from this dear
place, and as a friend that your image will follow me throughout the
world.'

'Oh, it won't be very troublesome to you,' said Hannè. 'As to me, I
don't happen to be in want of cousins, still less of friends. Let me
see, in what office shall I instal you? Make a confidant of you? We do
not employ any in our family; I am my own confidante: assuredly I could
have none safer. I shall follow in this the example of my silent
sister, who never gave me the slightest hint of her love for Gustav. A
counsellor? Truly, such an accomplished fibber would make a trustworthy
counsellor? No, I am afraid, if you throw up the post you hold, you
will find it difficult to replace it by any other.'

'Very well, let me retain it then, but not as the gift of chance. You
must yourself, of your own free will, bestow on me the title of your
cousin, your chosen cousin: that is a distinction of which I shall be
proud.'

'And will you, then, promise to come back at Christmas, and act plays
with us?'

'I promise you into the bargain a summer representation, before autumn
is over,' said I. 'The Fates only know if I shall preserve the dramatic
talent I now have until winter.'

I had caught a portion of Hannè 's gaiety, and my sentimental feelings,
so much jeered at, shrank into the background.

'Then I will dub you my cousin of cousins; and besides, on account of
your many great services and merits, I will confer on you the
distinguished title of my court story-teller.'

'And on the occasion of receiving this new title, I must, as in duty
bound, kiss your hand; wherefore I remove this little brown glove,
which henceforth shall be placed in my helmet, in token of my vassalage
to a fair lady.'

'No, stop! give up my glove, cousin--I cannot waste it upon you. It is
a good new glove, without a single hole in it. Give it up, I tell you;
the other will be of no use without it.'

She tried to snatch it from me, but I held it high above her head, and
speedily managed to seize its fellow-glove.

'You must redeem them, Hannè; a kiss for each of the pair is what I
demand; and they are well worth it, for they are really nice new
gloves. I will not part with them for less.'

'I think you must be a fool, Carl, to fancy for one moment that I would
kiss you to recover my own gloves. No, I will die first,' she
exclaimed, in a tone of comic indignation.

In answer to her mock heroics, I apostrophized the gloves in glowing
terms, finishing with--'On your smooth perfumed surface I press my
burning lips. Tell your fair mistress what I dare not say to her, what
I at this moment confide to you.' I kissed the gloves.

'Well, well, give me back my gloves and I will let you kiss me,' said
Hannè. 'But it shall be the slightest atom of a kiss, such as they give
in the Christmas games, the most economical possible; it must not be
worth more than four marks, for that was the price of the gloves. Now,
are you not ashamed to take a kiss valued so low?'

'No, I will take it. But the value I put upon it is very different, for
the slightest kiss from your lips, Hannè, is worth at least a million.
You will make me a _millionnaire_, Hannè.'

I gave her the gloves, and was just on the point of kissing her, when
the voice of the Justitsraad broke on the silence around, calling,
'Jettè, Hannè, Carl, hollo! where are you all?'

'Here,' cried Hannè, bursting away from me. 'We are coming.'

'But dearest, dearest Hannè! my kiss--my million?'

'We will see about it to-morrow; you must give me credit this evening.'

'My dearest Hannè, to-morrow will be too late; for Heaven's sake, have
compassion on me! I am going away to-night; there is no to-morrow for
me here. Give me but half the million now--but the quarter--but the
four marks' worth which you owe me! Dear Hannè, pay me but the smallest
mite of my promised treasure.'

'Nonsense! we must make the best of our way home, or we shall be well
scolded.'

Gustav and Jettè joined us at that moment. The gloves and the kiss were
for ever lost!

'Why, children, what has become of you, all this time?' exclaimed the
Justitsraad. 'Come in now, and have a country-dance with the good folks
before we leave them and go to have some mulled claret. Stop, stop,
Carl, you can't dance with Hannè; she is engaged to one of the young
farmers. You must take another partner. There is poor Annie, the lame
milkmaid, she has scarcely danced at all; it is a sin that she is to
sit all the evening, because one leg is a little shorter than the
other. Go, dance with her.'

'Don't turn the poor girl's head with your enormous fibs,' cried Hannè
to me, as I was entering the summer-house. 'Have pity on her
unsophisticated heart, and do not speculate upon _a million there_; the
herdsman would probably not allow it.'

'A million? The herdsman? What is all that stuff you are talking?'
asked her father.

'Ill-nature--downright ill-nature, uncle.'

'Fie! cousin; that is not a chivalrous mode of speaking. But do go and
foot it merrily with lame Annie, and I promise you the dance shall last
at least an hour.'

The dance was over--the mulled wine was finished--the happy Gustav had
gone to his home--the family had bid each other good night, and I was
alone in my chamber.

'This was the last evening,' thought I to myself; 'the short dream was
now over, and I had to leave that pleasant house, never more to return
to it.' A deep sigh responded to these reflections. 'My deception will
soon be discovered; they will revile and despise me. I shall most
probably be the cause of their being exposed to the ridicule of the
whole neighbourhood; that will annoy them terribly, and they will be
very angry that anyone should have presumed to impose so impudently on
their frank hospitality. And my kiss ... my million ... the realization
of that delightful promise!... What if I were to remain yet another
day--half a day--another morning even? Remain!--in order to add another
link to the chain which binds me here, and which I am already almost
too weak to sever? No--I will go hence. In about an hour the moon will
set, and when its tell-tale light is gone I will go too. One short
hour! Alas! how many melancholy hours shall I not have to endure when
_that one_ has passed. It is incomprehensible to me how I became
involved in all this. Chance is sometimes a miraculous guide, when we
allow ourselves to be blindly led by it. But a truce to these tiresome
reflections; I have no time to think of anything but Hannè, now that I
am about to leave her for ever ... _For ever!_ These are two detestable
words. Everything is now quite still in the house. I hear no sound but
poor Pasop, rustling his chains in his kennel; he will not bark when he
sees it is only I passing. They are all friendly to me here, even the
very dogs; yet how false I have been to them!'

I threw my clothes and other little travelling appurtenances into my
_valise_, and opened the window.

'But ought I to run away without leaving one word behind? The worthy
family might be alarming themselves about me. What shall I write? I
suppose I must play the cousin to the end; at any rate I must try to
put them on a wrong scent. I shall address my note to Hannè, that she
may see that my last thoughts were with her.'

I seized a pencil and wrote:--

'Hannè's cruelty has caused my bankruptcy and my flight. She could
have made me a _millionnaire_, but she has left me a beggar. Poor and
sad I quit this hospitable house, leaving behind my blessings on its
much-respected and amiable inmates, including the hard-hearted fair one
who has compelled me to seek a refuge at Fredericia, which, from the
time of Axel, has afforded _jus asyli_ to unfortunate subjects.'

I stuck the paper in the dressing-glass, where it would speedily be
observed.

I had played out my comedy, and the sober realities of life were now
before me. I fell into a deep reverie, which lasted until the first
dawn of day, when I started up to prepare for my departure. First, I
threw my carpet-bag out of the window, and then, getting out myself
upon the tree, and cautiously descending from branch to branch, I
reached the ground safely and quietly. Taking a circuitous route, I at
length passed the woody village near my uncle's abode; and the sun
stood high in the heavens when, weary and dispirited, and out of humour
with the whole world, I entered the parsonage-house.


                                PART IV.

Eight days after my arrival, I was sitting in the dusk with the old
people, while my thoughts were at ---- Court. The good clergyman,
according to habit, was shoving the skull-cap he wore on his head to
and fro, and talking half-aloud to himself. At length he exclaimed,

'In good sooth, nephew, I am quite surprised at you. Is it natural for
a young man to sit so much within doors? You have never gone a step
beyond the garden and our little shrubbery, and really there is some
very pretty scenery in our neighbourhood, quite worth your seeing.'

'It is a sin that he should be shut up here with us two old people,'
said his wife; 'if our son had been at home, it would have been more
pleasant for him. It is very unlucky that he should be at Kiel just
now. How can we amuse such a young man, my dear? I am quite sorry for
him.'

I assured them that I had everything I wished at their house, and
was extremely comfortable. But the fact was, that I felt extremely
uncomfortable. I was miserable at knowing that I was so near ----
Court, and yet could have no communication with its inhabitants; I was
certain that I must have thrown everything there into the greatest
commotion, yet, since my flight, I had heard nothing of or from the
place round which my heart's dearest thoughts hovered continually.

'Why, instead of a wild, mischievous, merry madcap, as you were
represented to be, we find a staid, quiet, grave young man. It is not a
good sign when a gay temper takes such a sudden turn. You seem to be
quite changed, nephew. Indeed, it strikes me your very appearance has
altered; your hair looks darker to me, within these eight days, and
your skin is as yellow as if you had the jaundice.'

'Oh, Heaven forbid! The Lord preserve him from that!' cried my worthy
aunt, much alarmed.

I relieved her mind by assuring her that my health was excellent.

'And you are allowing the hair on your upper lip to grow to a pair of
moustaches,' continued my uncle. 'You will soon look like an officer of
hussars. If you were not such a sensible, quiet youth, I should think
it was a piece of conceit and affectation, to look smart in the eyes of
the girls.'

Without having formed any settled plan connected with the change of my
appearance, but not without considerable trouble, had I by degrees
blackened my hair, and darkened my complexion with walnut juice, so
that I could not be recognized if any of the people from ---- Court
should meet me. I had also cultivated moustaches for the same purpose,
but they were as yet very diminutive.

'Just tell me, nephew, what do you want with moustaches?'

'I want them because ... I wish ... I must ... I belong to the corps of
riflemen, uncle, and the new regulation is, that every rifleman is to
have moustaches ... so I must mount a pair.'

'What a foolish regulation! Don't you think so, wife? But I suppose it
is a case in which one must do as others do.'

This settled, I was left, as to my disguise, in peace. But my venerable
uncle commenced another attack. 'I must positively have you to go out
and look about you, Adolph. I am going to-morrow to see my friends
Justitsraad ----, whose country seat is not far from this. You shall
drive over there with me; the road is very pretty.'

I was in agony. 'I would, much rather remain at home, uncle; I don't
know these people.'

'I will introduce you to them. They are a very amiable, charming
family, and you will soon become acquainted with them. You absolutely
must go.'

What excuse was I to manufacture? I had recourse to fibs again.

'The Justitsraad and my father are personal enemies--they quarrelled
about some matter of business. They are deadly foes--I should be very
unwelcome--my name is proscribed at ---- Court.'

'How very strange that I never heard of this before!' exclaimed the
unsuspecting old man. 'People should not hate each other for the sake
of sinful mammon. We must bring about a reconciliation between them. I
shall certainly preach upon the subject of forgiveness next Sunday--a
powerful discourse will I give.'

'It is also my wish that they should be reconciled, dear uncle, and
therefore, I think it would be most prudent not to mention my name
_yet_. If I make the acquaintance of the Justitsraad without his
knowing who I am, I shall feel more at my ease with him. I assure you
this will be best.'

'Well--so be it,' said my uncle; 'I will not then mention your being
here. But I shall throw out a few hints about forgiveness and Christian
feelings--these can do no harm.'

'No--that they cannot,' said my aunt. 'But I quite agree with Adolph. I
think his plan a good one.'

As soon as the old people had retired to rest, I stole softly through
the garden, and reaching the high road, took the way to ---- Court. As
I approached it, I saw with pleasure the white summer-house on the
outskirts of the garden. Soon after I reached the hill, where stood the
well-known swing. The moon was shining brightly, and it was a lovely
night. All was so still around, that I could hear the wind whistling
through the adjacent alleys of trees--and the rustling of the wind
amidst the branches of the pine and the fir has a peculiar sound. Far
away in the wood was to be heard the melancholy tinkling of the bells
worn by the sheep round their necks. There is a sadness in this
monotonous, yet plaintive sound, which has a great effect upon the
heart that is filled with longing--and where is the human being who has
nothing to long for? But such sadness is not hopeless, and as the bells
give tones sometimes higher, sometimes deeper, from different parts of
the woods or fields, so tranquillizing voices whisper to our souls,
'There is comfort for every sorrow--we shall not always long in vain.'

The moon shed its soft light over the quiet garden, the clock struck
eleven--that was generally the time at which the family retired to
rest--therefore I ventured to leave my place of concealment, without
the fear of encountering anyone. Presently after I stood again behind
the bushes of fragrant jasmine, immediately beneath the windows, and
beheld one light extinguished after the other. In the room I lately
occupied, all was dark. At length the light also disappeared in Hannè's
chamber.


              Sleep, sweetly sleep! Dream blessed dreams!


I whispered with Baggesen, and my heart added, in the words of the same
poet,


                 I love--I love--I love but only thee!


In Jettè's room there was still a candle burning; doubtless she was
thinking of her Gustav, perhaps writing a few kind words to him. I
could hardly refrain myself from climbing up _the_ tree, and speaking
to her; I had a claim upon her indulgence, for had I not laid the
fountain of her happiness? _Laid the foundation!_ How did I know that
the real cousin had not arrived? But even in that case it would be
scarcely possible to undo what had been done. I clung to the pleasing
idea that I had effected some good.

At length Jettè's candle was extinguished also. The last--last light--I
had gazed on it, till I was almost blinded. With an involuntary sigh I
turned my steps slowly back towards the garden; something was moving
close behind me; it was my quondam friend, a greyhound belonging to the
Justitsraad, but he followed growling at my heels, as if he wished to
hunt me off the grounds I polluted by my presence.

'Watchel! my boy! is that you? So--so--be still, be still, Watchel!' I
turned to pat his head, but he showed his white teeth, and barked at
me; and presently all the other dogs near began to bark also.
'Forgotten!' I exclaimed bitterly to myself, 'forgotten, and disliked!'
Watchel followed me, snarling, to the extremity of the garden, and
barked long at my shadow as I crossed the field.

The next day my uncle drove over to ---- Court. The moment he was gone
I hurried up to his study, which looked towards the east, and arranged
his large telescope to bear upon that place which had so much interest
for me. I could overlook the whole plain; at its extremity was some
rising ground studded with trees--this was the garden; to the left lay
the grove, and close to it was the hillock on which stood the swing!
Suddenly the swing, until then empty, seemed to be occupied with
something white, which put it in motion. 'It is Hannè who is swinging!'
I exclaimed aloud in my joy; and I spent the whole afternoon in gazing
through the telescope, with a beating heart, and with my eyes fixed
upon the swing to catch another glimpse of her who had vanished, alas!
too soon. One glance at the folds of her white dress had thrown my
blood into a tumult of excitement, but how wildly did not all my pulses
beat when, towards evening, my uncle's carriage rolled up the avenue of
the rectory.

After he had greeted my aunt with all due affection, and delivered
the complimentary messages with which he was charged, inquired how
things had gone on during the hours of his absence, settled himself
comfortably in his old easy-chair, and lighted his pipe, he began
with--

'I heard some very strange news over yonder; I really can think of
nothing else.'

'What is it, dear? A great rise in the price of anything?' asked his
wife.

'Oh no, my dear, not at all. It is a very ridiculous story. It is not
to be mentioned; but I know you will keep it to yourself when I
particularly request you to do so. Well--I will tell you all about it;
it is really quite a mysterious affair.'

And the good man proceeded to relate how, one evening when they were
expecting a cousin who was betrothed to Jettè, a person arrived who
answered every question about the family, seemed to know all their
affairs, gave himself out to be Carl, whom they had not seen for eleven
years, and, as might be supposed, insinuated himself into the good
graces of the whole of them. 'He found out that Jettè was attached to
that young man Holm, who is studying agricultural affairs in this
neighbourhood; so he insisted on annulling his engagement to her,
declaring that he was not in love with her, but was betrothed abroad.
The Justitsraad was at first very angry, but he gave way at last, and
there were gay doings at ---- Court that evening. Next morning the
cousin was nowhere to be found; but he left behind him a paper of which
nobody can make anything. They expected him during two whole days, but
he did not make his appearance again. On the third day, another person
arrived, who also declared himself to be a cousin, said he was called
Carl, and that he was the expected guest. He brought letters from his
father, about whose handwriting there could be no doubt, and the whole
family recognized him at once from many things. The first, of course,
was an impostor. But Jettè is now betrothed to Holm as well as to the
cousin, who had come to arrange about the wedding. There was an awful
scene--he insisted on Holm's giving up Jettè to him, and her father had
at last to interfere to prevent the rivals carrying their wrath to some
fearful extremity. The cousin's obstinacy gave great offence, and he
took his departure the day after he had arrived. But he was so angry,
that it was with great difficulty he was induced to promise that he
would hold his tongue, and not blab about this absurd affair.'

'May the Lord graciously preserve us all! It must have been some wicked
sharper!' exclaimed my aunt, clasping her hands in great agitation,
when her husband had finished his recital.

'Of course he was an impostor. But it is a very curious story. For what
could he have come--will anyone tell me that?'

'Why, to steal, to be sure. Did he break into none of the
keeping-places? Is there nothing missing--none of the plate? no forks
or spoons?'

'Not the slightest article, and he was there for two days, and went
about like one of themselves.'

'It is very surprising; but the fact is, he must have come to
reconnoitre the premises, and, when the nights are longer and darker,
they will hear of him again.'

'It is a most incomprehensible affair,' said I, in a voice that might
have betrayed, me to more acute observers. 'And can they not guess at
all who he is--have they no clue to him?'

'Not the slightest, nephew. They all describe him as a handsome,
gentlemanly young man, who knew how to conduct himself in good society;
and he acquitted himself so well in his assumed character, that none of
them had the least notion what a trick he was playing them.'

'Believe me, my dear sirs, this person was no other than the celebrated
MORTEN FREDERICHSEN, who was arrested and imprisoned at Roeskilde, but
made his escape. He must be a very clever fellow, that,' said my aunt;
'I have been told that he pretended to be a Russian officer once in
Copenhagen, made his way into the higher circles, and spoke Russian as
if it had been his mother tongue. No doubt he has contrived to get free
again; and he is a dangerous man. Heaven preserve us from him! Where
_he_ is, there is always mischief going on. I will take care to see
that the house-doors are well bolted and secured, and I shall tell the
servants to let Sultan loose at night. One cannot be too careful when
there are such characters lurking in the neighbourhood.'

The old lady went out to superintend the safe fastening of the house,
without dreaming that he who caused her such alarm was dwelling under
her own peaceful roof.

The next day nothing else was spoken of, and it was easy for me to draw
from my uncle all that I wished to hear. I ascertained that the real
cousin had not made a favourable impression; and that, in fact, they
were all glad that the engagement between him and Jettè was at an end.
My extraordinary and mysterious disappearance had set them all
guessing, but they despaired of ever solving the riddle, since all the
investigations and inquiries which could be quietly instituted had
failed to yield the slightest trace of me. Gustav, following up the
hint I had given in the note I had left, had written to a friend in
Fredericia, but, of course, this had led to no result. Thomas daily
scoured the country round, searching the woods and the moors to find
me; but every succeeding day lessened his hopes of being able to bring
me a prisoner to his home.

My imprudence, then, had been productive of no bad effects; fortune had
befriended the rash fool, as it so often does. I cannot describe with
what joy I gathered this happy intelligence; and when I had reflected
on it for some days, I came to the conclusion that I _might_ venture
again to show myself at ---- Court, and entreat forgiveness of my sad
delinquencies. I formed a thousand plans and relinquished them again.
At length I wrote to Copenhagen for new clothes, and sent a letter, to
be forwarded from thence by the post to the Justitsraad, wherein I made
a confession, and candidly avowed all that my inclination for a frolic
and a succession of accidental circumstances had led me into. I threw
myself upon Miss Jettè's kindness to intercede for me, trusting that
she would not refuse me this favour; I dwelt on my contrition and deep
regret, and implored forgiveness for my misdemeanours. Nothing did I
conceal, except my name and my love for Hannè. I hope, dear reader,
that you will not find it necessary to ask why I concealed these.

The blue coat arrived at length from Copenhagen, with information that
the letter had been forwarded. It was not difficult for me to put it
into my uncle's head to drive over to ---- Court, and ascertain if
there had been any elucidation of the mysterious story that had almost
entirely chased sleep from my good aunt's couch. I had intended to have
accompanied him, but when the time came my courage failed, and,
pleading a headache, I left him to go alone.

'You are not well, my dear nephew, that I can easily perceive,' said
he, as I saw him into his carriage; 'we must positively send for the
doctor. You will turn quite black in the long run, for in a fortnight
only you have become as dark as a Tartar, and that is not a healthy
colour. Perhaps you have got worms.'

The worthy man little knew that I was purposely obliterating my good
complexion more and more, and had the greatest trouble in giving myself
this Tartar tint. 'He shall drink some of my decoction of wormwood,'
said my aunt; 'it is better than any apothecary's mixtures, and will do
him a great deal of good.' Whereupon she invited me to go with her to
her sanctum, and there I was compelled to swallow a horrid bitter
potion, which was enough to bring the most hardened sinner to a sense
of his guilt.

'Well, tell me, have they found Morten Frederichsen?' asked my aunt,
when my uncle returned. 'Has he broken in over yonder?'

'No, no, my dear. There was no housebreaker in question at all. Truly,
it is a laughable story. The man has written the Justitsraad from
Copenhagen.'

'Written? A threatening letter? A defiance? It is making nothing at all
of the police--a positive insult to them. But, God be thanked, he is no
longer in our neighbourhood.'

'Now, my good wife, you are quite mistaken,' replied my uncle, who then
proceeded to relate the contents of my letter, which, it appeared, had
still further excited the baffled curiosity of the worthy family.

My aunt could not recover from the state of amazement into which she
had been thrown.

'But what says the Justitsraad?' I asked.

'Why, what can he say? He is glad that the intruder was a gentleman,
for the letter is evidently written by one in that rank of life, but of
course he is angry at having been so hoaxed. But it was Jettè who
pacified him, for she did not stop entreating him until he promised her
not to vex himself any longer about the matter. I thought of you,
nephew, and took the opportunity to say a few words about forgiveness
and placability, grounding my lesson of Christian duty on the excellent
admonitions of the Scriptures. They talked a great deal about the
mysterious personage; and the Justitsraad said at length that he would
not wreak his vengeance upon him if he could see him, but would rather
feel a pleasure in meeting him again. The girls wanted their father to
put an advertisement in the papers addressed in a roundabout way to
him, but Mr. Holm dissuaded them from this.'

'That was very right of Mr. Holm,' said my aunt. 'He is a sensible
young man; for if the person really was a thief--of which there can be
no doubt--for he who tells a lie will also steal ...'

'That does not by any means follow, dear aunt,' said I.

'Well, be that as it may, we are invited to ---- Court to-morrow, and I
promised that we would go, and you, too, Adolph. I told them I had a
nephew on a visit to me at present.'

'I ... but ... you know, uncle, my father and the Justitsraad ...'

'Oh, we must manage to set all that to-rights; to entertain feelings of
enmity is quite unworthy of two such men. Leave the matter to me. I
have not yet mentioned your name, therefore you need be under no
embarrassment in presenting yourself to the Justitsraad. He is a very
pleasant man.'

'Sooner or later--it makes but little difference,' thought I; 'and if I
can but look him full in the face, without dreading to be discovered, I
shall be willing to acknowledge all his good qualities.'

'Had we not better take the bottle of wormwood with us in the
carriage?' said my aunt, next day. 'Adolph looks so black under the
eyes this morning, that I am sure he is worse than he was yesterday.'

'I confess I do not like his looks,' said my uncle; 'but perhaps that
dark shade is cast by his moustaches. One might really fancy, nephew,
that you had darkened your face with burnt cork. You don't look at all
like yourself. Truly, the rifle corps has a great deal to answer for.'

My endeavours had been successful. Instead of the gay, fresh-looking,
light-hearted cousin, in a dark-green frock-coat, that had left
---- Court, came, along with the clergyman and his lady, a grave,
silent, dark-haired nephew, in a blue coat; with an olive complexion,
very sallow, and with black moustaches; my transformation was complete.
I scarcely recognized myself when I saw myself in the glass. The worst
that could happen would be to be taken for myself--the agreeably
characterized '_sad scamp_' from Hamburg. But for what would I not be
taken to see Hannè again!

None of them knew me; the Justitsraad addressed me as 'Mr. Adolph,' and
received me very courteously. The guests were Kammerraad Tvede, the
Jutlander, and his family, Gustav, a friend of his, and ourselves. I do
not doubt that my heightened colour might have been visible even
through the swarthy shade of my cheek when Hannè entered the room. She
had become ten times prettier than ever in these fourteen days; she
looked really quite captivating. Gustav and Jettè cast many speaking
glances at each other, and her mother looked kindly at them. I stood
silent and grave in a corner window; the various feelings that rushed
upon me assisted me in playing the part of a somewhat embarrassed
stranger. Watchel rose from his mat, and walked round the room as if to
greet his master's well-known guests; he wagged his tail in token of
welcome to my uncle and aunt, but he growled at me, whereupon Hannè
called him away, and made him lie down in his usual place.

'But tell me, my dear friend, how does this happen? When I was here
last your daughter was engaged to another gentleman. What has become of
him?' said the inquisitive neighbour, Tvede.

'Oh, that was only a jest from their childhood,' said the Justitsraad.
'He was my brother's son, and was on a visit to us. Jettè was betrothed
at that time to Mr. Holm, though her engagement was not generally
known.'

'Oh, indeed; but where is your nephew now?'

'He left us some time ago.'

'A very nice young man your nephew is; perhaps what was only jest
between him and the elder sister may become earnest between him and the
younger one. What say you to that, Miss Hannè?'

Hannè blushed scarlet, but made no answer. The Justitsraad looked a
little confused, and smiled to my uncle; I sat as if on thorns.

'So your father resides in Copenhagen, Mr. Adolph?' said the
indefatigable questioner, turning towards me.

I rose in a fright, and bowed.

'He is a merchant, is he not? and has a good deal to do with the West
Indies?'

'Yes, he has a good deal to do with the West Indies,' I replied, in a
feigned voice, as different from my own as I possibly could make it.

'My brother-in-law does a great deal of business with the provinces
also--commission-business--as a corn-merchant,' said my uncle; 'that is
safer than West India business.'

'Ah, so he is your brother-in-law--married to your sister, no doubt?
Well, your nephew seems a fine young man. He is in the army, I
suppose?'

'No, my dear sir, he is a clerk in his father's office; but as he has
joined a rifle corps, according to a new regulation he is obliged to
have moustaches,' replied my uncle, honestly believing the truth of my
assertion.

The observation of all present was drawn upon me. I turned crimson.
Gustav and his friend cast a meaning glance at each other, and both
smiled, I interpreted the smile into this, 'He is a vain, conceited
puppy; the regulation is the coinage of his own brain.' What an
unmerciful interpreter is conscience! We were to take our coffee in the
garden; thither, therefore, we all proceeded. I approached Jettè, and
began to talk to her about the pretty country round.

'Have you been long at your uncle's?' she asked.

'I have been there some little time, and I should have left it before
now, had not a strange commission been imposed on me--one which I find
it very difficult to fulfil. It is a commission which relates to the
family here,' I added, when I found she was not inclined to ask any
questions.

'To us?' said Jettè; 'and the commission is so difficult?'

'It is no other than to obtain for a man the restoration of that peace
of mind of which his inconsiderate folly has deprived him, and to
procure for him your father's forgiveness--his pardon of an injury that
otherwise will weigh him down with regret and remorse for the remainder
of his life.'

Jettè looked at me in astonishment.

'What--Mr. Adolph? I do not understand.'

'A friend of mine has written to me from Copenhagen, and charged me to
try and make his peace with the Justitsraad; but the papers which he
has forwarded to me containing his case, really present it in such a
perplexing and unfortunate light, that I cannot attempt to carry out
his wishes, unless you, to whom he particularly desired me first to
apply, will grant me your valuable assistance. He certainly did most
shamefully abuse your confidence.'

'You know ... it is ... you are acquainted with that strange story?'
exclaimed Jettè, much embarrassed.

'I know it thoroughly; and though this is the first time I have had the
honour of seeing you, I think I may say you yourself are not better
acquainted with the particulars of that affair than I am. It is on your
kindness that I principally rely; yet I may not mention my friend's
name until he has obtained entire forgiveness. He has given me very
positive directions.'

'I cannot but be much surprised that a person who insulted my father
and us all so much, should ...'

'Insulted you, my dear young lady? I am shocked to hear it; I am sorry
that he should have written me what was not true; his letter led me to
believe that, on the contrary, he had rather been of service to you.'

Jettè blushed deeply, and I thought I perceived tears in her eyes. 'He
shall certainly not find me ungrateful,' she said; 'I have not
forgotten what I owe him. What do you require of me?'

'My friend entreats you, through me, to grant him your forgiveness for
a mystification to which purely accidental circumstances led at first,
but which was continued solely from an interest in your fate, and an
anxious desire to serve you. He entreats that you will use your
influence to mollify your father towards him, and procure for me a
private interview with him, which I trust will end in the pardon of my
friend, who has no dearer wish than to be received again into a circle
he so highly esteems and respects, and to be permitted to prove to them
how deeply he regrets his thoughtless folly.'

Some others of the same party now approached, and I was obliged to drop
the conversation. Gustave and Hannè were disputing.

'Jeer at me as you will,' said Hannè, 'I hold to my opinion, that
nothing is so tiresome as family connections. If one only could choose
one's kindred those sort of ties would be much stronger. It is a pity
not to go a step further, and let it be a fixed rule, that relations to
a certain extent remote, should marry whether they suit each other or
not. This would certainly extirpate _love_, but it would be vastly
convenient, and in a recent case it would have hindered many doubts and
hopes, and all that followed.'

'Pray recollect your last election; there was not much to boast of in
him. The ties of consanguinity could hardly have furnished any family
with a less desirable member.'

'Yes they could, for the member who came after him was much inferior,
notwithstanding he bore on his brow the stamp of legitimacy. Even
though my "election," as you call it, fell upon one who was
treacherous, he was at any rate pleasant, lively, and amusing, whereas
the legitimate one was cold, stupid, pedantic, tiresome; wearying one
with every slow word he uttered. You do not mean one syllable of all
the evil you speak of the stranger. The properly installed cousins and
nephews whom I have latterly seen have been miserable creatures, who
looked as if they could not count five, and as if they had not a
thought to bestow on anything but their own pitiful persons, on which
they placed the most exorbitant value, without the slightest grounds
for so doing.'

As she finished this tirade, Hannè cast a side-glance at me, who, in
truth, played capitally the part of the most tiresome, self-satisfied
blockhead of a nephew anyone could imagine. She had no conception how
part of her harangue had enchanted me.

'Legitimate right is a good thing; in that I quite agree with the young
lady,' said the Jutlander, who had just approached us, and thought fit
to join in the conversation. He had only caught a word or two of what
Hannè had been saying, and mistook entirely her meaning.

While we continued to stroll about, Jettè took her sister aside, and
whispered something to her. Hannè turned her eyes full on me, and
looked keenly at me. As soon as it was possible, I went up to her, and
began to talk about the weather, that invariable preface to even the
most important and most interesting subjects. We soon fell into
conversation, and it turned upon the communication Jettè had just made.

'My sister tells me that your friend is anxious to obtain our
forgiveness,' said she. 'We have already given him that, for he has
done us a greater service than he thinks. Our regard is another affair;
that would be more difficult to bestow, and doubtless he does not
entertain the slightest idea of ever winning it.'

'You would condemn him to a severe doom if you would forbid his
striving at least to deserve it. Without your good opinion, your
forgiveness would be a mere passing act of charity; without the former
he would be a beggar all his life, with it _he would become a
millionnaire_.'

Hannè coloured at the reminiscences these words awakened; but she only
said,

'You put a high value on it.'

'Not higher than my friend does. _Your_ regard, charming Miss Hannè, is
what he seeks, and were he not attracted to this place by a perhaps too
vivid _souvenir_ of you, I should not be standing here as his
spokesman. Your sister has kindly promised to obtain for me a few
minutes' private conversation with your father; if your hatred of my
unfortunate friend cannot be softened, tell me so, I pray you, at once,
and I shall spare your father a communication which may perhaps remind
him of disagreeable impressions, for without your entire pardon I
cannot fulfil my errand, and I will not attempt to do it by halves.'

'You are a very zealous agent, there is no denying that. Well, you may
speak to my father; I will not be the most hard-hearted of the family.
Besides, I really feel that your friend has an advocate in my own
inclination for a joke, though his jest was carried rather too far.'

'I expected this goodness from you, or my friend would not have painted
you in true colours.'

'And pray in what colours did he paint me, if I may venture to ask? It
would be difficult to give anyone's likeness on so short an
acquaintance.'

'They were as radiant as if he had borrowed for his pencil tints from
heaven to do justice to the original ... He adores you, to say the
absolute truth.'

'Indeed! He really does me too much honour,' she said, stiffly, and in
an offended tone of voice.

At the 'tints from heaven,' and 'justice to the original,' she had
smiled; at the 'absolute truth,' she became angry.

We were at the foot of the hillock, on which stood the swing.

'There must be a fine view from the top of that rising ground,' said I.

Politeness obliged her to ascend the bank. Gustav and his friend
followed us at a little distance in earnest conversation; the rest of
the party had gone to the summer-house, where coffee was prepared.

'Really, this is a lovely view!' I remarked, mechanically.

'Yonder lies your uncle's church,' said Hannè; 'it makes the twelfth
spire we can see from this hill.'

'I have remarked this place from my uncle's window; these white poles
shine out against the dark-green background.'

'Were you afraid of them? Did you fancy they were ...'

'A gallows!' I exclaimed, interrupting her. 'No, Miss Hannè; I am
rather more rational than my foolish friend.'

Hannè looked inquisitively at me.

'Have you remembered what he begged of you on this spot? That when you
heard evil of him, and doubts of his honour, you would come up here,
and judge leniently of the absent; that you would not condemn him
totally, although appearances might be against him?'

'He must have favoured you with a remarkably minute report of his
sayings and doings here,' said Hannè, laughing. 'You have got his
speeches by heart--word for word.'

'Every word which he exchanged with you remains for ever engraved on
his memory. You promised this to him. Dare he flatter himself that you
have not forgotten that promise, and have not deserted him, while he
relied on your compassion?'

'I have taken his part a great deal more than he deserves,' she
replied. 'But now that is no longer necessary, and if he return here,
he shall find me his worst enemy, for I do not allow myself to be made
a fool of without taking my revenge.'

'Have some mercy, fair lady! See, I sue for grace--he cannot stand your
ire. I have come to throw myself at your feet--acquitted by you, he
will have courage to meet any storm ... Miss Hannè,' I added, with my
own natural voice, 'you are the only one who knows that the unfortunate
sinner is here; condemn me irrevocably, if you have the heart to do
so--I will hear my sentence from your lips.'

Hannè looked at me with an arch smile.

'You will not betray me, or misuse my confidence,' I added, in a
supplicatory tone. 'Bestow on me your forgiveness, and procure for me
that of your parents. Without this I cannot live. You have discovered
me, notwithstanding my disguise; it was only under its shelter that I
ventured to come near you during the light of day. Ah! at night, I have
often been here, standing outside of the house, looking up at your
window, until the light was extinguished in your room, and I had no
longer any evidence of your proximity to feast upon.'

She looked at me for a moment with unusual softness,--nay, with
kindness; then clapping her hands together, she called out,

'Gustav! Linden! Come here--make haste! Here he is--here he is!'

'Who? What is it?' cried the two young men, as they came hurrying
towards us.

'For Heaven's sake--Miss Hannè--you surely will not ... you abuse the
confidence I placed in you--I did not expect this of you. Will you
betray me? Will you disgrace me before that stranger?' I stammered out,
amazed and vexed at her sudden change.

'There he is--the false cousin--standing yonder. Now he is caught,'
added Hannè, skipping about with joy.

'The cousin--he!' exclaimed Gustav, in great astonishment; 'but tell me
then ...'

'Mr. Holm,' said I, 'and you, sir, with whom I have not the pleasure of
being acquainted ...'

'True!' cried Hannè, interrupting me, 'I owe you an explanation. You
need not excuse yourself to Gustav, in his heart he acknowledges you to
be his benefactor; and this gentleman, _with whom you have not the
pleasure of being acquainted_, is quite as cognisant of your exploits
as any of us. "YOU WILL NOT BETRAY ME, OR MISUSE MY CONFIDENCE,"' said
she, mimicking me, 'therefore let me present to you Mr. Linden, my
bridegroom elect. You once asked me what this ring I wear betokened--do
you remember that? I was then obliged to give you an evasive answer;
now I will confide the secret to you, my much honoured cousin--and much
admired truth-teller.'

Could I have guessed _this_, or have had the slightest suspicion of it,
two hours earlier, I never again would have put my feet within the
doors of ---- Court.

There was nothing for it now but to let myself patiently be dragged
about by them, after I had muttered something, that might as well have
been taken for a malediction as a felicitation.

My uncle was walking in the alley of pine-trees with the Justitsraad
and Jettè; she had been preparing him for the audience I told her I
wished of him, but she had not yet the least idea that I was the person
for whom she had been pleading. I appeared before them as a poor
culprit.

'Dear father,' said Hannè, 'I bring a deserter, who has given himself
up to me. He relies on your forgiveness, for which I have become
surety, and if you withhold it, my word will be broken.'

'Let me speak, child,' said my uncle, who fancied that a disagreement
between my father and the Justitsraad was the affair in question.

'As the servant of the Lord, it is my duty to exhort everyone to peace,
and forgiveness of injuries; you should all remember the divine mission
of Him who is the fountain of love, and who came to bring goodwill on
earth; remembering His example you should chase away hatred, and all
evil passions and thoughts from your mind. See, this young person comes
to you with confiding hope, and now do shake hands with him in sign of
reconciliation, and let not two worthy men remain longer enemies. Speak
kindly to him, my old friend, and do not oblige him longer to conceal
his name, because it is one which you once disliked--let the past be
now forgotten!'

'What, _you_ also pleading for him, my worthy friend? Then, indeed, I
must give in. Well, the foolish madcap has found intercessors enough, I
think,' said the Justitsraad, as he held out his hand to me.

'He is petitioning for his friend,' said Jettè.

'For my benefactor,' said Gustav.

'For his old father,' said my uncle.

'For himself,' said Hannè. 'This is the pretended cousin himself, in
disguise; this is the very man himself who threw our family into such
confusion; but what his real name may be, Heaven only knows.'

'He is my sister's son--Adolph Kerner, a son of Mr. Kerner, the
well-known Copenhagen merchant; he has no need to be ashamed of his
name,' said my uncle.

Everyone was astonished; there was a general silence from amazement.

At length Jettè exclaimed, 'The pretended cousin himself?'

'The young Kerner who went to Hamburg?' asked the Justitsraad.

'What! the impostor my own nephew?' cried my uncle, upon whom the truth
began to dawn. The formidable explanation was given, forgiveness
followed, and we were reconciled. The Justitsraad shook hands with me
cordially.

'And now let us seek my mother,' said Hannè, 'and fall at her feet. For
the honour of our sex, I hope Mr. Kerner will have to undergo the pains
of purgatory in her presence.'

We proceeded to the summer-house where the rest of the party were
sitting at table, taking coffee. The Justitsraad led me up to his wife,
and said, 'I beg to present to you your lost nephew, who returns, like
the prodigal son, and begs for forgiveness. Tomorrow he will show
himself without these moustaches, in his own fair hair, and he hopes to
find the same kind aunt in you whom the false cousin Carl learned so
speedily to love.'

The lady gave me her hand, after having held up her finger as if to
threaten me.

'And here you see Morten Frederichsen, my dear, against whom Sultan was
to have guarded our house. The good-for-nothing, he has certainly
hoaxed all us old ones,' said my uncle, laughing. 'His liver-complaint
was nothing but a trick.'

'What is that you say? Morten Frederichsen! How the idea of that
dreadful creature frightened me! But I have retaliated upon him with my
wormwood, I rather think.' The good woman was much puzzled, and could
hardly comprehend how it all came about.

'And now I beg to introduce to Kammerraad Tvede, the younger Kerner,
son of Mr. Kerner of Copenhagen, a youth who has lately returned from
an educational trip to Hamburg,' said the mischief-loving Hannè,
pulling me up to the Jutlander.

'A very fine young man,' stammered the Kammerraad. 'I have the pleasure
of knowing your father, and am aware of the high standing of your
house.'

I made my escape over to Jettè and Gustav, who kindly took compassion
on me.

'Don't you all see now that it was not so stupid of me to propose
examining him in the almanack?' said Hannè.

'At any rate, to _you_ belongs the credit of having placed me in the
most painful dilemma,' said I, with some bitterness. 'Be merciful now,
and do not play with me as a cat does with a mouse; the conqueror can
afford to be magnanimous to the vanquished.'

'Well, the sun is about to set, and I suppose I must let my just
resentment go with it. I will forgive you for all your misdemeanours
upon one condition, that, according to our late agreement, you will
return by-and-by, and assist us in getting up some private theatricals,
to which I have the pleasure of inviting all now present. I think you
will shine in "_The April Fools_."'[6]

'Shame on you all!' cried Jettè. 'How can you be so revengeful, and
still persecute Mr. Kerner in this inhuman way?'

'I trust he will excuse the persecution,' said her father; 'and I hope
that it will not frighten him from a house which will always be open to
him, and where he will henceforth be as well received under his own
name as he was under that of--COUSIN CARL.'




                           THE DOOMED HOUSE.

                           BY B. S. INGEMANN.


'The house near Christianshavn's canal is again for sale--your worthy
uncle's house, Johanna! and now upon very reasonable terms,' said the
young joiner and cabinet-maker, Frants, one morning to his pretty wife,
as he laid the advertisement sheet of the newspaper upon the cradle,
and glanced at his little boy, an infant of about three months old, who
was sleeping sweetly, and seemed to be sporting with heavenly cherubs
in his innocent dreams.

'Let us on no account think of the dear old house,' replied his wife,
taking up the newspaper and placing it on the table, without even
looking at the advertisement. 'We have a roof over our heads as long as
Mr. Stork will have patience about the rent. If we have bread enough
for ourselves, and for yon little angel, who will soon begin to want
some, we may well rest contented. Notwithstanding our poverty, we are,
perhaps, the happiest married couple in the whole town,' she added
gently, and with an affectionate smile, 'and we ought to thank our God
that he did not let the wide world separate us from each other, but
permitted you to return from your distant journey, healthy and
cheerful, and that he has granted us love and strength to bear our
little cross with patience.'

'You are ever the same amiable and pious Johanna,' said Frants,
embracing the lovely young mother, who reminded him of an exquisite
picture of the Madonna he had seen abroad, 'and you have made me better
and more patient than I was, either by nature or by habit. But I really
cannot remain longer in this miserable garret--I have neither room nor
spirits to work here; and if I am to make anything by my handicraft, I
must have a proper workshop, and space to breathe in and to move in.

'Your good uncle's house, near the canal, is just the place for me; how
many jovial songs my old master and I have sung there together over our
joiner's bench! Ah! _then_ I shall feel comfortable and at home. It was
there, also, that I first saw you--there, that I used to sit every
evening with you in the nice little parlour, with the cheerful green
wainscoting, when I came from the workshop with old Mr. Flok. I
remember how, on Sundays and on holidays, he used to take his silver
goblet from the cupboard in the alcove, and drink with me in such a
sociable way. And when my piece of trial-work as a journeyman was
finished, and the large, handsome coffin was put out in state in the
workshop, do you remember how glad the old man was, and how you sank
into my arms when he placed your hand in mine, over the coffin, and
said:

'"Take her, Frants, and be worthy of her! My house shall be your home
and hers, and everything it contains shall be your property when I am
sleeping in this coffin, awaiting a blessed resurrection."'

'Ah! but all that never came to pass,' sighed Johanna; 'the coffin lies
empty up in yonder loft, and frightens children in the dark. The dear
old house is under the ban of evil report, and no one will buy it, or
even hire it, now, so many strange, unfortunate deaths have taken place
there.'

'These very circumstances are in our favour, Johanna; on account of
this state of things Mr. Stork will sell it at a great bargain, and
give a half year's credit for the purchase-money. In the course of six
months, surely, the long-protracted settlement of your uncle's affairs
will be brought to a close, and we shall, at least, have as much as
will pay what we owe. The house will then be our own, and you will see
how happy and prosperous we shall be. Surely, it is not the fault of
the poor house that three children died there of measles, and two
people of old age, in the course of a few months; and none but silly
old women can be frightened because the idle children in the street
choose to scratch upon the walls, "_The Doomed House_." The house is,
and always will be, liked by me, and if Mr. Stork will accept of my
offer for it, without any other security than my own word, that
dwelling shall be mine to-day, and we can move into it to-morrow.'

'Oh, my dear Frants, you cannot think how reluctant I am to increase
our debt to this Mr. Stork. Believe me, he is not a good man, however
friendly and courteous he may seem to be. Even my uncle could not
always tolerate him, though it was not in his nature to dislike any of
God's creatures. Whenever Mr. Stork came, and began to talk about
business and bills--my uncle became silent and gloomy, and always gave
me a wink to retire to my chamber.'

'I know very well Mr. Stork was looking after you then,' said Frants,
with a smile of self-satisfaction, 'but _I_ was a more fortunate
suitor. It was a piece of folly on the part of the old bachelor; all
that, however, is forgotten now, and he has transferred the regard he
once had for you to me. He never duns me for my rent, he lent me money
at the time of the child's baptism, and he shows me more kindness than
anyone else does.'

'But I cannot endure the way in which he looks at me, Frants, and I put
no faith either in his friendship or his rectitude. The very house
that he is now about to sell he hardly came honestly by, as he gives
out--and I cannot understand how he has so large a claim upon the
property my uncle left; I never heard my uncle speak of it. God only
knows what will remain for us when all these heavy claims that have
been brought forward are satisfied; yet my uncle was considered a rich
man.'

'The lawyers and the proper court must settle that,' replied Frants; 'I
only know this, that I should be a fool if I did not buy the house
now.'

'But to say the truth, dear Frants,' urged Johanna, in a supplicating
tone, 'I am almost afraid to go back to that house, dear as every
corner of it has been to me from my childhood. I cannot reconcile
myself to the reality of the painful circumstances said to have
attended my poor uncle's death. And whenever I pass over _Long Bridge_,
and near the Dead-house for the drowned, with its low windows, I always
feel an irresistible impulse to look in, and see if he is not there
still, waiting to be placed in his proper coffin, and decently buried
in a churchyard.'

'Ah--your brain is conjuring up a parcel of old nursery tales, my
Johanna! We have nothing to fear from your good, kind uncle. If indeed
his spirit could be near us, here on earth, it would only bring us
blessings and happiness. I am quite easy on that score; he was a pious,
God-fearing man, and there was nothing in his life to disturb his
repose after death. Report said that he had drowned himself on purpose,
but I am quite convinced that was not true. If I had not unluckily been
away on my travels as a journeyman, and you with your dying aunt--your
mother's sister, we would most likely have had him with us now. How
often I have warned him against sailing about alone in Kalleboe Bay!
But he would go every Sunday. As long as I was in his employ, I always
made a point of accompanying him, and when I went away he promised me
never to go without a boatman.'

'Alas! that was an unfortunate Christmas!' sighed Johanna, 'it was not
until he had been advertised as missing in the newspapers, and Mr.
Stork had recognized his corpse at the Dead-house for the drowned, and
had caused him to be secretly buried as a suicide,--it was not until
all this was over, that I knew he had not been put into his own coffin,
and laid in consecrated ground.'

'Let us not grieve longer, dear Johanna, for what it was not in our
power to prevent; but let us rather, in respect to the memory of our
kind benefactor, put the house in order which he occupied and where he
worked for us, inhabit it cheerfully, and rescue it from mysterious
accusations and evil reports. _Our_ welfare was all he thought of, and
laboured for.'

'As you will then, dear Frants!' said Johanna, yielding to his
arguments. She hastened at the same moment to take up from its cradle
the child, who had just awoke, and holding it out to its young father,
she added, 'May God protect this innocent infant, and spare it to us!'

Frants kissed the mother and the child, smoothed his brown hair, and
taking his hat down from its peg, he hurried off to conclude the
purchase on which he had set his heart.

He returned in great spirits, and the next day the little family
removed to the house which belonged to Mr. Flok, Frants was rejoiced to
see his old master's furniture, which he had bought at an auction,
restored to its former place, and he felt almost as if the easy-chair
and the bureau, formerly in the immediate use of the old man, must
share in his gladness. But the baker's wife at the corner of the street
shrugged her shoulders, and pitied the handsome young couple, whom she
considered doomed to sickness and misfortune, because five corpses
within the last six months had been carried out of that house; and
because there was an inscription on its walls, that however often it
had been effaced had always reappeared. 'Et Forbandet Haus'--'The
Doomed House'--stood there, written in red characters, and all the old
crones in the neighbourhood affirmed that the words were _written in
blood!_

'Mark my words,' said the baker's wife at the corner of the street, to
her daughter, 'before the year is at an end, we shall have another
coffin carried out of that house.'


Frants the joiner had bestirred himself to set all to rights in the
long-neglected workshop, and Johanna had put the house in nice order,
and arranged everything as it used to be in days gone by. The little
parlour, with the green wainscoting and the old fashioned alcove, had
its former chairs and tables replaced in it; the bureau occupied its
ancient corner, and the easy-chair again stood near the stove, and
seemed to await its master's return. Often, as the young couple sat
together in the twilight, while the blaze of the fire in the stove cast
a cheerful glare through its little grated door on the hearth beneath,
they missed the old man, and talked of him with sadness and affection.
But Johanna would sometimes glance timidly at the empty leather
arm-chair--and when the moon shone in through the small window panes,
she would at times even fancy that she saw her uncle sitting there--but
pale and bloody, and with dripping wet hair.

She would then exclaim, 'Let us have lights; the baby seems restless. I
must see what is the matter with it.'

One evening there were no candles downstairs. She had to go for them up
to the storeroom in the garret. She lighted a small taper that was in
the lantern, and went out of the room, while Frants rocked the infant's
cradle to lull it to sleep. But she had only been a few minutes gone,
when he heard a noise as if of some one having fallen down in the loft
above, and he also thought he heard Johanna scream; he quitted the
cradle instantly, and rushing upstairs after her, he found her lying in
a swoon near the coffin, with the lantern in her hand, though its light
was extinguished. Exceedingly alarmed he carried her downstairs,
relighted the taper, and used every effort to recover her from her
fainting fit. When she was better, and somewhat composed, he asked in
much anxiety what had happened. 'Oh! I am as timid as a foolish child,'
said Johanna. 'It was only my poor uncle's coffin up yonder that
frightened me. I would have begged you to go and fetch the candles, but
I was ashamed to own my silly fears, and when the current of air blew
out the light in my lantern up there, it seemed to me as if a spectre's
death-cold breathing passed over my face, and I fancied I saw amidst
the gloom the lid of the coffin rising--so I fainted away in my
childish terror.'

'That coffin shall not frighten you again,' said Frants, 'I will
advertise it to-morrow for sale.' He did so, but ineffectually, for no
one bought it.

One day Mr. Stork made his appearance, bringing with him the contract
and deed of sale.

He was a tall, strongly-built man, with a countenance by no means
pleasant, though it almost always wore a smile; but the smile, if
narrowly scrutinized, had a sinister expression, and seemed to convulse
his features. He sported a gaudy waistcoat, and was dressed like an old
bachelor, who was going on some matrimonial expedition, and wished to
conceal his age. This day he was even more complaisant than usual,
praised the beauty of the infant, remarked its likeness to its lovely
mother, and offered Frants a loan of money to purchase new furniture,
and make any improvements he might wish in the interior of the house.
Franks thanked him, but declined the offer, assuring him that he was
quite satisfied with the house and furniture as they were, and wished
everything about him to wear its former aspect. However, he said, he
certainly would like to enlarge the workshop by adding to it the old
lumber-room at the back of the house, the entrance to which he found
was closed.

Mr. Stork then informed him that there was a door on the opposite side
of the lumber-room, which opened into the house _he_ occupied, and that
he had lately been using this empty place as a cellar for his firewood;
but he readily promised to have it cleared out as speedily as possible,
and to have the entrance into his own house stopped up.

'Yet,' he added, in a very gracious manner, 'it is hardly necessary to
have any separation between the two houses, when I have such
respectable and agreeable neighbours as yourselves.'

'What made you look so crossly at that excellent Mr. Stork, Johanna?'
asked her husband, when their visitor was gone. 'I am sure he is
kindness itself. He cannot really help that he has that unfortunate
contortion of the mouth, which gives a peculiar expression to his
countenance.'

'I sincerely wish we had some other person as our neighbour, and had
nothing to do with him!' exclaimed Johanna. 'I do not feel safe with
such a man near us.'

Frants now worked with equal diligence and patience--and often remained
until a late hour in the workshop, especially if he had any order to
finish. He preferred cabinet-making to the more common branches of his
trade, and was always delighted when he had any pretty piece of
furniture to construct from one of the finer sorts of wood. But he was
best known as a coffin-maker, and necessity compelled him to undertake
more of this gloomy kind of work than he liked. Often when he was
finishing a coffin, he would reflect upon all the sorrow, and perhaps
calamity which the work, that provided him and his with bread, would
bring into the house into which it was destined to enter. And when he
met people in high health and spirits, on the public promenades, he
frequently sighed to think how soon he might be engaged in nailing
together the last earthly resting-places of these animated forms.

One night he was so much occupied in finishing a large coffin, that he
did not remark how late it had become, until he heard the watchman call
out 'Twelve.'

At that moment he fancied he heard a hollow voice behind him say,

'Still hammering! And for whom is that coffin?'

He started--dropped the hammer from his hand--and looked round in
terror, but no one was to be seen.

'It is the old gloomy thoughts creeping back into my mind, and
affecting my brain, now at this ghastly hour of midnight,' said he; but
he put away the hammer and nails, and took up his light to go to his
bed-room. Before he reached the door of the workshop, however, the
candle which had burned down very low--quite in the socket of the
candlestick, suddenly went out. He was left in the dark, and in vain he
groped about to find the door--at any other time he would have laughed
at the circumstance, but now it rather added to his annoyance that
three times he found himself at the door of the lumber-room, instead of
getting hold of the one which opened into his house. The third time he
came to it, he stopped and listened, for he fancied he heard something
moving within the empty room; a light also glimmered through a chink in
the door which was fastened, and on listening more attentively he
thought he distinctly heard a sound as if buckets of water were being
dashed over the floor, and some one scrubbing it with a brush. 'It is
an odd time to scour the floor,' he thought, and then knocking at the
door, and raising his voice--he called out loudly to ask who was there,
and what they were doing at so late an hour. At that moment the light
disappeared, and all became as still as death.

'I must have been mistaken,' thought Frants, as he again tried to find
the door he had at first sought. In spite of himself, a dread of some
evil--or of something supernatural, seemed to haunt him, and the image
of his old master--who was drowned--appeared before him in that dark
workshop, where they had spent so many cheerful hours together. At last
he found the door, and retired as quickly as possible to his chamber,
where his wife and child were both fast asleep. He, too, at length fell
asleep, but he was restless in his slumbers, and disturbed by strange
dreams. In the course of the night he dreamed that his wife's uncle,
Mr. Flok, stood before him, and said,

'Why was I not placed in my coffin? Why was I not laid in a Christian
burying-ground? Seek, and you will find--destroy the curse, before it
destroys you also!'

In the morning when he awoke he looked so pale and ill that Johanna was
quite alarmed; but he did not like to frighten her by telling her his
dreams, and, indeed, he was ashamed at the impression they had made
upon himself, for, notwithstanding all the confidence he had expressed
on coming to the house, he could not help feeling nervous and
uncomfortable.

Nor did the unpleasant sensation wear off, his gay spirits vanished,
and he was also unhappy because the time was approaching when the
purchase-money for the house would become due, and the settlement of
the old man's affairs, to which he had looked forward in expectation of
obtaining his wife's inheritance, seemed to be as far off as ever. He
found it difficult to meet the small daily expenses of his family, and
he feared the threatening future.

'Seek and you will find!' he repeated to himself; 'destroy the curse
before it destroys you! What curse? I begin to fear that there really
is some evil doom connected with this house.'

It was also a very unaccountable circumstance that however often he
scratched out the mysterious inscription from the wall--'The Doomed
House'--it appeared again next day in characters as fresh and red as
ever. His health began to give way under all his anxiety, and the child
also became ill. One evening he had been taking a solitary walk to a
spot which had now a kind of morbid fascination for him--the Dead-house
for the drowned--and when he returned home, he found Johanna weeping by
the cradle of her suffering infant.

'You were right,' he exclaimed, 'we were happier in our humble garret
than in this ill-fated house. Would that we had remained there! Tell
me, Johanna, of what are you thinking? Has the doctor been here? What
does he say of our dear little one?'

'If it should get worse towards night, there lies our last hope,' she
replied, pointing towards the table.

Frants took up the prescription, and gazed on the incomprehensible
Latin words, as if therein he would have read his fate. The tears stood
in his eyes.

'And to-morrow,' said Johanna, 'to-morrow will be a day of misery. Have
you any means of paying Mr. Stork?'

'None whatever! But _that_ is a small evil compared to _this_,' he
answered, as he pointed to the feverish and moaning infant. 'Have you
been to the workshop?' he continued, after a pause, 'the large coffin
is finished; perhaps it may be our own last home--it would hold us
all!'

'Oh! if that could only be!' exclaimed Johanna, as she threw her arms
round him. 'Could we only all three be removed together to a better
world, there would be no more sorrow for us! But the hour of separation
is close at hand; to-morrow, if you cannot pay Mr. Stork, you will be
cast into prison, and I shall sit alone here with that dying child!'

'What do you say? Cast into prison! How do you know that? Has that man
been here frightening you? He has not hinted a syllable of such a
threat to me.'

Johanna then related to him how Mr. Stork had latterly often called,
under pretence of wishing to see Frants, but always when he was out. He
had made himself very much at home, and had overwhelmed her with
compliments and flattering speeches; he had also declared frequently
that he would not trouble Frants for the money he owed him, if she
would pay the debt in another manner. At first, she said, she did not
understand him, and when she _did_ comprehend his meaning, she did not
like to mention it to Frants, for fear of his taking the matter up
warmly, and quarrelling with Stork, which would bring ruin on himself.
Mr. Stork, however, had become more bold and presuming, and that very
evening, on her repelling his advances and desiring him to quit her
presence, he had threatened that if she mentioned a syllable of what
had passed to her husband, nay, farther, if she were not prepared to
change her behaviour towards himself before another sun had set, Frants
should be thrown into prison for debt, and might congratulate himself
in that pleasant abode on the fidelity of his wife.

'Well,' said Frants, with forced composure, 'he has got me in his
toils--but his pitiful baseness shall not crush me. I have, indeed,
been blind not to detect the villany that lay behind that satanic
smile, and improvident to let myself be deluded by his pretended
friendship. But if the Almighty will only spare and protect you, and
that dear child, I shall not lose courage. Be comforted, my Johanna!'

It was now growing late--the child awoke from the restless sleep of
fever--it seemed worse, and Frants ran to an apothecary with the
prescription. 'The last hope!' he sighed, as he hurried along; 'and if
it should fail--who will console poor Johanna to-morrow evening, when I
am in a prison, and she has to clad the child in its grave clothes! Oh,
how we shall miss you--sweet little angel! Was _this_ the happiness I
dreamt of in the old house? Yes--people are right--it _is_ accursed!'

The apothecary's shop was closed, but the prescription had been taken
in through a little aperture in the door, and Frants sat down on the
stone steps to wait until the medicine was ready. It was a clear,
starry December night, but the sorrowing father sat shivering in the
cold, and gazing gloomily on the frozen pavement--he was not thinking
of the stars or of the skies. The watchman passed and bade him 'good
morning.'

'It will be a good morning, indeed, for me,' thought poor Frants. 'A
morning fraught with despair.'

At that moment the clock of a neighbouring church struck _one_, and the
watchman sang, in a full, bass voice, these simple words:


                 'Help us, O Jesus dear!
                  Our earthly cross to bear;
                  Oh! grant us patience _here_,
                  And be our Saviour _there!_'


Frants heard the pious song, and a change seemed to come over his
spirit--he raised his saddened eye to the magnificent heavens
above--gazed at the calm stars which studded the deep blue
vault--clasped his hands and joined in the watchman's concluding
words--


                 'Redeemer, grant Thy blessed help
                  To make our burden light.'


A small phial with the medicine was just then handed out to him,
through the little sliding window; he paid his last coin for it, and,
full of hope that _his_ burden might be lightened, hastened to his
home.

'Did you hear what the watchman was singing, Johanna?' asked Frants,
when he entered the little green parlour, where the young mother was
watching by her child.

'Hush, hush,' she whispered, 'he has fallen into an easy and quiet
sleep. God will have pity upon us--our child will do well now.'

'Why, Johanna, you look as happy as if an angel from heaven had been
with you, telling you blessed truths.'

'Yes, blessed truths have, as it were, been communicated to me from
heaven!' replied Johanna, pointing to an old Bible which lay open upon
the table. 'Look! this is my good uncle's family Bible--that I have not
seen since he died, and God forgive me--I have thought too little
lately of my Bible. I found this one to-night far back on the highest
shelf of the alcove--and its holy words have given me strength and
comfort. Read this passage, Frants, about putting our whole trust in
the Lord, whatever may befall us.'

Frants read the portion pointed out to him, and then began to turn over
the leaves of the well-worn, silver-clasped book. He found a number of
pieces of paper here and there, but as he saw at a glance that they
were only accounts and receipts, he did not care to examine them, but
his attention was suddenly caught by a paper which appeared to be part
of a journal kept by the old man, the last year of his life. He looked
through it eagerly, Johanna observed with surprise how his countenance
was darkening. At length he started up and exclaimed,

'It is horrible!--horrible--Johanna! Some one must have sought to take
your uncle's life. See, here it is in his own handwriting--listen!' and
he read aloud:

'God grant that my enemy's wicked plot may not succeed! Why did I let
my gold get into such iniquitous hands, and place my life at the mercy
of one more ferocious than a wild beast? He has, cunningly plundered me
of my wealth--he has bound my tongue by an oath--and now he seeks to
take my life in secret. But my money will not prosper in his unworthy
hands--and accursed be the house over whose threshold his feet pass.
There are human beings who can ruin others in all worldly matters, but
mortal man has no power over the spirit when death sets it free.'

'What can this mean?' cried Frants, almost wild with excitement. Who is
the mortal enemy to whom he alludes, but whom he does not name? Who has
got possession of his house and his means? The same person, no doubt,
who bound him by an oath to silence, and threatened his life in secret;
who proclaimed to the world that he had drowned himself, and caused him
to be buried like a suicide? Why was no other acquaintance called to
recognize the body? We have no certainty that the drowned man was he.
Perhaps his bones lie nearer to us than we imagine. Ha! old master, in
my dream I heard you say, "Seek, and you shall find--why was I not
put into consecrated ground?" Johanna! what do you think about that
old lumber-room? There have been some mysterious doings there at
midnight--there are some still--that floor is washed while we are
sleeping. Before to-morrow's sun can rise I shall have searched that
den of murder, from one end to the other.'

'Oh, dearest Frants, how wildly you talk; you make me tremble.'

But as Frants was determined to go, she sat down by the cradle to watch
her sleeping child, while he took a light and proceeded to the
workshop. There he seized a hatchet and crow bar, and thus provided
with implements, he approached the door of the locked chamber.

'The room belongs to me,' said he to himself, 'who has a right to
prevent me from entering it?'

To force the door by the aid of the iron crowbar, was the work of an
instant, and without the slightest hesitation he went in, though it
must be confessed he felt a momentary panic. But that wore off
immediately, and he began at once to examine the place. Nothing
appeared, however, to excite suspicion. There were some sacks of wood
in a corner, and he emptied these, almost expecting to see one of them
filled with the bones of dead men, but there was no vestige of anything
of the kind. The floor seemed to be recently washed, for it was yet
scarcely dry. He then began to take up the boards. At that moment he
heard the handle of the door which led into the neighbouring house
turning; holding the hatchet in one hand, and the light, high above his
head, in the other, he put himself in an attitude of defence, while he
called out:

'Has anyone a desire to assist me?'

Presently all was still. Frants put down his light, and began again
hammering at the boards; almost unconsciously he also began to hum
aloud an air which his old master used always to sing when he was
engaged in finishing any piece of work. But he had not hammered or
hummed long before the handle of the door was again turned. This time
the door opened, and a tall, white figure slowly entered, with an
expression of countenance as hellish as if its owner had just come from
the abode of evil spirits.

'What, at it again, old man? Will you go on hammering and nailing till
Doomsday? Must that song be heard to all eternity?' said a hollow but
well-known voice--and Frants recognized with horror the ghastly-pale
and wild-looking sleep-walker, who, with eyes open--but fixed and
glazed--and hair standing on end, had come in his night-gear from his
sleeping-chamber.

'Where didst thou lay my bones?' said Frants, as if he had become
suddenly insane. 'Why was I not placed in my coffin?--why did I not
enter a Christian burying-ground?'

'Your bones are safe enough,' replied the pallid terrible-looking
dreamer, 'no one will harm them under my pear-tree.'

'But whom didst thou bury under my name--as a self-murderer, when thou
didst fasten on me the stain of guilt in death?' asked Frants,
astonished and frightened at the sound of his own voice, for it seemed
to him as if a spirit from the other world were speaking through his
lips.

'It was the beggar,' replied the wretched somnambulist, with a
frightful contortion of his fiendish face, a sort of triumphant grin.
'It was only the foreign beggar to whom you gave your old grey cloak
... but whom I drove from my door that Christmas-eve.'

'Where _he_ lies shalt thou rot--by _his_ side shalt thou meet me on
the great day of doom!' cried Frants, who hardly knew what he was
saying. He had scarcely uttered these words when he heard a fearful
sound, something between a shriek and a groan--and he stood alone with
his light and his hatchet--for the howling figure had disappeared.

'Was it a dream,' gasped Frants, 'or am I mad? Away, away from this
scene of murder--but I know _now_ where I shall find that which I
seek.'

He returned to Johanna, who was sitting quietly by the still sleeping
child, and was reading the holy Scriptures.

Frants did not tell her what had taken place, and she was afraid to
ask; he persuaded her to retire to rest, while he himself sat up all
night to examine further the papers in the old Bible. The next day he
carried them to a magistrate, and the whole case was brought before a
court of justice for legal inquiry and judgment.


'Was I not right when I said that a coffin would come out of that
house before the end of the year?' exclaimed the baker's wife at
the corner of the street, to her daughter, when, some time after, a
richly-ornamented coffin was borne out of Frants's house. The funeral
procession, headed by Frants himself, was composed of all the joiners
and most respectable artisans in the town, dressed in black.

'It is the coffin of old Mr. Flok,' said the baker's daughter, 'he is
now going to be _really_ buried, they say; I wonder if it be true that
his bones were found under a tree in Mr. Stork's garden.'

'Quite true,' responded a fishwoman, setting down her creel, while she
looked at the funeral procession.

'Young Mr. Frants had everything proved before the judge--and that
avaricious old Stork will have to give up his ill-gotten goods.'

'Ay--and his ill-conducted life too, perhaps,' said the man who kept
the little tavern near; 'if all be true that folks say, he murdered the
worthy Mr. Flok.'

'I always thought that fellow would be hanged some day or other--he
tried to cheat me whenever he could,' added the baker's wife.

'But they must catch him first,' said another; 'nothing has been seen
of him these last three or four days.'


On Christmas-eve there sat a cheerful family in the late Mr. Flok's
house near the canal. The child had quite recovered, and Frants,
filling the old silver goblet with wine, drank many happy returns of
the season to his dear Johanna.

'How little we expected a short time ago to be so comfortable now!' he
exclaimed. 'Here we are, in our own house, which was intended for us by
your kind uncle. I am no longer compelled to nail away alone at coffins
until midnight, but can undertake more pleasant work, and keep
apprentices and journeymen to assist me. My good old master's name is
freed from reproach, and his remains now rest in consecrated ground,
awaiting a blessed and joyful resurrection.'

The lumber-room with its fearful recollections was shut up. The outside
of the house was painted anew--and the mysterious inscription on the
wall, thus obliterated, never reappeared.

Frants had occasion one day, shortly after this favourable turn in
their affairs, to cross the long bridge; and as he passed near the
Dead-house for the drowned, he went up to the little window, saying to
himself--'Now I can look in without any superstitious fears, for I know
that my old master never drowned himself,--THAT foul stain is no longer
attached to his memory; and his remains have at length obtained
Christian burial.'

But when he glanced through the window he started back in horror, for
the discoloured and swollen features of a dead man met his view, and in
the dreadful-looking countenance before him, he recognized that of the
murderer--Stork--who had been missing some time.

'Miserable being!' he exclaimed, 'and you have ended your guilty career
by the same crime with which you charged an innocent man! None will
miss you in this world except the executioner, whose office you have
taken on yourself. I know that you had planned my death, but enemy as
you were, I shall have you laid decently in the grave, and may the
Almighty have mercy on your soul!'

Prosperity continued to attend the young couple--but the lessons of the
past had taught them how unstable is all earthly good; the old family
Bible--now a frequent and favourite study--became the guide of their
conduct; and when their happiness was clouded by any misfortune, as all
the happiness of this passing life must sometimes be, they resigned
themselves without a murmur to the will of Providence, reminding each
other of the watchman's song on that memorable night when all hope
seemed to have abandoned them:


                 'Redeemer, grant Thy blessed help
                  To make our burden light.'




                          THE FELON'S REVERIE.

                           *   *   *   *   *


In a narrow cell sat one who was a prisoner for life. Around him were
the four dingy walls, covered with great black characters, scratched
thereon at sundry times with bits of charcoal: but there was no
pleasure in reading these hieroglyphics, for they were the fruit of
solitude and melancholy, whose heavy, heavy thoughts had thus expressed
themselves. High up was placed the little window, the only connection
with life, with nature, and with the heavens; but the black iron bars
kept watch over that, and obscured the clear daylight. The links of his
chain, round his hand and his foot, kept the prisoner bound in his
dreary cage, but they could not fetter the soul's deep longing after
liberty.

Days and years had passed in this gloomy cell. A charming, fresh
summer's morning it was, when the door of this prison was first closed
on him, and when he was told that Death alone should set him free. Here
he had remained ever since; severed from the rest of mankind, shut up
from them as if he had been a wild beast; and their farewell words to
him had been--that Death alone was to be his deliverer. This was so
dreadful a thought that he did all he could to drive it away. He worked
diligently, he whistled, he sang, and he engraved strange names and
figures on the walls. He frequently gazed up at the window, though he
could only see through it a dead wall, but over that wall were the blue
skies. He soon came to know every stone in the wall; he knew where the
sun cast its streaks of light: where the little streams of water
trickled down when it rained; there was more variety in the sky--it
seemed to have compassion upon him, for sometimes the clouds were
chased along by the wind; sometimes they assumed strange, fantastic
shapes, and arrayed themselves in crimson and gold, like the gorgeous
garb of royalty; and sometimes they hung in heavy, dark masses over the
lofty wall--the boundary of his external world. But he saw no living
things; and once, when a daring swallow rested for a few minutes on the
outside ledge of his iron-barred window, he scarcely breathed, in his
anxiety to enjoy the sight of it as long as possible.

Winter was his saddest time, for _then_ the snow blocked up his
little window, and intervened between him and the skies; then, too, it
became so early dark, and daylight was so long of coming. He sang and
whistled no longer; he worked, indeed, but not so diligently, for his
tormentor--_thought_--had more power over him. During the short day he
could partly escape it; but when it became dark--oh! what had it not
then to recall to him! And the worst was, he was obliged to bear it
all. He could have silenced another, but he could not hush the voice
that spoke within himself. In vain he sought to banish remembrance; it
_would_ haunt him: so he dropped his head upon his hands, and listened.

And it spoke to him of the time when he was a little boy with rosy
cheeks, who had never done harm to a living being, and who sat or lay
in the bright sunshine, humming the song his mother had taught him. And
that mother, who loved him so dearly, who worked for him during the
day, and slept with him at night--well! She was dead, God be praised!
'Perhaps if she had lived,' said he to himself. No, no! Does he not
remember well one day, when the little boy with rosy cheeks was coming
from school, that he passed a blind old man who was begging, and
holding out his hat in his hand, that he dived quickly into the hat,
and caught up the pence some charitable persons had placed in it? No
one saw him--no one knew that he had done this--why does he now
remember it with such bitter regret?

His mother died, and a neighbouring family received the orphan kindly;
consoled and caressed him, and he slept by the side of their dog. But
they were very poor themselves, and could not maintain him long;
therefore he was sent to other people, where some one paid a small
board for him, and where he, the little stranger, was far from being
well treated. He had too little to eat--and he stole food; therefore he
was ignominiously turned away, and he fell among wicked people. They
talked to him of the paths of virtue--but they followed vicious courses
themselves, and he laughed at their admonitions. He grew older, and he
went to be confirmed[7] in the House of God; and there he was admitted
to the Holy Sacrament. The priest laid his hand with blessings on his
head, and he there pledged his heart to God, and vowed to forsake all
sin. How comes it that he now so distinctly remembers the solemn tones
of the organ as he was leaving the church, and the large painting of
the Saviour close by the altar, which he had turned to look at once
more before he passed from the crowded aisle? He had never been in that
church again to pray--alas! never.

He had, indeed, been there again--but it was on another and a reprobate
errand--and _then_ he was young at that time, and reflected less. Ah!
_then_, too, he thought more of the young and beautiful girl who had
knelt next to him at the altar, and with whom he had afterwards taken a
quiet walk. On other evenings he was wont to spend his time with some
wild, bad companions, and to join in their giddy mirth and mischievous
sports; but that evening, their company wearied and disgusted him, and
he followed the young girl to her father's house. He had now become an
apprentice: but he was careless and idle: to sit hard at work did not
suit his taste. And yet these were pleasant days when he looked back on
them.

He became a journeyman, and was betrothed to his pretty friend of the
Confirmation-day. She had gone into service, and was a hard-working,
honest, well-principled girl; _he_ continued to be idle. Often and
often she entreated him to be more industrious, to seek work, and not
to waste his time on riot and strife; and often he promised to reform.
But his only reformation was, that he took more pains to conceal from
her his bad habits. When he was sitting with her, and her anxious look
rested upon his dull eyes, or his faded cheek, he felt that it was time
to stop in his career of evil, and resolved to become a steady and
respectable workman. But these good resolutions vanished when he left
her presence. At length the evil spirit within him conquered; he wanted
money, and stole a watch from a fellow-workman. Then the arm of the law
seized him, never again to let him go.

After he had undergone the punishment awarded to his theft, he came,
abashed and with downcast eyes, to his betrothed; but she had heard of
his guilt. With bitter tears she reproached him for his conduct, and
she forbade him ever again to show himself in her presence. He was
furious at her reception of him, and left her, vowing to be revenged.
Many wild schemes rushed through his brain:--now he determined to
murder her; now, that she should also be dragged into disgrace. But one
day he met her in the street, and her pale, tearful, melancholy
countenance disarmed his wrath, and annihilated his plans of revenge.

And now, as the prisoner scrawls absently with that rusty nail on the
wall, and his sunken eyes fill with warm tears, what is memory
recalling to his saddened mind? Ah! is it not that short-lived time of
early affection--is it not those sweet, calm features--those speaking
eyes--that love, so true and so pure? Perhaps his fancy paints himself
as an honest, industrious citizen, as a happy husband and father,
with _her_ by his side, and in a very different place from that dreary
cell--in a comfortable home, enjoying all that he so madly threw
away--love, happiness and respectability! But his thoughts wander on;
he throws the nail away from him, and leans back, with arms folded
across his chest.

He left the town and went into the country. There was a voice in his
soul which urged him to reform. 'Return, return!' it said; 'return, for
there is yet time!' But another voice also spoke--that of the demon
which enslaved him; and that demon was--THE HABIT OF IDLENESS.
Unhappily he then fell in with a depraved wretch--a villain experienced
in crime--an escaped convict. They wandered about among the peasantry
and begged; but every door was closed against his companion, with
unmistakable signs of terror and distrust.

One summer night they had taken shelter in a stable, and he had fallen
fast asleep. He was awakened by his comrade. 'Get up,' said he, 'men
will give us nothing--the Lord must help us, therefore.' He thought the
man alluded to some intended theft, and accompanied him without the
least reluctance. They stole along the gardens and fences on towards
the churchyard. He stopped his guide.

'What are we to do here? 'he asked, with uneasiness. 'You surely will
not--'

'What?' asked the other, laughing.

'Oh, let the dead rest in peace!'

'Fool!' cried the convict, 'do you think I am going to meddle with the
dead? Follow me!'

And he scaled the walls of the churchyard, and broke open the Gothic
door of the church. Now he understood what his companion meant to do;
but his heart beat as if it would have started out of his breast. As he
went up the aisle, he felt as if he had lead in his shoes--as if the
flooring held him back at every step--as if it were a whole mile to
reach the altar. He had not entered the house of God since the day he
had been there to take upon himself his baptismal vow, and dedicate his
life to his Creator; and now--now he stood there to plunder! His hands
trembled violently, as he held open the sack for his comrade, who cast
into it the silver cups, the silver salvers, and everything that he
could find of value; and had it not been for fear of his ferocious
associate, he would assuredly have thrown down the sack and fled, for
he thought that the picture of Christ over the altar looked earnestly
and reproachfully at him. When his companion looked up from his
sacrilegious work, and observed his eyes fixed, as it were, by some
fearful fascination on the picture, he nodded to it in a scoffing
manner, and then closed the sack, and left the church.

When they were out of it, the prisoner breathed more freely; and when
they placed themselves on a tombstone to divide the booty, he received
without hesitation the portion that his comrade chose to allot to him.
They buried their treasure in the earth, and separated. But the massive
altar-plate could not easily be disposed of. He was in want; he begged
from door to door, but he was driven from them all; so he had again
recourse to stealing. Since the night that he had been drawn into
robbing the church, he had felt that he was an outcast from the whole
world--an outcast from God himself. He knew that punishment was sure to
overtake him, and he was miserable. His companion in guilt was soon
after arrested; he confessed all, and they were both imprisoned, and
put to hard labour.

But he had not yet quite lost all hope. He determined to work in future
for his daily bread. He came out of gaol a half-savage, half-frightened
being--lonely and deserted--bearing upon him that brand of infamy which
never more could be erased; but he had made up his mind to labour, and
he went far away to seek for employment.

It was the harvest-time. God had blessed the fields, and there were not
reapers enough to gather in the corn. No question was asked whence he
came, but his services were immediately accepted. There was something
in this display of the bounty of the Creator, in this activity, in this
working in the free open air, that pleased him; for the first time in
his life he toiled cheerfully. But the country people did not like him;
his look was downcast and dark--he was rough and passionate, abrupt in
speech, and he spoke little. After the farm-servants had one day
proposed to him to go to church, and he had refused positively, but
with an air of embarrassment, he was looked upon with great suspicion.
There was but one face that always smiled at him, and that was the face
of the youngest boy upon the farm. He had won the child's heart by
having once cut out some little boats for him, and sailed them in the
pond; and from that time the child always clapped his hands with joy
when he saw him. It was so new, so delightful to him to be beloved,
that he felt himself insensibly attracted towards the little creature.
He indulged him in all his childish whims, carried him about in his
arms, made toys for him, and seemed to feel himself well rewarded by
the innocent child's attachment.

Thus passed the winter. Peace, hitherto unknown to him, was creeping
into his heart; and when he stood in spring on the fields with the
sprouting seeds, and heard the lark's blithe carol, a new light began
to dawn on his benighted mind. One day, when he returned from the
fields towards the farm-yard, his little friend ran up to him, jumping
and playing. He stretched out his arms to the child, but in an instant
he started back, pale and horror-stricken. His former associate stood
before him, with a malignant smile upon his sinister countenance, and
held out his hand to him, while he said, in a tone of bitter irony,--

'So, from all I hear, you are playing the honest man in the place!
Excuse me for interrupting your rural content, but I have been longing
so much for you.'

'Away, demon!' cried the unfortunate man. 'Go, go, and leave me in
peace!'

'Not so fast!' replied the other, with a withering sneer. 'I have told
the people of the farm who you are. Do you think I am going to lose so
useful a comrade?'

At that moment the grandfather of the child came up, and when he saw
the little boy in the arms of him whom he had just been told was a
malefactor, he snatched him hurriedly away, in spite of the child's
tears and cries; and applying many abusive epithets to the man, ordered
him instantly to leave the farm. The disturber of his peace carried him
off with him, while his fiendish laughter rang around!

See! the prisoner's chest is heaving with emotion. Hark! what deep
sighs seem to rend his heart, while a few scalding tears are falling
from his eyes! Of what is he dreaming now?

He sees himself, in the grey dawn of day, stealthily creeping along the
hedges that surround the farm, to catch a glimpse of his little
favourite. He beholds the infant's soft cheek wet with the tears of
affection; he feels his tiny arms clasped lightly round his neck; the
kind words of farewell ring in his ears; he listens again for the sound
of the retiring little footsteps, as the child is leaving him, and sees
the little hand waving to him a last adieu from the door of his
mother's house. As he then threw himself down beneath the hedge on the
dewy grass, and burst into tears, he now hides his face on his hard
pallet, and sobs aloud.

But he has risen from that recumbent position. He wrings his hands, and
his teeth chatter, in his solitary cell. What horror is passing through
his mind? What agonizing remembrance has seized him, and is shaking
soul and body, as the roaring tempest shakes the falling leaves? Let it
stand forth from its dark concealment! In vain he presses his hands on
his bloodshot eyes not to behold that scene--in vain he tries to close
his ears against those voices--the blackest night of his gloomy prison
cannot veil _that_ picture, for it arises from the darkest depths of
his inmost soul.

Listen how his evil-minded associate tempts him, and draws him on!

'Yon old man at the farm has plenty of money--ready money--do you hear?
Do you think I lost my time there? His daughter and her husband are his
heirs; they do not need his gold so much as we do. The old man sleeps
in that low house near the larger one. It is but a step through the
window, and we shall be rich for a long time.'

'But what if he should awake, and recognize us?' asked the prisoner,
with much anxiety.

The other made a gesture which shocked him. He started back.

'No, no!' he cried, shuddering; 'no blood!'

His companion laughed.

'What matters it whether the old man dies a few days sooner or later?
People have generally no objection to the death of those to whom they
are to be heirs. And have you forgotten how roughly he spoke to you?
How he abused you, and drove you away? At that time I am sure you
thirsted for revenge. Besides, how are you going to live? Perhaps you
think you may find some good-natured fool to take a fancy to you; but
you forget that _I_ like you too well to separate from you.'

Want, fear, revengeful feelings, got the better of him; but at night,
when like two spectres they glided along the road, it seemed to him
constantly as if some one saw him; and notwithstanding his companion's
ridicule, he frequently looked back. And truly there was ONE who
watched him, but not with any mortal eye. They opened the window, and
got in one after the other, and easily found the old man's desk, which
was in the next room. The robber's practised hand soon opened it, and
he was about to take its contents, when the door of the bedroom was
suddenly thrown back and rapidly shut, and the old man, who was still
hale and strong, entered, armed with a thick cudgel. A short but
furious struggle ensued; he remembered having seized him by the back of
his neck with both his hands, and dragged him down on the floor; he
remembered having heard some dull blows, that made him shiver with
horror, and then having stood in breathless dismay by a dead body. The
two criminals looked at each other with faces of ashy hue; then the
most hardened kicked the corpse to one side, and went to secure the
booty, while the prisoner opened the door of the sleeping-room to
search it.

But--oh, anguish unspeakable! oh, avenging God!--who should spring
forward to meet him, clinging to his knees and imploring his
protection--who but his innocent, unfortunate little favourite! He
started back, speechless and powerless; but when he beheld his comrade,
without uttering one word, brandish his knife, he clasped the child
with one arm in a convulsive embrace, and stretched out the other to
defend him against the ruffian.

'Shall he be left to betray us both to-morrow?' mumbled the wretch. 'He
must die, for your sake as well as mine.'

'Oh, let us take him with us!' prayed the other, in the deepest
agitation, while he tried to keep off the knife, which, however, he did
with difficulty, as the child held fast to his arm, and, in his terror
at the murderous weapon, hid his little face on that breast where he
had so often rested in happy confidence, his silver voice murmuring his
childish love.

'You are mad,' said his companion. 'What should we do with the boy? Let
go your hold of him, I say--we have no time to lose--let him go, or it
will cost you your own life.'

The quivering lips of the miserable man had scarcely uttered a prayer
to wait, at least, till he could withdraw, when the child was torn from
him, and like a maniac he rushed away, sprang out of the window, threw
himself upon the ground, and buried his head among the long damp grass.
What a moment of agony! Such agony, that at the remembrance of it the
prisoner groaned aloud, and dashed his head against the stone wall,
then coiled himself up like a worm, as if he would fain have shrunk
into nothing.

The dear-bought, blood-stained booty was divided, and the criminal
associates separated. But suspicion fell upon them; they were pursued,
and soon taken. On being carried before a magistrate, he denied it all;
yet when he was placed by the dead body of the murdered child, guilt
spoke in his stiff, averted head--in the tell-tale perspiration that
stood on his brow--and in his clenched and trembling hands. He
confessed, and implored to be removed, even to prison, from the
harrowing spectacle. His accomplice was condemned to death, he himself
to imprisonment for life.

There he was now, alone with the dreadful recollections of former
days. The summer came and went, without bringing any other joy to him
than that the sun's rays fell broader, and more golden in their gleams
upon the wall outside that bounded his narrow view; and that now and
then a bird would fly over it, quiver a few notes, then wing its flight
away. That sight always awoke a voice in his heart that cried for
'Freedom--freedom!' But he would hush it with the thought, that he
could not be happier were he at liberty than in his dungeon cell. At
other times, he would take a violent longing to see a green leaf--only
a single green leaf--or a corn-blossom from the fields, or a blade of
grass. Ah! these were vain wishes! When winter came, and the sun and
the daylight forsook him so soon, he was still more gloomy, for he
could not sleep the whole of the long, long night, and the phantoms
that haunted him were terrific.

Once--it was a Christmas night--he was reflecting on all the joy that
was abroad in the world, and he thought if it would not be possible for
him to pray. Then long-forgotten words returned to his lips, and he
faltered out, 'Our Father, which art in heaven!'--but _then_ he
stopped.

'God is in heaven,' thought he, 'how can He condescend to hear the sigh
that arises from the hell within my breast? No, no--it is but mocking
Him for _me_ to pray!'

Days and years had gone by since the prisoner had inhaled the breath of
the fresh balmy air, had beheld the extended vault of heaven, or
wandered in the bright, warm sunshine; at length the spirit had
exhausted the body. He lay ill and feeble, and death was near. Then was
the narrow door of his dungeon opened, and he was removed to a more
cheerful place--to a place where the blessed air and light were freely
admitted, and where the voices of human beings were around him. But
their compassion came too late. Earnestly did he entreat them to let
him see a minister of the Gospel; and when one came, he poured out the
misery of his soul to him. He listened with the deepest attention while
the holy man discoursed about Him, who, in His boundless love, shed His
own blood to wash out the sins of mankind, and in whose name even the
darkest and most guilty criminal might dare to raise his blood-stained
hands in prayer. How consoling were not these precious words to him,
'My God and my Saviour! With what an earnest longing he waited to be
permitted to participate in that solemn rite which, by grace and faith,
was to unite him to that Redeemer! And how he trembled lest the lamp of
his mortal life should be extinguished before the first spark of that
sacred flame was lighted, which was to be kindled for an endless
eternity!

The time that his repentant spirit so thirsted for arrived. And when he
had partaken of the holy communion, and tears of penitent sorrow had
streamed over his burning cheeks, peace--long unknown--returned to his
weary heart, and his gratitude found vent in thanksgivings and prayer.

'Oh!' he exclaimed, as he looked out of his open window, 'it is spring,
my friends--I feel that it is spring, beautiful spring!'

'Yes,' replied the superintendent of the hospital, 'it is spring; even
the old tree by the wall is green. See here, as I passed it, I broke
off this budding twig for you;' and he placed the little green branch
in the hand of the dying man.

'Oh!' said he, with a melancholy smile and a tear in his eye, 'that
old, decayed, withered tree--can it put forth new leaves--fresh, green,
sweetly scented as these? May I not then venture to hope that the
Almighty may call forth a new life from me in another world? Oh, that
such may be His will!'

And with the green bough--the proof of God's power and goodness in his
hand, and with his Redeemer's promise on his lips, he passed to his
everlasting doom, in the blessed hope that he also might touch the hem
of his Saviour's garment, and hear these words of life--'Son, thy sins
be forgiven thee!'




                             MORTEN LANGÈ.

                           A Christmas Story.

                      BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.


   Each midnight from the farthest Thule, to isles the South Sea laves,
   To exercise themselves awhile the dead forsake their graves;
   But when it is the Christmas time they stay much longer out,
   And may in the churchyard be seen, then, wandering about;
   And as they dance their merry rounds, the rattling of their bones
   Produces, 'midst the wintry blasts, somewhat unearthly tones.
   Poor things! For them there's neither wine, nor punch, nor supper
      there,
   The icicles are all they have, and a mouthful of fresh air.
   When shines the moon strange forms are seen, tall spectral giants
      some:
   Such sights as these might even strike a chattering Frenchman dumb.
   Scoff not at my poor hero, then, though once in a sad fright--
   He is a most discreet young man, and Morten Langè hight.

   One Christmas night the fates ordained a journey he must make,
   So, for despatch, 'twas his resolve a horse and sledge to take.
   Dark was the hour, and in the skies the ranks of stars looked pale,
   While from a tower near hooted owls, as in a German tale.
   And Morten Langè, by-the-by, was not unlearned, for
   About Molboerne's exploits[8]--also the Trojan war,
   'Octavianus,' Nisses, Trolls, Hobgoblins well he knew,
   And all about 'the spectre white,' whose story is so _true_.
   Too soon the sledge stood at the door, with many a jingling bell;
   But ah! these sounds to his sad ears seemed like his funeral knell.
   Yet, though the snow-flakes fell around, of them he took no heed,
   But like a British runaway pair, he started at full speed.
   He passed a regiment of old trees, whitened from top to toe,
   And soon he gained an open plain, where nought he saw but snow.
   Like Matthison's 'Gedichte,' 'twas very, very cold,
   But still our hero tried to think that he was warm and bold.
   He did not care to gaze about, and so half-closed his eyes;
   Yet, spite of this precaution--lo! a curious sight he spies:
   A muster of the Elfin-folk enjoying a gay spree,
   The men were just five inches high, the women only three;
   And though 'twas at the chill Yule-time, when cold reigns over all,
   In clothes of flimsy cobwebs made, they capered at their ball;
   The ancient dames, however, wore some more substantial gear,
   For of bats' wings their shawls were formed--but, softly--what
      comes here?

   Twelve harnessed mice, with trappings grand, fit for a monarch's
      own,
   They draw a car of fairy work, where a lady sits alone.
   It stops, and Morten Langè sees the lady getting out--
   'Heav'n help me now! Heav'n help me now!' he sighed, for he dared
      not shout.
   'I'm no poltroon, and yet I feel the blood within my veins
   Is freezing fast.' In mortal fear, his cold hand dropped the reins;
   Then stooping to recover them out of the sledge he fell,
   And with it scampered off the horse, whither he could not tell.
   He felt that his last hour was come, all helpless as he lay--
   And with such thoughts upon his mind he fainted quite away.

   At length, when consciousness returned, and when his swoon was o'er,
   He heard a fearful buzzing sound, that frightened him still more.
   What had he done to be exposed that night to such alarms?
   A troop of demons round him thronged--one imp secured his arms.
   Another seized his lanky legs, another caught his head--
   And powerless to resist them then, away with him they sped.
   They carried him to some strange place, flames shone upon the walls,
   Into another fainting-fit, half-dead with fright, he falls,
   But when the pains of death seemed past, and trembling he looked
      round,
   He saw that in the other life a sad fate he had found.
   The vaulted roof was black with smoke, and awful was the heat;
   The devils stood with naked arms--he dared not scan their feet.
   One held a hammer in his hand, and threatening, waved it nigh,
   And in a burning furnace there, red flames were flashing high.
   Soon guessed our hero where he was, and set himself to kneel,
   And lustily for mercy prayed--but they laughed at his appeal.

   Then to his side an angel came, benignant was her smile,
   And holding out her small white hand, she said to him the while;
   'Well, Heaven be praised, you're better now! But why are you
      afraid?'
   Shaking with fear in every limb, in a faint voice he said:
   'Oh, angel! 'tis not death I dread, but help me out of hell!'
   The angel laughed: 'You're in good hands--you ought to know us well.
   This is the smithy--from your sledge thrown out upon the ground,
   Lying alone amidst the snow half-frozen you were found;
   And I'm no angel, bless your heart! I'm Annie, don't you see?'
   Rubbing his eyes, and staring round, up Morten jumped in glee;
   And that he soon forgot his fright 'tis needless to declare--
   The roasted goose, the foaming ale, and other Christmas fare,
   As might be guessed, put all to rights--and Annie by his side
   At supper sat, that Christmas night, as Morten Langè's bride.


                       _Note by the Translator_.

The ghost-story alluded to--'Den hvide Qvinde' (The White Woman)--is to
be found in Thiele's collection of Danish 'Folkesagn.' This spectre is
said to haunt some old ruins near Flensborg. Two soldiers, long, long
ago, were keeping their night-watch on the ramparts of the castle; one
of them left his post for a short time, and when he was gone the other
sentry was approached by a tall female figure in white, who accosted
him thus:--'I am an unblessed spirit, who have wandered here for many
hundred years, and have never found rest in the grave.' She then
informed him that under the walls was buried an immense treasure, which
could only be found by _three_ men in the world, and that he was one of
the three. The soldier, fancying his fortune made, promised to obey her
in all things, and received her command to be on the spot the following
midnight. In the meantime the other sentinel had returned to his post,
and had overheard what the spectre had related to his comrade. He said
not a word, however, but the next night he went to the appointed place,
and concealed himself in some recess close by. When the soldier who was
to dig for the treasure arrived, with his spade and other implements,
the white spectre appeared to him, but knowing that he was watched, she
put off the _digging_ till another night. The man who had intended to
act as a spy was taken suddenly ill as soon as he got home; and feeling
that he was about to die, he sent for his comrade, confessed that he
had watched him, implored him to avoid witchcraft and supernatural
beings, and recommended him to consult the priest, who was a wise and
good man.

The soldier took his advice, and laid the matter before the priest, who
directed him to do the spectre's bidding, only taking care that _she_
should be the first to touch the treasure. The man accordingly met the
ghost at the appointed time and place, and she showed him the spot
where the treasure was deposited; but before taking it up, she told him
that one half would be for him, and the other half must be divided
between the church and the poor. But the demon of avarice had entered
into his heart, and he exclaimed: 'What! shall I not have the whole of
it?' Scarcely had these words passed his lips, than the spirit uttered
a fearful thrilling cry, and disappeared in a blue flame over the
castle moat. The soldier was taken ill, and died three days afterwards.
The story became noised about, and a poor student determined to try his
luck. He repaired to the old castle at midnight, saw the wandering
'White Woman,' told her his errand and offered his services. But she
informed him that he was not one of the chosen three, and could not
assist her, and that the walls would thenceforth stand so firmly, that
hand of man should never overthrow them. However, she promised at some
future time to reward him for his good intentions.

One day, long after, when he happened to be loitering near the old
castle, and thinking with compassion of the fate of the restless spirit
who haunted it, he stumbled over something; and, on stooping to see
what it was, he discovered a large heap of gold, of which he forthwith
took possession. As foretold by the spectre, the walls of the castle
are still standing, and the story goes, that whenever any portion of
them has been overthrown, it has always been raised again by invisible
agents during the night. Matter-of-fact people assert that the locality
of this ghost tradition is a _hill_, not a _castle_.




                           A TALE OF JUTLAND.

                           BY S. S. BLICHER.


I had often beheld the highest hill in Denmark, but had not hitherto
ascended it. Frequently as I had been in its neighbourhood, the
objects of my journeys had always required me to turn off in another
direction, and I was thus obliged to content myself with seeing at some
distance the Danish Schwarzwald; and as I passed on, to cast a hurried
glance down the valleys to the charming lake, dotted with green leafy
islets, and which winds, as it were, round jagged tongues of land. At
length I overcame all obstacles, and resolved to devote two days to a
pleasure-trip amidst this much-admired scenery. My cousin Ludwig, who
had just arrived from the capital, agreed to accompany me.

The morning was clear and warm, and gave the promise of a fine evening,
but shortly after mid-day there gradually arose in the south-west a
range of whitish clouds tinged at the sides with flame-colour. My
cousin did not notice them; but I, who am experienced in the signs of
the weather, recognized these indications of thunder, and announced to
him 'that the evening would not be as fine as the morning.' We were
riding exactly in such a direction that we had these clouds opposite to
us, and could, therefore, perceive how they kept rising higher and
higher, how they became darker at the base, and how they towered like
mountains of snow over the summit of the hill. Imagination pictured
them to us like the Alps of Switzerland, and we tried to fancy
ourselves in that mountainous country; we saw Schreckhorn, Wetterhorn,
and the Jungfrau; in the valleys between the clouds we pictured to
ourselves the glaciers; and when a solitary mass of cloud, breaking
suddenly, sank down, and seemed to mingle with the mountain chain, we
called it an avalanche which would overwhelm villages and scattered
chalets with everlasting snow. We continued, absolutely with childish
pleasure, to figure to ourselves in the skies the majestic scenery of
the Alps, and were quite wrapt up in our voluntary self-deception, when
the sudden roar of thunder awoke us from our fantastic dreams. Already
there stretched scarcely the thinnest line of light in the heavens
above us, and the wood which lay before us seemed as if in a moment
enveloped in a thick mist by the fast-falling rain. We had been too
long dilatory, and now we rode as hard as possible to reach the nearest
village; and we were soaked to the skin before we got to Alling, where
we sought shelter under an open gateway.

The owner of the place, an elderly farmer, who seemed a sort of
half-savage foreigner to us, received us with old Danish hospitality;
he had our horses taken to his stable, and invited ourselves into his
warm parlour. As soon as he observed our drenched condition, he offered
us garments belonging to his two sons to wear while our own wet ones
were dried by the blazing hearth. Joyfully did we avail ourselves of
his kind proposal; and in a room upstairs, called the best apartment,
we soon made the comfortable change of apparel, while laughing and
joking at our unexpected travestie. Equipped as peasant lads in their
Sunday's clothes, we shortly after rejoined the family. Our host was
much amused at the change in our outward men, and warmly extolled our
homely appearance, while his two daughters smiled, and stole sly
glances at us--


        'Blushed the Valkyries, whilst they turned and laughed.'


The coffee-urn stood ready on the table, surrounded by china cups; the
refreshing beverage, amply provided with brown sugar and rich
unadulterated cream, poured out and handed by one of the pretty
daughters, speedily restored genial heat to our chilled blood; and then
the father of the family thought it time to inquire the names,
occupations, and places of abode of his unexpected guests.

Meanwhile the thunderstorm had passed away; the sun smiled again in the
cloudless west; far away to the east, indeed, could still be heard the
distant whistling and rattling of the winds, but where we were all was
mild and tranquil. The spirits of the storm had folded their dripping
wings, and the raindrops sparkled like diamonds upon every leaf and
flower. The evening promised once more to resemble the morning in
beauty.

'And now for the ascent of the mountains!' we exclaimed to each other.

'But your clothes?' interrupted the farmer. We hastened into an outer
room, where the other fair daughter was busy drying them; but, alas!
they were still quite damp, and she said she feared she could not
promise that they would be in a fit state to be put on for at least an
hour; and then it would probably be too late to enjoy the view from the
top of the hill, as the ascent, proceeding from where we were at that
moment, would take, perhaps, another hour. What was to be done? The
good-natured countryman helped us out of our dilemma.

'If you are not ashamed of wearing the boys' clothes,' said he, 'why
should you not keep them on?'

'That is a capital idea,' we both replied, and thanking him for the
offer, as we shook hands with him cordially, we asked him where we
could find a guide.

'I will myself be your guide,' he said, as he took from a corner a
juniper-stick for each of us. We then lost no time in commencing our
journey, and still more gaily than before, for we were much amused at
our masquerade, especially my cousin, who seemed to feel no small
admiration for himself in the rustic blue frock-coat, ornamented
with silver buttons--the jack-boots--and the head surmounted by a
high-crowned hat.

'I sincerely wish,' said he, 'that we could fall in with some other
travellers up yonder; that would be great fun.'

Our guide laughed, and hinted that he would not be able to talk like
the peasantry.

'Yes, I can though,' said my cousin, who immediately began to speak in
the Jutland dialect, to the infinite diversion of the worthy Peder
Andersen who, however, found still another stumbling-block to the
perfections of the pretended peasant--namely, that his nice white hands
would betray him.

'I can put them in my pocket' ('A ka put em i e Lomm),' cried my gay
cousin, who was determined to admit of no drawback to his assumed
character.

Presently we reached the river Gudenade, which is here tolerably wide,
and has rather a swift current. We crossed in a boat something like a
canoe, and then entered on quite another kind of a country; for here
commenced the moorlands, covered with heather whose dark tints formed
a strong contrast to the bright green on the east of the river. We
had yet a good way to walk, and as the heather, which almost reached up
to our knees, was still wet with rain, we had good reason to be
grateful to our long boots. We approached the wood--a wood of
magnificent beech-trees--which appeared to me here doubly beautiful,
standing out, as it did, against so dark a background. Amidst sloping
dales the path wound always upward; but the thickness of the foliage
for a time deprived us of any view. At last we emerged from the wood,
and found ourselves upon the open summit of the mountain.

When I hear delightful music, or witness an interesting theatrical
representation, I always like to enjoy it for a time in silence.
Nothing acts more unpleasantly, jars more on my feelings, than when any
one attempts to call my attention to either. The moment the remark is
made to me, 'How beautiful that is!' it becomes less beautiful to me
These audible outbursts of admiration are to me like cold shower-baths,
they quite chill me. After a time, when I have been left undisturbed,
and by degrees have cooled in my excitement, I am willing to exchange
thoughts and mingle feelings with those of a friend, or of many
friends; indeed, I find desire growing within me to unburden, if I may
so express it, my overladen mind. It is thus that a poet utters his
inspirations: at the sweet moment when he conceives his ideas, they
glow within him, but he is silent; afterwards he feels constrained to
give them utterance; the voice or the pen _must_ afford the full heart
relief. Our guide's anxiety to please was a dreadful drawback to my
comfort, for, with the usual loquacity of a cicerone, he began to point
out and describe all the churches that could be described from the
place where we were standing, invariably commencing with, 'Yonder you
see.' I left my cousin to his elucidation of the country round, and,
wandering to some little distance, I sat down where I could _see_,
without being compelled to _hear_.

When Stolberg had finished translating Homer into German, he threw down
his pen, and exclaimed, despondingly, 'Reader, learn Greek, and burn my
translation!' What is a description of scenery but a translation? Yet
the most successful one must be as much inferior to the original as the
highest hill in Jutland is lower than the highest mountain in Thibet.
Therefore, kind reader, pardon my not describing to you all I saw.
_What_ I saw I might, perhaps, be able to relate to you, but scarcely
_how_ I saw it. My pen is no artist's pencil; go yourself and take a
view of it! But you, who perhaps have stood on the summit of the
Brochen, or of St. Bernard, smile not that I think so much of our
little mountain! It is the loftiest that I, or perhaps many of my
readers, have beheld; therefore, what is diminutive to you is grand to
us.

I was startled in my meditations by a thump on my shoulder--it was from
my cousin, who was standing behind me. He informed me that our guide
had gone home at least half-an-hour, and that I had been sitting for a
long time perfectly motionless, without giving the slightest sign of
life. He told me, moreover, that he was tired of such solemn silence,
and I must really awaken from my fit of abstraction.

'And at what have you been looking that has engrossed your thoughts so
much?' he added.

'The same as you have been looking at,' I replied: 'Air, and earth, and
water.'

'Well, cast your eyes down now towards the lake,' said he, handing me
his spy-glass, 'and you will see that there are some strangers coming
over this way.'

I took the glass and perceived a boat a little way from the shore,
which seemed to be steering straight across the water; it was full of
people, and three straw bonnets indicated that there were women among
them. My cousin proposed that we should await their coming, although it
would be late before we should reach our quarters for the night at
Alling. As the evening was so charming, I willingly consented; we could
not have wished a finer one. The sun was about to set, but it seemed to
us to sink more slowly than usual, as if it lingered to behold longer
the beauty of earth when tinged with its own golden rays. The winds
were hushed, not a blade of grass, not a leaf was stirring. The lake
was as a mirror, wherein were reflected the fields, the groves, the
houses that lay on its surrounding sides, while here and there, in the
valleys towards the west, arose a thin column of smoke from dwellings
that were concealed by trees. But if in the air all was silence, sounds
enough proceeded from the earth. Feathered songsters carolled in the
woods behind us, and before us the heath-lark's love-strains swelled,
answering each other from the juniper-bushes. From the bulrushes which
grew on the margin of the lake was heard the quacking of the wild
ducks; and from a greater distance came the plashing of the fisherman's
oar, as he was returning to his home, and the soothing tones of his
vesper hymn.

The sun had now sunk below the horizon, and the bells that rang from
many a church for evening prayer, summoned the weary labourer to rest
and sleep. The heavy dews of night were already moistening the ground,
and its mist was veiling the woods, the lake, and the sloping banks.
Now broke upon the ear the cheering yet plaintive music of wind
instruments. It seemed to come nearer and nearer, and must undoubtedly
have proceeded from the boat we had observed putting off from the
opposite shore. When the music ceased, we could distinctly hear the
voices of the party in the boat, and presently after the slight noise
made by their landing. We stood still for a few minutes, expecting to
see them ascending the hill, but soon perceived that, on the contrary,
they were going in another direction, for the sound of the voices
became fainter and fainter, and was lost at last apparently among the
woods to the west. Had it not been that the airs they had played were
of the newest fashion, we might have fancied it a fairy adventure--a
procession of woodland elves, or the bridal of the elf king himself.

The shades of night were falling around. Here and there a star
glimmered faintly in the pale-blue skies. In the north-west was visible
a red segment over the horizon, where the king of day was wandering
beneath, on his way to lighten another hemisphere. Now, all was still;
only at a distance on the heath we heard the plover's melancholy note,
and beneath us, on the lake, the whizzing of the water-fowls' wings as
they skimmed its darkened surface. 'Let us go homewards now!' cried my
cousin. 'Yes, home!' I replied. But we had not gone far before we both
stopped at once with a 'Hush! hark!' From the margin of the wood,
through which we had just come, issued suddenly the sound of harmonious
voices, singing as a duet a Tyrolese air. There is something
indescribably charming and touching in this unison of voices,
especially in the open air, when the sweet tones seem to float upon the
gentle breeze; and now, at the calm evening hour, when the surrounding
hills were awakened from the deep repose into which they had just
subsided, the sweet tones had the effect of the nightingale's
delightful song. My cousin seized my hand and pressed it, as if to
entreat that I should not, by any exclamation, disturb his auricular
treat. When the vocalists ceased, he sighed deeply. I gazed in
astonishment on him; he was in general so gay, and yet at that moment
tears actually stood in his eyes! I attributed to the mighty
enchantment of music, the power of softening and agitating the hardest
and the lightest heart, and I remarked this to him.

'Ah, well!' he replied, 'the human breast is like a sounding-board,
which, although untouched, yet gives an echo when certain chords are
struck.'

'You are right,' I said; 'as, for instance, the story of the tarantula
dance.'

He sighed again, and said gravely,--

'But such chords must be connected with peculiar events--must awaken
certain recollections--yes'--he took my hand, and pointing to the trunk
of a tree which had fallen, we placed ourselves on it--'yes, my friend,
yon air recalls to me a souvenir which I have in vain tried to forget.
Will you listen to the story?'

'Tell it,' I said, 'though I can partly guess what it must be.'


It was on such an evening as this (he continued), about two years ago,
that, accompanied by a friend, I had gone on a little tour of pleasure
to Lake Esrom. We remained sitting a long time on a fallen tree before
we could prevail on ourselves to wend our way homewards, so charmed
were we with the beauty of the scenery and of the evening. We had
just arisen when a Tyrolese air--the very one you and I have recently
heard--sung delightfully as a duet, attracted our attention. It came
from the side of the lake, but the sounds appeared to be gradually
approaching nearer. We soon heard the plashing of oars, which kept time
to the music, and shortly after we saw a boat making for the part of
the shore where we were. When the song was ended, there was a great
deal of talking and laughing in the boat, and the noise seemed to
increase the nearer they came to the shore. We now saw distinctly the
little skiff and its merry freight. 'Lay aside your oars!' said one; 'I
will steer you straight in to the land.' They did so. 'I know a quicker
way of making the land,' cried another, as he sprang up, and striding
from gunwale to gunwale, set the boat rocking frightfully. 'Be quiet!
be quiet!' roared a third; 'are you mad? The fool will upset the boat!'
'You shall have a good ducking for that,' said the madcap, swaying the
boat still more violently. Then came shouts of laughter mingled with
oaths; in the midst of the uproar a loud voice called out, 'Be done. I
tell you! Fritz cannot swim.' But it was too late--the boat was full of
water--it upset. Happily it was only a short way from the shore. In one
moment they were all silent; we heard only the splashing and hard
breathing of those who were swimming. There were six of them. Presently
one of them cried, 'Fritz! Fritz! come here! take hold of me!' Then
cried another, 'Fritz, come to me!' And then several voices shouted,
'Fritz! Fritz! where are you?' Two of them had by this time reached the
shore, and they stood looking anxiously at those who were still
swimming in the lake. One of them began counting, 'Three, four!' Then
crying in a voice of extreme consternation, '_One_ is wanting!' he
sprang again into the water, and the other instantly followed his
example!

My friend and I could no longer remain mere spectators of this scene;
we threw off our coats and were speedily in the water, searching with
the party for their lost friend. We thought he must be under the boat;
therefore we all gathered round the spot where it lay keel upwards,
and the best swimmer dived beneath it. In vain! he was not there. But
at a little distance, amidst the reeds, one of us observed something
dark--it was the missing Fritz! He was brought on shore; but he was
lifeless. Zealously, anxiously, did we try all means of restoring him;
they were of no avail. It was decided that he should be carried to the
nearest house. A plank, which had formed one of the seats of the boat,
and which had floated to the shore, was taken up; he was placed upon
it, and they carried him towards the road. We followed them
mechanically. What a contrast to their late boisterous mirth was their
present profound silence! We had not proceeded far, when one of the
foremost of the bearers turned round and exclaimed, 'Where is Sund?' We
all looked back, and beheld the unfortunate madcap who had caused the
accident half-hidden behind a tall bush, stuffing his pockets with
pebbles.

'He will drown himself,' said the person who had just spoken; 'we must
take him with us.'

They stopped, and my companion and I offered our assistance to carry
the body, whilst two of the party went to their repentant friend. The
way to the house to which the drowned man was to be carried lay through
a wood. It was so dark amidst the trees that we were close upon two
female figures, dressed in white, before we observed them,

'Good Heavens!' cried the foremost of the party; 'if it should be
Fritz's betrothed! She said she would probably come to meet us.'

It was indeed herself. You may imagine the painful scene: first, her
horror at meeting us carrying a drowned man, and then her agony when
she found out that the unfortunate victim was the one dearest to her on
earth; for she could not be deceived, as she knew them all. She
fainted, and her companion caught her in her arms as she was falling to
the ground. What was to be done? My friend and I hastened to the
assistance of the ladies, while the other gentlemen hurried on with the
inanimate body to the house, which was at no great distance. I ran to
the lake, and brought back some water in my hat; we threw a little on
her face, when she soon came to herself again, poor thing!

'Where is he?' she screamed; 'oh! where is he? He is not dead--let me
go to him--let me go!' She strove to rise and rush forward.

'Leave her, kind gentlemen,' said her companion, as she threw one arm
round her waist, and with the other pressed her hand to her heart.
'Thanks--thanks for your assistance, but do not trouble yourselves
further; I know the way well.'

We bowed and stood still, while she hastened on with her poor friend;
and as they went we could hear the sorrowful wailing of the one, and
the sweet soothing tones of the other. Having received no invitation we
had no right to follow them, and we sought our carriage, both deeply
impressed by the melancholy catastrophe which we had involuntarily
witnessed.

We were not acquainted with any member of the party, nor were we able
to hear anything of them. In vain we searched all the newspapers, and
conned over all the announcements of deaths in their columns; there
never appeared the slightest reference to the unfortunate event I have
just mentioned, nor did we ever hear it alluded to in society. We
should certainly, after the lapse of some time, have looked upon the
whole affair as a freak of the imagination--a phantom scene--had we not
played a part in it ourselves. It did not make so light an impression
on me, however; you will think it strange, perhaps absurd, but I
actually was partially in love! Love has generally but one pathway to
the heart--the eyes; it took a by-path with me--through the ears. It
was so dark that I had not seen the young lady's features; I had only
heard her voice. But, ah! what a voice it was! So soft--_that_ does not
describe it; so melodious--neither does that convey an idea of what it
was. I can compare it to nothing but the echo of tones from celestial
regions, or to the angel-voices which we hear in dreams. Her figure was
as beautiful as her voice--graceful and sylph-like. If you have ever
been bewitched in a night vision, you will be able to comprehend my
feelings. I saw her, and I did not see her. Her slight form with its
white drapery looked quite spiritual in the dim light, and reminded me
of Dido in Elysium, floating past Æneas, who was still clothed in the
garb of mortality.

'Of whom are you speaking?' I asked. 'Of the friend?'

'Of course,' he replied; 'not of the widowed girl, as I may call the
other.'

'I do not see anything so very extraordinary in what you have been
telling me,' I said. 'When it is almost dark, fancy is more easily
awakened; everything wears a different aspect from what it does in the
glare of day--objects become idealized, and sweet sounds make more
impression on the mind, while imagination is thus excited. But is this
the end of your drama?'

'No; only the first act,' he replied. 'Now comes the second.'

The summer passed away; winter came, and it too had almost gone, when I
happened to attend a masquerade at one of the clubs. For about an hour
I had been jostled among the caricaturists, and was becoming very
tired,--and falling into sombre reflections upon the illusions of life,
and the masks worn in society to conceal people's real characters from
each other, when my attention was attracted by twelve shepherds and
shepherdesses in the pretty costume of Languedoc, who came dancing in,
hand in hand. The orchestra immediately struck up a French quadrille,
and the French group danced so gracefully that a large and admiring
circle was formed round them. When the quadrille was over, the circle
opened, and the shepherds and shepherdesses mingled with the rest of
the company. One of the shepherdesses, whose charming figure and
elegance of motion had riveted my attention, as if by a magic power
drew me after her. I followed wherever she went, until at last I got so
near to her that I was able to address her.

'Beautiful shepherdess!' I said in French, 'how is it that our northern
clime is so fortunate as to be favoured by a visit from you and your
lovely sisters?'

She turned quickly towards me, and after remaining silent a few
moments, during which time a pair of dark eyes gazed searchingly at me,

'Monsieur,' she replied in French, 'we thought that fidelity had its
true home in this northern clime.'

'You have each brought your lover with you,' I said.

'Because we hoped that they would learn lessons of constancy here,' was
her answer.

'Lovely blossom from the banks of the Garonne!' I exclaimed, 'who could
be inconstant to you?'

'There is no telling,' she continued, gaily. 'You are paying me
compliments without knowing me. You call me pretty, yet you have never
seen _me_. It must be my mask that you mean.'

'Your eyes assure me of your beauty,' said I; 'they must bear the blame
if I am mistaken.'

Just at that moment another dance commenced; I asked the fair
shepherdess to be my partner, and consenting, she held out her hand to
me. We took our places immediately. It was then that a recollection
came over me of having heard her sweet voice before. I thought that I
recognized it--yes! Surely it could be no other's than hers--my fairy
of Esrom Wood! But I was determined to be certain of the fact. I said
nothing, however, while we were dancing. The dance seemed to me very
short, and at the same time endless.

I interrupted him somewhat uncivilly with--'At any rate your story
seems endless.' He continued, however.

After the dance was over I conducted her to a seat, and placed myself
by her side.

'It strikes me,' I remarked in Danish, 'that T have once before heard
your voice, but not on the banks of the Garonne--'

'No,' she replied, interrupting me, 'not there, but perhaps on the
borders of Lake Esrom?'

A sweet feeling at that moment, as it were, both expanded and
contracted my breast. It was herself--the Unseen! She must also have
remarked my voice, and preserved its tones in her memory.

'A second time we meet,' I sighed, 'without beholding each other. This
is really like an adventure brought about by some magician's art; but,
oh! how I long for the moment when you will no longer hide that
charming countenance.'

She laughed slightly; and there was something so sprightly, musical,
and winning in her laugh, while her white teeth glistened like pearls
under her mask, that I forgot what more I was going to say. She,
however, began to speak.

'Why should I destroy your illusion? Leave our adventure, as you call
it, alone; when a mystery is solved it loses its interest. If I were to
remove my mask, you would only see the face of a very ordinary girl.
Your imagination gallantly pictures me beautiful as some Circassian, or
some Houri; let me remain such in your idea, at least till the watchman
cries the hour of midnight, and wakes you from your dreams.'

'All dreams are not delusive,' I said. 'They often speak the truth,' I
added; 'yet sometimes one is tempted to wish that truths were but
dreams; as, for instance, the very unfortunate event which was the
occasion of our first meeting.'

She looked surprised, while she repeated--

'Unfortunate? Ah! true. You probably never heard--' At that moment one
of the shepherds ran up, and carried her off hurriedly to a quadrille
which was just forming.

I was following the couple with my eyes, when my sister tapped me on
the arm and asked me to dance with her, as she was not engaged.
Mechanically I took my place in the quadrille, the same in which my
_incognita_ was dancing, and mechanically I went through the figures
until she had to give me her hand in the chain. I pressed it warmly,
but there was no response. Ashamed and angry, I determined not to cast
another glance at her; and resolutely I turned my head away. The
quadrille was over, and once more I found myself constrained to look at
her. But she was gone--the shepherds and shepherdesses had all
disappeared. Whether they had left the ball, or--what was more
probable--had changed their attire, I saw them no more. In vain at the
supper-table my eyes wandered over all the ladies, to guess, if
possible, which was the right one. Many of them were pretty; many had
dark eyes and white teeth; but which of all these eyes and teeth were
hers? It was by the voice alone that I could recognize her; but I could
not go from the one to the other, and ask them to speak to me. And thus
ended the second part of my drama.


'Now, then, for the third act,' said I, with some curiosity.

'For that,' he replied, 'I have waited in vain, above a year and a
day.'

'But do you not know her name?' I asked.

'No.'

'Or none of the party of shepherds and shepherdesses?'

'I found out shortly after that I knew two of the shepherds; but of
what use was that to me? I could not describe my shepherdess so that
they could distinguish her among the twelve; they mentioned a dozen
names, all equally unknown to me. That gave me no clue; to me she was
both nameless and invisible.'

I could not help smiling at my usually-gay cousin's doleful
countenance.

'You are laughing at me,' said he. 'Well, I don't wonder at it. To fall
in love with a girl one has never seen is certainly great folly. But do
not fancy that I am going to die of despair. I only feel a sort of
longing come over me when I think of her.'

The singers had now come so near that we could hear their conversation.
After a few moments my cousin whispered to me that he knew one of them
by his voice, and that he was an officer from Copenhagen. In another
minute they made their appearance. There were three of them, all
dressed as civilians, but the moustaches of one showed that he was a
military man. My cousin squeezed my arm, and whispered again--

'It is he, sure enough; let us see if he knows me.'

We rose, and stood stiffly, with our caps in our hands. They nodded to
us, and the officer said--

'Put your hats on, lads. Will you earn a shilling for something to
drink, and help to erect our tent?'

We agreed to his proposal, and at his desire we joined two men in
fetching, from a cart near, the canvas and other things required to put
the tent up; also cloaks, cushions, baskets with provisions, and
bottles of wine, benches for seats, and a wider one for a table. When
our services were no longer needed, the officer held out some money to
me, which, of course, I would not receive. My cousin also refused
payment; whereupon he swore that we should at least take something to
drink, and, filling a tumbler from his flask, he handed it to my
cousin, who received it with a suppressed laugh.

'What are you grinning at, fellow?' said the officer; but, as my cousin
carried the tumbler to his lips, he exclaimed--

'Your health, Wilhelm!'

The individual thus addressed started back in astonishment, while his
two companions peered into our faces. My cousin burst into a fit of
laughter; and the officer, who now recognized him, cried, laughing
also,--

'Ludvig! What the deuce is all this? and why are you equipped in that
preposterous garb?'

The matter was speedily explained; the three travellers expressed much
pleasure at meeting us, and pressed us so cordially to join their
party, and stay the night with them, that we at length acceded to their
request.

One of the officer's companions was a young, handsome, and very
fashionable-looking man; he was extremely rich, we understood,
therefore they called him _the merchant_, and they would not tell us
his name, or if that were his _real_ position in society. The other
introduced himself to us with these words:

'Gentlemen, of the respectable peasant class! my name here in Jutland
is Farniente. My agreeable occupation is to do nothing--at least
nothing but amuse myself.'

There was a great deal more joking among our hosts, and then we
presented each other in the same bantering way, after which we all
adjourned to the tent, where we wound up with a very jovial supper. At
midnight the merchant reminded us that we had to rise next morning with
the first rays of the sun, and that it was time to retire to rest. We
made up a sort of couch, with cushions and cloaks, and on it we five
faithful brothers stretched ourselves as best we might. The other four
soon fell asleep. I alone remained awake; and when I found that slumber
had fled my pillow, rose as quietly as possible, and left the tent.

All around was still as the grave. The skies were without a cloud, but
of their millions of eyes only a few were now open, and even these
shone dimly and feebly, as if they were almost overcome by sleep. The
monarch of light, who was soon to overpower their fading brightness,
was already clearing his path in the north-east. It is not the
darkness, still less the tempest, that renders night so extremely
melancholy; it is that deep repose, that corpse-like stillness in
nature; it is to see oneself the only waking being in a sleeping
world--one living amidst the vast vaults of the grave--a creature
trembling with the fearful, giddy thought of death and eternity. How
welcome then is any sound which breaks the oppressive silence of that
nocturnal solitude, and reminds us that human beings are about to
awaken to their daily round of occupation and pleasure--and, it must be
added, of anxiety and trouble! How cheerful seems the earliest crowing
of the cocks from the nearest huts, rising almost lazily on the dusky
air! The drowsy world was beginning to move; and after a time I
discerned faint, sweet tones proceeding from the direction of the
wood. I listened attentively, and soon became convinced that it was
music--the music of wind instruments--which I heard. To me music is as
welcome as the first rosy streaks of morn to the benighted wanderer, or
a glimpse of the brilliant sun amidst the gloom of a dark wintry sky.

The sweet sounds ceased, and I began to ponder whether it might not
have been unearthly strains which I had heard--whether they might not
have come from the fairies who perhaps dwell amidst the surrounding
glades, or among the wild flowers that enamelled the sloping sides of
the hills. The music, however, was certainly Weber's, and the question
was, whether the elfin people had learned the airs from him, or he from
them. I returned to the tent, where the still sleeping party produced a
very different and somewhat nasal kind of music.

'Gentlemen! gentlemen!' I shouted, 'there are visitors coming.'

My cousin was the first to awaken, then the officer, who sprang up, and
immediately endeavoured to arouse the other two.

'The ladies will be here presently,' he said; 'get up both of you.'

'They are too early,' groaned one; 'I have not had half my sleep.'

'Let them wait outside the tent till I am ready,' said Farniente. 'Good
night!'

The rest of us, however, went towards the wood to meet the three
ladies, who were making their way to our temporary domicile, preceded
by two musicians playing the horn, and two youths bearing torches, the
latter being the sons of a clergyman in the neighbourhood, at whose
house the ladies had slept. Observing the peasant costume of my friend
and myself, the ladies asked who we were, and were told by the military
man that we were two soldiers of his regiment, who, being in the
adjacent village, had assisted in putting up the tent.

'Lads,' said he, addressing us in a tone of command, 'can you fetch
some water for us from the nearest stream, and get some wood for us to
boil our coffee? I will go with you.'

'No, no, sir--that would be a shame,' said my cousin, in the Jutland
dialect; 'we will bring all that is wanted ourselves.'

When we returned to the tent it was broad daylight; Farniente had been
compelled to vacate his couch of cloaks, and in his lively way was
greeting the fair guests with 'Good morning, my three Graces.' The
officers told us, aside, that two of the ladies were his sisters, and
were about to tell us more, when a waltz on the turf was proposed by
Farniente, who seized one of the ladies, whom he called Sybilla, as his
partner. _The merchant_ danced with another, to whom it appeared he was
engaged, and the officer took his youngest sister. Their hilarity was
infectious, and my cousin dragged me round for want of a better
partner, whereupon the fair Sybilla, who had observed our dancing,
remarked that we were 'really not at all awkward for peasant lads.'

While they were taking their coffee afterwards, during which time we
stood respectfully at a little distance, my cousin whispered to me how
much he admired the lieutenant's youngest sister, who was indeed
extremely pretty. He had not hitherto heard her voice, but he could not
help seeing that she looked attentively--even inquisitively at him. By
Farniente's request, the ladies handed us some coffee, after having
done which they made some remarks upon us to each other in German. At
that moment my cousin let his coffee-cup drop suddenly to the ground,
and standing as motionless as one of the trees in the wood, he fixed
his eyes upon the youngest girl with a very peculiar expression, which
called the deepest blushes to her cheek. We all looked on in surprise,
but I began to suspect the truth. Farniente was the first to speak.

'Min Herre!' said he, 'it is time that you should lay aside your
incognito, for it is evident that you and this lady have met before.'

My cousin had by this time recovered his speech and his
self-possession. He went up to the young lady, and said:--'For the
first time to-day have I had the happiness of seeing those lips from
which I have twice heard a voice whose accents delighted me. In that
voice I cannot be mistaken, so deep was the impression it made upon me.
Dare I flatter myself that my voice has not been quite forgotten by
you?'

Catherina--that was her name--replied with a smile,--

'I have neither forgotten your voice nor your face, though last time we
met you were a Spanish grandee.'

'What is all this?' exclaimed the officer; 'old acquaintances--another
masquerade!'

'We are now truly all partaking of rural life,' said Farniente; 'so
come, you two peasants, and place yourselves with the fair shepherdess
and us.'

We joined the circle, and after our names having been told, my cousin,
leading the conversation to Lake Esrom, and the events which took place
on its banks, asked Catherina how her poor friend had taken that sad
affair, and if she had ever recovered her spirits?'

'Oh yes, she has,' replied Catherina; and pointing to the young lady
who was engaged to _the merchant_, 'there she is!'

My cousin started, and said, in some embarrassment, 'It was a sad
event, but--'

'Not so very sad,' cried _the merchant_, interrupting him, 'for the
drowned man returned to life. He was no other than myself.'

'God be thanked!' exclaimed my cousin, sincerely rejoiced at the
pleasant intelligence. 'That is more than we _then_ dared to hope. But
what became of the poor foolish madcap who first upset the boat and
then wished to drown himself?'

'Here he is,' said Farniente, pointing to himself; 'and as I once
thought I might be promoted to the dignity of court jester, I took a
wife, and there,' bowing to Sybilla, 'sits the fair one who has
undertaken to steer my boat over the dangerous ocean of life.'

The morning mists by degrees cleared away from the wooded valleys and
the hill-encircled waters; the larks had ended their early chorus, and
the later songsters of the grove had commenced their sweet harmonies;
all seemed joy around, and I looked with pleasure at the gay group
before me. Never had the cheering light of day shone upon a circle of
more contented human beings, and among them none were happier than
Ludwig and his recently-found shepherdess, whose countenance beamed in
the radiant glow of dawning love.

Six months have passed since then, and they are now united for this
world and for that which is to come.




                          THE SECRET WITNESS.

                           BY B. S. INGEMANN.


In the year 1816 there lived in Copenhagen an elderly lady, Froken
F----, of whom it was known that she sometimes involuntarily saw what
was not visible to anyone else. She was a tall, thin, grave-looking
person, with large features, and an expressive countenance. Her dark,
deep-set eyes had a strange glance, and she saw much better than most
people in the twilight; but she was so deaf, that people had to speak
very loudly to her before she could catch their words, and when a
number of persons were speaking at the same time in a room, she could
hear nothing but an unintelligible murmur. A sort of magnetic
clairvoyance had, doubtless, in the somewhat isolated condition in
which she was placed, been awakened in her mind, without, however, her
being thrown into any peculiar state. She only seemed at times to be
labouring under absence of mind, or to have fallen into deep thought,
and then she was observed to fix her eyes upon some object invisible to
all others. What she saw at those moments were most frequently the
similitude of some absent person, or images of the future, which were
always afterwards realized. Thus she had often foreseen unexpected
deaths, and other unlooked-for fatal accidents. As she seldom beheld in
her visions anything pleasing, she was regarded by many as a bird of
ill omen, and she therefore did not visit a number of families; those,
however, who knew her intimately both respected and loved her. She was
quiet and unpretending, and it was but rarely that she said anything,
unsolicited, of the results of her wonderful faculty.

She was a frequent guest in a family with whom she was a great
favourite. The master of the house was an historical painter, and his
wife was an excellent musician. The deaf old lady was a good judge of
paintings, and extremely fond of them; also, hard of hearing as she
was, music had always a great effect upon her; she could add in fancy
what she did not hear to what she did hear; she had been very musical
herself in her youthful days, and when she saw fingers flying over the
pianoforte, she imagined she heard the music, even when anyone, to dupe
her, moved their fingers back and forwards over the instrument, but
without playing on it.

One day she was sitting on a sofa in the drawing-room at the house of
the above-mentioned family, engaged in some handiwork. The artist had a
visitor who was a very lively, witty, satirical person, and they were
standing together near a window, discoursing merrily; they often
laughed during their conversation, and the tones of their voices seemed
to change, occasionally, as if they were imitating some one, whereupon
their hilarity invariably increased, which, however, was far from being
as harmless and goodnatured as mirth and gaiety generally were in that
house.

When the visit was over, and the artist had accompanied his friend to
the door, and returned to the drawing-room, the old lady asked him who
had been with him.

He mentioned the name of his lively friend, whom, he said, he thought
she knew very well.

'Oh, yes, I know him well enough,' she replied; 'but the other?'

'What other?' asked the painter, starting.

'Why the tall man with the long thin face, who stood yonder; he with
the dark, rough, uncombed-looking hair, and the bushy eyebrows--he who
so often laid his hand on his breast, and pointed upwards, especially
when you and your merry friend laughed heartily.'

'Did you ever see him before?' inquired the artist, turning pale. 'Did
you observe how he was dressed, and if he had any peculiar habit?'

'I do not remember having ever seen him before; as to his dress, it was
very singular, much like that of an old-fashioned country
schoolmaster.' And she described minutely his long frock-coat, with
large buttons and side-pockets, and his antiquated boots, that did not
appear to have been brushed for a very long time. 'The peculiar habit
you speak of,' she added, 'was probably the manner in which he slowly
shook his head, when he seemed to differ in opinion from you and your
other guest; in my eyes there was something noble and striking in this
movement, there was an expression of pain or sadness in his
countenance, which interested me; it was particularly observable when
he laid his right hand on his breast, and raised his left hand upwards,
as if he were solemnly affirming something, or calling God to witness
to the truth of what he said. Nevertheless, I remarked with surprise,
that I scarcely saw him open his lips. It was of course impossible for
me to hear what you were all talking about.'

The terrified artist became still paler--he tottered for a moment, and
was obliged to lean on the back of a chair for support. Shortly after
he seized his hat and hurried out of the house. The individual whom the
old lady had so graphically described had been a friend of his in
youth, but with whom he had been on bad terms for the last two years,
and whom he had not seen lately.

The whole conversation with his amusing visitor had been about this
very man. They had been engaged in a laughable and, at the same time,
merciless criticism of his character, and appearance, and had been
turning into ridicule every little peculiarity he had; his very voice
they had mimicked, and in their facetious exaggeration, had not only
made a laughing-stock of his person and manners, which were indeed odd,
but had attributed to him want of heart and want of judgment, which
latter sentence they based upon his somewhat peculiar taste, and a kind
of dry, pedantic, schoolmaster tone in conversation, from which he was
not free.

'That old maid is mad--and she has made me mad, too,' mumbled the
artist, pausing a moment when he had gained the street. '_He_ certainly
was not there--we do not meet any longer. She never saw him before.
There is something strangely mysterious in this matter--perhaps it
bodes some calamity. But, whether she is deranged--or I--or both of us,
I have wronged him--shamefully wronged him--and I must see him, and
tell him all.'

He stepped into a bookseller's shop, and asked to look at a Directory.
After about half-an-hour's walk he entered a house in a small back
street, and ascending to the third story, he rang at a door. A girl
opened it, and, in answer to his inquiries, told him that the person he
asked for was ill, and could not see anyone.

'But I must see him--I must speak to him,' cried the painter, almost
forcing himself in.

He was then ushered into a darkened room, where he found his poor
friend of bygone days looking pale and emaciated, lying perfectly still
upon a sofa, in his old grey frock-coat and soiled boots. The kind
anxiety with which the unexpected visitor asked about his health seemed
equally to surprise and please the invalid.

'You!' he exclaimed, '_you_ here! Do you still take any interest in me?
Have you any regard left for me? I did you shameful injustice two years
ago, when I saw your great masterpiece; and had not an enthusiastic
word for what I have though, often since, thought of with the greatest
admiration. Nay, within this very last hour I have wronged you, though
in quite a different manner. I was dreaming of you, and I fancied you
were speaking of me with scorn and derision--pulling me to pieces in a
jesting conversation with a very satirical person, who vied with you in
ridiculing me, and in mimicking all my oddities.'

'Forgive me--oh, forgive me! you dreamed the truth,' cried the painter,
in great agitation, while he threw himself down by the sick man's
couch, and embraced his knees.

An explanation ensued between the two friends who had so long been
estranged from each other--mutual confessions were made--old feelings
were revived in the hearts of both--and an entire reconciliation
immediately took place. The unusual emotion, and the surprise at the
event related to him, did not, as might have been expected, increase
the illness of the nervous and debilitated invalid; on the contrary,
the meeting with his former friend appeared to have had a good effect
on his health, for in the course of a few weeks he had quite recovered.

The old lady's qualifications as a seer, or rather her strange faculty
of beholding, to others invisible, apparitions, had been productive of
good; but it was such an extraordinary revelation, agreeing so entirely
with what both the reconciled friends knew to be the truth, that they
could only look upon it as a proof of the reality of what was then
beginning to be so much talked of--the magnetic clairvoyance.

They continued unalterable friends from that time. From that time,
also, the artist felt an involuntary horror at ridiculing the absent,
or making or listening to any censorious remarks upon them; he always
fancied that the injured party might be standing _as a secret witness_
by his side, with one hand on his breast, and the other raised in an
appeal to that great Judge, who alone can know what is passing in every
heart and every soul.




                         AGNETE AND THE MERMAN.

                           BY JENS BAGGESEN.


   Agnete she was guileless.
     She was beloved and true,
   But solitude, it charm'd her,
     And mirth she never knew--
                  She never knew--
   She made the joy of all around
     Yet never felt it too.


   Over the dark blue waves,
     Agnete, gazing, bends,
   When lo! a merman rising there
     From ocean's depths ascends;
                  Up he ascends.
   Yet still, Agnete's bending form
     With the soft billows blends.

   His glossy hair, it seemed as spun
     Out of the purest gold,
   His beaming eye, it brightly glow'd
     With warmest love untold--
                  With love untold!
   And his scale-cover'd bosom held
     A heart that was not cold.

   The song he sang Agnete,
     On love and sorrow rang;
   His voice it was so melting soft,
     So sadly sweet he sang--
                  Sadly he sang.
   It seemed as if his beating heart
     Upon his lips it sprang.

   'And hearken, dear Agnete!
     What I shall say to thee--
   My heart, oh! it is breaking, sweet!
     With longing after thee!
                  Still after thee!
   Oh! wilt thou ease my sorrow, love,
     Oh! wilt thou smile on me?'

   Two silver buckles lay
     Upon the rocky shore,
   And aught more rich, or aught more bright,
     No princess ever wore,
                  No, never wore.
   'My best beloved,'--so sang he--
     'Add these unto thy store!'

   Then drew he from his breast
     A string of pearls so rare--
   None richer, no, or none more pure
     Did princess ever wear--
                  Oh! ever wear.
   'My best beloved,' so sang he,
     'Accept this bracelet fair!'

   Then from his finger drew he
     A ring of jewels fine--
   And none more brilliant, none more rich,
     Midst princely gems might shine;
                  'Here, here from mine.
   My best beloved,' so sang he,
     'Oh, place this upon thine!'

   Agnete, on the deep sea
     Beholds the sky's soft hue,
   The waves they were so crystal clear,
     The ocean 'twas so blue!
                  Oh! so blue!
   The merman smiled, and thus he sang,
     As near to her he drew:--

   'Ah! hearken, my Agnete,
     What I to thee shall speak:
   For thee my heart is burning, love,
     For thee, my heart will break!
                  Oh! 'twill break!
   Say, sweet, wilt thou be kind to me,
     And grant the love I seek?'

   'Dear merman! hearken thou,
     Yes, I will list to thee!
   If deep beneath the sparkling waves
     Thou'lt downward carry me--
                  Take thou me!
   And bear me to thine ocean bow'r
     There, I will dwell with thee.'

   Then stoppeth he her ears,
     Her mouth then stoppeth he;
   And with the lady he hath fled,
     Deep, deep beneath the sea!
                  Beneath the sea!
   There kiss'd they, and embraced they,
     So fond, and safe, and free!

   For full two years and more,
     Agnete, she lived there,
   And warm, untiring, faithful love
     They to each other bear;
                  Such love they bear.
   Within the merman's shelly bower
     Are born two children fair.

   Agnete--she sat tranquilly.
     And to her boys she sang;
   When hark! a sound of earth she hears,
     How solemnly it rang!
                  Ding--dong--dang!
   It was the church's passing bell
     In Holmé Vale that clang.

   Agnete, from the cradle,
     Springs suddenly away,
   She hastes to seek her merman dear,
     'Loved merman, say I may--
                  Say--Oh say,
   That I, ere midnight's hour, may take
     To Holmé's church my way?'

   'Thou wishest ere the midnight
     To Holmé church to go?
   See then that thou, ere day, art back
     Here, to thy boys below--
                  Go--go--go!
   But ere the morning light return
     Come to thy sons below!'

   He stoppeth then her ears,
     Her mouth then stoppeth he;
   And upwards they together rise
     Till Holmé Vale they see.
                  'Now part we!'
   They part, and he descends again
     Beneath the deep blue sea.

   Straight on to the churchyard,
     Agnete's footsteps hie:
   She meets--O God! her mother there,
     And turns again to fly.
                  'Why--O why?'
   Her mother's voice her steps arrests
     Thus speaking with a sigh:--

   'Oh hearken, my Agnete,
     What I shall say to thee,
   Where has thy distant dwelling been
     So long away from me?
                  Away from me!
   Say, where hast thou, my child, been hid
     So long and secretly?'

   'O mother! I have dwelt
     Beneath the boundless main,
   Within a merman's coral bower,
     And we have children twain,
                  Beneath the main.
   I came to pray--and then I go
   Back to the deep again!'

   'But hearken thou, Agnete,
     What I to thee shall say--
   Here thy two little daughters weep
     Because thou art away;
                  By night, by day,
   Thy little girls bemoan and grieve;
     With them thou'lt surely stay?'

   'Well--let my daughters small
     For me both grieve and long,
   My ears are closed--I cannot hear
     Their cries yon waves among!
                  Oh! I belong
   To my dear sons, and they will die
     If I my stay prolong.'

   'Have pity on thy babes--
     Let them not pine away!
   Oh! think upon thy youngest child
     Who in her cradle lay!
                  With them oh stay!
   Forget yon elves, and with thine own,
     Thy lawful children stay!'

   'Nay, let them bloom or fade--
     The two--as Heav'n may will!
   My heart is closed--their cries no more
     Can now my bosom thrill--
                  Oh! no more thrill!
   For now my merman's sons alone
     All my affections fill.'

   'Alas! though thou canst thus
     Thy smiling babes forget;
   Yet think upon their father's faith,
     Thy noble lord's regret,
                  The fate he met!
   As soon as thou wert lost to him
     His sun of joy was set.

   'Long--long he search'd for thee,
     He went a weary way;
   At last from yonder shelving rock
     He cast himself one day--
                  One dismal day.
   His corpse upon the pebbly strand
     In the dim twilight lay!

   'And here--'twas not long since--
     His coffin they did bring;
   Ha! list, my daughter, hearest thou?
     The midnight bells they ring!
                  Ding--dong--ding!'
   Away her mother hastens then
     As loud the church bells ring.

   Agnete, o'er the church-door
     Stepp'd softly from without,
   When all the little images
     They seem'd to turn about;
                  Round about.
   Within the church, the images
     They seem'd to turn about.

   Agnete gazes on
     The altar-piece so fair;
   The altar-piece it seem'd to turn,
     And the altar with it there.
                  All where'er
   Her eye it fell within the church,
     Seem'd turning, turning there!

   Agnete, on the ground
     She gazed in thoughtful mood,
   When lo! she saw her mother's name
     That on a tomb-stone stood.
                  There it stood!
   Then, sudden from her bursting heart,
     Flow'd back her chill'd life's blood.

   Agnete--first she stagger'd back,
     She fainted, then she fell.
   Now may her children long in vain
     For her they loved so well.
                  Oh, so well!
   Now, neither sons nor daughters more
     To her their wants may tell.

   Ay! Let them weep, and let them long,
     And seek her o'er and o'er!
   Dark, dark, are now her eyes so bright,
     They ne'er shall open more!
                  Oh, never more!
   And crush'd is now that death-cold heart,
     So warm with love before.




                            A WAKING DREAM.


He sat alone. It was not twilight, it was night, deep, dark night. He
had extinguished the lamp, for he wished that all around him should be
gloomy as his own sad thoughts. Even the pitiful glimmering light,
which was cast by the fire in the stove on the objects near it, was
disagreeable to him, for it showed him a portion, at least, of the
scene of his bygone happiness. His bitter sorrow seemed to have
petrified all his faculties, and entirely blasted his life; he did not
appear to reflect, he only felt. The deep sighs that every now and then
burst from his compressed lips were all that gave sign of existence
about him. That agitated tremor, those wild lamentations, those burning
tears,--the glowing look which griefs volcano casts forth, lay hidden
amidst the ashes of mute and agonized suffering.

But a few years before he had been the most hopeful of lovers; and
somewhat later, the happiest of husbands and of fathers. Now all--all
was lost! Death had stretched forth his mighty hand and taken his
treasures from him; blow after blew had fate thus inflicted on
his bleeding heart. He--the strong man--the high-minded--the
richly-endowed--sat there like a lifeless statue, without purpose,
without motion, without energy: all had been swept away in the
earthquake which had engulphed the happiness of his home, and he had
not power to raise a new structure upon the ruins of the past.

While he was sitting thus, a momentary blaze in the fire showed him the
portrait of his departed wife, which hung against the wall. How many
recollections the sight of it awakened! Oh, how distinctly he
remembered the day when that painting had been finished for him! It was
a short time before his marriage; he was gazing on it in an ecstasy of
delight, when the lovely original cast her beaming eyes on him and
whispered, 'Do you really think it beautiful? Is it so beautiful that
when I become old and grey-headed, you may look at my picture and
remember your love, your feelings for me, when we were both young?' And
when he assured her, that for him she would always be young, she
replied so sweetly, 'Oh, I am not afraid of becoming old by your side;
it will be so delightful to have lived a long life of love with you!'

Alas! he was still young, but he had to wander through perhaps a long,
long life alone. How had he beheld her last? She was lying in her
coffin--young and lovely, but pale and motionless. And he--who
still breathed and felt--he it was who had clung in despair to that
coffin--he who, with a breaking heart, had laid her dark hair smoothly
on her marble-white cheek, had pressed his lips for the last time on
her cold forehead, had folded her transparent hands and bedewed them
with his tears, and had laid his throbbing head on that so lately
beating heart, which never, never more would thrill with sorrow or with
joy. But who could describe that depth of grief, that rending of the
soul, that agonizing convulsion of the heart, when the last farewell
look on earth--the long, eager, parting look--was taken, and the head
was raised from the harrowing contemplation of these beloved features,
which were soon to be snatched and hidden from his gaze! Then despair
seized upon him, and his grief could find no relief in tears.

In these heart-breaking recollections his spirit was long absorbed; at
length he pressed his hands on his aching temples, burst into a flood
of tears, and exclaimed:

'Oh, thou whom I loved so truly! hast thou indeed forsaken me? Can it
be possible that thou hast dissevered thyself from my soul! Oft
have I dreamed that thou wert harkening to my lamentations, that
thou wert lingering by my side, and soothing my sorrow! But it was
fancy--cheating fancy! Thou who didst feel so much affection for
me--thou who wert never deaf to my prayers--hast thou heard me, and yet
not answered me? How often during the sad weary night have I not called
upon thee! See--I stretch forth my arms and embrace only the empty
air--I gaze around for thee, but am left in oppressive solitude. Oh, if
thou _canst_ hear me, beloved spirit! if it be possible that thou canst
hear me--come, oh come!' His voice was choked by tears.

At last, when the water mist had passed from his eyes, removing, as it
were, a veil from before them, he gazed wearily on the darkness around,
and perceived a faint ray of light, which gradually seemed to become
clearer. At first he thought it was the moon casting its uncertain
gleams through the window; but the light seemed to extend itself. The
corner of the room opposite to him seemed illumined by a pale,
tremulous lustre that spread down to the floor. His heart beat
violently as he gazed intently at the miraculous light. By degrees it
assumed something like a shape, an airy, transparent figure, clad in a
shining garment that glittered like the stars of heaven; and when it
turned its countenance towards him, he recognized the features of her
he had lost, but radiant in celestial peace and glory. Her clear eyes,
which were fixed upon him, beamed with an expression of indescribable
benignity.

The deep grief that had oppressed his spirit gave place to a wonderful,
a mysterious feeling of holy calmness which he had never before
experienced.

'Oh, speak!' he entreated softly, as if he were afraid to disturb the
beautiful apparition, and holding his clasped hands beseechingly
towards it--'Oh let me hear that voice, the echo of whose dear accents
still lives in my heart! Hast thou taken compassion on me?'

'Didst thou not call me?' replied the apparition in a faint, subdued
tone, yet so full of tenderness and affection that it seemed to inspire
him with new life. 'Hast thou not often called me? I could no longer
withstand thy supplication. The sorrows and sufferings of earth have
lost their bitterness and their sting for those who have become
heavenly spirits--those who have seen the Omnipotent face to face; but
thy grief touched my heart even in the midst of blessedness. I could
not be happy whilst thou wert wretched. Often have I hovered around
thee, often lingered by thy side, often wafted coolness to thy burning
brow; and when thy sadness would seem to be somewhat soothed, I have
lain at thy feet, and contemplated thy beloved countenance. I was by
thee when thou didst lean weeping over my coffin, and in an agony of
woe didst cling to that body whence my soul had fled. Oh! how much I
wished then that thou couldst look up at me, and know how near I was to
thee! Oh! how willingly I would have embraced thee, had the Almighty
permitted me! I was also with thee when our beloved infant lay in its
last earthly struggle. My dying child called for me, and the heart of
the mother yearned to respond to that call which had reached her, even
when surrounded by the happiness of eternity, I came down to earth to
answer it. Like an airy shadow, I glided through the garden paths in
the still summer night, and all the plants and the flower exhaled their
sweetest fragrance to salute me, for they felt that I had come from a
better world. And Nature spoke to me with its spirit voice, and
besought me to consecrate its soil with my ethereal step. The dark
elder-tree and the blushing rosebush made signs to me, asking me if I
remembered how often they had shed their perfume around us, when you
and I, wrapped in our mutual happiness, used to wander in the soft
evenings, arm in arm--heart answering heart--eye meeting eye--through
the verdant alleys and flower-enamelled walks; but I could not linger
over these sweet remembrances, I passed on to watch the death-bed of
the little innocent who longed so for its mother. And when thou, my
beloved! overcome by affliction, let thine aching head sink in helpless
sorrow on its couch, our child lay, peaceful and joyous, in my embrace,
and ascended to heaven with me to pray for thee. Oh, dearest one I how
canst thou think that death has power to sever hearts that have once
been united in everlasting love!'

He listened in mute and breathless ecstasy to these words, which
sounded as the softest melody to his enraptured ear. When the voice
ceased, he stretched forth his arms towards the beloved shade, and said
beseechingly:

'Forgive me, angel of Paradise--forgive me! I feel now that the
happiness of heaven is so great that nothing mortal can compare with
it. Yet for my sake thou hast left awhile this inconceivable felicity,
and deigned to assuage my grief, and to speak balm to my heart. Thanks,
blessed spirit--thanks! My path shall no longer be gloomy--my life no
longer lonesome!'

'Thou wilt sigh no more--thou wilt no longer weep?' asked the spirit,
with a radiant smile.

'Thou shalt be my guardian angel, blessed spirit!' he replied, in deep
emotion.

'God be thanked!' ejaculated the spirit in holy joy. It waved its
shadowy hand to him, and as it seemed to turn to move away, its airy
robe sparkled luminously for a moment; it then glittered more and more
faintly, till it looked like the twinkling of some distant star.

Then earth-born wishes seized again upon _his_ heart.

'Alas;' he cried, as he made an involuntary movement towards the
vanishing shadow, 'shall I, then, never behold thee more in this
world?'

A holy light passed over the scarcely defined features of the spirit,
while it replied, as if from afar--

'Yes! once more--but only once. When thy last hour approaches--when the
bitterness of death is passed--then shalt thou tell those that watch by
thy couch, and who, incredulous, will deem thy words the raving of
delirium--then shalt thou tell them that a messenger from a glorious
world is standing by thy side. That messenger will be me. I shall come
to kiss the last breath from thy pale quivering lips, to gladden the
last glance of thy closing eyes, and, after the heart's last pulsation,
to receive thy parted soul, and be its guide to the realms of endless
happiness, where I now await thee.'

He listened and bowed his head. When he raised it--all was dark and
empty. He went to the window, and looked out upon the dazzling snow,
and up to the brilliant star-lit heavens, and prayed in sadness, but
with earnest devotion.

He lives to perform his duties, to do good to his fellow-creatures, to
serve his God. He is never gay nor lively; but he is tranquil and
content. He loves quiet and solitude. He loves in winter to lose
himself in meditation while gazing on the calm, cold face of nature;
and in summer to loiter in silence, till a late hour at night, amidst
his garden's sweetly-scented walks. He is a lonely wanderer on the
earth; yet not quite so lonely as he is thought to be, for he is often
soothed by delightful dreams, and then he smiles happily, as if in his
visions he had been consoled by the presence of a beloved being.

If his soul sometimes ventures humbly to indulge in the wish that it
might soon enter into death's peaceful land, none can tell; his silent
aspirations are known to none--to none but _Him_ who sees into the
deepest recesses of the human heart.




                           THE CONFESSIONAL.

                         BY CHRISTIAN WINTHER.


In the Magdalene Church at Girgenti[9] preparations had been made for a
grand festival. It was adorned, as usual on such occasions, with red
tapestry and flowers. The hour of noon had struck, the workmen had left
the church, and there reigned around that deep, solemn stillness which,
in Catholic places of worship, is so appropriate and so imposing.

Two gentlemen, who conversed in a low tone of voice, were pacing up and
down the long aisle that runs along the northern side of the building,
and seemed to be enjoying the shade and coolness of the church, as if
it had been a public promenade. The elder was a man of about thirty
years of age, stout, broad-shouldered, and strongly built, with a grave
countenance, in which no trace of passion was visible: this was Don
Antonio Carracciolio, Marquis d'Arena. The other, who seemed a mere
youth, had a slender, graceful figure, an animated, handsome face, and
dark eyes, soft almost as those of a woman--which wandered from side to
side with approving glances, as if he had some peculiar interest in the
interior of the sacred edifice. And such he certainly had; for he was
the architect who had planned the church and superintended its
erection. He was called Giulio Balzetti, and had only lately returned
from Rome. Suddenly they stopped.

'I shall entrust you with a secret, which I think will amuse you,
Signor Marquis,' said the younger man, in the easy intimate tones in
which one speaks to a friend at whose house one is a daily visitor--'a
secret with which, I believe, no one is acquainted but myself. You see
the effects of acoustics sometimes play us builders strange tricks
where we least expect or wish them. Chance, a mere accident, has
revealed to me, that when one stands here--here upon this white marble
slab--one can distinctly overhear every syllable, even of the lowest
whisper, uttered far from this, yonder, where you may observe the
second last confessional; while, in a straight line between this point
and that, you would not be sensible of any sound, were you even much
nearer the place. If you will remain standing here, I will go yonder to
the confessional in question, and you will be astonished at this
miracle of nature.'

He went accordingly, but scarcely had he moved the distance of a couple
of steps, when the Marquis distinctly heard a whisper, the subject of
which seemed to make a strong impression upon him. He stood as rigid
and marble-white as if suddenly turned to stone by some magician's
wand; while the painfully anxious attention with which he listened, and
which was expressed in his otherwise stony features, gave evidence that
he was hearing something of excessive importance. He did not move a
muscle--he scarcely breathed--he was like one who is standing on the
extreme verge of an abyss, into which he is afraid of falling, and his
rolling eyes and beating heart alone gave signs of his violent
agitation.

In a very few minutes the young architect came back smiling, and called
out from a little distance, 'I could not manage to make the experiment,
for some one was in the confessional--from the glimpse I got, a lady
closely veiled--but, Heavens! what is the matter with you?'

The only answer which the Marquis gave the Italian was to place his
finger on his mouth, and he continued to stand motionless. After a
minute or two he drew a deep sigh. The statue passed out of its
speechless magic trance, and returned again to life.

'It is nothing, dear Giulio!' said he, in a friendly tone. 'Do not
think that I am superstitious; but I assure you this mysterious and
wonderful natural phenomenon has taken me so much by surprise, that it
has had a strange effect on me. Come, let us go! I shall recover myself
in the fresh air,' he added, as he took Balzetti's arm, and led him to
the promenade on the outside of the town.

The two gentlemen walked up and down there for about an hour, when the
Marquis bade the young man adieu, saying, at the same time, 'Tomorrow,
after the festival is over, will you come out as usual to our villa?'

At a very early hour the next morning the Marquis entered his wife's
private suite of apartments. The waiting-maid, who just at that moment
was coming into the anteroom by another door, started, and looked quite
astounded.

'Did your lady ring?' asked the Marquis.

'No, your excellency!' replied the woman, curtseying low and colouring
violently.

'Then wait till you are called,' said the Marquis, as he opened the
door of the dressing-room, which separated the sleeping-room from the
antechamber.

As he crossed the threshold he was met by his lovely young wife,
attired in a morning-gown so light and flowing, that it looked as if it
must have been the one in which she had arisen from her couch. The
Marquis stopped and stood still, as if struck with his wife's extreme
beauty. He did not appear to observe the uneasiness, the inward tempest
of feelings that, chasing all the blood from her cheeks, had sent it to
her heart, and caused its beating to be too plainly visible under the
robe of slight fabric which was thrown around her.

'You are up early this morning, Antonio!' said the young Marchioness,
in a scarcely audible tone of voice, with a deepening blush and a
forced smile. 'What do you want here?'

'Could you be surprised, my Lauretta? Light of my eyes!' said the
Marquis, in the blandest and most insinuating of accents, 'could you be
surprised if I came both early and late? And yet, dearest, this morning
my visit is not to you alone. You know to-day is the feast of the Holy
Magdalene, and a great festival in the Church. I have taken it into my
head to usher in this day by paying my tribute of admiration to the
glorious Magdalene of Titian, which you had placed in your own sleeping
apartment. Will you permit me?' he asked, very politely, as with slow
steps, but in a determined manner, he walked towards the door.

'Everything is really in such sad disorder there,' said his young wife,
with a rapid glance through the half-open door; 'but ... go, since you
will. I shall begin making my toilette here in the mean time.'

And he went in.

'How charming,' he cried, in a peculiar tone of voice--'how charming is
not all this disorder! This graceful robe thrown carelessly down--these
fairy slippers! There is something that awakens the fancy, something
delicious in the very air of this room! All this is absolutely poetry.'

His searching look fastened itself upon the snow-white couch, the
silken coverlet of which was drawn up and spread out, but could not
entirely conceal the outline of a human figure, lying as flat as
possible, evidently in the endeavour to escape observation.

'I will sit down awhile,' said the Marquis, in the cheerful voice of a
person who has no unpleasant thought in his mind, 'and contemplate this
master-work.'

As he said this he took up a pillow, its white covering trimmed with
wide lace, and laid it on the spot where he thought the face of the
concealed person must be, and placed himself upon it with all the
weight of his somewhat bulky figure, whilst he placed his right hand
upon the chest of the reclining form, and pressed on it with all his
force.

Without heeding the involuntary, frightful, and convulsive
heavings--the death-throes of his wretched victim--the Marquis
exclaimed, in a calm, firm voice,--

'How beautifully that picture is finished! How noble and chaste does
not the lovely penitent look, all sinner as she was, with her rich
golden locks waving over that neck and those shoulders whiter than
alabaster, while these graceful hands are clasped, and these contrite,
tearful eyes seem gazing up yonder, whence alone mercy and pardon can
be obtained! One could almost become a poet in gazing on so splendid a
work of art. But ah! I never had the happy talent of an improvisatore.
In place, therefore, of poetizing, I will tell you something that
happened yesterday. Our little friend Giulio Balzetti took me round the
Magdalene Church; and, whilst we were wandering about, he pointed out a
particular spot to me, and bade me stand quite still there, telling me
that _there_ might be overheard what was said at another spot at some
distance in the church. And he was right. At that other place stood the
confessional No. 6. I had hardly placed myself on the marble flag
indicated to me, than I heard a charming voice--God knows who it was
speaking!--but she was confessing the sorrows of her heart and her
little sins to the holy father. She had a husband, she said, whom she
loved--yes, she loved him, and he loved her: he was very kind to her,
and left her much at liberty; in short, she gave the husband credit for
all sorts of good qualities, but, unfortunately, she had fallen in love
with another man! She did not mention his name. I should like to have
heard it. He must be one of our handsome young cavaliers about the
town. And this other loved her, too--she could not help it, poor
thing!--and so she found room for him in her heart as well as
for the husband. This other one was so handsome, so pleasing, so
fascinating!... Well ... if her husband did not know what was going on,
he could not be vexed, and ... it would do him no harm. So she had
promised to admit the lover early this morning. Do you hear? This is
what the French dames call "passer ses caprices." At last, she begged
the good priest to give her absolution beforehand. And he did so: he
gave the absolution! What do you think of all this, my love?' said the
Marquis, as he rose from the couch, where all was now still as death,
'Well,' he continued, in a jocular tone, 'our worthy priests are almost
too complaisant and indulgent--at least, most of them. Our old Father
Gregorio, however, would have taken _you_ to task after a different
fashion, if you ...'

He broke off abruptly, while he quietly laid the pillow in its own
place, and deliberately turned down the embroidered coverlet. It was
the architect Giulio Balzetti whom the Marquis beheld: he had ceased to
breathe!

'Have you been to confession lately, my Laura?' asked the Marquis.
There was no answer.

'Is it long since you have been to confession?' he asked, in a louder
and sterner voice.

'No!' replied the young woman, in the lowest possible tone.

'Apropos,' said the Marquis, as he covered the frightfully distorted
and blue face of the corpse with the coverlet, 'shall we not go to the
grand festival at the church to-day? The procession begins exactly at
twelve o'clock. I shall order the carriage--we really must not miss
it.'

He returned to the dressing-room. The Marchioness was sitting in a
large cushioned lounging-chair, the thick tresses of her dark hair
hanging negligently down, her lips and cheeks as pale as death, and her
hands resting listlessly on her lap.

'What is the matter, my dear child?' asked the Marquis, inwardly
triumphing at her distress, but with fair and friendly words upon his
lips. 'You have risen too early, my little Laura; and you have also
fatigued yourself in trying to dress without assistance. Where is
Pipetta? I shall ring for her now.' He pulled the bell-rope--approached
his wife--slightly kissed her brow--and then left her apartments.

At mid-day, when all the bells of the churches were pealing, the
Marquis's splendid state carriage, with four horses adorned with
gilded trappings, stood before the gate of his palace, and a crowd of
richly-dressed pages, footmen, and grooms, were in waiting there.
Presently the Marquis appeared in his brilliant court costume, with
glittering stars on his breast, his hat in one hand, whilst with the
other he led his young and beautiful but deadly-pale wife. With the
utmost attention he handed her down the marble steps, and while her
countenance looked as cold and stony as that of a statue, his eyes
flashed with a fire that was unusual to them. The servants hurried
forwards, the carriage-door was opened, the noble pair entered it, and
it drove off towards the town. In the crowded streets the foot
passengers turned round to gaze at it, and exclaimed to each other,
'There go a happy couple!'

The architect had disappeared. No one suspected that on the day of the
grand festival he lay dead--a blue and terrible-looking corpse--amidst
boots and shoes, at the bottom of a noble young dame's wardrobe; or
that, the following night, without shroud or coffin, his body was
secretly transported by the lady's faithful servants to a neighbouring
mountain, and there thrown into a deep cave. But the lady paid a large
sum to the convent of the Magdalens for the sake of his soul's repose.

The monk Gregorio--the accommodating and favourite confessor of the
fashionable world--was also soon after missing. But _he_ was not
dead--he lingered for some years in a subterranean prison belonging to
a monastery of one of the strictest orders: a punishment to which he
had been condemned through the influence of the Marquis d'Arena.

That the confessional No. 6 was removed, will be easily believed.

The Marquis never alluded to these events before his wife. When they
appeared in public together, as also in society at his own home, he
treated her with respect, often with attention. But he never again
spoke to her in private, nor did he ever again enter those apartments
which had once been the scene of so dreadful a tragedy.




                   THE ANCESTRESS; OR, FAMILY PRIDE.

            FROM THE SWEDISH OF THE LATE BARONESS KNORRING.


                                   I.

Adelgunda was one of the most beautiful creatures ever moulded by the
great Master's hand, and one on whom He might deign to look with the
same paternal complacency as Pygmalion looked on his Galathea.

Adelgunda was also as the apple of their eye to her father and mother;
but not the less did they bring her up with the utmost strictness and
severity, in the awful loftiness of their aristocratic principles,
which made no allowance for a single error, a single imperfection, a
single weakness even, among any who belonged to them. Everyone was to
be super-excellent, and supremely high-bred like their ancestors; for
their ancestors had only _virtues_, their failings being entombed with
their bodies. The slightest infringement of the stately decorum,
the formal propriety--and, to the honour of their ancestors we must
add--the rectitude, the loyal and chivalric conduct of these worthies,
called forth as unmerciful punishment as a heinous fault. And
Adelgunda, from her earliest infancy, learned to form grand ideas about
her noble, ancient, and opulent family; it was impressed on her mind
that she would be very degenerate indeed if she did not resemble all
those long departed, and now mouldering dames and damsels, whose
portraits hung in long rows in the great picture-gallery, as a large
old-fashioned apartment was called, which, in spite of accidental
fires, of repairs and renovations in the old baronial castle, had
preserved unaltered its antique appearance since the middle of the
sixteenth century.

In her infancy, Adelgunda had often been taken into this venerable
saloon, and, counting with her five small fingers, she could repeat the
names of all those haughty-looking, long-bearded cavaliers, equipped in
heavy armour, or these stiff, richly-dressed nobles, most of them
decorated with jewelled orders, or other tokens of a high worldly
position; and these grand-looking ladies, encased in whalebone and
stiff corsets, with towering powdered heads and magnificent jewellery,
evincing the wealth of the family. These ladies and gentlemen hung, as
has been said, in straight rows on each side of the long, narrow, dark,
oak-paneled hall; and they were all half-length portraits in oval or
almost square frames, the gilding of which had long since faded into a
sort of a brownish-yellow cinnamon tint. But at the end of the hall,
between two deep Gothic windows, with small old-fashioned panes of
glass, there hung alone in state the great _ancestress_, or founder of
the family--a tall, dark, stern-looking woman, whose countenance was
grave, austere, and almost menacing, though the features, when narrowly
examined, were regular and beautiful.

In contrast to the half-length portraits around, this picture was
almost colossal in size; and the noble lady it represented, who in
Roman Catholic times had ended her days as the Abbess of a convent,
stood there so stately and so stiff in the close black garb, with the
unbecoming white linen band across her forehead, and with one hand, in
which she held a crucifix, resting on a dark-looking stand, on which a
missal, a skull, and a rosary, lay near each other, the other hand hung
carelessly down by her side, and almost reached the lower portion of
the picture-frame, which seemed considerably darker and more time-worn
than all the rest. This picture was painted on thick wood, or on canvas
stretched on wood, it was not certain which, but everyone knew that it
was as heavy as lead--and so it proved to be.

The likeness of the patriarch of the family--of the father of the
race--painted to correspond in size and everything else to that of the
high-born lady above mentioned, had in former days hung also in this
saloon, but had been destroyed in a fire which had taken place between
the years 1740 and 1750, so that the stern imperious-looking dame now
occupied the place of honour alone.

Her parents had never omitted, when they accompanied Adelgunda into the
picture gallery, to take her up first to one, then to another of the
noble ladies whose lineaments adorned the walls, saying, 'How fortunate
for you if you could be as good as _this_ ancestress of yours was--as
clever as _that_ one--as beautiful as _she_ was--as dutiful and
affectionate as _yon_ lady!' Adelgunda would fix her eyes on each by
turns, and every time she looked at them her desire to resemble them
increased. But the great gloomy portrait of the tall dark lady always
awakened a thrill of terror in the little girl's mind. This was partly
owing to the tales with which the servants frightened her about this
harsh, awful-looking abbess, partly to her being obliged, whenever she
was naughty, to go into the sombre apartment where the picture was,
and, curtseying before it, to beg pardon of the stern, threatening
figure.

With her tearful looks fixed upon it, she had often fancied that the
eyes of the portrait moved; but it was a still greater trial to poor
Adelgunda, when she had been guilty of some great offence, to be
condemned, as a punishment, to stand for a quarter of an hour, or
half-an-hour, under the dreaded portrait with her back to it.

There was a tradition in the family that many, many years back, during
the lifetime of one of the more ancient lords of the castle, a little
girl, a member of the race, who was undergoing a similar punishment,
distinctly felt the terrible lady's hand, which hung unemployed by her
side, stretch over the picture-frame and seize roughly hold of her
hair. The recollection of that tradition was martyrdom to Adelgunda
when this most dreaded penance was inflicted on her; and on one
occasion, when her conscience was not of the clearest, and she had
cried herself almost into a fever from fright, she fancied that she
actually felt a grasp at her little golden tresses.

It is easy to imagine how anxious, in consequence of all this,
Adelgunda was to avoid committing any faults, and with what terror the
picture inspired her. And even in riper years, when she began to lay
aside her childish dress and childish ideas, and when reason told her
that a painted figure could have no more power or influence than any
other inanimate object, she still looked with a certain degree of awe
upon the portrait of her frowning ancestress, especially when her
conscience told her that she had been guilty of any slight
indiscretion; while, on the contrary, she felt some pleasure at gazing
on the other family pictures, which all seemed to smile upon her.

But years and time wore on, and the aristocratic bones of Adelgunda's
proud, high-born parents were laid in the dust to mingle with the
honoured remains of the old stock. She was then still in her minority,
and found a new home with a kind aunt, who had resided too short a time
under the same roof with the ancestral portraits, and in the place
which had been the cradle of their race, to have imbibed their
exaggerated family pride.

The estate, which was entailed, with everything belonging to it,
including the much-prized portrait, passed in trust, for future
generations, to Adelgunda's only brother, of whom we purposely have not
spoken, that we might not be obliged to give an account of all the
exaggerated ideas of the consequence of his family which his father and
mother had diligently and zealously laboured to imprint on the mind of
their son--the only male scion of that ancient house, which was now
threatened with speedy extinction--he who, after them, was alone to
represent the glory of their time-honoured ancestry. What precepts and
exhortations he, the only son and last hope, received under his
progenitor's portrait--what deference and devotion were inculcated to
the name of the haughty-looking abbess, whose severe virtue and pious
deeds were held to reflect honour on her descendants--what aristocratic
ideas and exclusive principles were there engrafted on his soul, we
will not stop to relate--they would be incomprehensible to many, and do
not require to be dwelt on in our short tale.

In the aunt's cheerful, hospitable, pleasant, light modern villa quite
another tone prevailed, and quite another mode of life from that within
the solid walls of the old baronial castle or under its gloomy roof. At
Adelgunda's age new impressions are soon received, new associations and
new ideas are welcomed with avidity, and seldom fail to influence the
mind. Adelgunda--truth obliges us to confess--soon forgot a very
stringent and important paragraph in the paternal and maternal
lectures--forgot the faithful portraits of the defunct females of her
noble house, and even the threatening glance--the dark eye that shone
from beneath the white linen fillet of the haughty abbess--forgot them
all amidst new-born and overflowing happiness in the arms of an adored
and adoring husband, a young naval officer, rich in all nature's
brightest gifts, and standing high in the opinion of the world, but on
whom the great ancestress would certainly never have permitted her hand
to be bestowed, had she known of the matter; for his patent of nobility
was not mouldy from age, was not even made out, and still worse, was
not likely ever to be drawn up, because he did not feel the slightest
wish ever to possess one.

Adelgunda, nevertheless, felt unspeakably happy, and her noble brother,
to whom the family mode of thinking had descended as an heirloom in
conjunction with the entailed property, winked at the plebeian
match--partly because he well knew that Adelgunda's very limited
portion would never tempt any among the needy and impoverished of his
own class to lay their hearts at her feet--partly because it was the
preservation of the family name and tree in his own person that lay
nearest to his heart, not the offshoots from the female line--and
partly that, though he was a proud man, and unflinching in his
aristocratical notions, he had a kind heart, was fondly attached to his
sister, rejoiced in her happiness, and was well aware how much superior
in character his estimable brother-in-law was to the generality of the
young men of the day.

But for himself, this brother and lord of the castle sought a spouse
who should entwine no vulgar burgher twig around the fair branches of
his genealogical tree, but one who counted as many generations as other
good qualities; for ancient lineage is not apt, like wealth, to corrupt
the heart, and Adelgunda's sister-in-law was truly an amiable lady.

Again the lordly halls of the ancient castle became the abode of
domestic happiness; and it was admitted that it could not be otherwise,
for not one alone, but many of the old servants who had passed into the
service of the heir of entail, and who were not notorious for their
superstition, had clearly and distinctly observed that the first time
the young countess entered the picture gallery, the majestic ancestress
had relaxed her stern lips almost into a smile of approbation, which
had never happened but once before--in the year 1664, on a similar
occasion; a remarkable event, which had been recorded by the chaplain
of the castle, with many subscribing witnesses, in a document which was
preserved like a holy relic amidst the family's most valued papers,
parchments, and deeds.

When the young count and countess were happily wedded, and comfortably
settled at the castle, which however, did not happen until about five
years after Adelgunda's marriage to her delightful naval hero, the
brother and sister felt a strong wish to meet once more under the
paternal roof. And Adelgunda's husband promised that on his return in
autumn from an expedition in which he was then engaged, he, his wife,
and their little son, a boy about four years of age, should without any
delay accept of the count's invitation, and make the visit so much
desired by all parties--even by the young countess, Adelgunda's
sister-in-law, who was by no means a stranger to her. They had been
friends in childhood, indeed were distantly related to each other; for
it so happens that almost all the families amongst the most ancient of
the Swedish nobility are connected by ties of consanguinity.

At length the long-looked-for day arrived, and Adelgunda beheld, with
tears of mingled joy and sorrow, the grey old towers of the castle
where she was born, and where she had spent her earliest years--those
years which, on comparing them with the subsequent epochs of our life,
we denominate the gayest and the happiest. Adelgunda and her husband,
who had had a long day's journey, arrived late in the evening at the
castle, and were shortly after conducted to their sleeping-rooms, a
suite of lofty arched apartments in one of the farthest towers, and in
the olden time the principal guest-chambers, but which did not bear the
best of reputations as regarded spectres, midnight noises, groans,
rattling of chains, and the like horrors. Adelgunda had all her life
entertained great respect for, but also no little fear of, these
apartments; and those feelings were probably heightened by an old
tradition which averred that some most extraordinary and mysterious
events had taken place in these chambers. Some pretended to know that
one of these apartments, which along with the picture-gallery had
remained most unchanged during the lapse of years, had served as the
bridal-chamber for the great ancestress of the family; at any rate,
there was something that savoured of awe and discomfort about them.

Never in her life had Adelgunda slept in any of these gloomy
apartments, and in former days nothing would have induced her to do so;
but now, with her brave, bold sailor by her side, she smiled at her old
childish fears,--at least when he laughed at her recital of them. She
would not, however, on any account, allow her little Victor to sleep in
the first antechamber with the trembling waiting-maid, but placed the
child's crib close to her own bed, and often during the long, dark, and
stormy autumnal night, when the wind shook the panes of glass, and
howled through the adjacent forest, and she was awakened by its
violence, she turned quickly, and with a beating heart, towards the
child, leaned over his little bed, and felt unhappy until she had
ascertained that her darling was sleeping soundly and peacefully.

'Well!' said her husband the next morning, when the sun was already
pretty high in the heavens, and cast his cheerful rays through the
narrow casements of these haunted chambers--'well, dearest Adelgunda,
have you heard or seen any spectre last night--been visited in any way
by a ghost?'

'No,' she replied laughingly, as the bright sunshine restored her
courage; there was but one spirit near me last night--one dear, good
spirit;' and she embraced her husband.

'And you, Annette?' cried the incredulous visitor to the poor
waiting-maid, 'I hope you have not been disturbed by the ghosts
either?'

But Annette, who was half-dead from fear, asserted that she had not
closed her eyes the whole night; that she had distinctly heard sighs
and groans, and heavy footsteps up and down the floor; and there had
been many other frightful things that she could not describe.

Now, in the cheering daylight, Adelgunda laughed heartily at these
_fancies_, as she called them; but the previous night she would not
have done so,--at least not with a heart so much at ease.

'I wonder what his uncle and aunt will say of my little Victor, now
that he is nicely dressed, and not so sleepy and cross as he was last
night, after that long fatiguing journey!' said Adelgunda to Annette,
with a mother's pride in her pretty boy, and while they were both
engaged in arranging his curly hair, and putting on his handsome new
green dress.

Adelgunda's husband had risen early and gone out to stroll round the
old castle, and the former young lady of the mansion, who had now
become a wife and mother, took up her little son in her arms to go down
to her sister-in-law, who had already sent to inquire how she had
slept, and to let her know that breakfast was ready.

Humming an air, Adelgunda proceeded with her light burden through the
dear old well-remembered passages where her very footsteps echoed,
until she came close to the door which opened into the picture-gallery;
she then stopped, seized suddenly with a strong impulse to enter it,
while a strange, sad foreboding of evil filled her heart. Influenced,
as it were, by an invincible power over which she had no control, she
laid her hand upon the lock, turned it, and stood, she scarcely knew
how, in presence of the mute family, who seemed gazing on her from both
sides. Adelgunda's heart beat quickly; recollections from her childhood
and her youthful days began to rush back on her. These aristocratic
feelings, which had so long slumbered, began to start up in her mind,
and she dared not look towards the terrible lady at the extreme end,
for fear of meeting her angry, implacable glance.

'That is a pretty lady! And there is another nice lady! What a grand
gentleman! and see, yonder is a fine gentleman, too!'

Such were little Victor's exclamations, as Adelgunda went slowly with
him past all these well-known portraits of uncles and aunts,
grandmothers, great-grandmothers, and other members of the family, all
long since asleep in their graves.

'But, oh, mother, look!' cried Victor, as he first caught sight of the
largest; 'see how horrible that one up yonder looks! See, mother, how
that tall woman there on the wall frowns down at us!' And Victor knit
his little brows, and drew in his small mouth, to make his face look
very terrible in return.

'Oh, do not speak so--do not speak so!' exclaimed his mother, trying
in vain to hush the child. 'On the contrary,' she added, in a
faltering voice, 'she is an excellent lady, and very kind to all good,
well-behaved children. We will go up yonder, and beg her pardon and her
blessing.'

'No, no!' screamed Victor, kicking his little legs with all his might;
'I won't have anything to do with her: she looks as cross as if she
would bite me.'

'Again his mother entreated Victor to be a reasonable, good boy, and by
that time they stood under the great lady's picture. A tremor crept
over Adelgunda as she encountered that austere, repulsive look, and
involuntarily she dropped her eyes beneath it. But reason soon
triumphed; she approached closer to the portrait, and said to her
little son, whom she still held in her arms, 'Now we shall say good
morning to that lady;' and she curtseyed herself, and bent with her
hand the obstinate little head; 'and we shall beg her to look kindly
and gently down upon us, for your dear, good papa's sake, and we will
kiss her hand.' And Adelgunda kissed the hand in the picture that was
hanging down; but when she attempted to raise the child's face up
towards the hand, the little fellow, in whose infantine breast was
aroused a portion of his father's bold spirit, and perhaps impetuous
temper, and who, though somewhat frightened, felt his courage rising,
and was, withal, extremely angry, struggled furiously, clenched his
little fist, and instead of kissing the great lady's drooping hand,
thumped it with all his might--and at that moment he was strong enough.


                                  II.

Adelgunda's brother and sister-in-law waited in vain for her appearance
at the breakfast-table. She came not! But at length the startling
intelligence was brought to them that a strange, frightful noise had
been heard in the picture-gallery. No one knew what was the cause of
it, for no one had dared to venture in to see what had happened, but
now every one rushed in. A cloud of dust, a heap of mortar and wood was
before them; and a sight so dreadful, so shocking, so appalling, met
their eyes, that every heart was like to break.

But only one heart _did_ break, for notwithstanding his strength of
mind--his unconquerable spirit--his undeniable fortitude, the bereaved
husband and father almost sank beneath the frightful calamity that had
suddenly deprived him of the wife he adored, and the child on whom all
his hopes were centred. Yet he was the first--the only one who had
sufficient energy, and presence of mind to drag the lifeless remains of
his wife and son from under the destroying weight of the heavy
portrait.

It was a frightful event, and made a great sensation. A rotten rope,
and the mouldering state of the wall which should have upheld the
enormously heavy wooden frame, had done all the evil.

The naval officer passed over distant seas to many a foreign land--the
world was all before him, but he never forgot what he had lost.

The picture of the awful ancestress met with little injury in its fall;
but several years elapsed before it was hung up again in its former
place. It was, however, at length restored to its old position, but
fastened with new rope, and everything necessary to make it more
secure. The dreadful occurrence was beginning to be forgotten, and the
brotherly affection which had somewhat cooled, seemed to have displayed
itself sufficiently in having banished the lofty dame for some years to
a lumber-room. She could not always be left there! So at length she
hung in her old place again, as stern, as frowning as formerly. And the
count, who had now become an old man, generally when he alluded to the
terrible event, reasonably ascribed it to natural causes. But, once
upon a time, when he observed his youngest daughter, a girl not much
more than sixteen years of age, casting _furtive_ and _rather friendly_
glances at a young man, the son of a country parson, who, on account of
his handsome person and pleasant manners, was often received at the
baronial castle,--when he saw this, by means of some sidelong looks
with the corner of his eye, which were not perceived by the young
couple, then he took his daughter by the hand, led her silently and
solemnly into the picture-gallery, walked with her up to the replaced
portrait of their great ancestress, and said with the gravity of an
anxious father, and the dignity of an aristocratic nobleman,--

'Beware, my daughter! Remember the fate of your aunt!'

These words were all he uttered.

                               *   *   *

'And this happened in the nineteenth century, and here in our
father-land? 'Such an inquiry will assuredly be made by one or other of
our readers. But we will not answer it ourselves; we shall only advise
the inquirer to address himself to the descendants of _one of the most
ancient families in Scania_, and ask _them_ whether it be true or not.




                       THE MAN FROM PARADISE.[10]

                             A Comic Tale.

              FROM THE DANISH OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.


   There was a widow, once upon a time--
   Yet stop--with _truth_ we must commence our rhyme--
   She _had_ been such, but now another spouse
   Had sought her love, and won the widow's vows.

   One evening she was quite alone at home
   (For the best husbands sometimes like to roam);
   She sat, her cheek reposing on her hand,
   The tea-things spread upon the table, and
   The kettle singing by, or on the fire--
   A sort of a monotonous steam lyre:
   Her thoughts from this low world of fogs had flown
   Up to the husband she first called her own;
   She could not _quite_ the dear, kind soul forget--
   And ah! the other one was absent yet.
   'But thou art happy now,' she cried--'in case
   In Abraham's bosom thou hast found a place:
   Thou pitiest us, in these rooms close and old,
   Where one so often gets a cough or cold.'

   Then into a brown study she did fall,
   When suddenly some sounds her thoughts recall;
   She hears a gentle knocking at the door;
   She starts--looks at the roof, then at the floor--
   Then peers into each corner, as she cries,
   'Well--who is there?' To be right brave she tries,
   But truth to tell, she almost shook with fear
   To see some ghost, or corpse-like form appear.
   Another knock--then in the doorway stood
   No spectre, but a youth of flesh and blood
   'Twas an apprentice who had run away
   From work, and chose from town to town to stray:
   The rogue lived by his wits as best he might,
   For nought he scrupled at--except to fight.

   The quondam widow very soon perceived
   The intruder was not what she had believed--
   That he was mortal, not a form of air.
   She questioned whence he came, and also where
   He might be bound. 'I'm on my way,' said he,
   'To Paris, madam, _viâ_ Germany.'
   With joyous heart she listened to his tale,
   And then she placed before him meat and ale,
   Kindly inviting him to eat and drink;
   While she exclaimed, 'How very strange to think
   That you to Paradise are journeying on!--
   Why, that's the land where my first husband's gone!
   Please give my love to him, our daughter's, too,
   And--_his successor's compliments_, will you?'

   Quickly the knave observed that the good dame
   In her geography was rather lame--
   That _Paradise_ with _Paris_ she confounded.
   And though one moment he looked up astounded,
   The next into her droll conceit he fell,
   Saying, 'Oh, yes! I know the good man well.'
   'What! have you really been already there?'
   She cried. 'Then say, how does the dear one fare?'
   'Ah! very badly. 'Tis a tale of woe!
   I was up there about a month ago.
   A sort of a dog's life the poor thing led,
   Early he had to rise--get late to bed;
   Worked hard, and scarce a stitch of clothing had.
   His shroud and grave-clothes from the first were bad;
   They very soon wore out, and now he goes
   Without a coat, and with bare legs and toes.'
   These words went like a dagger to her heart;
   She shuddered--groaned--then, with a sudden start,
   She rose, and soon an ample bundle made
   Of linen, coats, warm woollen socks; and said,
   Whilst with big tear-drops both her eyes looked dim.
   'This package, sir, I pray you take to him.
   Tell the poor fellow I shall send him more
   By the first opportunity--a store
   I'll surely send. Oh dear! oh dear! 'tis sad
   His fate in yonder place should be so bad!'

   The rogue had stuffed quite to his heart's content,
   So, taking up the bundle, off he went;
   But first he thanked her for the food, and vowed
   The clothes she sent should soon replace the shroud.
   Long, long she sits, her eyes still full of tears;
   The absent husband now at length appears
   ('Tis to the _second_ one that I allude--
   The _first_, as has been shown, was gone for good).

   'Well, I have curious tidings for your ear--
   A man from Paradise has just been here;
   He knew poor _Thi--is_ there.' (Such was the name
   Of him who was first husband to the dame.)
   And thereupon, with a most serious face,
   She told him all that had just taken place.
   The husband, when he heard her, smelled a rat,
   But only saying he would have a chat
   Himself with the great traveller, he sent
   For his best horse, and after him he went.

   'Twas a sweet night, the moon was shining clearly--
   Just such a night as poets love most dearly;
   The nightingales were pouring forth their notes,
   The owls were exercising, too, their throats;
   But, what was better still, he found the track
   The thief had ta'en, and hoped to bring him back.
   Thieves, by the way, like the moon's silver rays
   Far better than the sun's meridian blaze.
   And now, how fared it with the thief himself,
   Thus making off with his ill-gotten pelf?

   He spied a man, who like old Nick was riding,
   And felt that he was in for a good hiding;
   Therefore into a neighbouring ditch he flung
   The burden that across his back had slung,
   Then casting himself down upon a bank,
   Quite in a lounging attitude he sank,
   And gazing on the clear calm skies above,
   He sang some ditty about ladies' love.
   Up comes the rider at a rapid trot--
   The pace had made him and his steed both hot--
   And asked abruptly, reining in his grey,
   If he had seen a rascal pass that way,
   Who on his shoulders a large bundle bore--
   A horrid thief he was, the horseman swore.
   'Why, yes,' was the reply. 'I have just seen
   A fellow with long legs pass by--I ween
   It is the same you seek; for he looked round
   Soon as your horse's footfall on the ground
   Was heard--and then, as quickly as he could,
   He fled to hide himself in yonder wood.
   If you make haste, you there will catch him soon.'
   The horseman thanked him much and craved a boon--
   It was to hold his steed, while in pursuit
   He went himself into the wood on foot.
   'Twas granted, and the husband rushed among
   The bushes tall--while the thief laughing sprung
   Upon the horse; he took the bundle too,
   And fast away he rode, or rather flew.

   Angry, fatigued, and scratched till he was sore,
   The husband came, his bootless errand o'er.
   Fancy what was his grief, his rage, to find
   The horse he thought he left so safe behind,
   Gone too! he cried, 'Hey! hey!' its name he called,
   But all in vain he shouted and he bawled--
   The clever thief the faster rode away.
   There was no creature near on whom to lay
   The blame; so the poor foolish dupe abused
   The moon, for having thus her light misused.
   Home on his weary legs he had to trudge;
   His steed to the vile thief did he not grudge!

   'Well, did you find him?' asked his smiling wife.
   He answered, in a tone subdued, 'My life,
   I did. I found him, and--and--for _your_ sake,
   Our best, our swiftest horse I let him take,
   That he with greater speed might find his way.'
   The dame smiled on him, and in accents gay
   Exclaimed, 'O best of husbands! who could find
   Your equal--one so thoughtful, wise, and kind!'


                                 MORAL.

   The moral of this story shows,
   Though knaves on women oft impose,
   That men are sometimes quite as _green_,
   But hold their tongues themselves to screen.



                               FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: A Danish title, signifying councillor of justice.]

[Footnote 2: Danish mile, equal to about 4 3/4 English miles.]

[Footnote 3: Fourteen and a quarter English miles.]

[Footnote 4: 'To give a basket,' in Danish, signifies a refusal.]

[Footnote 5: A Danish title.]

[Footnote 6: 'Aprilsnarrene.' A Danish vaudeville.]

[Footnote 7: The ceremony of Confirmation is deemed of the highest
importance in Denmark, and is never neglected in any rank of life, from
the prince to the peasant.]

[Footnote 8: For these, and 'Octavianus,' see Ludwig Tieck's works.
They have been translated into Danish by Adam Oehlenschlæger.]

[Footnote 9: A town of Sicily, in the Val di Mazzara, on the site of
the ancient Agrigenum, the magnificent ruins of which are still to be
seen.]

[Footnote 10: Manden Fra Paradiis. En komisk Fortælling.]




                             END OF VOL. I.




        LONDON. PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET,
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