lie like small invisible seeds. From without fall upon them a sunbeam,
or the contact of an evil hand--they take their bent in their hidden
nook, to the right or to the left. Yes, there it is decided, and the
little grain of seed quivers, swells, springs up, and pours its juice
into your blood, and there you are, fairly launched. These are
thoughts fraught with anxiety; they do not haunt one when one is in a
state of mental slumber, but they are fermenting. Anne Lisbeth was
slumbering--hidden thoughts were fermenting. From Candlemas to
Candlemas the heart has much on its tablets--it has the year's
account. Much is forgotten--sins in word and deed against God, against
our neighbour, and against our own consciences. We reflect little upon
all this; neither did Anne Lisbeth. She had not broken the laws of her
country, she kept up good appearances, she did not run in debt, she
wronged no one; and so, well satisfied with herself, she walked on by
the seashore. What was that lying in her path? She stopped. What was
that washed up from the sea? A man's old hat lay there. It might have
fallen overboard. She approached closer to it, stood still, and looked
at it. Heavens! what was lying there? She was almost frightened; but
there was nothing to be frightened at; it was only a mass of seaweed
that lay twined over a large, oblong, flat rock, that was shaped
something like a human being--it was nothing but seaweed. Still she
felt frightened, and hastened on; and as she hurried on, many things
she had heard in her childhood recurred to her thoughts, especially
all the superstitious tales about "_the apparition of the beach_"--the
spectre of the unburied that lay washed up on the lonely, deserted
shore. The body thrown up from the deep, the dead body itself, she
thought nothing of; but its ghost followed the solitary wanderer,
attached itself closely to him or her, and demanded to be carried to
the churchyard, to receive Christian burial.
"Hold on--hold on!" it was wont to say; and, as Anne Lisbeth repeated
these words inwardly to herself, she suddenly remembered her strange
dream, in which the women had clung to her, shrieking, "Hold on--hold
on!" how the world had sunk; how her sleeves had given way, and she
had fallen from the grasp of her child, who wished, in the hour of
doom, to save her. Her child--her own flesh and blood--the little one
she had never loved, never spared a thought to--that child was now at
the bottom of the sea, and it might come like "the apparition of the
beach," and cry, "Hold on--hold on! Give me Christian burial!" And as
these thoughts crowded on her mind, terror gave wings to her feet, and
she hurried faster and faster on; but fear came like a cold, clammy
hand, and laid itself on her beating heart, so that she felt quite
faint; and as she glanced towards the sea, she saw it looked dark and
threatening; a thick mist arose, and soon spread around, lying heavily
over the very trees and bushes, which assumed strange appearances
through it.
She turned round to look for the moon, which was behind her: it was
like a pale disc, without any rays. Something seemed to hang heavily
about her limbs as she attempted to hurry on. She thought of the
apparition; and, turning again, she beheld the white moon as if close
to her, while the mist seemed to hang like a mantle over her
shoulders. "Hold on--hold on! Give me Christian burial!" she expected
every moment to hear; and she did hear a hollow, terrific sound, which
seemed to cry hoarsely, "Bury me--bury me!" Yes, it must be the
spectre of her child--her child who was lying at the bottom of the
sea, and who would not rest quietly until the corpse was carried to
the churchyard, and placed like a Christian in consecrated ground. She
would go there--she would dig his grave herself; and she went in the
direction in which the church lay, and as she proceeded she felt her
invisible burden become lighter--it left her; and again she returned
to the shore to reach her home as speedily as possible. But no sooner
did her foot tread the sands than the wild sound seemed to moan around
her, and it seemed ever to repeat, "Bury me--bury me!"
The fog was cold and damp; her hands and her face were cold and damp.
She shivered in her fright. Without, space seemed to close up around
her; within her there seemed to be endless room for thoughts that had
never before entered her mind.
During one spring night here in the north the beech groves can sprout,
and the next day's early sun can shine on them in all their fresh
young beauty. In one single second within us can the germ of sin bud
forth, swelling by degrees into thoughts, words, and deeds, though all
remorse for them lies dormant. _It_ is quickened and unfolds itself in
one single second, when conscience awakens; and our Lord awakens
_that_ when we least expect it. Then there is nothing to be excused;
deeds stand forth and bear witness, thoughts find words, and words
ring out over the world. We are shocked at what we have permitted to
dwell within us, and not stifled; shocked at what, in our
thoughtlessness or our presumption, we have scattered abroad. The
heart is the depository of all virtues, but also of all vices; and
these can thrive in the most barren ground.
Anne Lisbeth reviewed in thought what we have expressed in words. She
was overwhelmed with it all. She sank to the ground, and crawled a
little way over it. "Bury me--bury me!" she still seemed to hear. She
would rather have buried herself, if the grave could be an eternal
forgetfulness of everything. It was the awakening hour of serious
thought, of terrible thoughts, that made her shudder. Superstition
came, too, by turns heating and chilling her blood; and things she
would scarcely have ventured to mention rushed on her mind. Noiseless
as the clouds that crossed the sky in the clear moonlight floated past
her a vision she had heard of. Immediately before her sped four
foaming horses, flames flashing from their eyes and from their
distended nostrils; they drew a fiery chariot, in which sat the evil
lord of the manor, who, more than a hundred years before, had dwelt in
that neighbourhood. Every night, it is said, he drives to his former
home, and then instantly turns back again. He was not white, as the
dead are said to be: no, he was as black as a coal--a burnt-out coal.
He nodded to Anne Lisbeth, and beckoned to her: "Hold on--hold on! So
mayst thou again drive in a nobleman's carriage, and forget thine own
child!"
In still greater terror, and with still greater precipitation than
before, she fled in the direction of the church. She reached the
churchyard; but the dark crosses above the graves, and the dark
ravens, seemed to mingle together before her eyes. The ravens
screeched as they had screeched in the daytime; but she now understood
what they said, and each cried, "I am a raven-mother; I am a
raven-mother!" And Anne Lisbeth thought that they were taunting her.
She fancied that she might, perhaps, be changed into such a dark bird,
and might have to screech like them, if she could not get the grave
demanded of her dug.
And she threw herself down upon the ground, and she dug a grave with
her hands in the hard earth, so that blood sprang from her fingers.
"Bury me--bury me!" resounded still about her. She dreaded the crowing
of the cock, and the first red streak in the east, because, if they
came before her labours were ended, she would be lost. And the cock
crowed, and in the east it began to be light. The grave was but half
dug. An ice-cold hand glided over her head and her face, down to where
her heart was. "Only half a grave!" sighed a voice near her; and
something seemed to vanish away--vanish into the deep sea. It was "the
apparition of the beach." Anne Lisbeth sank, terror-stricken and
benumbed, on the ground. She had lost feeling and consciousness.
It was broad daylight when she came to herself. Two young men lifted
her up. She was lying, not in the churchyard, but down on the shore;
and she had dug there a deep hole in the sand, and cut her fingers
till they bled with a broken glass, the stem of which was stuck into a
piece of wood painted blue. Anne Lisbeth was ill. Conscience had
mingled in Superstition's game, and had imbued her with the idea that
she had only half a soul--that her child had taken the other half away
with him down to the bottom of the sea. Never could she ascend upwards
towards the mercy-seat, until she had again the half soul that was
imprisoned in the depths of the ocean. Anne Lisbeth was taken to her
home, but she never was the same as she had formerly been. Her
thoughts were disordered like tangled yarn; one thread alone was
straight--that was to let "the apparition of the beach" see that a
grave was dug for him in the churchyard, and thus to win back her
entire soul.
Many a night she was missed from her home, and she was always found on
the seashore, where she waited for the spectre of the dead. Thus
passed a whole year. Then she disappeared one night, and was not to be
found. The whole of the next day they searched for her in vain.
Towards the evening, when the bell-ringer entered the church to ring
the evening chimes, he saw Anne Lisbeth lying before the altar. She
had been there from a very early hour in the morning; her strength was
almost exhausted, but her eyes sparkled, her face glowed with a sort
of rosy tint. The departing rays of the sun shone in on her, and
streamed over the altar-piece, and on the silver clasps of the Bible,
that lay open at the words of the prophet Joel: "Rend your heart, and
not your garments, and turn unto the Lord your God." "It was a strange
occurrence," people said--as if everything were chance.
On Anne Lisbeth's countenance, when lighted up by the sun, were to be
read peace and comfort. "She felt so well," she said. "She had won
back her soul." During the night "the apparition of the beach"--her
own child--had been with her, and it had said,--
"Thou hast only dug half a grave for me; but now for a year and a day
thou hast entombed me in thy heart, and there a mother best inters her
child." And he had restored to her her lost half soul, and had led her
into the church.
"Now I am in God's house," said she, "and in it one is blessed."
When the sun had sunk entirely Anne Lisbeth's spirit had soared far
away up yonder, where there is no more fear when one's sins are
blotted out; and hers, it might be hoped, had been blotted out by the
Saviour of the world.
_Children's Prattle_.
At the merchant's house there was a large party of children--rich
people's children and great people's children. The merchant was a man
of good standing in society, and a learned man. He had taken, in his
youth, a college examination. He had been kept to his studies by his
worthy father, who had not gone very deep into learning himself, but
was honest and active. He had made money, and the merchant had
increased the fortune left to him. He had intellect, and heart too;
but less was said of these good qualities than of his money.
There visited at his house several distinguished persons, both people
of birth, as it is called, and people of talents, as it is
called--people who came under both of these heads, and people who came
under neither of these heads. The meeting now in question was a
children's party, where there was childish talk; and children
generally speak like parrots.
There was one little girl so excessively proud. She had been flattered
into her foolish pride by the servants, not by her parents--they were
too sensible to have done that. Her father was _Kammerjunker_[6] and
she thought this was monstrously grand.
[Footnote 6: A title at court.]
"I am a court child," she said.
She might as well have been a cellar child, as far as she was herself
concerned; and she informed the other children that she was "born"
(_well born_, she meant); that when people were not "born," they could
never be anybody; and that, however much they might read, however
clever and industrious they might be, if they were not "born" they
could never become great.
"And those whose names end in '_sen_,'" she continued, "are all low
people, and can never be of any consequence in the world. Ladies and
gentlemen would put their hands on their sides, and keep them at a
distance, these 'sen--sens!'" And she threw herself into the attitude
she had described, and stuck her pretty little arms akimbo, to show
how people of her grade would carry themselves in the presence of such
common creatures. She really looked very pretty.
But the merchant's little daughter became extremely angry. Her father
was called "Madsen," and that name, she knew, ended in "sen;" so she
said, as proudly as she could,--
"But my father can buy hundreds of rix dollars' worth of sugar-plums,
and think nothing of it. Can your father do that?"
"That's all very well," said the little daughter of a popular
journalist; "but my father can put both of your fathers and all
'fathers' into the newspaper. Every one is afraid of him, my mother
says; for it is my father who rules everything through the
newspaper." And the little girl tossed her head and strutted about as
if she thought herself a princess.
But on the outside of the half-open door stood a poor little boy
peeping in. It was, of course, out of the question that so poor a
child should enter the drawing-room; but he had been turning the spit
for the cook, and he had obtained permission to look in behind the
door at the splendidly dressed children who were amusing themselves,
and that was a treat to him.
He would have liked to have been one of them, he thought; but at that
moment he heard what had been said, and it was enough to make him very
sad. Not one shilling had his parents at home to spare. They were not
able to set up a newspaper, to say nothing of writing for one. And the
worse was yet to come; for his father's name, and of course also his
own name, certainly ended in "sen." He, therefore, could never become
anybody in this world. This was very disheartening. Though he felt
assured that he was _born_, it was impossible to think otherwise.
This was what passed that evening.
* * * * *
Several years had elapsed, and during their course the children had
grown up to be men and women.
There stood in the town a handsome house, which was filled with
magnificent objects of art. Every one went to see it. Even people who
lived at a distance came to town to see it. Which prodigy, among the
children we have spoken of, could call that edifice his or hers? It is
easy to tell that. No; it is not so easy, after all. That house
belonged to the poor little boy, who became somebody, although his
name _did_ end in "sen."--THORWALDSEN!
And the three other children--the children of high birth, money, and
literary arrogance? Well; there is nothing to be said about them. They
are all alike. They grew up to be all very respectable, comfortable,
and commonplace. They were well-meaning people. What they had formerly
said and thought was only--CHILDREN'S PRATTLE.
_A Row of Pearls._
I.
The railroad in Denmark extends no farther as yet than from Copenhagen
to Korsoer. It is a row of pearls. Europe has a wealth of these. Its
most costly pearls are named Paris, London, Vienna, Naples; though
many a one does not point out these great cities as his most beautiful
pearl, but, on the contrary, names some small, by no means remarkable
town, for it is _his_ home--the home where those he loves reside. Nay,
sometimes it is but a country-seat--a small cottage hidden among green
hedges--a mere spot that he hastens towards, while the railway train
rushes on.
How many pearls are there upon the line from Copenhagen to Korsoer? We
will say six. Most people must remark these. Old remembrances and
poetry itself bestow a radiance on these pearls, so that they shine in
on our thoughts.
Near the rising ground where the palace of Frederick VI. stands--the
home of Ochlenschlaeger's childhood--shines, under the lee of
Sondermarken's woody ground, one of these pearls. It is called the
"Cottage of Philemon and Baucis;" that is to say, the home of two
loving old people. Here dwelt Rahbek and his wife Camma; here, under
their hospitable roof, were collected from the busy Copenhagen all the
superior intellects of their day; here was the home of genius; and now
say not, "Ah, how changed!" No; it is still the spirits' home--a
hothouse for sickly plants. Buds that are not strong enough to expand
into flowers, preserve, though hidden, all the germs of a luxuriant
tree. Here the sun of mind shines in on a home of stagnant spirits,
reviving and cheering it. The world around beams through the eyes into
the soul's unfathomable depths. _The Idiot's Home_, surrounded by the
love and kindness of human beings, is a holy place--a hothouse for
those sickly plants that shall in future be transplanted to bloom in
the garden of paradise. The weakest in the world are now gathered
here, where once the greatest and the wisest met, exchanged thoughts,
and were lifted upwards. Their memories will ever be associated with
the "Cottage of Philemon and Baucis."
The burial-place of kings by Hroar's spring--the ancient
Roeskilde--lies before us. The cathedral's slender spires tower over
the low town, and are reflected on the surface of the fiord. One grave
alone shall we seek here; that shall not be the tomb of the mighty
Margrethe--the union queen. No; within the churchyard, near whose
white walls we have so closely flown, is the grave: a humble stone is
laid over it. Here reposes the great organist--the reviver of the old
Danish romances. With the melodies we can recall the words,--
"The clear waves rolled,"
and
"There dwelt a king in Leire."[7]
Roeskilde! thou burial-place of kings, in thy pearl we shall see the
lonely grave on whose stone is chiselled a lyre and the name--WEYSE.
[Footnote 7: Leire, the original residence of the Danish kings, said to
have been founded by Skiold, a son of Odin, was, during the heathen ages, a
place of note. It contained a large and celebrated temple for offerings, to
which people thronged every ninth year, at the period of the great Yule
feast, which was held annually in mid-winter, commencing on the 4th of
January. In Norway this ancient festival was held in honour of Thor; in
Denmark, in honour of Odin. Every ninth year the sacrifices were on a
larger scale than usual, consisting then of ninety-nine horses, dogs, and
cocks--human beings were also sometimes offered. When Christianity was
established in Denmark the seat of royalty was transferred to Roeskilde,
and Leire fell into total insignificance. It is now merely a village in
Zealand.--_Trans._]
Now come we to Sigersted, near Ringsted. The river is shallow--the
yellow corn waves where Hagbarth's boat was moored, not far from
Signe's maiden bower. Who does not know the tradition about
Hagbarth[8] and Signelil, and their passionate love--that Hagbarth was
hanged in the galley, while Signelil's tower stood in flames?
[Footnote 8: Hagbarth, a son of the Norwegian king, Amund, and his
three brothers, Hake, Helvin, and Hamund, scoured the seas with a
hundred ships, and fell in with the king of Zealand's three sons,
Sivald, Alf, and Alger. They attacked each other, and continued their
bloody strife until a late hour at night. Next day they all found
their ships so disabled that they could not renew the conflict.
Thereupon they made friends, and the Norwegian princes or pirates
accompanied the Zealanders to the court of their father, King Sigar.
Here Hagbarth won the heart of the king's daughter Signe, and they
became secretly engaged. Hildigeslev, a handsome German prince, was at
that time her suitor; but she refused him, and in revenge he sowed
discord between her lover and his brothers and her brothers. Alf and
Alger murdered Hagbarth's brothers, Helvin and Hamund, but were killed
in their turn by Hagbarth and Hake. After this deed Hagbarth dared not
remain at Sigar's court; but he longed so much to be with Signe, that
he dressed himself as a woman, and in this disguise he obtained
admission to the palace, and contrived to be named one of her
attendants. The damsels of her suite were much surprised at the
hardness of the new waiting-maid's hands, and at other unfeminine
peculiarities which they remarked; but Signe appointed him her
especial attendant, and thus partially removed him from their
troublesome curiosity. Fancying themselves safe, they relaxed their
precautions. Hagbarth was discovered, secured, and carried before the
_Thing_, or judicial assembly. Before he left her he received a
promise from Signe that she would not survive him. He was condemned to
death; to be hanged on board a galley, in view of Signe's dwelling. To
prove her love and faith, he entreated that his mantle might be hung
up first, in order, he said, that the sight of it might prepare him
for his own death. It was done; and when Signe saw it she fancied her
lover was dead, and instantly set fire to her abode. Hagbarth beheld
the flames; and no longer doubting the constancy of the princess, he
died rejoicing in following her to the other world.--_Trans._]
"Beautiful Soroe, encircled by woods!" thy tranquil, cloistered town
peeps forth from among thy moss-covered trees; the keen bright eyes of
youth gaze from the academy, over the lake, to the busy highway, where
the locomotive's dragon snorts, while it is flying through the wood.
Soroe, thou poet's pearl, that hast in thy custody the honoured dust of
Holberg! like a majestic white swan by the deep lake stands thy
far-famed seat of learning. We fix our eyes on it, and then they
wander in search of the simple star-flower in the wooded ground--a
small house. Pious hymns are chanted there, that echo over the length
and breadth of the land; words are uttered there to which the very
rustics listen, and hear of Denmark's bygone ages. As the greenwood
and the birds' songs belong to each other, so are associated the names
of Soroe and INGEMANN.
To Slagelse! What is the pearl that dazzles us here? The monastery of
Antoorskov has vanished, even the last solitary remaining wing, though
one old relic still exists--renovated and renovated again--a wooden
cross upon the heights above, where, in legendary lore, it is said
that HOLY ANDERS, the warrior priest, woke up, borne thither in one
night from Jerusalem!
Korsoer--there wert thou[9] born, who gave us
"Mirth with melancholy mingled,
In stories of 'Knud Sjaellandsfar.'"
[Footnote 9: Jeus Baggesen.--_Trans._]
Thou master of language and of wit! the old decaying ramparts of the
deserted fortification are now the last visible mementos of thy
childhood's home. When the sun is sinking, their shadows fall upon the
spot where stood the house in which thine eyes first opened on the
light. From these ramparts, looking towards Sprogoes hills, thou
sawest, when thou "wert little,"
"The moon behind the island sink;"
and sang it in undying verse, as afterwards thou didst sing the
mountains of Switzerland; thou, who didst wander through the vast
labyrinth of the world, and found that
"Nowhere do the roses seem so red--
Ah! nowhere else the thorn so small appears,
And nowhere makes the down so soft a bed,
As that where innocence reposed in bygone years!"
Capricious, charming warbler! We will weave a wreath of woodbine. We
will cast it into the waves, and they will bear it to Kielerfiord,
upon whose coast thine ashes repose. It will bring a greeting from a
younger race, a greeting from thy native town, Korsoer, where ends the
row of pearls.
II.
"It is, truly enough, a row of pearls from Copenhagen to Korsoer," said
my grandmother, who had heard read aloud what we have just been
reading. "It is a row of pearls for me, and it was that more than
forty years ago," she added. "We had no steam engines then. It took us
days to make a journey which you can make now in a few hours. For
instance, in 1815, I was then one-and-twenty years old. That is a
pleasant age. Even up in the thirties it is also a pleasant age. In my
young days it was much rarer than now to go to Copenhagen, the city of
all cities, as we thought it. After twenty years' absence from it, my
parents determined to visit it once more, and I was to accompany them.
The journey had been projected and talked of for years. At length it
was positively to be accomplished. I fancied that I was beginning
quite a new life, and certainly, in one way, a new life did begin for
me.
"After a great deal of packing and preparations we were ready to
start. Then what numbers of our neighbours came to bid us good-by! It
was a very long journey we had before us. Shortly before mid-day we
drove out of Odense in my father's Holstern wagon--a roomy carriage.
Our acquaintances bowed to us from the windows of almost every house
until we were outside of St. Joergen's Port. The weather was
delightful, the birds were singing, all was pleasure. We forgot that
it was a long way and a rough road to Nyborg. We reached that place
towards evening. The post did not arrive till midnight, and until it
came the packet could not sail. At length we went on board. Before us
lay the wide waters, as far as the eye could see, and it was a dead
calm. We lay down in our clothes and slept. When I awoke in the
morning, and went on deck, nothing could be seen on either side of us,
there was such a thick fog. I heard the cocks crowing, and I knew the
sun must have risen. Bells were ringing: where could they be? The mist
cleared away, and we found we were lying a little way from Nyborg. As
the day advanced we had a little wind: it stiffened, and we got on
faster. At last we were so fortunate, at a little after eleven o'clock
at night, as to reach Korsoer. We had taken twenty-two hours to go
sixteen miles.
"Glad we were to land; but it was extremely dark, and the lanterns
gave very little light. However, all was wonderful to me, who had
never been in any other town but Odense.
"'Here Baggesen was born,' said my father, 'and here Birckner lived.'
"It seemed to me that the old town, with its small houses, became at
once larger and more important. We were also rejoiced to have the firm
earth under us once more; but I could not sleep that night, I was so
excited thinking over all I had seen and encountered since I had left
home two days before.