LITMIR.BIZ

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his horse, and they would ride to Joppa: the holy Anders fell asleep; but when he awoke he lay here, and heard the bells ringing in Slagelse. Upon a foal, only one night old, he rode round the extensive city lands, whilst King Waldemar lay in his bath. He could hang his glove upon the beams of the sun. This hill, where he awoke, was called Rest-hill; and the cross, with the figure of the Redeemer erected upon it, which still stands here, reminds us of the legend of the holy Anders.”

      A little peasant girl at this moment mounted the hill, but paused when she perceived the strangers.

      “Don’t be afraid, my child!” said Wilhelm. “What hast thou there? a garland! shall it hang here upon the cross? Only come, we will help thee.”

      “It should hang over our Lord,” said the little one, holding, in an embarrassed manner, the garland of pretty blue cornflowers in her hand. Otto took the garland, and hung it up in place of the faded one.

      “That was our morning adventure!” said Wilhelm, and soon they were rolling in the deep sand toward Korsöer, toward the hill where the poet watched the sun and moon sink into the sea, and wished that he had wings that he might catch them.

      Melancholy and silent lies the town on the flat coast, the old castle turned into a farm-house—high grass grows upon the walls. In a storm, when the wind blows against the city, the surf beats against the outermost houses. High upon the church stands a telegraph; the black wooden plates resemble mourning-flags hung above the sinking town. Here is nothing for the stranger to see, nothing except a grave—that of the thinker Birckner. The friends drove to the public-house on the strand. No human being met them in the street except a boy, who rung a hand-bell.

      “That calls to church,” said Wilhelm. “Because there are no bells in the tower, they have here such a wandering bell-ringer as this. Holla! there lies the inn!”

      “Baron Wilhelm!” cried a strong voice, and a man in a green jacket with pockets in the breast, the mighty riding-boots splashed above the tops, and with whip in hand, approached them, pulled his horse-hair cap, and extended his hand to Wilhelm.

      “The Kammerjunker from Funen!” said Wilhelm; “my mother’s neighbor, one of the most industrious and rich noblemen in all Funen.”

      “You will come one of the first days to me!” said the Kammerjunker; “you shall try my Russian steam-bath: I have erected one upon my estate. All who visit me, ladies and gentlemen without any exception, must try it!”

      “And do the cherry-trees bear well this year?” asked Wilhelm.

      “No, no,” answered the Kammerjunker, “they are good for nothing; but the apples are good! All the old trees in the hill-garden stand in full splendor: I’ve brought them into condition! Two years ago there was not, on all the trees together, a bushel of fruit. But I had all the horses which had to be bled led under the trees, and had the warm blood sprinkled upon the roots; this happened several times, and it has been a real inoculation for life.”

      “The wind is certainly favorable,” said Otto, whom this conversation began to weary.

      “No, just the contrary!” said the Kammerjunker. “The vane upon the little house yonder lies; it points always to Nyborg, always shows a good wind for us when we want to leave. In Nyborg is also a vane, which stands even as firmly as this, and prates to the folk there of good wind. I regard both vanes as a kind of guide-post, which merely says, There goes the way! No, if we had had a wind I should have gone with the boat, and not with the little splashing thing, as the seamen call the steamboat. The carriage is doubtless awaiting the young gentleman in Nyborg?” pursued he. “I will join company with you—my brown horse waits for me at Schalburg. You should see him! He has sinews like steel springs, and legs like a dancing-master! He is my own brown.”

      “No one knows that we are coming,” answered Wilhelm. “We shall, therefore, take a carriage from Nyborg.”

      “We will join company,” said the Kammerjunker, “and then you will pay me a visit with the young gentleman. You shall sleep in the black chamber! Yes, you will give me the pleasure?” said he to Otto. “If you are a lover of the antique, my estate will afford you pleasure; you find there moats, towers, guard-rooms, ghosts, and hobgoblins, such as belong to an old estate. The black chamber! after all, it is not quite secure there; is it, Herr Baron?”

      “No, the deuce remain a night with you!” said Wilhelm; “one gets to bed late, and even then it is not permitted one to close one’s eyes. You, your sister, and the Mamsell,—yes, you are a pretty clover-leaf! Yes, Thostrup, you cannot believe what pranks are hatched upon the Kammerjunker’s estate! One must be prepared for it! It is said to be haunted, but if the dead will not take that trouble the living do. The Kammerjunker is in the plot with his women-folk. They sewed me lately live cockchafers into my pillow, and they crawled and scrambled about till I did not know what the deuce it could be! A live cock they had also placed under my bed, and just in the morning, when I would go to sleep, the creature began to crow!”

      “The women-folk had done that,” said the Kammerjunker. “Did they not the very same night fasten a door-bell to the head of my bed? I never thought of it; fat Laender slept in the same room, and had fastened along the wall a string to the bell. I awoke with the ringing. ‘What the devil is that bell?’ said I, and glanced about the room, for I could not conceive what it was. ‘Bell?’ asked Laender—‘there is no bell here!’ The ringing also ceased. I thought I must have dreamed, or that our merry evening must have left some buzzing in my ears. Again it began to ring. Laender looked so innocent all the time, I could not comprehend myself; I thought it must be my imagination. I became quite fainthearted, I denied my own hearing, and said, ‘No, I have only dreamed!’ and commenced reckoning and counting to employ my mind; but that did no good, and it nearly drove me mad! I sprang out of bed, and then I found out the trick: but how Laender grinned! he was swollen and red in the face with his mirth.”

      “Do you play such jokes on your estate?” inquired Otto, addressing himself to Wilhelm.

      “No, not such refined ones!” returned the Kammerjunker; “perhaps a piece of wood, or a silly mask, is laid in your bed. Miss Sophie gives us other clever things for amusement—tableaux and the magic-lantern. I was once of the party. Yes, what was it I represented? Ah, I played, Heaven help me! King Cyrus: had a paper crown on my head, and Miss Sophie’s cloak about me, the wrong side turned outward, for it is lined with sable. I looked like Satan!”

      The steamboat passengers were summoned on board, the company went down to the vessel, and soon it was cutting through the waves of the Belt.

      CHAPTER VIII

      “See now, Fünen signifieth fine,

      And much in that word lies;

      For Fünen is the garden fine,

      Where Denmark glads its eyes.”

      The nakedness which the last aspect of Zealand presents occasions one to be doubly struck by the affluent abundance and luxuriance with which Funen steps forth. Green woods, rich corn-fields, and, wherever the eye rests, noblemen’s seats and churches. Nyborg itself appears a lively capital in comparison with the still melancholy Korsöer. One now perceives people upon the great bridge of boats, on the ramparts, and in the broad streets with their high houses; one sees soldiers, hears music, and, what is especially animating upon a journey, one comes to an excellent inn. The drive out through the arched gateway is an astonishment; it is the same length and breadth as one of the gates of Copenhagen. Villages and peasants’ houses here assume a more well-to-do aspect than in Zealand, where one often on the way-side imagines one sees a manure-heap heaped upon four poles, which upon nearer examination one finds is the abode of a family. On the highroads in Funen one perceives only clean houses; the window-frames are painted; before the doors are little flower-gardens, and wherever flowers are grown, as Bulwer strikingly remarks, the peasant is in a higher state of civilization; he thinks of the beautiful. In the ditches along the highway one sees lilac with their white and lilac flowers. Nature herself has here adorned the country with a multitude of wild poppies, which for splendor of color might vie with the most admired and beautiful in a botanic garden. Especially in the neighborhood

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