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of the twelve apostles, larger than life, surrounding the walls; the exquisite kneeling angel supporting the font, represented by a shell, or concha, which she seems offering to Heaven, are certainly very beautiful; but altogether the aspect of this church gives one a rather too prominent idea that the Lutherans of Denmark are no iconoclasts.
The kneeling angel, as the support of the baptismal font, is inappropriately placed just in front of the altar, and the general impression of the building as un-churchlike, is considerably heightened by the effect of this. The most pleasing idea given to me by any of Thorwaldsen's works, is the well-known bas-relief called Childhood's Aid—a child going forth in its peaceful simplicity to the battle of life, with its guardian angel walking in its steps, extending his hand over its head. It is the embodiment of a poetic conception, and a divine, too much forgotten, verity.
Within this church I had formerly seen the remains of Thorwaldsen, of the man whose hand and genius gave life and expression to marble, laid beneath a black pall to moulder into dust. They were but waiting there until the Mausoleum in which he chose to be buried among the works of his own hand, should be ready. The Museum erected by the nation to be his monument is now completed. It is a noble edifice, with galleries built round a square, and appropriated to the occupation of the great sculptor's works, consisting of upwards of three hundred in number.
Leaving this fine Museum, erected by a nation to the memory of the son of a poor Icelandic carpenter—a son whom she proudly claims for her own, and impressed with an almost overpowering sense of what genius and industry, qualities so seldom united, can effect in the short time of a single life, we came out into the large quadrangle, round which the building stands, and one end of which is closed by the Hall of Christ, from which that magnificent statue seems looking out on the space beyond. In the midst of this space we came suddenly on a little flower-bed, very small and filled with some simple, common flowers. It seemed so out of place there, that little flower-bed! The humble flowers, God's own work, looked mean beside the mighty works of man. What could induce them to make a little flower-bed there, in the midst of Thorwaldsen's Museum, looked down upon by the wonders his hand had wrought? I looked up to my companion without speaking the question. He answered me by a smile, and pointed his finger downward. On the stone rim that enclosed the flower-bed I read three words that spoke to me enough — " Thorwaldsen.—Born—died." Born, died—all that a tomb need tell. Of the space that lay between, God has the record.
And so this flower-bed is the great sculptor's tomb; the frail, perishing flower springs over his dust, and the marble forms his hands produced are around him.
It was a strange, perhaps a proud thought to to be buried thus; there seems something heathenish about it,—although an archbishop consecrated the ground. To die in a theatre and be buried in a museum! Such is the close of a great man's history.
The exterior of this Museum is curiously decorated, from the designs of a native artist, in coloured stucco, much resembling old-fashioned distempered painting, with scenes in the life of Thorwaldsen, more especially representing his return to Denmark, and the erection of the Museum, some of which scenes are droll enough, while all have the merit of being quite national. The artist is said to have represented himself in all; and one lady, who, doubtless, was a conspicuous personage, is seen in the crimson red of Denmark, with a tremendous handkerchief held aloft, in the act of rushing into the sea,—it must be supposed in order to be the first to receive the glorious man.
One scene, however, in the triumphant return of Thorwaldsen, I looked for in vain among these delineations on the walls of the Museum. Could it be that the smart young captain who brought me also to the shores of Demark imposed on my credulity the story he related in English with so much humour.
He told me that he was one of those in the vessel that conducted the great sculptor to Copenhagen, where the half of Denmark, and the whole of its Court, were waiting to give him a triumphant reception. Artists, however, are usually most unartistic in dress and appearance; Thorwaldsen had not been occupied in the care of his costume; as he did not make his appearance, the young captain was sent to tell him that the sovereign, the princes and nobles of the land were waiting to welcome him. He found him, he said, sitting upon a sofa, wrapped in a blanket, and engaged in an effort to repair an essential, part of his daily dress, which had suffered dilapidation in the labours of his chisel.
I did not see this " scene in Thorwaldsen's return" represented on the walls of his museum; and, consequently, I have some doubts that the naughty young captain meant me to record the
tale as true, which I am careful not to do. * * * * *
Away now from "the city of palaces," as Copenhagen may well be called;—away from Denmark soon. I should like to tell a great deal more of this little land, to which I have always felt myself in some sort of manner related. All the families who came over with William the Conqueror to England must be descendants from the Northmen. But I must literally scamper over my ancestral land, at least as fast as a creeping railroad on the level, uninteresting way to Roeskilde, and a lumbering diligence from thence to Soro, will allow me to proceed, for I must get to Stockholm before the winter does.
Eoeskilde is not a very interesting place. I arrived there late on Saturday evening, and on Sunday morning I went to the Cathedral, which is the point of attraction it possesses.
In all Lutheran churches of the North, what