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 NorthBut 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 Sorö, will allow me to proceed, for I must get to Stockholm before the winter does.

men.

Roeskilde 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

most strikes the eye is the elaborate adornment of the altar, and the remarkable bareness and plainness of the rest of the building. In a very large one the contrast is still more remarkable, and the cold white-washed walls seem to speak of one age, and the altar of another.

A priest was officiating at the latter when I entered; the handsome carved altar-piece, the rich furniture, and his own gorgeous dress, as he stood facing it, with an immensely large gold cross on the back of the crimson velvet Cope he wore, would perhaps be deemed un-Protestant, by a part of England at least; but, with the exception of the pulpit, the rest of the church was as bare and cold, and plain-looking, as the most Protestant heart could desire. During this service at the altar, the people kept coming in, and taking seats near the pulpit, they shook hands with each other, talked and smiled, and were as pleasant as possible, until the priest changed his rich robes and came forth in a stiff black gown, with the old, wide-standing-out ruff worn by the Reformers of old. When he ascended the pulpit they became silent and attentive, and I-went away.

In a church where Christians bow the knee in prayer, I, too, can pray; I see and know that

prayer is being made; but in those where people sit on their seats alike in prayer and praise, I feel my devotion at a low ebb; and as I could not understand much of a very long sermon, I went to meditate one to myself among the Kings and Queens of Denmark, in the vaults beneath. And I saw the sword of the great and good King Christian IV. lying on his tomb; and I thought of the words of the "Prince of Peace," and felt that the soldier of Christ would only desire that the same sign which signed him in baptism should sign his tomb in death. What can the sword speak there, lying on the tomb of one who has gone where the wars and battles of this strange world look like the idle, but oft-times cruel, plays of thoughtless boys? Their valour, and greatness, and pomp, and glory-how are they accounted of by them, when once they have passed the grave and gate of death? Let then that, the glory of which alone is real, mark even the hero's tomb in death, and tell of the banner under which he fought in life. Could one of those heroes look back-and who can say he does not?—at the tomb his country erects over him, with Fame blowing her trumpet, or holding over him a laurel crown, or catching him in her arms as he falls wounded

to death on the field of blood-what would he think of it all?

At twelve o'clock at night I set off by a post diligence to Sorö. I had long had a fancy to go there, and why I know not; for, at the place I went to, I was told only one English lady had been seen before me.

We passed the old church of Ringsted Abbey by moonlight. Here, they say, rests the dust of Canute the Great-Canute, or, as it is written in the North, Knut, of famous memory. A more

uninteresting road, however, I have seldom travelled; straight as an arrow, and as level, neither turning nor hill to diversify it. In the late war a young Dane had to march over this ground with his regiment; it presented to him such a prospect of dreariness that an Englishman, who was then staying in Copenhagen, volunteered to accompany and cheer him en route. He did so, and actually accompanied the young Dane everywhere, and looked on at fights, and shared in marches throughout the war.

And at four o'clock in the morning, the guard came to the door of the diligence, and said we were at Soro; and I saw a great feudal-looking