No More Learning

Then the boy went quickly towards a lake that lay at the end of the
garden. Here the beetle was put into an old broken wooden shoe, in
which a little stick had been fastened upright for a mast, and to this
mast the beetle was bound with a piece of worsted. Now he was a
sailor, and had to sail away. The lake was not very large, but to
the beetle it seemed an ocean, and he was so astonished at its size
that he fell over on his back, and kicked out his legs. Then the
little ship sailed away; sometimes the current of the water seized it,
but whenever it went too far from the shore one of the boys turned
up his trousers, and went in after it, and brought it back to land.
But at last, just as it went merrily out again, the two boys were
called, and so angrily, that they hastened to obey, and ran away as
fast as they could from the pond, so that the little ship was left
to its fate. It was carried away farther and farther from the shore,
till it reached the open sea. This was a terrible prospect for the
beetle, for he could not escape in consequence of being bound to the
mast. Then a fly came and paid him a visit. "What beautiful
weather," said the fly; "I shall rest here and sun myself. You must
have a pleasant time of it. "

"You speak without knowing the facts," replied the beetle;
"don't you see that I am a prisoner? "

"Ah, but I'm not a prisoner," remarked the fly, and away he flew.

"Well, now I know the world," said the beetle to himself; "it's an
abominable world; I'm the only respectable person in it. First, they
refuse me my golden shoes; then I have to lie on damp linen, and to
stand in a draught; and to crown all, they fasten a wife upon me.
Then, when I have made a step forward in the world, and found out a
comfortable position, just as I could wish it to be, one of these
human boys comes and ties me up, and leaves me to the mercy of the
wild waves, while the emperor's favorite horse goes prancing about
proudly on his golden shoes. This vexes me more than anything. But
it is useless to look for sympathy in this world. My career has been
very interesting, but what's the use of that if nobody knows
anything about it? The world does not deserve to be made acquainted
with my adventures, for it ought to have given me golden shoes when
the emperor's horse was shod, and I stretched out my feet to be
shod, too. If I had received golden shoes I should have been an
ornament to the stable; now I am lost to the stable and to the
world. It is all over with me. "

But all was not yet over. A boat, in which were a few young girls,
came rowing up. "Look, yonder is an old wooden shoe sailing along,"
said one of the younger girls.

"And there's a poor little creature bound fast in it," said
another.

The boat now came close to our beetle's ship, and the young
girls fished it out of the water. One of them drew a small pair of
scissors from her pocket, and cut the worsted without hurting the
beetle, and when she stepped on shore she placed him on the grass.
"There," she said, "creep away, or fly, if thou canst. It is a
splendid thing to have thy liberty. " Away flew the beetle, straight
through the open window of a large building; there he sank down, tired
and exhausted, exactly on the mane of the emperor's favorite horse,
who was standing in his stable; and the beetle found himself at home
again. For some time he clung to the mane, that he might recover
himself. "Well," he said, "here I am, seated on the emperor's favorite
horse,--sitting upon him as if I were the emperor himself. But what
was it the farrier asked me? Ah, I remember now,--that's a good
thought,--he asked me why the golden shoes were given to the horse.
The answer is quite clear to me, now. They were given to the horse
on my account. " And this reflection put the beetle into a good temper.
The sun's rays also came streaming into the stable, and shone upon
him, and made the place lively and bright. "Travelling expands the
mind very much," said the beetle. "The world is not so bad after
all, if you know how to take things as they come. "




THE BELL

In the narrow streets of a large town people often heard in the
evening, when the sun was setting, and his last rays gave a golden
tint to the chimney-pots, a strange noise which resembled the sound of
a church bell; it only lasted an instant, for it was lost in the
continual roar of traffic and hum of voices which rose from the
town. "The evening bell is ringing," people used to say; "the sun is
setting! " Those who walked outside the town, where the houses were
less crowded and interspersed by gardens and little fields, saw the
evening sky much better, and heard the sound of the bell much more
clearly. It seemed as though the sound came from a church, deep in the
calm, fragrant wood, and thither people looked with devout feelings.

A considerable time elapsed: one said to the other, "I really
wonder if there is a church out in the wood. The bell has indeed a
strange sweet sound! Shall we go there and see what the cause of it
is? " The rich drove, the poor walked, but the way seemed to them
extraordinarily long, and when they arrived at a number of willow
trees on the border of the wood they sat down, looked up into the
great branches and thought they were now really in the wood. A
confectioner from the town also came out and put up a stall there;
then came another confectioner who hung a bell over his stall, which
was covered with pitch to protect it from the rain, but the clapper
was wanting.

When people came home they used to say that it had been very
romantic, and that really means something else than merely taking tea.
Three persons declared that they had gone as far as the end of the
wood; they had always heard the strange sound, but there it seemed
to them as if it came from the town. One of them wrote verses about
the bell, and said that it was like the voice of a mother speaking
to an intelligent and beloved child; no tune, he said, was sweeter
than the sound of the bell.

The emperor of the country heard of it, and declared that he who
would really find out where the sound came from should receive the
title of "Bellringer to the World," even if there was no bell at all.

Now many went out into the wood for the sake of this splendid
berth; but only one of them came back with some sort of explanation.
None of them had gone far enough, nor had he, and yet he said that the
sound of the bell came from a large owl in a hollow tree. It was a
wisdom owl, which continually knocked its head against the tree, but
he was unable to say with certainty whether its head or the hollow
trunk of the tree was the cause of the noise.

He was appointed "Bellringer to the World," and wrote every year a
short dissertation on the owl, but by this means people did not become
any wiser than they had been before.

It was just confirmation-day. The clergyman had delivered a
beautiful and touching sermon, the candidates were deeply moved by it;
it was indeed a very important day for them; they were all at once
transformed from mere children to grown-up people; the childish soul
was to fly over, as it were, into a more reasonable being.

The sun shone most brightly; and the sound of the great unknown
bell was heard more distinctly than ever. They had a mind to go
thither, all except three. One of them wished to go home and try on
her ball dress, for this very dress and the ball were the cause of her
being confirmed this time, otherwise she would not have been allowed
to go. The second, a poor boy, had borrowed a coat and a pair of boots
from the son of his landlord to be confirmed in, and he had to
return them at a certain time. The third said that he never went
into strange places if his parents were not with him; he had always
been a good child, and wished to remain so, even after being
confirmed, and they ought not to tease him for this; they, however,
did it all the same. These three, therefore did not go; the others
went on. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the
confirmed children sang too, holding each other by the hand, for
they had no position yet, and they were all equal in the eyes of
God. Two of the smallest soon became tired and returned to the town;
two little girls sat down and made garlands of flowers, they,
therefore, did not go on. When the others arrived at the willow trees,
where the confectioner had put up his stall, they said: "Now we are
out here; the bell does not in reality exist--it is only something
that people imagine! "

Then suddenly the sound of the bell was heard so beautifully and
solemnly from the wood that four or five made up their minds to go
still further on. The wood was very thickly grown. It was difficult to
advance: wood lilies and anemones grew almost too high; flowering
convolvuli and brambles were hanging like garlands from tree to
tree; while the nightingales were singing and the sunbeams played.
That was very beautiful! But the way was unfit for the girls; they
would have torn their dresses. Large rocks, covered with moss of
various hues, were lying about; the fresh spring water rippled forth
with a peculiar sound. "I don't think that can be the bell," said
one of the confirmed children, and then he lay down and listened.
"We must try to find out if it is! " And there he remained, and let the
others walk on.

They came to a hut built of the bark of trees and branches; a
large crab-apple tree spread its branches over it, as if it intended
to pour all its fruit on the roof, upon which roses were blooming; the
long boughs covered the gable, where a little bell was hanging. Was
this the one they had heard? All agreed that it must be so, except one
who said that the bell was too small and too thin to be heard at
such a distance, and that it had quite a different sound to that which
had so touched men's hearts.

He who spoke was a king's son, and therefore the others said
that such a one always wishes to be cleverer than other people.

Therefore they let him go alone; and as he walked on, the solitude
of the wood produced a feeling of reverence in his breast; but still
he heard the little bell about which the others rejoiced, and
sometimes, when the wind blew in that direction, he could hear the
sounds from the confectioner's stall, where the others were singing at
tea. But the deep sounds of the bell were much stronger; soon it
seemed to him as if an organ played an accompaniment--the sound came
from the left, from the side where the heart is. Now something rustled
among the bushes, and a little boy stood before the king's son, in
wooden shoes and such a short jacket that the sleeves did not reach to
his wrists. They knew each other: the boy was the one who had not been
able to go with them because he had to take the coat and boots back to
his landlord's son. That he had done, and had started again in his
wooden shoes and old clothes, for the sound of the bell was too
enticing--he felt he must go on.

"We might go together," said the king's son. But the poor boy with
the wooden shoes was quite ashamed; he pulled at the short sleeves
of his jacket, and said that he was afraid he could not walk so
fast; besides, he was of opinion that the bell ought to be sought at
the right, for there was all that was grand and magnificent.

"Then we shall not meet," said the king's son, nodding to the poor
boy, who went into the deepest part of the wood, where the thorns tore
his shabby clothes and scratched his hands, face, and feet until
they bled. The king's son also received several good scratches, but
the sun was shining on his way, and it is he whom we will now
follow, for he was a quick fellow. "I will and must find the bell," he
said, "if I have to go to the end of the world. "

Ugly monkeys sat high in the branches and clenched their teeth.
"Shall we beat him? " they said. "Shall we thrash him? He is a king's
son! "

But he walked on undaunted, deeper and deeper into the wood, where
the most wonderful flowers were growing; there were standing white
star lilies with blood-red stamens, sky-blue tulips shining when the
wind moved them; apple-trees covered with apples like large glittering
soap bubbles: only think how resplendent these trees were in the
sunshine! All around were beautiful green meadows, where hart and hind
played in the grass. There grew magnificent oaks and beech-trees;
and if the bark was split of any of them, long blades of grass grew
out of the clefts; there were also large smooth lakes in the wood,
on which the swans were swimming about and flapping their wings. The
king's son often stood still and listened; sometimes he thought that
the sound of the bell rose up to him out of one of these deep lakes,
but soon he found that this was a mistake, and that the bell was
ringing still farther in the wood. Then the sun set, the clouds were
as red as fire; it became quiet in the wood; he sank down on his
knees, sang an evening hymn and said: "I shall never find what I am
looking for! Now the sun is setting, and the night, the dark night, is
approaching. Yet I may perhaps see the round sun once more before he
disappears beneath the horizon. I will climb up these rocks, they
are as high as the highest trees! " And then, taking hold of the
creepers and roots, he climbed up on the wet stones, where
water-snakes were wriggling and the toads, as it were, barked at
him: he reached the top before the sun, seen from such a height, had
quite set. "Oh, what a splendour! " The sea, the great majestic sea,
which was rolling its long waves against the shore, stretched out
before him, and the sun was standing like a large bright altar and
there where sea and heaven met--all melted together in the most
glowing colours; the wood was singing, and his heart too. The whole of
nature was one large holy church, in which the trees and hovering
clouds formed the pillars, the flowers and grass the woven velvet
carpet, and heaven itself was the great cupola; up there the flame
colour vanished as soon as the sun disappeared, but millions of
stars were lighted; diamond lamps were shining, and the king's son
stretched his arms out towards heaven, towards the sea, and towards
the wood. Then suddenly the poor boy with the short-sleeved jacket and
the wooden shoes appeared; he had arrived just as quickly on the
road he had chosen. And they ran towards each other and took one
another's hand, in the great cathedral of nature and poesy, and
above them sounded the invisible holy bell; happy spirits surrounded
them, singing hallelujahs and rejoicing.




THE BELL-DEEP

"Ding-dong! ding-dong! " It sounds up from the "bell-deep" in the
Odense-Au. Every child in the old town of Odense, on the island of
Funen, knows the Au, which washes the gardens round about the town,
and flows on under the wooden bridges from the dam to the
water-mill. In the Au grow the yellow water-lilies and brown
feathery reeds; the dark velvety flag grows there, high and thick; old
and decayed willows, slanting and tottering, hang far out over the
stream beside the monk's meadow and by the bleaching ground; but
opposite there are gardens upon gardens, each different from the rest,
some with pretty flowers and bowers like little dolls' pleasure
grounds, often displaying cabbage and other kitchen plants; and here
and there the gardens cannot be seen at all, for the great elder trees
that spread themselves out by the bank, and hang far out over the
streaming waters, which are deeper here and there than an oar can
fathom. Opposite the old nunnery is the deepest place, which is called
the "bell-deep," and there dwells the old water spirit, the "Au-mann. "
This spirit sleeps through the day while the sun shines down upon
the water; but in starry and moonlit nights he shows himself. He is
very old. Grandmother says that she has heard her own grandmother tell
of him; he is said to lead a solitary life, and to have nobody with
whom he can converse save the great old church Bell. Once the Bell
hung in the church tower; but now there is no trace left of the
tower or of the church, which was called St. Alban's.

"Ding-dong! ding-dong! " sounded the Bell, when the tower still
stood there; and one evening, while the sun was setting, and the
Bell was swinging away bravely, it broke loose and came flying down
through the air, the brilliant metal shining in the ruddy beam.

"Ding-dong! ding-dong! Now I'll retire to rest! " sang the Bell,
and flew down into the Odense-Au, where it is deepest; and that is why
the place is called the "bell-deep. "

But the Bell got neither rest nor sleep. Down in the Au-mann's
haunt it sounds and rings, so that the tones sometimes pierce upward
through the waters; and many people maintain that its strains forebode
the death of some one; but that is not true, for the Bell is only
talking with the Au-mann, who is now no longer alone.

And what is the Bell telling? It is old, very old, as we have
already observed; it was there long before grandmother's grandmother
was born; and yet it is but a child in comparison with the Au-mann,
who is quite an old quiet personage, an oddity, with his hose of
eel-skin, and his scaly Jacket with the yellow lilies for buttons, and
a wreath of reed in his hair and seaweed in his beard; but he looks
very pretty for all that.

What the Bell tells? To repeat it all would require years and
days; for year by year it is telling the old stories, sometimes
short ones, sometimes long ones, according to its whim; it tells of
old times, of the dark hard times, thus:

"In the church of St. Alban, the monk had mounted up into the
tower. He was young and handsome, but thoughtful exceedingly. He
looked through the loophole out upon the Odense-Au, when the bed of
the water was yet broad, and the monks' meadow was still a lake. He
looked out over it, and over the rampart, and over the nuns' hill
opposite, where the convent lay, and the light gleamed forth from
the nun's cell. He had known the nun right well, and he thought of
her, and his heart beat quicker as he thought. Ding-dong! ding-dong! "

Yes, this was the story the Bell told.

"Into the tower came also the dapper man-servant of the bishop;
and when I, the Bell, who am made of metal, rang hard and loud, and
swung to and fro, I might have beaten out his brains. He sat down
close under me, and played with two little sticks as if they had
been a stringed instrument; and he sang to it. 'Now I may sing it
out aloud, though at other times I may not whisper it. I may sing of
everything that is kept concealed behind lock and bars. Yonder it is
cold and wet. The rats are eating her up alive! Nobody knows of it!
Nobody hears of it! Not even now, for the bell is ringing and
singing its loud Ding-dong, ding-dong! '

"There was a King in those days. They called him Canute. He
bowed himself before bishop and monk; but when he offended the free
peasants with heavy taxes and hard words, they seized their weapons
and put him to flight like a wild beast. He sought shelter in the
church, and shut gate and door behind him. The violent band surrounded
the church; I heard tell of it. The crows, ravens and magpies
started up in terror at the yelling and shouting that sounded
around. They flew into the tower and out again, they looked down
upon the throng below, and they also looked into the windows of the
church, and screamed out aloud what they saw there. King Canute
knelt before the altar in prayer; his brothers Eric and Benedict stood
by him as a guard with drawn swords; but the King's servant, the
treacherous Blake, betrayed his master. The throng in front of the
church knew where they could hit the King, and one of them flung a
stone through a pane of glass, and the King lay there dead! The
cries and screams of the savage horde and of the birds sounded through
the air, and I joined in it also; for I sang 'Ding-dong! ding-dong! '

"The church bell hangs high, and looks far around, and sees the
birds around it, and understands their language. The wind roars in
upon it through windows and loopholes; and the wind knows
everything, for he gets it from the air, which encircles all things,
and the church bell understands his tongue, and rings it out into
the world, 'Ding-dong! ding-dong! '

"But it was too much for me to hear and to know; I was not able
any longer to ring it out. I became so tired, so heavy, that the
beam broke, and I flew out into the gleaming Au, where the water is
deepest, and where the Au-mann lives, solitary and alone; and year
by year I tell him what I have heard and what I know. Ding-dong!
ding-dong! "

Thus it sounds complainingly out of the bell-deep in the
Odense-Au. That is what grandmother told us.

But the schoolmaster says that there was not any bell that rung
down there, for that it could not do so; and that no Au-mann dwelt
yonder, for there was no Au-mann at all! And when all the other church
bells are sounding sweetly, he says that it is not really the bells
that are sounding, but that it is the air itself which sends forth the
notes; and grandmother said to us that the Bell itself said it was the
air who told it to him, consequently they are agreed on that point,
and this much is sure.

"Be cautious, cautious, and take good heed to thyself," they
both say.

The air knows everything. It is around us, it is in us, it talks
of our thoughts and of our deeds, and it speaks longer of them than
does the Bell down in the depths of the Odense-Au where the Au-mann
dwells. It rings it out in the vault of heaven, far, far out,
forever and ever, till the heaven bells sound "Ding-dong! ding-dong! "




THE BIRD OF POPULAR SONG

In is winter-time. The earth wears a snowy garment, and looks like
marble hewn out of the rock; the air is bright and clear; the wind
is sharp as a well-tempered sword, and the trees stand like branches
of white coral or blooming almond twigs, and here it is keen as on the
lofty Alps.

The night is splendid in the gleam of the Northern Lights, and
in the glitter of innumerable twinkling stars.

But we sit in the warm room, by the hot stove, and talk about
the old times. And we listen to this story:

By the open sea was a giant's grave; and on the grave-mound sat at
midnight the spirit of the buried hero, who had been a king. The
golden circlet gleamed on his brow, his hair fluttered in the wind,
and he was clad in steel and iron. He bent his head mournfully, and
sighed in deep sorrow, as an unquiet spirit might sigh.

And a ship came sailing by. Presently the sailors lowered the
anchor and landed. Among them was a singer, and he approached the
royal spirit, and said,

"Why mournest thou, and wherefore dost thou suffer thus? "

And the dead man answered,

"No one has sung the deeds of my life; they are dead and
forgotten. Song doth not carry them forth over the lands, nor into the
hearts of men; therefore I have no rest and no peace. "

And he spoke of his works, and of his warlike deeds, which his
contemporaries had known, but which had not been sung, because there
was no singer among his companions.

Then the old bard struck the strings of his harp, and sang of
the youthful courage of the hero, of the strength of the man, and of
the greatness of his good deeds. Then the face of the dead one gleamed
like the margin of the cloud in the moonlight. Gladly and of good
courage, the form arose in splendor and in majesty, and vanished
like the glancing of the northern light. Nought was to be seen but the
green turfy mound, with the stones on which no Runic record has been
graven; but at the last sound of the harp there soared over the
hill, as though he had fluttered from the harp, a little bird, a
charming singing-bird, with ringing voice of the thrush, with the
moving voice pathos of the human heart, with a voice that told of
home, like the voice that is heard by the bird of passage. The
singing-bird soared away, over mountain and valley, over field and
wood--he was the Bird of Popular Song, who never dies.

We hear his song--we hear it now in the room while the white
bees are swarming without, and the storm clutches the windows. The
bird sings not alone the requiem of heroes; he sings also sweet gentle
songs of love, so many and so warm, of Northern fidelity and truth. He
has stories in words and in tones; he has proverbs and snatches of
proverbs; songs which, like Runes laid under a dead man's tongue,
force him to speak; and thus Popular Song tells of the land of his
birth.
In the old heathen days, in the times of the Vikings, the
popular speech was enshrined in the harp of the bard.

In the days of knightly castles, when the strongest fist held
the scales of justice, when only might was right, and a peasant and
a dog were of equal importance, where did the Bird of Song find
shelter and protection? Neither violence nor stupidity gave him a
thought.

But in the gabled window of the knightly castle, the lady of the
castle sat with the parchment roll before her, and wrote down the
old recollections in song and legend, while near her stood the old
woman from the wood, and the travelling peddler who went wandering
through the country. As these told their tales, there fluttered around
them, with twittering and song, the Bird of Popular Song, who never
dies so long as the earth has a hill upon which his foot may rest.

And now he looks in upon us and sings. Without are the night and
the snow-storm. He lays the Runes beneath our tongues, and we know the
land of our home. Heaven speaks to us in our native tongue, in the
voice of the Bird of Popular Song. The old remembrances awake, the
faded colors glow with a fresh lustre, and story and song pour us a
blessed draught which lifts up our minds and our thoughts, so that the
evening becomes as a Christmas festival.

The snow-flakes chase each other, the ice cracks, the storm
rules without, for he has the might, he is lord--but not the LORD OF
ALL.

It is winter time. The wind is sharp as a two-edged sword, the
snow-flakes chase each other; it seems as though it had been snowing
for days and weeks, and the snow lies like a great mountain over the
whole town, like a heavy dream of the winter night. Everything on
the earth is hidden away, only the golden cross of the church, the
symbol of faith, arises over the snow grave, and gleams in the blue
air and in the bright sunshine.

And over the buried town fly the birds of heaven, the small and
the great; they twitter and they sing as best they may, each bird with
his beak.

First comes the band of sparrows: they pipe at every trifle in the
streets and lanes, in the nests and the houses; they have stories to
tell about the front buildings and the back buildings.

"We know the buried town," they say; "everything living in it is
piep! piep! piep! "

The black ravens and crows flew on over the white snow.

"Grub, grub! " they cried. "There's something to be got down there;
something to swallow, and that's most important. That's the opinion of
most of them down there, and the opinion is goo-goo-good! "

The wild swans come flying on whirring pinions, and sing of the
noble and the great, that will still sprout in the hearts of men, down
in the town which is resting beneath its snowy veil.

No death is there--life reigns yonder; we hear it on the notes
that swell onward like the tones of the church organ, which seize us
like sounds from the elf-hill, like the songs of Ossian, like the
rushing swoop of the wandering spirits' wings. What harmony! That
harmony speaks to our hearts, and lifts up our souls! It is the Bird
of Popular Song whom we hear.

And at this moment the warm breath of heaven blows down from the
sky. There are gaps in the snowy mountains, the sun shines into the
clefts; spring is coming, the birds are returning, and new races are
coming with the same home sounds in their hearts.

Hear the story of the year: "The night of the snow-storm, the
heavy dream of the winter night, all shall be dissolved, all shall
rise again in the beauteous notes of the Bird of Popular Song, who
never dies! "




THE BISHOP OF BORGLUM AND HIS WARRIORS

Our scene is laid in Northern Jutland, in the so-called "wild
moor. " We hear what is called the "Wester-wow-wow"--the peculiar
roar of the North Sea as it breaks against the western coast of
Jutland. It rolls and thunders with a sound that penetrates for
miles into the land; and we are quite near the roaring. Before us
rises a great mound of sand--a mountain we have long seen, and towards
which we are wending our way, driving slowly along through the deep
sand. On this mountain of sand is a lofty old building--the convent of
Borglum. In one of its wings (the larger one) there is still a church.
And at this convent we now arrive in the late evening hour; but the
weather is clear in the bright June night around us, and the eye can
range far, far over field and moor to the Bay of Aalborg, over heath
and meadow, and far across the deep blue sea.

Now we are there, and roll past between barns and other farm
buildings; and at the left of the gate we turn aside to the Old Castle
Farm, where the lime trees stand in lines along the walls, and,
sheltered from the wind and weather, grow so luxuriantly that their
twigs and leaves almost conceal the windows.

We mount the winding staircase of stone, and march through the
long passages under the heavy roof-beams. The wind moans very
strangely here, both within and without. It is hardly known how, but
the people say--yes, people say a great many things when they are
frightened or want to frighten others--they say that the old dead
choir-men glide silently past us into the church, where mass is
sung. They can be heard in the rushing of the storm, and their singing
brings up strange thoughts in the hearers--thoughts of the old times
into which we are carried back.

On the coast a ship is stranded; and the bishop's warriors are
there, and spare not those whom the sea has spared. The sea washes
away the blood that has flowed from the cloven skulls. The stranded
goods belong to the bishop, and there is a store of goods here. The
sea casts up tubs and barrels filled with costly wine for the
convent cellar, and in the convent is already good store of beer and
mead. There is plenty in the kitchen--dead game and poultry, hams
and sausages; and fat fish swim in the ponds without.

The Bishop of Borglum is a mighty lord. He has great
possessions, but still he longs for more--everything must bow before
the mighty Olaf Glob. His rich cousin at Thyland is dead, and his
widow is to have the rich inheritance. But how comes it that one
relation is always harder towards another than even strangers would
be? The widow's husband had possessed all Thyland, with the
exception of the church property. Her son was not at home. In his
boyhood he had already started on a journey, for his desire was to see
foreign lands and strange people. For years there had been no news
of him. Perhaps he had been long laid in the grave, and would never
come back to his home, to rule where his mother then ruled.

"What has a woman to do with rule? " said the bishop.

He summoned the widow before a law court; but what did he gain
thereby? The widow had never been disobedient to the law, and was
strong in her just rights.

Bishop Olaf of Borglum, what dost thou purpose? What writest
thou on yonder smooth parchment, sealing it with thy seal, and
intrusting it to the horsemen and servants, who ride away, far away,
to the city of the Pope?

It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships, and soon
icy winter will come.

Twice had icy winter returned before the bishop welcomed the
horsemen and servants back to their home. They came from Rome with a
papal decree--a ban, or bull, against the widow who had dared to
offend the pious bishop. "Cursed be she and all that belongs to her.
Let her be expelled from the congregation and the Church. Let no man
stretch forth a helping hand to her, and let friends and relations
avoid her as a plague and a pestilence! "

"What will not bend must break," said the Bishop of Borglum

And all forsake the widow; but she holds fast to her God. He is
her helper and defender.

One servant only--an old maid--remained faithful to her; and
with the old servant, the widow herself followed the plough; and the
crop grew, although the land had been cursed by the Pope and by the
bishop.

"Thou child of perdition, I will yet carry out my purpose! "
cried the Bishop of Borglum. "Now will I lay the hand of the Pope upon
thee, to summon thee before the tribunal that shall condemn thee! "

Then did the widow yoke the last two oxen that remained to her
to a wagon, and mounted up on the wagon, with her old servant, and
travelled away across the heath out of the Danish land. As a
stranger she came into a foreign country, where a strange tongue was
spoken and where new customs prevailed. Farther and farther she
journeyed, to where green hills rise into mountains, and the vine
clothes their sides. Strange merchants drive by her, and they look
anxiously after their wagons laden with merchandise. They fear an
attack from the armed followers of the robber-knights. The two poor
women, in their humble vehicle drawn by two black oxen, travel
fearlessly through the dangerous sunken road and through the
darksome forest. And now they were in Franconia. And there met them
a stalwart knight, with a train of twelve armed followers. He
paused, gazed at the strange vehicle, and questioned the women as to
the goal of their journey and the place whence they came. Then one
of them mentioned Thyland in Denmark, and spoke of her sorrows, of her
woes, which were soon to cease, for so Divine Providence had willed
it. For the stranger knight is the widow's son! He seized her hand, he
embraced her, and the mother wept. For years she had not been able
to weep, but had only bitten her lips till the blood started.


It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships, and soon
will icy winter come.

The sea rolled wine-tubs to the shore for the bishop's cellar.
In the kitchen the deer roasted on the spit before the fire. At
Borglum it was warm and cheerful in the heated rooms, while cold
winter raged without, when a piece of news was brought to the
bishop. "Jens Glob, of Thyland, has come back, and his mother with
him. " Jens Glob laid a complaint against the bishop, and summoned
him before the temporal and the spiritual court.

"That will avail him little," said the bishop. "Best leave off thy
efforts, knight Jens. "


Again it is the time of falling leaves and stranded ships. Icy
winter comes again, and the "white bees" are swarming, and sting the
traveller's face till they melt.

"Keen weather to-day! " say the people, as they step in.

Jens Glob stands so deeply wrapped in thought, that he singes
the skirt of his wide garment.

"Thou Borglum bishop," he exclaims, "I shall subdue thee after
all! Under the shield of the Pope, the law cannot reach thee; but Jens
Glob shall reach thee! "

Then he writes a letter to his brother-in-law, Olaf Hase, in
Sallingland, and prays that knight to meet him on Christmas eve, at
mass, in the church at Widberg. The bishop himself is to read the
mass, and consequently will journey from Borglum to Thyland; and
this is known to Jens Glob.

Moorland and meadow are covered with ice and snow. The marsh
will bear horse and rider, the bishop with his priests and armed
men. They ride the shortest way, through the waving reeds, where the
wind moans sadly.

Blow thy brazen trumpet, thou trumpeter clad in fox-skin! it
sounds merrily in the clear air. So they ride on over heath and
moorland--over what is the garden of Fata Morgana in the hot summer,
though now icy, like all the country--towards the church of Widberg.

The wind is blowing his trumpet too--blowing it harder and harder.
He blows up a storm--a terrible storm--that increases more and more.
Towards the church they ride, as fast as they may through the storm.
The church stands firm, but the storm careers on over field and
moorland, over land and sea.

Borglum's bishop reaches the church; but Olaf Hase will scarce
do so, however hard he may ride. He journeys with his warriors on
the farther side of the bay, in order that he may help Jens Glob,
now that the bishop is to be summoned before the judgment seat of
the Highest.

The church is the judgment hall; the altar is the council table.
The lights burn clear in the heavy brass candelabra. The storm reads
out the accusation and the sentence, roaming in the air over moor
and heath, and over the rolling waters. No ferry-boat can sail over
the bay in such weather as this.

Olaf Hase makes halt at Ottesworde. There he dismisses his
warriors, presents them with their horses and harness, and gives
them leave to ride home and greet his wife. He intends to risk his
life alone in the roaring waters; but they are to bear witness for him
that it is not his fault if Jens Glob stands without reinforcement
in the church at Widberg. The faithful warriors will not leave him,
but follow him out into the deep waters. Ten of them are carried away;
but Olaf Hase and two of the youngest men reach the farther side. They
have still four miles to ride.

It is past midnight. It is Christmas. The wind has abated. The
church is lighted up; the gleaming radiance shines through the
window-frames, and pours out over meadow and heath. The mass has
long been finished, silence reigns in the church, and the wax is heard
dropping from the candles to the stone pavement. And now Olaf Hase
arrives.

In the forecourt Jens Glob greets him kindly, and says,

"I have just made an agreement with the bishop. "

"Sayest thou so? " replied Olaf Hase. "Then neither thou nor the
bishop shall quit this church alive. "

And the sword leaps from the scabbard, and Olaf Hase deals a
blow that makes the panel of the church door, which Jens Glob
hastily closes between them, fly in fragments.

"Hold, brother! First hear what the agreement was that I made. I
have slain the bishop and his warriors and priests. They will have
no word more to say in the matter, nor will I speak again of all the
wrong that my mother has endured. "

The long wicks of the altar lights glimmer red; but there is a
redder gleam upon the pavement, where the bishop lies with cloven
skull, and his dead warriors around him, in the quiet of the holy
Christmas night.

And four days afterwards the bells toll for a funeral in the
convent of Borglum. The murdered bishop and the slain warriors and
priests are displayed under a black canopy, surrounded by candelabra
decked with crape. There lies the dead man, in the black cloak wrought
with silver; the crozier in the powerless hand that was once so
mighty. The incense rises in clouds, and the monks chant the funeral
hymn. It sounds like a wail--it sounds like a sentence of wrath and
condemnation, that must be heard far over the land, carried by the
wind--sung by the wind--the wail that sometimes is silent, but never
dies; for ever again it rises in song, singing even into our own
time this legend of the Bishop of Borglum and his hard nephew. It is
heard in the dark night by the frightened husbandman, driving by in
the heavy sandy road past the convent of Borglum. It is heard by the
sleepless listener in the thickly-walled rooms at Borglum. And not
only to the ear of superstition is the sighing and the tread of
hurrying feet audible in the long echoing passages leading to the
convent door that has long been locked. The door still seems to
open, and the lights seem to flame in the brazen candlesticks; the
fragrance of incense arises; the church gleams in its ancient
splendor; and the monks sing and say the mass over the slain bishop,
who lies there in the black silver-embroidered mantle, with the
crozier in his powerless hand; and on his pale proud forehead gleams
the red wound like fire, and there burn the worldly mind and the
wicked thoughts.

Sink down into his grave--into oblivion--ye terrible shapes of the
times of old!


Hark to the raging of the angry wind, sounding above the rolling
sea! A storm approaches without, calling aloud for human lives. The
sea has not put on a new mind with the new time. This night it is a
horrible pit to devour up lives, and to-morrow, perhaps, it may be a
glassy mirror--even as in the old time that we have buried. Sleep
sweetly, if thou canst sleep!

Now it is morning.

The new time flings sunshine into the room. The wind still keeps
up mightily. A wreck is announced--as in the old time.

During the night, down yonder by Lokken, the little fishing
village with the red-tiled roofs--we can see it up here from the
window--a ship has come ashore. It has struck, and is fast embedded in
the sand; but the rocket apparatus has thrown a rope on board, and
formed a bridge from the wreck to the mainland; and all on board are
saved, and reach the land, and are wrapped in warm blankets; and
to-day they are invited to the farm at the convent of Borglum. In
comfortable rooms they encounter hospitality and friendly faces.
They are addressed in the language of their country, and the piano
sounds for them with melodies of their native land; and before these
have died away, the chord has been struck, the wire of thought that
reaches to the land of the sufferers announces that they are
rescued. Then their anxieties are dispelled; and at even they join
in the dance at the feast given in the great hall at Borglum.
Waltzes and Styrian dances are given, and Danish popular songs, and
melodies of foreign lands in these modern times.

Blessed be thou, new time! Speak thou of summer and of purer
gales! Send thy sunbeams gleaming into our hearts and thoughts! On thy
glowing canvas let them be painted--the dark legends of the rough hard
times that are past!




THE BOTTLE NECK

Close to the corner of a street, among other abodes of poverty,
stood an exceedingly tall, narrow house, which had been so knocked
about by time that it seemed out of joint in every direction. This
house was inhabited by poor people, but the deepest poverty was
apparent in the garret lodging in the gable. In front of the little
window, an old bent bird-cage hung in the sunshine, which had not even
a proper water-glass, but instead of it the broken neck of a bottle,
turned upside down, and a cork stuck in to make it hold the water with
which it was filled. An old maid stood at the window; she had hung
chickweed over the cage, and the little linnet which it contained
hopped from perch to perch and sang and twittered merrily.

"Yes, it's all very well for you to sing," said the bottle neck:
that is, he did not really speak the words as we do, for the neck of a
bottle cannot speak; but he thought them to himself in his own mind,
just as people sometimes talk quietly to themselves.

"Yes, you may sing very well, you have all your limbs uninjured;
you should feel what it is like to lose your body, and only have a
neck and a mouth left, with a cork stuck in it, as I have: you
wouldn't sing then, I know. After all, it is just as well that there
are some who can be happy. I have no reason to sing, nor could I
sing now if I were ever so happy; but when I was a whole bottle, and
they rubbed me with a cork, didn't I sing then? I used to be called
a complete lark. I remember when I went out to a picnic with the
furrier's family, on the day his daughter was betrothed,--it seems
as if it only happened yesterday. I have gone through a great deal
in my time, when I come to recollect: I have been in the fire and in
the water, I have been deep in the earth, and have mounted higher in
the air than most other people, and now I am swinging here, outside
a bird-cage, in the air and the sunshine. Oh, indeed, it would be
worth while to hear my history; but I do not speak it aloud, for a
good reason--because I cannot. "

Then the bottle neck related his history, which was really
rather remarkable; he, in fact, related it to himself, or, at least,
thought it in his own mind. The little bird sang his own song merrily;
in the street below there was driving and running to and fro, every
one thought of his own affairs, or perhaps of nothing at all; but
the bottle neck thought deeply. He thought of the blazing furnace in
the factory, where he had been blown into life; he remembered how
hot it felt when he was placed in the heated oven, the home from which
he sprang, and that he had a strong inclination to leap out again
directly; but after a while it became cooler, and he found himself
very comfortable. He had been placed in a row, with a whole regiment
of his brothers and sisters all brought out of the same furnace;
some of them had certainly been blown into champagne bottles, and
others into beer bottles, which made a little difference between them.
In the world it often happens that a beer bottle may contain the
most precious wine, and a champagne bottle be filled with blacking,
but even in decay it may always be seen whether a man has been well
born. Nobility remains noble, as a champagne bottle remains the
same, even with blacking in its interior. When the bottles were packed
our bottle was packed amongst them; it little expected then to
finish its career as a bottle neck, or to be used as a water-glass
to a bird's-cage, which is, after all, a place of honor, for it is
to be of some use in the world. The bottle did not behold the light of
day again, until it was unpacked with the rest in the wine
merchant's cellar, and, for the first time, rinsed with water, which
caused some very curious sensations. There it lay empty, and without a
cork, and it had a peculiar feeling, as if it wanted something it knew
not what. At last it was filled with rich and costly wine, a cork
was placed in it, and sealed down. Then it was labelled "first
quality," as if it had carried off the first prize at an
examination; besides, the wine and the bottle were both good, and
while we are young is the time for poetry. There were sounds of song
within the bottle, of things it could not understand, of green sunny
mountains, where the vines grow and where the merry vine-dressers
laugh, sing, and are merry. "Ah, how beautiful is life. " All these
tones of joy and song in the bottle were like the working of a young
poet's brain, who often knows not the meaning of the tones which are
sounding within him. One morning the bottle found a purchaser in the
furrier's apprentice, who was told to bring one of the best bottles of
wine. It was placed in the provision basket with ham and cheese and
sausages.