Front Cover
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 "The will-o'-the-wisp is in the...
 The windmill
 In the nursery
 The golden treasure
 The storm shakes the shield
 The bird of popular song
 The legend of Nurnberg Castle
 A night in the Apennines
 The carnival in Rome
 Mahomet's birthday
 My visit to the Borghese Palac...
 Back Cover

Group Title: Tales.
Title: The will-o'-the wisp, and other stories
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00065525/00001
 Material Information
Title: The will-o'-the wisp, and other stories
Series Title: Hans Andersen library
Uniform Title: Tales
Physical Description: 119, 5 p. : ill. (some col.) ; 17 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Andersen, H. C ( Hans Christian ), 1805-1875
George Routledge and Sons ( Publisher )
Dalziel Brothers
Camden Press ( Printer )
Publisher: George Routledge and Sons
Place of Publication: London
Manufacturer: Dalziel Bros., Camden Press
Publication Date: [ca. 1872]
Subject: Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Fairy tales   ( lcsh )
Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1872   ( lcsh )
Publishers' advertisements -- 1872   ( rbgenr )
Fairy tales -- 1872   ( rbgenr )
Bldn -- 1872
Genre: Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Publishers' advertisements   ( rbgenr )
Fairy tales   ( rbgenr )
non-fiction   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: England -- London
Statement of Responsibility: by Hans Christian Andersen ; translated by H.W. Dulcken ; illustrated with nineteen pictures.
General Note: Date of publication suggested by the Bodleian Library.
General Note: Frontispiece printed in colors.
General Note: Publisher's advertisements follow text.
Funding: Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1870-1889 (NEH PA-50860-00).
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00065525
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved, Board of Trustees of the University of Florida.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002218597
notis - ALF8774
oclc - 71145050

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Title Page
        Title Page 1
        Title Page 2
    Table of Contents
        Table of Contents
    "The will-o'-the-wisp is in the town"
        Page 1
        Page 2
        Page 3
        Page 4
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
    The windmill
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
    In the nursery
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
    The golden treasure
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
    The storm shakes the shield
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
    The bird of popular song
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 71
    The legend of Nurnberg Castle
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
    A night in the Apennines
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
    The carnival in Rome
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
        Page 92
    Mahomet's birthday
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
    My visit to the Borghese Palace
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text

''^^- -*s
-., *.. : l..-
** : ** ". M i's


The Poultry Woman.

The Will-o'-the-Wisf.

: .






















HERE was a man who once knew many
stories, but they had slipped away from
him-so he said; the Story that used
to visit him of its own accord no longer
came and knocked at his door: and why did it
come no longer? It is true enough that for days
and years the man had not thought of it, had not
expected it to come and knock; and if he had ex-
pected it, it would certainly not have come; for
without there was war, and within was the care
and sorrow that war brings with it.
The stork and the swallows came back from
their long journey, for they thought of no danger;
and, behold, when they arrived, the nest was burnt,


2 '"The JWillt-o'-the-Wispj zs i n the Town,"

the habitations of men were burnt, the hedges were
all in disorder, and everything seemed gone, and the
enemy's horses were stamping in the old graves.
Those were hard, gloomy times, but they came to
an end.
And now they were past and gone, so people
said; and yet no story came and knocked at the
door, or gave any tidings of its presence.
"I suppose it must be dead, or gone away with
many other things," said the man.
But the story never dies. And more than a
whole year went by, and he longed-oh, so very
much !-for the story.
I wonder if the story will ever come back
again, and knock?"
And he remembered it so well in all the various
forms in which it had come to him, sometimes
young and charming, like spring itself, sometimes
as a beautiful maiden, with a wreath of thyme in
her hair, and a beechen branch in her hand, and
with eyes that gleamed like deep woodland lakes
in the bright sunshine.
Sometimes it had come to him in the guise of a
pedler, and had opened its box and let silver ribbon
come fluttering out, with verses and inscriptions of
old remembrances.

Says the Moor-Woman.

But it was most charming of all when it came
as an old grandmother, with silvery hair, and such
large sensible eyes; she knew so well how to tell
about the oldest times, long before the Princesses
span with the golden spindles, and the dragons lay
outside the castle, guarding them. She told with
such an air of truth that black spots danced before
the eyes of all who heard her, and the floor became
black with human blood; terrible to see and to
hear, and yet so entertaining, because such a long
time had passed since it all happened.
Will it ever knock at my door again ?" said
the man and he gazed at the door, so that black
spots came before his eyes and upon the floor; he
did not know if it was blood, or mourning crape
from the dark heavy days.
And as he sat thus, the thought came upon him,
whether the story might not have hidden itself,
like the Princess in the old tale? And he would
now go in search of it; if he found it, it would
beam in new splendour, lovelier than ever.
"Who knows ? Perhaps it has hidden itself in
the straw that balances on the margin of the well.
Carefully, carefully Perhaps it lies hidden in a
certain flower -that flower in one of the great
books on the book-shelf,"


4 "The IWill-o'-the-Wisp is in the Town,"

And the man went and opened one of the newest
books, to gain information on this point; but there
was no flower to be found. There he read about
Holger Danske; and the man read that the tale
had been invented and put together by a monk in
France, that it was a romance, "translated into
Danish and printed in that language;" that Holger
Danske had never really lived, and consequently
could never come again, as we have sung, and have
been so glad to believe. And William Tell was
treated just like Holger Danske. These were all
only myths-nothing on which we could depend;
and yet it is all written in a very learned book.
Well, I shall believe what I believe !" said the
man; there grows no plantain where no foot has
And he closed the book and put it back in its
place, and went to the fresh flowers at the window;
perhaps the story might have hidden itself in the
red tulips, with the golden yellow edges, or in the
fresh rose, or in the beaming camellia. The sun-
shine lay among the flowers, but no story.
The flowers which had been here in the dark
troublous time had been much more beautiful;
but they had been cut off, one after another, to be
woven into wreaths and placed in coffins, and the

Says the Moor- Woman. 5

flag had waved over them! Perhaps the story had
been buried with the flowers; but then the flowers
would have known of it, and the coffin would have
heard it, and every little blade of grass that shot
forth would have told of it. The story never dies.

In search of the Story.

Perhaps it has been here once, and has knocked
-but who had eyes or ears for it in those times ?
People looked darkly, gloomily, and almost angrily
at the sunshine of spring, at the twittering birds,
and all the cheerful green; the tongue could not
even bear the old, merry, popular songs, and they
were laid in the coffin with so much that our heart
held dear. The story may have knocked with-

_ __ ___

6 "The JWill-o'-the-Wispiss.in the Town,"

out obtaining a hearing; there was none to bid it
welcome, and so it may have gone away.
"I will go forth and seek it! Out in the coun-
try out in the wood! and on the open sea beach !"

Out in the country lies an old manor house, with
red walls, pointed gables, and a red flag that floats
on the tower. The nightingale sings among the
finely fringed beech-leaves, looking at the blooming
apple trees of the garden, and thinking that they
bear roses. Here the bees are mightily busy in
the summer-time, and hover round their queen with
their humming song. The autumn has much to
tell of the wild chase, of the leaves of the trees,
and of the races of men that are passing away to-
gether. The wild swans sing at Christmas-time
on the open water, while in the old hall the guests
by the fire-side gladly listen to songs and to old
Down into the old part of the garden, where the
great avenue of wild chestnut trees lures the
wanderer to tread its shades, went the man who
was in search of the story; for here the wind had
once murmured something to him of Waldemar
Daa and his Daughters." The Dryad in the tree,
who was the story-mother herself, had here told

Says the M1oor-W oman.

him the "Dream of the old Oak Tree." Here, in
the time of the ancestral mother, had stood clipped
hedges, but now only ferns and stinging-nettles
grew there, hiding the scattered fragments of old
sculptured figures; the moss is growing in their
eyes, but they can see as well as ever, which was
more than the man could do who was in search of
the story, for he could not find it. Where could
it be?
The crows flew past him by hundreds across the
old trees, and screamed, Krah! da!-Krah da!"
And he went out of the garden, and over the
grass-plot of the yard, into the alder grove; there
stood a little six-sided house, with a poultry-yard
and a duck-yard. In the middle of the room sat
the old woman, who had the management of the
whole, and who knew accurately about every egg
that was laid, and about every chicken that could
creep out of an egg. But she was not the story
of which the man was in search; that she could
attest with a Christian certificate of baptism and
of vaccination that lay in her drawer.
Without, not far from the house, is a hill covered
with red-thorn and broom; here lies an old grave-
stone, which was brought here many years ago
from the churchyard of the provincial town, a re-


8 "The Will-o'-the-lisp is in the Town,"

membrance of one of the most honoured. council-
lors of the place; his wife and his five daughters,
all with folded hands and stiff ruffs, stand round
him. One could look at them so long, that it had
an effect upon the thoughts, and these reacted upon
the stones, as if they were telling of old times; at
least it had been so with the man who was in search
of the story.
As he came nearer, he noticed a living butterfly
sitting on the forehead of the sculptured councillor.
The butterfly flapped its wings, and flew a little bit
farther, and then returned fatigued to sit upon the
grave-stone, as if to point out what grew there.
Four-leaved shamrocks grew there; there were
seven specimens close to each other. When for-
tune comes, it comes in a heap. He plucked the
shamrocks, and put them in his pocket.
Fortune is as good as red gold, but a new,
charming story would be better still," thought the
man; but he could not find it here.
And the sun went down, round and large; the
meadow was covered with vapour : the moor-
woman was at her brewing.

It was evening; he stood alone in his room, and
looked out upon the sea, over the meadow, over

Says the Moor- Woman.

moor and coast. The moon shone bright, a mist
was over the meadow, making it look like a great
lake; and, indeed, it was once so, as the legend
tells-and in the moonlight the eye realizes these
Then the man thought of what he had been
reading in the town, that William Tell and Holger
Danske never really lived, but yet live in popular
story, like the lake yonder, a living evidence for
such myths. Yes, Holger Danske will return
As he stood thus and thought, something beat
quite strongly against the window. Was it a bird,
a bat, or an owl? Those are not let in, even when
they knock. The window flew open of itself, and
an old woman looked in at the man.
"What's your pleasure ?" said he. "Who are
you? You're looking in at the first floor window.
Are you sanding on a ladder ?"
"You have a four-leaved shamrock in your
pocket," she replied. Indeed, you have seven,
and one of them is a six-leaved one."
"Who are you ?" asked the man again.
"The moor-woman," she replied. "The moor-
woman who brews. I was at it. The bung was
in the cask, but one of the little moor-imps pulled


io "The Jill-o'-the-Wisip zs in the Town,"

it out in his mischief, and flung it up into the yard,
where it beat against the window; and now the
beer's running out of the cask, and that won't do
good to anybody."
Pray tell me some more said the man.
Yes, wait a little," answered the moor-woman.
"I 've something else to do just now." And she
was gone.
The man was going to shut the window, when
the woman already stood before him again.
"Now it's done," she said; "but I shall have
half the beer to brew over again to-morrow, if
the weather is suitable. Well, what have you to
ask Tre? I've come back, for I always keep my
word, and you have seven four-leaved shamrocks
in your pocket, and one of them is a six-leaved one.
That inspires respect, for that's an order that grows
beside the sandy way; but that every one does not
find. What have you to ask me ? Don't stand
there like a ridiculous oaf, for I must go back
again directly to my bung and my cask."
And the man asked about the story, and in-
quired if the moor-woman had met it in her
"By the big brewing-vat!" exclaimed the
woman, "haven't you got stories enough? I


-. -

7The 1Moor-Woman brewing.

really believe that most people have enough of
them. Here are other things to take notice of,

12 "The mill-o'-the-Wisp zs in the Town,"

other things to examine. Even the children have
gone beyond that. Give the little boy a cigar,
and the little girl a new crinoline; they like that
much better. To listen to stories No, indeed,
there are more important things to be done here,
and other things to notice "
What do you mean by that ?" asked the man.
" and what do you know of the world ? You don't
see anything but frogs and will-o'-the-wisps !"
Yes, beware of the will-o'-the-wisps," said
the moor-woman, "for they're out-they 're let
loose-that's what we must talk about! Come to
me in the moor, where my presence is necessary,
and I will tell you all about it; but you must
make haste, and come while your seven four-
leaved shamrocks, of which one has six leaves,
are still fresh, and the moon stands high !"
And the moor-woman was gone.

It struck twelve in the town, and before the last
stroke had died away, the man was out in the yard,
out in the garden, and stood in the meadow. The
mist had vanished, and the moor-woman stopped
her brewing.
"You've been a long time coming! said the
moor-woman. "Witches get forward faster than

Says the Moor-Woman.

men, and I 'm glad that I belong to the witch
folk !"
What have you to say to me now ? asked the
man. Is it anything about the story?"
Can you never get beyond asking about that?"
retorted the woman.
"Can you tell me anything about the poetry of
the future ? resumed the man.
Don't get on your stilts," said the crone, and
I'11 answer you. You think of nothing but poetry,
and only ask about that Story, as if she were the
lady of the whole troop. She's the oldest of us
all, but she takes precedence of the youngest. I
know her well. I've been young, too, and she's
no chicken now. I was once quite a pretty elf-
maiden, and have danced in my time with the others
in the moonlight, and have heard the nightingale,
and have gone into the forest and met the story-
maiden, who was always to be found out there,
running about. Sometimes she took up her night's
lodging in a half-blown tulip, or in a field flower;
sometimes she would slip into the church, and wrap
herself in the mourning crape that hung down from
the candles on the altar."
You are capitally well-informed,"said the man,
I ought at least to know as much as you," an-


14 "The Will-o'-the-Wiisp is in the Town,"

swered the moor-woman. Stories and poetry-
yes, they're like two yards of the same piece of
stuff: they can go and lie down where they like,
and one can brew all their prattle, and have it all
the better and cheaper. You shall have it from me
for nothing. I've a whole cupboard-full of poetry,
in bottles. It makes essences; and that's the best
of it-bitter and sweet herbs. I have everything
that people want of poetry, in bottles, so that I can
put a little on my handkerchief, on holidays, to
"Why, these are wonderful things that you're
telling!" said the man. "You have poetry in
bottles ?"
More than you can require," said the woman.
"I suppose you know the history of' the Girl who
trod on the Loaf, so that she might not soil her
Shoes' ? That has been written, and printed too."
I told that story myself," said the man.
"Yes, then you must know it; and you must
know also that the girl sank into the earth directly,
to the moor-woman, just as Old Bogey's grand-
mother was paying her a morning visit to inspect
the brewery. She saw the girl gliding down, and
asked to have her as a remembrance of her visit,
and got her too; while I received a present that's

Says the Moor-llFoman.

of no use to me-a travelling druggist's shop-a
whole cupboard-full of poetry in bottles. Grand-
mother told me where the cupboard was to be
placed, and there it's standing still. Just look !
You've your seven four-leaved shamrocks in your
pocket, one of which is a six-leaved one, and. so
you will be able to see it."
And really in the midst of the moor lay some-
thing like a great knotted block of alder, and that
was the old grandmother's cupboard. The moor-
woman said that this was always open to her and
to every one in the land, if they only knew where
the cupboard stood. It could be opened either at
the front or at the back, and at every side and
corner-a perfect work of art, and yet only an old
alder stump in appearance. The poets of all lands,
and especially those of our own country, had been
arranged here; the spirit of them had been-ex-
tracted, refined, criticised and renovated, and then
stored up in bottles. With what may be called
great aptitude, if it was not genius, the grand-
mother had taken as it were the flavour of this and
of that poet, and had added a little devilry, aid
then corked up the bottles for use during all future
"Pray let me see," said the man.

16 "The Will-o'-the-Wisp is in the 'ozwn,"

"Yes, but there are more important things to
hear," replied the moor-woman.
But now we are at the cupboard !" said the
man. And he looked in. Here are bottles of
all sizes. What is in this one? and what in that
one yonder ?"
Here is what they call may-balm," replied the
woman: "I have not tried it myself. But I have
not yet told you the 'more important' thing you
were to hear. THE WILL-O'-WISP'S IN THE TOWN !
That 's of much more consequence than poetry and
stories. I ought, indeed, to hold my tongue; but
there must be a necessity- a fate a something
that sticks in my throat, and that wants to come
out. Take care, you mortals !"
"I don't understand a word of all this !" cried
the man.
Be kind enough to seat yourself on that cup-
board," she retorted, "but take care you don't fall
through and break the bottles -you know what's
inside them. I must tell of the great event. It
occurred no longer ago than the day before yester-
day. It did not happen earlier. It has now three
hundred and sixty-three days to run about. I
suppose you know how many days there are in a
year ?"

Says the Moor- WVoman.

And this is what the moor-woman told:
"There was a great commotion yesterday out
here in the marsh! There was a christening feast!
A little Will-o'-the-Wisp was born here-in fact,
twelve of them were born all together; and they
have permission, if they choose to use it, to go
abroad among men, and to move about and com-
mand among them, just as if they were born
mortals. That was a great event in the marsh,
and accordingly all the Will-o'-the-Wisps, male
and female, went dancing like little lights across
the moor. There are some of them of the dog
species, but those are not worth mentioning. I
sat there on the cupboard, and had all the twelve
little new-born Will-o'-the-Wisps upon my lap:
they shone like glowworms; they already began
to hop, and increased in size every moment, so that
before a quarter of an hour had elapsed, each of
them looked just as large as his father or his
uncle. Now it's an old established regulation and
favour, that when the moon stands just as it did
yesterday, and the wind blows just as it blew then,
it is allowed and accorded to all Will-o'-the-Wisps
-that is, to all those who are born at that minute
of time-to become mortals, and individually to
exert their power for the space of one year.
13 C


18 "The Will-o'-the- Wisp is in the Town,"

"The Will-o'-the-Wisp may run about in the
country and through .the world, if it is not afraid
of falling into the sea, or of being blown out by a
heavy storm. It can enter into a person, and
speak for him, and make all the movements it
pleases. The Will-o'-the-Wisp may take whatever
form he likes, of man or woman, and can act in
their spirit and in their disguise, in such a way
that he can effect whatever he wishes to do. But
he must manage, in the course of the year, to lead
three hundred and sixty-five people into a bad way,
and in a grand style, too; to lead them away from
the right and the truth; and then he reaches the
highest point. Such Will-o'-the-Wisps can attain
to the honour of being a runner before the devil's
state coach; and then he'll wear clothes of fiery
yellow, and breathe forth flames out of his throat.
That's enough to make a simple WAill-o'-the-Wisp
smack his lips. But there's some danger in this,
and a great deal of work for a Will-o'-the-Wisp
who aspires to play so distinguished a part. If the
eyes of the man are opened to what he is, and if
the man can then blow him away, it's all over with
him, and he must come back into the marsh; or
if, before the year is up, the Will-o'-the-Wisp is
seized with a longing to see his family, and so re-

I '


IL.', .\

The I1oo1r- Woman telling the Story.

turns to it and gives the matter up, it is over with
him likewise, and he can no longer burn clear, and


zo "The Will-o'-the- Wisp is in the Town,"

soon becomes extinguished, and cannot be lit up
again; and when the year has elapsed, and he has
not led three hundred and sixty-five people away
from the truth and from all that is grand and
noble, he is condemned to be imprisoned in decayed
wood, and to lie glimmering there without being
able to move; and that's the most terrible punish-
ment that can be inflicted on a lively Will-o'-the-
Now, all this I know, and all this I told to the
twelve little Will-o'-the-Wisps whom I had on my
lap, and who seemed quite crazy with joy.
I told them that the safest and the most con-
venient course was to give up the honour, and do
nothing at all; but the little flames would not
agree to this, and already fancied themselves clad
in fiery yellow clothes, breathing flames from their
"' Stay with us,' said some of the older ones.
"'Carry on your sport with mortals,' said the
"'The mortals are drying up our meadows;
they've taken to draining. What will our suc-
cessors do?'
"'We want to flame; we will flame-flame!'
cried the new-born Will-o'-the-Wisps.

Says the Moor- Woman.

"And thus the affair was settled.
And now a ball was given, a minute long; it
could not well be shorter. The little elf-maidens
whirled round three times with the rest, that they
might not appear proud, but they preferred dancing
with one another.
"And now the sponsors' gifts were presented,
and presents were thrown them. These presents
flew like pebbles across the sea-water. Each of
the elf-maidens gave a little piece of her veil.
"' Take that,' they said, and then you'll know
the higher dance, the most difficult turns and
twists -that is to say, if you should find them
necessary. You'll know the proper deportment,
and then you can show yourself in the very pick
of society.'
"The night raven taught each of the young
Will-o'-the-Wisps to say, Goo-goo-good,' and
to say it in the right place; and that's a great gift,
which brings its own reward.
The owl and the stork- but they said it was
not worth mentioning, and so we won't mention
"King Waldemar's wild chase was just then
rushing over the moor, and when the great lords
heard of the festivities that were going on, they

S2 The Will-o'-the- Wisp is in the Town,'

sent a couple of handsome dogs which hunt on the
spoom of the wind, as a present; and these might
carry two or three of the Will-o'-the-Wisps. A
couple of old Alpas, spirits who occupy themselves
with Alp-pressing, were also at the feast; and from

... ,, ..-...

these the young Will-o'-the-Wisps learned the art
of slipping through every key-hole, as if the door
stood open before them. These Alpas offered to
carry the youngsters to the town, with which they
were well acquainted. They usually rode through
the atmosphere on their own back hair, which is
fastened into a knot, for they love a hard seat;
but now they sat sideways on the wild hunting

Says the Moor-WFoman.

dogs, took the young WVill-o'-the-Wisps in their
laps, who wanted to go into the town to mislead
and entice mortals, and, whisk away they were.
Now, this is what happened last night. To-day
the Will-o'-the-Wisps are in the town, and have
taken the matter in hand-but where and how?
Ah, can you tell me that? Still, I 'e a lightning
conductor in my great toe, and that will always
tell me something."
Why, this is a complete story," exclaimed the
"Yes, but it is only the beginning," replied the
woman. "Can you tell me how the Will-o'-the-
Wisps deport themselves, and how they behave ?
and in what shapes they have aforetime appeared
and led people into crooked paths ?"
"I believe," replied the man, "that one could
tell quite a romance about the Will-o'-the-Wisps,
in twelve parts; or, better still, one might make
quite a popular play of them."
You might write that," said the woman, but
it's best let alone."
"Yes, that's better and more agreeable," the
man replied, "for then we shall escape from the
newspapers, and not be tied up by them, which is
just as uncomfortable as for a Will-o'-the-Wisp to


24 "The Will-o'-the Wisp is in the Town,"

lie in decaying wood, to have to gleam, and not be
able to stir."
I don't care about it either way," cried the
woman. "Let the rest write, those who can, and
those who cannot likewise. I'll give you an old
bung from my cask, that will open the cupboard
where poetry's kept in bottles, and you may take
from that whatever may be wanting. But you, my
good man, seem to have blotted your hands suffi-
ciently with ink, and to have come to that age of
satiety, that you need not be running about every
year for stories, especially as there are much more
important things to be done. You must have un-
derstood what is going on?"
"The Will-o'-the-Wisp is in the town," said
the man. "I 've heard it, and I have understood
it. But what do you think I ought to do? I
should be thrashed if I were to go to the people
and say, 'Look, yonder goes a Will-o'-the-Wisp
in his best clothes !' "
"They also go in undress," replied the woman.
"The Will-o'-the-Wisp can assume all kinds of
forms, and appear in every place. He goes into
the church, but not for the sake of the service;
and perhaps he may enter into one or other of the
priests. He speaks in the Parliament, not for the

Says the Moor-Woman.

benefit of the country, but only for himself. He's
an artist with the colour-pot as well as in the
theatre, but when he gets all the power into his
own hands, then the pot's empty! I chatter and
chatter, but it must come out, what's sticking in
my throat, to the disadvantage of my own family.
But I must now be the woman that will save a
good many people. It is not done with my good
will, or for the sake of a medal. I do the most
insane things I possibly can, and then I tell a poet
about it, and thus the whole town gets to know of
it directly."
"The town will not take that to heart," observed
the man; "that will not disturb a single person;
for they will all think I 'm only telling them a
story if I say, 'The Will-o'-the-Wisp is in the
town, says the moor-woman. Take care of your-


,.- -, .-. -


SWINDMILL stood upon the hill, proud
Sto look at, and it was proud too.
"I am not proud at all," it said, "but I am
very much enlightened without and within. I
have sun and moon for my outward use, and for
inward use too; and into the bargain I have stear-
ine candles, train oil lamps, and tallow candles;
I may well say that I 'm enlightened. I am a
thinking being, and so well constructed that it's
quite delightful. I have a good windpipe in my
chest, and I have four wings that are placed out-
side my head, just beneath my hat; the birds have
only two wings, and are obliged to carry them on
their backs. I am a Dutchman by birth, that may
be seen by my figure-a flying Dutchman. They
are considered supernatural beings, I know, and
yet I am quite natural. I have a gallery round
my chest, and house-room beneath it; that's

T he J ',,', ,,i:-'/.

where my thoughts dwell. My strongest thought,
who rules and reigns, is called by the others the
man in the mill.' He knows what he wants, and
is lord over the meal and the bran; but he has his
companion too, and she calls herself Mother.'
She is the very heart of me. She does not run

The proud WTindnill.

about stupidly and awkwardly, for she knows what
she wants, she knows what she can do, she 's as
soft as a zephyr and as strong as a storm; she
knows how to begin a thing carefully, and to have
her own way. She is my soft temper, and the
father is my hard one: they are two, and yet one;
they each call the other 'My half.' These two


28 The Windmill.

have some little boys, young thoughts, that can
grow. The little ones keep everything in order.
When, lately, in my wisdom, I let the father and
the boys examine my throat and the hole in my
chest, to see what was going on there-for some-
thing in me was out of order, and it's well to
examine, one's self-the little ones made a tre-
mendous noise. The youngest jumped up into my
hat, and shouted so there that it tickled me. The
little thoughts may grow; I know that very well;
and out in the world thoughts come too, and not
only of my kind, for as far as I can see I cannot
discern anything like myself; but the wingless
houses, whose throats make no noise, have thoughts
too, and these come to my thoughts, and make love
to them, as it is called. It's wonderful enough-
yes, there are many wonderful things. Something
has come over me, or into me,-something has
changed in the mill-work : it seems as if the one-
half, the father, had altered, and had received a
better temper and a more affectionate helpmate-
so young and good, and yet the same, only more
gentle and good through the course of time. What
was bitter has passed away, and the whole is much
more comfortable.
The days go on, and the days come nearer and

Examining the Mill.

nearer to clearness and to joy; and then a day will
come when it will be over with me; but not over
altogether. I must be pulled down that I may be
built up again; I shall cease, but yet shall live on.
To become quite a different being, and yet remain
the same That's difficult for me to understand,

The Windmill.

however enlightened I may be with sun, moon,
stearine, train oil, and tallow. My old wood-work
and my old brick-work will rise again from the
"I will hope that I may keep my old thoughts,
the father in the mill, and the mother, great ones
and little ones-the family; for I call them all,
great and little, the company of thoughts, because
I must, and cannot refrain from it.
"And I must also remain c myself,' with my
throat in my chest, my wings on my head, the
gallery round my body else I should not know
myself, nor could the others know me, and say,
' There's the mill on the hill, proud to look at,
and yet not proud at all.'"
That is what the mill said. Indeed, it said
much more, but that is the most important part.
And the days came, and the days went, and
yesterday was the last day.
Then the mill caught fire. The flames rose up
high, and beat out and in, and bit at the beams
and planks, and ate them up. The mill fell, and
nothing remained of it but a heap of ashes. The
smoke drove across the scene of the conflagration,
and the wind carried it away.
Whatever had been alive in the mill remained,


The Windmill.


and what had been gained by it has nothing to do
with this story.
The miller's family-one.soul, many thoughts,
and yet only one-built a new, a splendid mill,
which answered its purpose. It was quite like the
old one, and people said, "Why, yonder is the
mill on the hill, proud to look at !" But this mill
was better arranged, more according to the time
than the last, so that progress might be made.
The old beams had become worm-eaten and spongy
-they lay in dust and ashes. The body of the
mill did not rise out of the dust as they had be-
lieved it would do: they had taken it literally,
and all things are not to be taken literally.

'' '* -'.i i'=-"'', :tr" "f .I^


ATHER, and mother, and brothers, and
Sisters, were gone to the play; only little
Anna and her grandpapa were left at home.
We'll have a play, too," he said; and it may
begin immediately."
"But we have no theatre," cried little Anna,
" and we have no one to act for us; my old doll
cannot, for she is a fright, and my new one cannot,
for she must not rumple her new clothes."
One can always get actors it one makes use of
what one has," observed grandpapa.
"Now we'11 go into the theatre. Here we will
put up a book, there another, and there a third, in
a sloping row. Now three on the other side; so,
now we have the side-scenes. The old box that
lies yonder may be the back stairs; and we'll lay
the flooring on top of it. The stage represents a
room, as every one may see. Now we want the

In the Nursery.

actors. Let us see what we can find in the play-
thing box. First the personages, and then we will
get the play ready: one after the other, that will
be capital! Here's a pipe-head, and yonder an
odd glove; they will do very well for father and

The Play.

"But those are only two characters," said little
Anna. Here's my brother's old waistcoat-
could not that play in our piece, too?"
"It's big enough, certainly," replied grand-
papa. "It shall be the lover. There is nothing in
the pockets, and that's very interesting, for that's
half of an unfortunate attachment. And here




In the Nursery.

we have the nutcrackers' boots, with spurs to them.
Row, dow, dow! how they can stamp and strut!
They shall represent the unwelcome wooer, whom
the lady does not like. What kind of play will
you have now? Shall it be a tragedy, or a do-
mestic drama ?"
"A domestic drama, please," said little Anna;
"for the others are so fond of that. Do you know
I know a hundred," said grandpapa. Those
that are most in favour are from the French, but
they are not good for little girls. In the mean-
time, we may take one of the prettiest, for inside
they're all very much alike. Now I shake the
pen! Cock-a-lorum So now, here's the play,
brin-bran-span new! Now listen to the play-
And grandpapa took a newspaper, and read as if
he were reading from it:
A Drama in one Act.
iMR. PIPE-rIEAD, a father, MlR. WAISTCOAT, a lover,
Miss GLOVE, a daugyher;, MA. DE BOOTS, a suitor.
"And now we're going to begin. The curtain
rises : we have no curtain, so it has risen already.


In the Nursery.

All the characters are there, and so we have them
at hand. Now I speak as Papa Pipe-head; he's
angry to-day. One can see that he's a coloured
"' Snik, snak, snurre, bassellurre! I'mi master
of this house I'm the father of my daughter !
Will you hear what I have to say? Mr. de Boots
is a person in whom one may see one's face; his
upper part is of morocco, and he has spurs into
the bargain. Snikke, snakke, snak He shall have
my daughter!'
"Now listen to what the Waistcoat says, little
Anna," said grandpapa. "Now the Waistcoat's
speaking. The Waistcoat has a lay-down collar,
and is very modest; but he knows his own value,
and has quite a right to say what he savs:
"'I haven't a spot on me Goodness of ma-
terial ought to be appreciated. I am of real silk,
and have strings to me.'
'-On the wedding day, but no longer; you
don't keep your colour in the wash.' This is Mr.
Pipe-head who is speaking. 'Mr. de Boots is
water-tight, of strong leather, and yet very deli-
cate; he can creak, and clank with his spurs, and
has an Italian physiognomy-'"
"But they ought to speak in verses," said Anna,


In the Nursery.

"for I've heard that's the most charming way of
"They can do that, too," replied grandpapa;
" and if the public demands it, they will talk in
that way. Just look at little Miss Glove, how
she's pointing her fingers:
"'Could I but have my love,
Who then so happy as Glove!
If I from him must part,
I'm sure 't will break my heart!'
"' Bali !'

That last word was spoken by Mr. Pipe-head; and
now it's Mr. Waistcoat's turn:

"' 0 Glove, my own dear,
Though it cost thee a tear,
Thou must be mine,
For Holger Danske has sworn it !'

Mr. de Boots, hearing this, kicks up, jingles his
spurs, and knocks down three of the side-scenes."
"That's exceedingly charming!" cried little
"Silence! silence!" said grandpapa. "Silent
approbation will show that you are the educated
public in the stalls. Now Miss Glove sings her
great song with startling effects:


In the Nurser..

"' I can't see, heigho !
And therefore I'll crow!
Kikkeriki, in the lofty hall!'

"Now comes the exciting part, little Anna.
This is the most important in all the play. Mr.
Waistcoat undoes himself, and addresses his speech
to you, that you may applaud; but leave it alone,
-that's considered more genteel.
"' I am driven to extremities! Take care of
yourself! Now comes the plot! You are the
Pipe-head, and I am the good head-snap there
you go !'
"Do you notice this, little Anna ?" asked grand-
papa. That's a most charming scene and comedy;
Mr. Waistcoat seized the old Pipe-head, and put
him in his pocket; there he lies, and the Waist-
coat says
"' You are in my pocket; you can't come out
till you promise to unite me to your daughter
Glove on the left: I hold out my right hand.'"
"That's awfully pretty," said little Anna.
"And now the old Pipe-head replies:

"'Though I'm all ear,
Very stupid I appear:
Where's my humour? Gone, I fear,
And I feel my hollow stick's not here.


In the Nursery.

Ahl! never, my dear,
Did I feel so queer.
Oh pray let me out,
And, like a lamb led to slaughter,
I'll betroth you, no doubt,
To my daughter.'"
"Is the play over already ?" asked little Anna.
By no means," replied grandpapa. It's only
all over with Mr. de Boots. Now the lovers kneel
down, and one of them sings:
and the other,
"'Come, do as you ought to do,-
Bless your son and daughter.'
And they receive his blessing, and celebrate their
wedding, and all the pieces of furniture sing in
"' link clanks!
A thousand thanks;
And now the play is over!'
"And now we 'll applaud," said grandpapa.
"We '11 call them all out, and the pieces of furni-
ture too, for they are of mahogany."
"And is not our play just as good as those
which the others have in the-real theatre ?"
Our play is much better," said grandpapa.
"It is shorter, the performers are natural, and it
has passed away the interval before tea-time."



HE drummer's wife went into the church.
She saw the new altar with the painted
pictures and the carved angels: those upon the
canvas and in the glory over the altar were just
as beautiful as the carved ones; and they were
painted and gilt into the bargain. Their hair
gleamed golden in the sunshine, lovely to behold;
but the real sunshine was more beautiful still. It
shone redder, clearer through the dark trees, when
the sun went'down. It was lovely thus to look at
the sunshine of heaven. -And she looked at the
red sun, and she thought about it so deeply, and
thought of the little one whom the stork was to
bring; and the wife of the drummer was very
cheerful, and looked and looked, and wished that
the child might have a gleam of sunshine given to
it, so that it might at least become like one of the
shining angels over the altar.

The Golden Treasure.


And when she really had the little child in her
arms, and held it up to its father, then it was like
one of the angels in the church to behold, with
hair like gold-the gleam of the setting sun was
upon it.

Peter's Mother.

My golden treasure, my riches, my sunshine,"
said the mother; and she kissed the shining locks,
and it sounded like music and song in the room of
the drummer; and there was joy, and life, and
movement. The drummer beat a roll-a roll of
joy. And the Drum said, the Fire-drum, that was
beaten when there was a fire in the town:
Red hair the little fellow has red hair! Be-

The Golden Treasure.

lieve the drum, and not what your mother says !
Rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub!"
And the town repeated what the Fire-drum had

The boy was taken to church, the boy was
christened. There was nothing much to be said
about his name; he was called Peter. The whole
town, and the Drum too, called him Peter the
drummer's boy with the red hair; but his mother
kissed his red hair, and called him her golden
In the hollow way, in the clayey bank, many
had scratched their names as a remembrance.
"Celebrity is always something said the
drummer; and so he scratched his own name
there, and his little son's name likewise.
And the swallows came: they had, on their long
journey, seen more durable characters engraven on
rocks, and on the walls of the temples in Hindo-
stan, mighty deeds of great kings, immortal names,
so old that no one now could read or speak them.
Remarkable celebrity!
In the clayey bank the martens built their nest:
they bored holes in the deep declivity, and the
splashing rain and the thin mist came and crumbled



The Golden Treasure.

and washed the names away, and the drummer's
name also, and that of his little son.
"Peter's name will last a full year and a half
longer! said the father.
"Fool!" thought the Fire-drum; but it only
said, "Dub, dub, dub, rub-a-dub "
He was a boy full of life and gladness, this
drummer's son with the red hair. He had a lovely
voice : he could sing, and he sang like a bird in the
woodland. There was melody, and yet no melody.
He must become a chorister boy," said his
mother. He shall sing in the church, and stand
among the beautiful gilded angels who are like
Fiery cat !" said some of the witty ones of the
town. The Drum heard that from the neighbours'
"Don't go home, Peter," cried the street boys.
"If you sleep in the garret there'll be a fire in the
house, and the fire-drum will have to be beaten."
Look out for the drum-sticks," replied Peter;
and, small as he was, he ran up boldly, and gave
the foremost such a punch in the body with his
fist, that the fellow lost his legs and tumbled over,
and the others took their legs off with themselves
very rapidly.

Peter singing.

The town musician was very genteel and fine.
He was the son of a royal plate-washer. He was
very fond of Peter, and would sometimes take him
to his home, and he gave him a violin, and taught
him to play it. It seemed as if the whole art lay
in the boy's fingers; and he wanted to be more
than a drummer-he wanted to become musician
to the town.
"I 'll be a soldier," said Peter, for he was still
quite a little lad, and it seemed to him the finest
thing in the world to carry a gun, and to be able

The Golden Treasure.

to march "one, two; one, two," and to wear a
uniform and a sword.
Ah, you learn to long for the drum-skin, drum,
dum, dum !" said the Drum.
"Yes, if he could only march his way up to a
general !" observed his father; but before he can
do that there-must be war."
"Heaven forbid said his mother.
"We have nothing to lose," remarked the father.
"Yes, we have my boy," she retorted.
But suppose he came back a general," said the
"Without arms and legs !" cried the mother.
' No, I would rather keep my golden treasure with

"Drum, dum, dum!" The Fire-drum and all
the other drums were beating, for war had come.
The soldiers all set out, and the son of the drummer
followed them. Red-head. Golden treasure !"
The mother wept; the father in fancy saw him
"famous;" the town musician was of opinion that
he ought not to go to war, but should stay at home
and learn music.
Red-head!" said the soldiers, and little Peter
laughed; but when one of them sometimes said to


The Golden Treasure.

another Foxey," he would bite his teeth together
and look another way-into the wide world: he
did not care for the nickname.
The boy was active, pleasant of speech, and
good humoured; and that is the best canteen, said
his old comrades.
And many a night he had to sleep under the
open sky, wet through with the driving rain or the
falling mist; but his good humour never forsook
him. The drum-sticks sounded, Rub-a-dub, all
up, all up Yes, he was certainly born to be a
The day of battle dawned. The sun had not
yet risen, but the morning was come. The air
was cold, the battle was hot, there was mist in the
air, but still more gunpowder smoke. The bullets
and shells flew over the soldiers' heads, and into
their heads, into their bodies and limbs; but still
they pressed forward. Here or there one or other
of them would sink on his knees, with bleeding
temples, and a face as white as chalk. The little
drummer still kept his healthy colour; he had
suffered no damage; he looked cheerfully at the
dog of the regiment, which was jumping along as
merrily as if the whole thing had been got up for
his amusement, and as if the bullets were only


The Golden Treasure.

flying about that he might have a game of play
with them.
"March! Forward! March!" This was the
word of command for the drum. The word had
not yet been given to fall back, though they might
have done so, and perhaps there would have been
much sense in it; and now at last the word Re-
tire" was given; but our little drummer beat
"Forward! march for he had understood the
command thus, and the soldiers obeyed the sound
of the drum. That was a good roll, and proved
the summons to victory for the men, who had al-
ready begun to give way.
Life and limb was lost in the battle. Bomb-
shells tore away the flesh in red strips; bomb-
shells lit up into a terrible glow the straw heaps to
which the wounded had dragged themselves, to lie
untended for many hours, perhaps for all the hours
they had to live.
It's no use thinking of it! and yet one cannot
help thinking of it, even far away in the peaceful
town. The drummer and his wife also thought of
it, for Peter was at the war.
"Now, I'm tired of these complaints," said the
Again the day of battle dawned; the sun had


The Golden Treasure,

not yet risen, but it was morning. The drummer
and his wife were asleep: they had been talking
about their son, as, indeed, they did almost every
night, for he was out yonder, in God's hand. And
the father dreamt that the war was over, that the
soldiers had returned home, and that Peter wore a
silver cross on his breast. But the mother dreamt
that she had gone into the church, and had seen
the painted pictures and the carved angels with
the gilded hair, and her own dear boy, the golden
treasure of her heart, who was standing among the
angels in white robes, singing so sweetly, as surely
only the angels can sing; and that he had soared
up with them into the sunshine, and nodded so
kindly at his mother.
"1My golden treasure !" she cried out; and she
awoke. "Now the good God has taken him to
Himself!" She folded her hands, and hid her
face in the cotton curtains of the bed, and wept.
"Where does he rest now, among the many in
the big grave that they have dug for the dead ?
Perhaps he's in the water of the marsh! Nobody
knows his grave; no holy words have been read
over it !" And the Lord's Prayer went inaudibly
over her lips; she bowed her head, and was so
weary that she went to sleep.


The Golden Treasure.

And the days went by, in life as in dreams !
It was evening: over the battle-field a rainbow
spread, which touched the forest and the deep
It has been said, and is preserved in popular
belief, that where the rainbow touches the earth
a treasure lies buried, a golden treasure; and here
there was one. No one but his mother thought of
the little drummer, and therefore she dreamt of
And the days went by, in life as in dreams!
Not a hair of his head had been hurt, not a
golden hair.
Drum-ma-rum! drum-ma-rum there he is !"
the Drum might have said, and his mother might
have sung, if she had seen or dreamt it.
With hurrah and song, adorned with green
wreaths of victory, they came home, as the war
was at an end, and peace had been signed. The
dog of the regiment sprang on in front with large
bounds, and made the way three times as long for
himself as it really was.
And days and weeks went by, and Peter came
into his parents' room: he was as brown as a wild
man, and his eyes were bright, and his face beamed
like sunshine. And his mother held him in her



Peter's return.

arms she kissed his lips, his forehead, lhis red
hair. She had her boy back again; he had not a
10 p

The Golden Treasure.

silver cross on his breast, as his father had dreamt,
but he had sound limbs, a thing the mother had
not dreamt. And what a rejoicing was there !
They laughed and they wept; and Peter embraced
the old Fire-drum.
"There stands the old skeleton still!" he said.
And the father beat a roll upon it.
One would think that a great fire had broken
out here," said the Fire-drum. Bright day fire
in the heart golden treasure I skrat skr-r-at !

And what then? What then ?-Ask the town
"Peter's far outgrowing the drum," he said.
"Peter will be greater than I."
And yet he was the son of a royal plate-washer;
but all that he had learned in half a lifetime,
Peter learned in half a year.
There was something so merry about him, some-
thing so truly kind hearted. His eyes gleamed,
and his hair gleamed too-there was no denying
He ought to have his hair dyed," said the
neighbour's wife. That answered capitally with
the policeman's daughter, and she got a husband."


Tlie Golden Treasure.

"But her hair turned as green as duckweed;
and was always having to be coloured up."
She knows how to manage for herself," said
the neighbours, "arid so can Peter. He comes
to the most genteel houses, even to the burgo-
master's, where he gives Miss Charlotte pianoforte
He could play He could play, fresh out of his
heart, the most charming pieces, that had never
yet been put upon music-paper. He played in the
bright nights, and in the dark nights too. The
neighbours declared it was unbearable, and the
Fire-drum was of the same opinion.
He played until his thoughts soared up, and
burst forth in great plans for the future:
"To be famous !"
And burgomaster's Charlotte sat at the piano.
Her delicate fingers danced over the keys, and
made them ring into Peter's heart. It seemed
too much for him to bear; and this happened not
once, but many times; and at last one day he
seized the delicate fingers and the white hand, and
kissed it, and looked into her great brown eyes.
Heaven knows what he said; but we may be
allowed to guess at it. Charlotte blushed to guess
at it. She reddened from brow to neck, and

The Golden Treasure.

answered not a single word; and then strangers
came into the room, and one of them was the
state councillor's son: he had a lofty white fore-
head, and carried it so high that it seemed to go
back into his neck. And Peter sat by her a long
time, and she looked at him with gentle eyes.
At home that evening he spoke of travel in the
wide world, and of the golden treasure that lay
hidden for him in his violin.
"To be famous !"

Tum-me-lum, tum-me-lum, tum-me-lum "
said the Fire-drum. Peter has gone clean out of
his wits. I think there must be a fire in the house."
Next day the mother went to market.
Shall I tell you news, Peter ?" she asked when
she came home. "A capital piece of news. Bur-
gomaster's Charlotte has engaged herself to the
state councillor's son; the betrothal took place
yesterday evening."
"No !" cried Peter, and he sprang up from his
chair. But his mother persisted in saying Yes."
She had heard it from the baker's wife, whose
husband had it from the burgomaster's own mouth.
And Peter became as pale as death, and sat
down again.


The Golden Treasure.

Good Heaven! what's the matter with you ?"
asked his mother.
"Nothing, nothing; only leave me to myself,"
he answered, but the tears were running down his
"My sweet child, my golden treasure! cried

," '2 -

the mother, and she wept; but the Fire-drum san
-not out loud, but inwardly,
"Charlotte 's gone Charlotte 's gone! and now
the song is done."
But the song was not done; there were many
more verses in it, long verses, the most beautiful
verses, the golden treasures of a life.


The Golden Treasure,

"She behaves like a mad woman," said the
neighbour's wife. "All the world is to see the
letters she gets from her golden treasure, and to
read the words that are written in the papers about
his violin playing. And he sends her money too,
and that's very useful to her since she has been
a widow."
"He plays before emperors and kings," said
the town musician. I never had that fortune;
but he 's my pupil, and he does not forget his old
And his mother said,
His father dreamt that Peter came home from
the war with a silver cross. He did not gain one
in the war; but it is still more difficult to gain one
in this way. Now he has the cross of honour.
If his father had only lived to see it !"
"He's grown famous said the Fire-drum;
and all his native town said the same thing, for the
drummer's son, Peter with the red hair-Peter
whom they had known as a little boy, running
about in wooden shoes, and then as a drummer,
playing for the dancers-was become famous!
"He played at our house before he played in the
presence of kings," said the burgomaster's wife.
"At that time he was quite smitten with Char-


The Golden Treasure.

lotte. He was always of an aspiring turn. At
that time he was saucy and an enthusiast. My
husband laughed when he heard of the foolish
affair, and now our C'l1, i..tt,-'s a state councillor's
A golden treasure had been hidden in the heart
and soul of the poor child, who had beaten the roll
as a drummer-a roll of victory for those who had
been ready to retreat. There was a golden trea-
sure in his bosom, the power of sound: it burst
forth on his violin as if the instrument had been a
complete organ, and as if all the elves of a mid-
summer night were dancing across the strings. In
its sounds were heard the piping of the thrush and
the full clear note of the human voice therefore
the sound brought rapture to every heart, and
carried his name triumphant through the land.
That was a great I:.:. i.1l-the firebrand of in-
"And then he looks so splendid!" said the
young ladies and the old ladies too and the oldest
of all procured an album for famous locks of hair,
wholly and solely that she might beg a'lock of
his rich splendid hair, that treasure, that golden
And the son come into the poor room of the


The Golden Treasure.

drummer, elegant as a prince, happier than a king.
His eyes were as clear and his face was as radiant
as sunshine; and he held his mother in his arms,
and she kissed his mouth, and wept as blissfully as
any one can weep for joy; and he nodded at every
old piece of furniture in the room, at the cupboard
with the tea-cups, and at the flower-vase. He
nodded at the sleeping-bench, where he had slept
as a little boy; but the old Fire-drum he brought
out, and dragged it into the middle of the room,
and said to it and to his mother:
"My father would have beaten a famous roll
this evening. Now I must do it! "
And he beat a thundering roll-call on the in-
strument, and the Drum felt so highly honoured
that the parchment burst with exultation.
He has a splendid touch! said the Drum.
"I've a remembrance of him now that will last.
I expect that the same thing will happen to his
mother, from pure joy over her golden treasure."
And this is the story of the golden treasure.



Sthe old days, when grandpapa was quite
a little boy, and ran about in little red
breeches and a red coat, and a feather in his cap-
for that's the costume the little boys wore in his
time when they were dressed in their best-many
things were very different from what they are now:
there was often a good deal of show in the streets
-show that we don't see nowadays, because it
has been abolished as too old-fashioned: still, it is
very interesting to hear grandfather tell about it.
It must really have been a gorgeous sight to
behold, in those days, when the shoemaker brought
over the shield, when the court-house was changed.
The silken flag waved to and fro, on the shield
itself a double eagle was displayed, and a big boot;
the youngest lads carried the welcome," and the
chest of the workmen's guild, and their shirt-
sleeves were adorned with red and white ribbons;

58 The Storm shakes the Shield.

tne elder ones carried drawn swords, each with a
lemon stuck on its point. There was a full band
of music, and the most splendid of all the instru-
ments was the bird," as grandfather called the
big stick with the crescent at the top, and all
manner of dingle-dangles hanging to it, a perfect

I 'i llI \Ir ** ^w
a; --"

low Grandpapa looked iven a Boy.

Turkish clatter of music. The stick was lifted
high in the air, and swung up and down till it
jingled again, and quite dazzled one's eyes when
the sun shone on all its glory of gold, and silver,
and brass.
In front of the procession ran the Harlequin,
dressed in clothes made of all kinds of coloured

The Storm shakes the Shield.

patches artfully sewn together, with a black face,
and bells on his head like a sledge horse: he beat
the people with his hat, which made a great clatter-
ing without hurting them, and the people would
crowd together and fall back, only to advance again
the next moment. Little boys and girls fell over
their own toes into the gutter, old woman dis-
pensed digs with their elbows, and- looked sour,
and took snuff. One laughed, another chatted;
the people thronged the windows and door-steps,
and even all the roofs. The sun shone; and al-
though they had a little rain too, that was good for
the farmer; and when they got wetted thoroughly,
they only thought what a blessing it was for the
And what stories grandpapa could tell! As a
little boy he had seen all these fine doings in their
greatest pomp. The oldest of the policemen used
to make a speech from the platform on which the
shield was hung up, and the speech was in verses,
as if it had been made by a poet, as, indeed, it had;
for three people had concocted it together, and
they had first drunk a good bowl of punch, so that
the speech might turn out well.
And the people gave a cheer for the speech, but
they shouted much louder for the Harlequin, when

60 The Storm shakes the Shield.

he appeared in front of the platform, and made a
grimace at them.
The fools played the fool most admirably, and
drank mead out of spirit-glasses, which they then
flung among the crowd, by whom they were caught
up. Grandfather was the possessor of one of thcs3
glasses, which had been given him by a working
mason, who had managed to catch it. Such a
scene was really very pleasant; and the shield on
the new court-house was hung with flowers and
green wreaths.
"One never forgets a feast like that, however
old one may grow," said grandfather. Nor did he
forget it, though he saw many other grand spec-
tacles in his time, and could tell about them too;
but it was most pleasant of all to hear him tell
about the shield that was brought in the town from
the old to the new court-house.
Once, when he was a little boy, grandpapa had
gone with his parents to see this festivity. He had
never yet been in the metropolis of the country.
There were so many people in the streets, that he
thought that the shield was being carried. There
were many shields to be seen; a hundred rooms
might have been filled with pictures, if they had
been hung up inside and outside. At the tailor's

The Storm shakes the Shield.

were pictures of all kinds of clothing, to show that
he could stitch up people from the coarsest to the
finest; at the tobacco manufacturer's were pictures
of the most charming little boys, smoking cigars,
just as they do in reality; there were signs with
painted butter and herrings, clerical collars and
coffins, and inscriptions and announcements into
the bargain. A person could walk up and down
for a whole day through the streets, and tire him-
self out with looking at the pictures; and then he
would know all about what people lived in the
houses, for they had hung out their shields or
signs; and, as grandfather said, it was a very in-
structive thing, in a great town, to know at once
who the inhabitants were.
And this is what happened with these shields,
when grandpapa came to the town. He told it me
himself, and he hadn't a rogue on his back," as
mother used to tell me he had when he wanted to
make me believe something outrageous, for now he
looked quite trustworthy.
The first night after he came to the town had
been signalized by the most terrible gale ever re-
corded in the newspapers, a gale such as none of
the inhabitants had ever before experienced. The
air was dark with , i tiles; old woodNwork

62 The Storm shakes the S/ielcd.

crashed and fell; and a wheelbarrow run up the
street all alone, only to get out of the way. There
was a groaning in the air, and a howling and a
shrieking, and altogether it was a terrible storm.
The water in the canal rose over the banks, for it
did not know where to run. The storm swept over
the town, carrying plenty of chimneys with it, and
more than one proud weathercock on a church
tower had to bow, and has never got over it from
that time.
There was a kind of sentry-house, where dwelt
the venerable old superintendent of the fire bri-
gade, who always arrived with the last engine.
The storm would not leave this little sentry-house
alone, but must needs tear it from its fastenings,
and roll it down the street; and, wonderfully
enough, it stopped opposite to the door of the dirty
journeyman plasterer, who had saved three lives
at the last fire, but the sentry-house thought no-
thing of that.
The barber's shield, the great brazen dish, was
carried away, and hurled straight into the embra-
sure of the councillor of justice; and the whole
neighbourhood said this looked almost like malice,
inasmuch as they, and nearly all the friends of the
c-uncillor's wife, used to call that lady "the

The Storm shakes the Shield.

Razor for she was so sharp that she knew more
about other people's business than they knew about
it themselves.
A shield with a dried salt fish painted on it flew
exactly in front of the door of a house where dwelt
a man who wrote a newspaper. That was a very
poor joke perpetrated by the gale, which seemed
to have forgotten that a man who writes in a paper
is not the kind of person to understand any liberty
taken with him; for he is a king in his own news-
paper, and likewise in his own opinion.
The weathercock flew to the opposite house,
where he perched, looking the picture of malice-
so the neighbours said.
The cooper's tub stuck itself up under the head
of "ladies' costumes."
The eating-house keeper's bill of fare, which
had hung at his door in a heavy frame, was posted
by the storm over the entrance to the theatre,
where nobody went: it was a ridiculous list-
" Horse-radish, soup, and stuffed cabbage." And
now people came in plenty.
The fox's skin, the honourable sign of the furrier,
was found fastened to the bell-pull of a young man
who always went to early lecture, and looked like
a furled umbrella, and said he was striving after


64 The Storm shakes the Shield.

truth, and was considered by his aunt a model
and an example."
The inscription Institution for superior educa-
tion was found near the billiard club, which place
of resort was further adorned with the words
" Children brought up by hand." Now, this was
not at all witty but, you see, the storm had done
it, and no one has any control over that.
It was a terrible night, and in the morning-
only think !-nearly all the shields had changed
places: in some places the inscriptions were so
malicious, that grandfather would not speak of
them at all; but I saw that he was chuckling se-
cretly, and there may have been some inaccuracy
in his description, after all.
The poor people in the town, and still more the
strangers, were continually making mistakes in
the people they wanted to see; nor was this to be
avoided, when they went according to the shields
that were hung up. Thus, for instance, some who
wanted to go to a very grave assembly of elderly
men, where important affairs were to be discussed,
found themselves in a noisy boys' school, where all
the company were leaping over the chairs and
There were also PI..l:. who made a mistake

The Bird of Popular Song.

between the church and the theatre, and that was
terrible indeed!
Such a storm we have never witnessed in our
day; for that only happened in grandpapa's time,
when he was quite a little boy. Perhaps we shall
never experience a storm of the kind, but our
grandchildren may; and we can only hope and
pray that all may stay at home while the storm is
moving the shields.


rT is winter-time. The earth wears a snowy
Sg,: arment, 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.
18 F

66 The Bird of Popular Song.

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 sor-
row, 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?"
Then the dead man answered,
"No one hath 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

The Bird of Popular Song.

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 moon-
light. Gladly and of good courage, the form arose
in splendour 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 the ring-
ing voice of the thrush, with the moving 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


68 The Bird of Popular Song.

northern fidelity and truth. He has stories in
words and in tones; he has proverbs and snatches
of proverb song, 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 strong
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 stu-
pidity 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 wo-
man from the wood, and the travelling pedlar 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. With-
out are the night and the snow-storm: he lays the

The Bird of Popular Song. 69

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 colours
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
.... -- -. '- ,
I I V ; -

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 OP ALL.

It is winter-time. The wind is sharp as a two-
I : = __ 1 _- -

70 The Bird of Popular Song.

edged sword, the snow-flakes chase each other: it
seemed 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; "every-
thing living in it is piep piep piep "
The black ravens and crows flew on over the
white snow.
"Grub, grub they cried. There's some-
thing 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

The Bird oJ Popular Song.

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 rush-
ing 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 "



-IE custodian of the castle was conducting
me through the place, repeating names and
dates; and his little boy was following us, but
stopping every now and then to play in a window.
I should have preferred to sit confidentially with
the little lad, and let him telt me truth or dreams;
for, after all, most of the stories our elders give us
and call "historical" are but dreams when all is
done. I should have liked to stand with him, in a
moonlight night, and look out over the old Gothic
town, whose towers point up at the stars, as if to
tell the shining specks to look down on the plain,
where now the postboy's horn is sounding, but
where, once on a time, Wallenstein's trumpeters
sounded the charge. In the mists that float over
the wide expanse I should behold the Swedish
troopers who fought for the Protestant faith.

The Legend of N... ,!'* Castle.

I should like to sit with the little lad under the
linden tree, and repeat with him what the legend
tells of Eppelin, the wild knight of Garlingen.
From his castle Eppelin watched for every caravan
of Niirnberg merchants who travelled to that city
with their wares; and then he would swoop down
like a falcon on his prey. But the falcon was
caught, the wild knight languished in this castle,
where the linden tree is growing still. The day
came on which he was to die and, according to
the gallant old custom, it was permitted him, as a
man condemned to death, to ask that a wish should
be granted him; and the wish of the knight was,
that he might bestride his gallant horse once more.
The good steed neighed for joy, and proudly
carried his master round the narrow courtyard,
and the knight patted its strong smooth neck; and
the noble beast's muscles seemed to swell, and its
hoofs beat the pavement impatiently. And it ca-
reered round in a circle, ever faster and faster, so
that the gaolers and armed guards were obliged to
press close to the walls, to leave room for it. But
they had no suspicion, for they knew that the castle
gate was securely fastened, and that there was no
escape for the knight. "But if they could have
read what stood written in the horse's eyes," says


74 The Legend of Niirnberg Castle.

the chronicle, they would have stopped its career
and bound the wild knight's hands." And what
stood written in the horse's eyes? They spoke in
dumb but fiery language:
In this wretched courtyard thy knightly blood
may not flow! Here may not end thy merry,

raging battle, through the deep defiles, and the
And the horse rose as though for a spring. The

Tknhe snit's esca pe. w

active life Shall I not further bear thee into the
raging battle, through the deep defiles, and the
merry green forest? Shall I no more eat food
from thy gallant hand ? Trust to my tremendous
strength, and I will save thee !"
And the horse rose as though for a spring. The
knight struck the spurs into its flanks, drew a deep

A Night in the Apennines.

breath, and bent forward over the creature's neck.
Fire flashed from its hoofs; a bound, and, wonder-
ful to relate, the horse had gained the crest of the
outer wall; another, and horse and rider sprang
across the deep moat, and were free !
And whenever the wind whistles through the
linden tree, it tells the legend once more.


M 7VER the green, flat Lombard plains, rise
J the vine- and forest-clad Apennines. The
traveller who issues from the gates of Bologna,
may fancy his road leads across the terraces of an
immense ruined garden, like that which, as the
legend tells us, the mighty Semiramis built.
It was in the middle of December. The stamp
of the late autumn was upon all things. The leaves
of the vines were red, the forest leaves were yellow,


76 A Night in the Apennines.

only the laurel hedges stood as green as ever; and
the pine and cypress woods waved in undiminished
splendour. Slowly we drove upward, ever upward:
garlands of vine-leaves trailed down over ruined
walls; we met teams of giant oxen, which had
been used as a help for the horses : their white
shining sides gleamed with a pinky tint in the
setting sun.
Gradually, as we rose higher, the region became
more desolate, and presently I went forward alone.
The sun had set, and in a few moments a blue
glimmer shone over the mountains; a glimmer in
the atmosphere, which seemed to emanate from the
hills themselves. Not a breath of air was stirring;
everything was mild and still, and an aspect of
majesty in the mountains and in the deep valleys
attuned the soul to meditation. The loneliness of
the valley gave it, I may not say a tone of melan-
choly, but rather an aspect of rest, as"if Sleep
were holding his court down there; for a feeling
of rest and peace was spread on all things, heigh-
tened by the soft murmur of the river far beneath.
The road wound round the mountain on which I
was wandering; and presently I saw no carriage,
no human being, nothing but the deep valley; I
was alone, quite alone.

A Night in the Apennines. 77

Night came on; the stars began to glitter. In
our northern regions they shine brightest in the
frosty winter night; but here, in the mountains,
the sky seems much higher; and the distant vault
looked transparent, as though another immeasur-
able space began behind it.
A ray of light presently pierced through the
rocky distance. It came from a tavern built upon
the mountain. In the open alcove a lamp had
been lighted to the Madonna. The camereire or
chamberlain was ready, in his white apron and
velvet jacket, to receive us, the travellers. We
were ushered into a great saloon, whose whitish-
grey walls were covered with inscriptions in all the
languages of Europe. It was cold and lonely
enough; but great bundles of brushwood were
thrown into the fire-place, and set on fire, and we
gathered in a circle about the blaze. Each one of
our little party had something to tell, especially
about the last great inundation from the river.
After the smoking supper had been dispatched,
each one sought his bed. Mine was in a some-
what distant room, large and lonely-a couch as
broad as it was long: there was a little vessel of
holy water at the bed-head, and on the wall were
inscriptions, and among the rest one in Danish, a

78 A Night in the Apennines.

translation of the German popular song, "Enjoy
life while it lasteth "
So a countryman of mine had been here, and
had written this. May his life be an enjoyable one!
A ricketty table and two rush-bottomed chairs
formed the rest of the furniture.
I opened a window in front of which great iron
bars had been fastened. The window looked out
upon a deep valley. Below all was darkness. I
could hear a stream rushing onward. Above me
glittered the starry sky. I leaned my forehead
against the iron bars, and did not feel more lonely
than I had felt in my own little room in Denmark.
He who has a home in his own country may feel
home-sick, but he who possesses nothing is at home
everywhere. In a few minutes my room here
seemed to become a familiar home to me; but I
did not yet know my neighbours.
Besides the common door, I noticed another-a
smaller one, which was fastened by a bolt. Whither
might this lead? What was behind this door?
I took the five-wicked metal lamp, three wicks of
which had been lighted. I kindled the other two,
drew back the bolt, and went forth on a journey of
Beyond the door I found a kind of lumber-room.

A Night in the Apennines.

Here were chests, boxes, sacks, and great jars;
and old clothes and guns hung upon the walls.
But there was another door leading out of this
room. I opened it, and stood in a long narrow
passage; traversing this I stood before another
door. Should I go farther ? I stood still and
listened. Suddenly I heard two sounds like notes
played on a flute, one deep, the other high and
piercing; after a pause they were repeated.
The longer I listened, the more I felt convinced
that these sounds did not proceed from a flute. I
lifted the latch, and the door flew open suddenly,
much more suddenly than I had expected. The
room was dimly lighted by a lamp, and an old
peasant with long white hair was before me, sitting
half undressed in an arm-chair, playing the flute.
I made an excuse for my intrusion, but he did
not heed me. I shut the door and was about to
retreat, when it was opened again by a young
peasant lad, who asked me in a whisper whom I
was seeking
The old man whom I had seen was the uncle of
the landlord, and had been of weak mind since his
sixteenth year.
I will tell the few particulars I learned respecting
his case. His illness had come upon him as though


80 A Night in the Apennines.

wafted towards him by the wind. No one could
give any reason for it. As a boy he had played
prettily upon the flute; but since a certain night
he had never tried anything but two notes, one a
deep and mournful one, and the other high and
piercing. These notes he continually repeated,

V .1

V.'I C, i

The old Peasant.

and sometimes played them at night for hours to-
gether. They had tried to take his flute from him,
but then he would become as furious as a wild
animal; though, when it was returned to him, he
at once became calm and friendly. The boy who
spoke to me slept in the same room with the old
man, and had become accustomed to the sound of

A Night in the Apennines.

the flute, as a man grows accustomed to the tick-
ing of a clock, or the clang of a blacksmith's
hammer, when the blacksmith has been his neigh-
bour for years.
I went back to my room and locked the door;
but the two notes of the flute rang in my ears:
they sounded like the distant creaking of a wea-
thercock turned by the wind. I could not sleep;
my fancy was busy about the old man. I heard
the flute tones sounding like notes from the spirit
world, and thought how, when the old man is dead,
the people of the house will hear these notes in
imagination, as they now hear them in reality.
At length, towards morning, I fell asleep, and I
think I was awakened within an hour; for we were
to start before daybreak. It was still night when
we sat once more in our carriage. The mountains
lay before us, covered with snow, and seemed to
glow hotly in the sunshine. Near Pietra Malas
nothing is to be seen but naked wild rocks of vol-
canic origin; and the volcanoes are not yet extinct,
for to the right a thick smoke comes-whirling from
the rocky clefts. This morning I beheld two seas
like shining bands on the horizon : to the left the
Adriatic, to the right the Mediterranean Sea. A
strong wall has been built here close to the road,
13 G


82 A Night in the Apennines.

to give the passengers protection from the storm,
which comes rushing from the east. Before this wall
was erected, there were often days and nights in
which none might wander here, for the angel of
the storm was walking abroad over the mountains.
The old man in the tavern," said our vetturino,
"one night crawled across this mountain on all
fours, so they say. I suppose he was not mad at
that time. He wanted to go down on the opposite
side of the mountain."
Again I thought of the old man, and of the
tones of the flute. The road wound downwards in
beautiful serpentine curves, over arches of masonry,
always sheltered by the mountains, where the sun
shone warm, where the snow had melted, and the
trees appeared decked with leaves. Beautiful
Italy!" cried all, rejoicingly. The vetturino cracked
his whip, and the echoes cracked in reply far
louder than he could do.

I I~


H-IE circumstance which makes the Carnival
. in Rome more rich and lively than the same
period in any other place, is the limitation of the
festivities in the streets to six days, and to three
hours on each day. Only the Corso and the side
streets in its immediate neighbourhood present
scenes for this popular festival. Everything is con.
centrated, time as well as place. The celebration
here is like a flashing glass of champagne-the
goblet foams, is immediately quaffed, and then
follow the fasts.
Goethe has painted from the Romish Carnival,
which presents the same features year after year,
so charmingly, that no one could do it better;
therefore a new description would be unnecessary.
Nor am I about to give one; only, to furnish a
picture of Rome to a certain extent, I lay a short

lm ~1.II&Pi~l~\ Fi)~~ll l~~gbWo Vcr~~

The Carnival in Rome.

sketch here in my book: the particular circum-
stances belong to the Carnival of 1841.
Brave in purple and gold sits the senator in the
Capitol, surrounded by pages in tawny liveries: a
deputation of Jews appears before him with the
petition that the community may be permitted to
inhabit for another year the quarters assigned to it
in the Ghetto. The petition is granted; the senator
seats himself in his state coach, the old bells of
the Capitol are set ringing, and this is the sign that
the Carnival may begin. The carriage proceeds
at a foot-pace towards the Piazza del Popolo, and
behind it throng a mass of people from palaces,
houses, and taverns. But everywhere the greatest
order prevails; every lady can venture out without
danger, in man's clothes, and nobody thinks of
insulting her, or causing her embarrassment by
the slightest gesture. It is amusing to see how
the poor people manage to procure a dress for the
Carnival. They cover their own clothes completely
with salad leaves, even to their shoes, and wear
wigs of salad leaves on their heads; man and wife,
and sometimes the children too, appear in a com-
plete disguise of salad leaves. A pair of spectacles,
manufactured from the peel of an orange, com-
pletes the costume, in which the. noor couple may


The Carnival in Rome.

be seen marching down the Corso, with perfect
gravity, and quite a royal bearing.
From the Piazza del Popolo the senator and his
train proceed up the Corso. All the windows and
balconies are here hung with tapestries of red, blue,
and yellow silk; everywhere there is a throng of
people, the majority of whom are in fancy dresses,
with or without masks. In front of the houses,
close to the walls, little cane seats or benches are
ranged along, which are let out on hire, and on
which the quieter people take up a position. One
row of carriages drives up, and the other down;
and often horses and carriages are adorned with
fluttering ribbons and green boughs. Frequently
the coachmen, old fellows with true Italian faces,
are seen disguised as women, with a poodle, dressed
as a baby or a girl, by their sides. Other carriages
are metamorphosed into steamboats, with a crew
of sailors, or girls, in uniform. When two such
vehicles happen to meet, there is a grand fight, in
which confetti, or sweetmeats, are showered down,
not flung by the hand, but poured from Horns of
Plenty. On the pavement, and even among the
carriages, the great stream of life goes surging to
and fro. When two Punchinellos or Harlequins
happen to meet, they take each other's arm, and


86 The Carnival in Rome.

proceed together, shouting and screaming. Masks
in similar costumes associate themselves together,
and soon whole bands are seen making their way
rejoicingly among carriages and pedestrians, like
waterspouts whirling across a slightly agitated sea.
At sundown cannon-shots are heard, and the car-
riages turn into the bye-streets at the signal; sol-
diers, who have been posted at a little distance
from one another, now collect into bodies, and
march down the street; the cavalry follows, at first
slowly, the second time at a brisker pace, and the
third time at full gallop; for this is a sign that the
races are going to begin.
On the Piazza del Popolo lofty platforms have
been erected. A rope is stretched across the road,
and behind there are six or seven half-wild horses,
with iron balls, garnished with spikes, dangling at
their sides, and lighted tinder on their backs.
The rope falls to the ground, and away gallop
the horses, the silken ribbons and the tinsel orna-
ments rattling and fluttering on their manes and
tails. Cavalli! cavalli is shouted in wildest
clamour by the crowd, who make way for the ap-
proaching steeds, who rush onward, maddened by
the tumult: they rush past, and the dense masses
of men close up behind them.

The Carnival in Rome.

Before the horses have reached the goal, they
are often so exhausted that they arrive at a gentle
trot; nevertheless, the farther end of the street
has been hung with great carpets, stretched across
from house to house, at a little distance from each
other. If the horses came storming along in ever

such wild career, they would be effectually stopped
by entangling themselves in these draperies.
A comic effect is produced when, just before the
commencement of the race, a dog happens to slip
into the space cleared in the street, and the people
who are standing nearest set about hooting him;
for the whole assembly follows the example thus



88 The Carnival in Rome.

set, and the unhappy dog is obliged to run the
gauntlet through the whole length of the course,
the shouting and clapping of hands he encounters
on both sides keeping him in the middle of the
road. What a rejoicing is there The poor dog
must needs run a race, and if he happens to be fat
and plump, he looks comically miserable; for he
can hardly put one leg before the other, and is
nevertheless compelled to gallop.
It is pleasant during Carnival-time to go into a
tavern in the evening, where you may often meet
a whole company of merry masks: they drink their
foglietta, improvise a song, or dance the Saltarello.
Large groups move through the streets with song
and beating of tambourines, preceded by a mask
carrying a burning torch. In their fancy dresses
they visit the theatres, especially the smaller ones;
and there is as much acting among the audience
as among the professional mimes. I followed a
group of this kind into the Teatro Aliberti. About
a third part of the audience wore masquerade
dresses; knights in armour, flower girls, Harlequins
and Greek gods sat among us as ordinary mortals.
One of the largest boxes in the grand tier was
quite filled with pretty young Roman women,
dressed as Pierrots, but without mask or rouge;

The Carnival in Rome. 89

they were so lively and charming, it was a pleasure
to look at them; but they certainly took every one's
attention completely from the stage. The piece
performed that evening was a favourite tragedy,
called "Byron in Venice, England, and Misso-
longhi." It was very moving, but the audience
seemed exceedingly merry. In the gallery sat a
man belonging to the lower classes. He had a
thick black beard, and was attired as a peasant
girl; he affected great emotion at the play, and
spread first his veil and then his skirt over the
box in front of him, and wiped his eyes, and ap-
plauded. The eyes of the audience were fixed
upon him more than upon Byron in Missolonghi.
The last day of the Carnival is always the live-
liest; it closes with the gem of the whole festival,
the glowing, splendid Moccolo. This year the
scene was even more animated than usual. Here
came a disguised young couple, marching up on
gigantic stilts, and moving boldly about among
carriages and pedestrians; yonder two men came
growling along, disguised as bears, one white, the
other coal-black, chained to each other, and fol-
lowed by a miller fastened to a sweep. Here
might be seen a man, hopping along with lottery
tickets; his hat was crowned by a bladder of wind.

The Carnival in Rome.

Yonder came another, dragging an organ on a
hand-cart: out of each of the pipes looked a live
cat who mewed piteously; for the man had a string
fastened to the tail of each Grimalkin, and by
pulling this string he played his organ. A carriage
appeared decked out like a flowery throne, and on
the throne was seated a minstrel: his harp was
fastened securely in front of him, but over the
harp stood a wheel of Fortune, adorned with a vast
show of flags, and the wheel turned as the wind
blew. Another carriage was made to represent a
gigantic fiddle: on each string rode a comic figure,
the first string being occupied by a pretty little girl,
and all of them sung as loudly as they could, being
incited thereto by the fiddler, who stood ready to
draw his bow over the back of each person whose
turn it was to give the tone. All along the road
fell showers of confetti and of flowers, especially
of the latter, for this spring had been very rich in
violets and anemones. I saw Don Miguel of Spain,
the veritable Don Miguel, striding through the
crowd, in private clothes; he was received with a
deluge of confetti. Queen Christina of Spain had
posted herself on a balcony: flowers and confetti
were her weapons.
And now the signal was given for the horse race.


The Carnival in Rome.


On this day one of the spectators was killed by a
horse; but similar accidents happen every year,
so the corpse was carried out of the way, and the

/ I '
I.~ r Ii .

I, the &reets.

sports proceeded. Moccoli moccoli !' was the
cry; and in a moment from every window, from
every balcony, and even from the roofs of the
houses, were thrust forth long poles, sticks, and

The Carnival in Rome.

planks, garnished with little lighted candles. The
occupants of the carriages, who, during the pro-
gress of the race, had been obliged to wait in the
side streets, now once more thronged the Corso;
but the horses, the coachman's hat and his whip,
were garnished with burning wax candles; every
lady in every carriage held her taper aloft, and
sought to protect it from the opposite party, who
made every effort to extinguish the light. Sticks,
with pocket-handkerchiefs fastened to them, flut-
tered aloft. A shouting and shrieking, which no
one can imagine who has not heard it, filled the
air. Senza moccolo senza moccolo Little
paper balloons with lights inside them sailed down
among the crowd, and it seemed as if all the stars
of heaven, with the Milky Way among them, were
making a progress through the Corso; the air
seemed heated by the numberless candles, and
every ear was deafened by the din. It was the
wildest Bacchanal scene: when suddenly every
light was extinguished, and as the last glimmer
went out, and darkness and silence fell upon all,
the church bells sounded, and the long fast had
And next morning one well-packed carriage
after another drove away, laden with strangers-


Mahomet's Birthday.

away from quiet Rome, where all the galleries
were closed, and every alter-piece was hung with
black draperies.
And we went away to Naples.



HE fourth of April is the birthday of the
Prophet. Already on the eve of that day
the celebration began; and to say the truth, the
performance on the eve was the prettiest part of
the festivity. I considered it unfortunate that the
night happened to be moonlight, and that the Os-
manli police regulations demanded that every one
who went out after sundown should carry a light
in a lantern; but I was obliged to submit, for the
police regulation could not be altered, nor could the


Mahomet's Birthday.

moonlight. A young Russian named Aderhas and I
associated ourselves together, and, without a com-
panion, but duly provided with a light in a great
paper lantern, we sallied forth to behold the illumi-
nation in honour of the Prophet.
We went through a narrow street of Pera, and
before us lay a scene of fantastic beauty, such as
we can only see in the North in a wondrous dream.
From the row of houses near which we stood, down
towards the bay, extended a churchyard, that is to
say, a cypress grove, with thick dark trees; and
dark night rested upon it. Over rough hills, down-
wards among the tall trees, winds the path which
the footsteps of men and the hoofs of horses have
worn, sometimes among the tombs, sometimes
among fallen grave-stones. Here and there a blue
lantern was seen moving to and fro, which soon
disappeared, to reappear shortly upon the black
background of the picture.
In the churchyard a few lonely houses lie scat-
tered, and the lights glimmered from the upper
windows, or were carried to and fro upon the
Beyond the cypress-tops shone, blue as a Dama-
scene blade, the Gulf with its many ships. Two of
these, the largest, were richly ornamented with


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