"Beautiful Soroe, encircled by woods!" thy tranquil, cloistered town peeps forth from among thy moss-covered trees; the keen bright eyes of youth gaze from the academy, over the lake, to the busy highway, where the locomotive's dragon snorts, while it is flying through the wood. Soroe, thou poet's pearl, that hast in thy custody the honoured dust of Holberg! like a majestic white swan by the deep lake stands thy far-famed seat of learning. We fix our eyes on it, and then they wander in search of the simple star-flower in the wooded ground—a small house. Pious hymns are chanted there, that echo over the length and breadth of the land; words are uttered there to which the very rustics listen, and hear of Denmark's bygone ages. As the greenwood and the birds' songs belong to each other, so are associated the names of Soroe and INGEMANN.

To Slagelse! What is the pearl that dazzles us here? The monastery of Antoorskov has vanished, even the last solitary remaining wing, though one old relic still exists—renovated and renovated again—a wooden cross upon the heights above, where, in legendary lore, it is said that HOLY ANDERS, the warrior priest, woke up, borne thither in one night from Jerusalem!

Korsoer—there wert thou[9] born, who gave us

"Mirth with melancholy mingled, In stories of 'Knud Sjaellandsfar.'"

[Footnote 9: Jeus Baggesen.—Trans.]

Thou master of language and of wit! the old decaying ramparts of the deserted fortification are now the last visible mementos of thy childhood's home. When the sun is sinking, their shadows fall upon the spot where stood the house in which thine eyes first opened on the light. From these ramparts, looking towards Sprogoes hills, thou sawest, when thou "wert little,"

"The moon behind the island sink;"

and sang it in undying verse, as afterwards thou didst sing the mountains of Switzerland; thou, who didst wander through the vast labyrinth of the world, and found that

"Nowhere do the roses seem so red— Ah! nowhere else the thorn so small appears, And nowhere makes the down so soft a bed, As that where innocence reposed in bygone years!"

Capricious, charming warbler! We will weave a wreath of woodbine. We will cast it into the waves, and they will bear it to Kielerfiord, upon whose coast thine ashes repose. It will bring a greeting from a younger race, a greeting from thy native town, Korsoer, where ends the row of pearls.

II.

"It is, truly enough, a row of pearls from Copenhagen to Korsoer," said my grandmother, who had heard read aloud what we have just been reading. "It is a row of pearls for me, and it was that more than forty years ago," she added. "We had no steam engines then. It took us days to make a journey which you can make now in a few hours. For instance, in 1815, I was then one-and-twenty years old. That is a pleasant age. Even up in the thirties it is also a pleasant age. In my young days it was much rarer than now to go to Copenhagen, the city of all cities, as we thought it. After twenty years' absence from it, my parents determined to visit it once more, and I was to accompany them. The journey had been projected and talked of for years. At length it was positively to be accomplished. I fancied that I was beginning quite a new life, and certainly, in one way, a new life did begin for me.

"After a great deal of packing and preparations we were ready to start. Then what numbers of our neighbours came to bid us good-by! It was a very long journey we had before us. Shortly before mid-day we drove out of Odense in my father's Holstern wagon—a roomy carriage. Our acquaintances bowed to us from the windows of almost every house until we were outside of St. Joergen's Port. The weather was delightful, the birds were singing, all was pleasure. We forgot that it was a long way and a rough road to Nyborg. We reached that place towards evening. The post did not arrive till midnight, and until it came the packet could not sail. At length we went on board. Before us lay the wide waters, as far as the eye could see, and it was a dead calm. We lay down in our clothes and slept. When I awoke in the morning, and went on deck, nothing could be seen on either side of us, there was such a thick fog. I heard the cocks crowing, and I knew the sun must have risen. Bells were ringing: where could they be? The mist cleared away, and we found we were lying a little way from Nyborg. As the day advanced we had a little wind: it stiffened, and we got on faster. At last we were so fortunate, at a little after eleven o'clock at night, as to reach Korsoer. We had taken twenty-two hours to go sixteen miles.

"Glad we were to land; but it was extremely dark, and the lanterns gave very little light. However, all was wonderful to me, who had never been in any other town but Odense.

"'Here Baggesen was born,' said my father, 'and here Birckner lived.'

"It seemed to me that the old town, with its small houses, became at once larger and more important. We were also rejoiced to have the firm earth under us once more; but I could not sleep that night, I was so excited thinking over all I had seen and encountered since I had left home two days before.

"Next morning we rose early. We had before us a bad road, with frightful hills and many valleys, till we reached Slagelse; and beyond it, on the other side, it was but little better; therefore we were anxious to get to Krebsehuset, that we might early next day go on to Soroe, and visit Moellers Emil, as we called him. He was your grandfather, my worthy husband, the dean. He was then a student at Soroe, and very busy about his second examination.

"Well, we arrived about noon at Krebsehuset. It was a gay little town then, and had the best inn on the road, and the prettiest country round it: you must all admit that it is pretty still. She was a very active landlady, Madame Plambek, and everything in her house was as clean as a new pin. There hung up on her wall a letter from Baggesen to her. It was framed, and had a glass over it; it was a very interesting object to look at, and to me it was quite a curiosity. We then went into Soroe, and found Emil there. You may believe he was very glad to see us, and we were very glad to see him—he was so good and so attentive. We went with him to see the church, with Absolon's grave and Holberg's coffin. We saw the old monkish inscriptions, and we sailed over the lake to Parnasset—the sweetest evening I remember. I recollect well that I thought, if one could write poetry anywhere in the world, it would be at Soroe, amidst those charming, peaceful scenes, where nature reigns in all her beauty. Afterwards we visited by moonlight the 'Philosopher's Walk,' as it was called—the beautiful, lonely path by the lake and the moor that leads towards the highway to Krebsehuset. Emil remained to supper with us, and my father and mother thought he had become very clever and very good-looking. He promised us that he would be in Copenhagen within a few days, and would join us there: it was then Whitsuntide. We were going to stay with his family. These hours at Soroe and Krebsehuset, may they not be deemed the most beautiful pearls of my life?

"The next morning we commenced our journey at a very early hour, for we had a long way to go to reach Roeskilde, and we were anxious to get there in time to see the church. In the evening my father wished to visit an old friend, so we stopped at Roeskilde that night, and the next day we arrived at Copenhagen. It took us three days to go from Korsoer to Copenhagen; now the journey is made in three hours. The pearls have not become more valuable—that they could not be—but they are strung together in a new and wonderful manner. I remained three weeks with my parents in Copenhagen, and Emil was with us there for a fortnight. When we returned to Fyen, he accompanied us as far as Korsoer. There, before parting, we were betrothed; so you can well believe that I call from Copenhagen to Korsoer a row of pearls.

"Afterwards, when Emil and I were married, we often spoke of the journey to Copenhagen, and of undertaking it once more. But then came first your mother, then she had brothers and sisters, and there was a great deal to do; so the journey was put off. And when your grandfather got preferment, and was made dean, all was thankfulness and joy; but we never got to Copenhagen. No, never have I set foot in it again, as often as we thought of it and projected going. Now I am too old, and I could not stand travelling by a railroad; but I am very glad that there are railroads—they are a blessing to many. You can come more speedily to me; and Odense is now not farther from Copenhagen than in my young days it was from Nyborg. You could now go in almost the same space of time to Italy as it took us to travel to Copenhagen. Yes, that is something!

"Nevertheless, I shall stay in one place, and let others travel and come to me if they please. But you should not laugh at me for keeping so quiet; I have a greater journey before me than any by the railroad. When it shall please our Lord, I have to travel up to your grandfather; and when you have finished your appointed time on earth, and enjoyed the blessings bestowed here by the Almighty, then I trust that you will ascend to us; and if we then revert to our earthly days, believe me, children, I shall say then as now, 'From Copenhagen to Korsoer is indeed A ROW OF PEARLS.'"



The Pen and the Inkstand.

The following remark was made in a poet's room, as the speaker looked at the inkstand that stood upon his table:—

"It is astonishing all that can come out of that inkstand! What will it produce next? Yes, it is wonderful!"

"So it is!" exclaimed the inkstand. "It is incomprehensible! That is what I always say." It was thus the inkstand addressed itself to the pen, and to everything else that could hear it on the table. "It is really astonishing all that can come from me! It is almost incredible! I positively do not know myself what the next production may be, when a person begins to dip into me. One drop of me serves for half a side of paper; and what may not then appear upon it? I am certainly something extraordinary. From me proceed all the works of the poets. These animated beings, whom people think they recognise—these deep feelings, that gay humour, these charming descriptions of nature—I do not understand them myself, for I know nothing about nature; but still it is all in me. From me have gone forth, and still go forth, these warrior hosts, these lovely maidens, these bold knights on snorting steeds, those droll characters in humbler life. The fact is, however, that I do not know anything about them myself. I assure you they are not my ideas."

"You are right there," replied the pen. "You have few ideas, and do not trouble yourself much with thinking. If you did exert yourself to think, you would perceive that you ought to give something that was not dry. You supply me with the means of committing to paper what I have in me; I write with that. It is the pen that writes. Mankind do not doubt that; and most men have about as much genius for poetry as an old inkstand."

"You have but little experience," said the inkstand. "You have scarcely been a week in use, and you are already half worn out. Do you fancy that you are a poet? You are only a servant; and I have had many of your kind before you came—many of the goose family, and of English manufacture. I know both quill pens and steel pens. I have had a great many in my service, and I shall have many more still, when he, the man who stirs me up, comes and puts down what he takes from me. I should like very much to know what will be the next thing he will take from me."

Late in the evening the poet returned home. He had been at a concert, had heard a celebrated violin player, and was quite enchanted with his wonderful performance. It had been a complete gush of melody that he had drawn from the instrument. Sometimes it seemed like the gentle murmur of a rippling stream, sometimes like the singing of birds, sometimes like the tempest sweeping through the mighty pine forests. He fancied he heard his own heart weep, but in the sweet tones that can be heard in a woman's charming voice. It seemed as if not only the strings of the violin made music, but its bridge, its pegs, and its sounding-board. It was astonishing! The piece had been a most difficult one; but it seemed like play—as if the bow were but wandering capriciously over the strings. Such was the appearance of facility, that every one might have supposed he could do it. The violin seemed to sound of itself, the bow to play of itself. These two seemed to do it all. One forgot the master who guided them, who gave them life and soul. Yes, they forgot the master; but the poet thought of him. He named him, and wrote down his thoughts as follows:

"How foolish it would be of the violin and the bow, were they to be vain of their performance! And yet this is what so often we of the human species are. Poets, artists, those who make discoveries in science, military and naval commanders—we are all proud of ourselves; and yet we are all only the instruments in our Lord's hands. To Him alone be the glory! We have nothing to arrogate to ourselves."

This was what the poet wrote; and he headed it with, "The Master and the Instruments." When the inkstand and the pen were again alone, the latter said,—

"Well, madam, you heard him read aloud what I had written."

"Yes, what I gave you to write," said the inkstand. "It was a hit at you for your conceit. Strange that you cannot see that people make a fool of you! I gave you that hit pretty cleverly. I confess, though, it was rather malicious."

"Ink-holder!" cried the pen.

"Writing-stick!" cried the inkstand.

They both felt assured that they had answered well; and it is a pleasant reflection that one has made a smart reply—one sleeps comfortably after it. And they both went to sleep; but the poet could not sleep. His thoughts welled forth like the tones from the violin, murmuring like a pearly rivulet, rushing like a storm through the forest. He recognised the feelings of his own heart—he perceived the gleam from the everlasting Master.

To Him alone be the glory!



The Child in the Grave.

There was sorrow in the house, there was sorrow in the heart; for the youngest child, a little boy of four years of age, the only son, his parents' present joy and future hope, was dead. Two daughters they had, indeed, older than their boy—the eldest was almost old enough to be confirmed—amiable, sweet girls they both were; but the lost child is always the dearest, and he was the youngest, and a son. It was a heavy trial. The sisters sorrowed as young hearts sorrow, and were much afflicted by their parents' grief; the father was weighed down by the affliction; but the mother was quite overwhelmed by the terrible blow. By night and by day had she devoted herself to her sick child, watched by him, lifted him, carried him about, done everything for him herself. She had felt as if he were a part of herself: she could not bring herself to believe that he was dead—that he should be laid in a coffin, and concealed in the grave. God would not take that child from her—O no! And when he was taken, and she could no longer refuse to believe the truth, she exclaimed in her wild grief,—

"God has not ordained this! He has heartless agents here on earth. They do what they list—they hearken not to a mother's prayers!"

She dared in her woe to arraign the Most High; and then came dark thoughts, the thoughts of death—everlasting death—that human beings returned as earth to earth, and then all was over. Amidst thoughts morbid and impious as these were there could be nothing to console her, and she sank into the darkest depth of despair.

In these hours of deepest distress she could not weep. She thought not of the young daughters who were left to her; her husband's tears fell on her brow, but she did not look up at him; her thoughts were with her dead child; her whole heart and soul were wrapped up in recalling every reminiscence of the lost one—every syllable of his infantine prattle.

The day of the funeral came. She had not slept the night before, but towards morning she was overcome by fatigue, and sank for a short time into repose. During that time the coffin was removed into another apartment, and the cover was screwed down with as little noise as possible.

When she awoke she rose, and wished to see her child; then her husband, with tears in his eyes, told her, "We have closed the coffin—it had to be done!"

"When the Almighty is so hard on me," she exclaimed, "why should human beings be kinder?" and she burst into tears.

The coffin was carried to the grave. The inconsolable mother sat with her young daughters; she looked at them, but she did not see them; her thoughts had nothing more to do with home; she gave herself up to wretchedness, and it tossed her about as the sea tosses the ship which has lost its helmsman and its rudder. Thus passed the day of the funeral, and several days followed amidst the same uniform, heavy grief. With tearful eyes and melancholy looks her afflicted family gazed at her. She did not care for what comforted them. What could they say to change the current of her mournful thoughts?

It seemed as if sleep had fled from her for ever; it alone would be her best friend, strengthen her frame, and recall peace to her mind. Her family persuaded her to keep her bed, and she lay there as still as if buried in sleep. One night her husband had listened to her breathing, and believing from it that she had at length found repose and relief, he clasped his hands, prayed for her and for them all, then sank himself into peaceful slumber. While sleeping soundly he did not perceive that she rose, dressed herself, and softly left the room and the house, to go—whither her thoughts wandered by day and by night—to the grave that hid her child. She passed quietly through the garden, out to the fields, beyond which the road led outside of the town to the churchyard. No one saw her, and she saw no one.

It was a fine night; the stars were shining brightly, and the air was mild, although it was the 1st of September. She entered the churchyard, and went to the little grave; it looked like one great bouquet of sweet-scented flowers. She threw herself down, and bowed her head over the grave, as if she could through the solid earth behold her little boy, whose smile she remembered so vividly. The affectionate expression of his eyes, even upon his sick bed, was never, never to be forgotten. How speaking had not his glance been when she had bent over him, and taken the little hand he was himself too weak to raise! As she had sat by his couch, so now she sat by his grave; but here her tears might flow freely over the sod that covered him.

"Wouldst thou descend to thy child?" said a voice close by. It sounded so clear, so deep—its tones went to her heart. She looked up, and near her stood a man wrapped in a large mourning cloak, with a hood drawn over the head; but she could see the countenance under this. It was severe, and yet encouraging, his eyes were bright as those of youth.

"Descend to my child!" she repeated; and there was the agony of despair in her voice.

"Darest thou follow me?" asked the figure. "I am Death!"

She bowed her assent. Then it seemed all at once as if every star in the heavens above shone with the light of the moon. She saw the many-coloured flowers on the surface of the grave move like a fluttering garment. She sank, and the figure threw his dark cloak round her. It became night—the night of death. She sank deeper than the sexton's spade could reach. The churchyard lay like a roof above her head.

The cloak that had enveloped her glided to one side. She stood in an immense hall, whose extremities were lost in the distance. It was dusk around her; but before her stood, and in one moment was clasped to her heart, her child, who smiled on her in beauty far surpassing what he had possessed before. She uttered a cry, though it was scarcely audible, for close by, and then far away, and afterwards near again, came delightful music. Never before had such glorious, such blessed sounds reached her ear. They rang from the other side of the thick curtain—black as night—that separated the hall from the boundless space of eternity.

"My sweet mother! my own mother!" she heard her child exclaim. It was his well-known, most beloved voice. And kiss followed kiss in rapturous joy. At length the child pointed to the sable curtain.

"There is nothing so charming up yonder on earth, mother. Look, mother!—look at them all! That is felicity!"

The mother saw nothing—nothing in the direction to which the child pointed, except darkness like that of night. She saw with earthly eyes. She did not see as did the child whom God had called to himself. She heard, indeed, sounds—music; but she did not understand the words that were conveyed in these exquisite tones.

"I can fly now, mother," said the child. "I can fly with all the other happy children, away, even into the presence of God. I wish so much to go; but if you cry on as you are crying now I cannot leave you, and yet I should be so glad to go. May I not? You will come back soon, will you not, dear mother?"

"Oh, stay! Oh, stay!" she cried, "only one moment more. Let me gaze on you one moment longer; let me kiss you, and hold you a moment longer in my arms."

And she kissed him, and held him fast. Then her name was called from above—the tones were those of piercing grief. What could they be?

"Hark!" said the child; "it is my father calling on you."

And again, in a few seconds, deep sobs were heard, as of children weeping.

"These are my sisters' voices," said the child. "Mother, you have surely not forgotten them?"

Then she remembered those who were left behind. A deep feeling of anxiety pervaded her mind; she gazed intently before her, and spectres seemed to hover around her; she fancied that she knew some of them; they floated through the Hall of Death, on towards the dark curtain, and there they vanished. Would her husband, her daughters, appear there? No; their lamentations were still to be heard from above. She had nearly forgotten them for the dead.

"Mother, the bells of heaven are ringing," said the child. "Now the sun is about to rise."

And an overwhelming, blinding light streamed around her. The child was gone, and she felt herself lifted up. She raised her head, and saw that she was lying in the churchyard, upon the grave of her child. But in her dream God had become a prop for her feet, and a light to her mind. She threw herself on her knees and prayed:—

"Forgive me, O Lord my God, that I wished to detain an everlasting soul from its flight into eternity, and that I forgot my duties to the living Thou hast graciously spared to me!"

And as she uttered this prayer it appeared as if her heart felt lightened of the burden that had crushed it. Then the sun broke forth in all its splendour, a little bird sang over her head, and all the church bells around began to ring the matin chimes. All seemed holy around her; her heart seemed to have drunk in faith and holiness; she acknowledged the might and the mercy of God; she remembered her duties, and felt a longing to regain her home. She hurried thither, and leaning over her still sleeping husband, she awoke him with the touch of her warm lips on his cheek. Her words were those of love and consolation, and in a tone of mild resignation she exclaimed,—

"God's will is always the best!"

Her husband and her daughters were astonished at the change in her, and her husband asked her,—

"Where did you so suddenly acquire this strength—this pious resignation?"

And she smiled on him and her daughters as she replied,—

"I derived it from God, by the grave of my child."



Charming.

The sculptor Alfred—surely you know him? We all know him. He used to engrave gold medallions; went to Italy, and returned again. He was young then; indeed, he is young now, though about half a score of years older than he was at that time.

He returned home, and went on a visit to one of the small towns in Zealand. The whole community knew of the arrival of the stranger, and who he was. There was a party given on his account by one of the richest families in the place; every one who was anybody, or had anything, was invited; it was quite an event, and the whole town heard of it without beat of drum. A good many apprentice boys and poor people's children, with a few of their parents, ranged themselves outside, and looked at the windows with their drawn blinds, through which a blaze of light was streaming. The watchman might have fancied he had a party himself, so many people occupied his quarters in the street. They all seemed merry on the outside; and in the inside of the house everything was pleasant, for Herr Alfred, the sculptor, was there.

He talked, and he told anecdotes, and every one present listened to him with pleasure and deep attention, but no one with more eagerness than an elderly widow of good standing in society; and she was, in reference to all that Herr Alfred said, like a blank sheet of whity-brown paper, that quickly sucks the sweet things in, and is ready for more. She was very susceptible, and totally ignorant—quite a female Caspar Hauser.

"I should like to see Rome," said she. "That must be a charming town, with the numerous strangers that go there. Describe Rome to us now. How does it look as you enter the gate?"

"It is not easy to describe Rome," said the young sculptor. "It is a very large place; in the centre of it stands an obelisk, which is four thousand years old."

"An organist!" exclaimed the astonished lady, who had never before heard the word obelisk.

Many of the party could scarcely refrain from laughing, and among the rest the sculptor. But the satirical smile that was gathering round his mouth glided into one of pleasure; for he saw, close to the lady, a pair of large eyes, blue as the sea. They appertained to the daughter of the talkative dame, and when one had such a daughter one could not be altogether ridiculous. The mother was like a bubbling fountain of questions, constantly pouring forth; the daughter like the fountain's beautiful naiad, listening to its murmurs. How lovely she was! She was something worth a sculptor's while to gaze at; but not to converse with; and she said nothing, at least very little.

"Has the Pope a great family?" asked the widow.

And the young man answered as if the question might have been better worded,—

"No, he is not of a high family."

"I don't mean that," said the lady; "I mean has he a wife and children?"

"The Pope dare not marry," he replied.

"I don't approve of that," said the lady.

She could scarcely have spoken more foolishly, or asked sillier questions; but what did all that signify when her daughter looked over her shoulder with that most winning smile?

Herr Alfred talked of the brilliant skies of Italy, and its cloud-capped hills; the blue Mediterranean; the soft South; the beauty which could only be rivalled by the blue eyes of the females of the North. And this was said pointedly; but she who ought to have understood it did not allow it to be seen that she had detected any compliment in his words, and this was also charming.

"Italy!" sighed some. "Travelling!" sighed others. "Charming, charming!"

"Well, when I win the fifty-thousand-dollar prize in the lottery," said the widow, "we shall set off on our travels too—my daughter and I; and you, Herr Alfred, shall be our escort. We shall all three go, and a few other friends will go with us, I hope;" and she bowed invitingly to them all round, so that each individual might have thought, "It is I she wishes to accompany her." "Yes, we will go to Italy, but not where the robbers are; we will stay in Rome, or only go by the great high roads, where people are safe, of course."

And the daughter heaved a gentle sigh. How much can there not lie in a slight sigh, or be supposed to lie in it! The young man put a world of feeling into it; the two blue eyes that had beamed on him that evening concealed the treasure—the treasure of heart and of mind, richer far than all the glories of Rome; and when he left the party he was over head and ears in love with the widow's pretty daughter.

The widow's house became the house of all others most visited by Herr Alfred, the sculptor. People knew that it could not be for the mother's sake he sought it so often, although he and she were always the speakers; it must be for the daughter's sake he went. She was called Kala, though christened Karen Malene: the two names had been mutilated, and thrown together into the one appellation, Kala. She was very beautiful, but rather silly, some people hinted, and rather indolent. She was certainly a very late riser in the morning.

"She has been accustomed to that from her childhood," said her mother. "She has always been such a little Venus that she was scarcely ever found fault with. She is not a very early riser, but to this she owes her fine clear eyes."

What power there was in these clear eyes—these swimming blue eyes! The young man felt it. He told anecdote upon anecdote, and answered question after question; and mamma always asked the same lively, sensible, pertinent questions as she had asked at first.

It was a pleasure to hear Herr Alfred speak. He described Naples, the ascent of Mount Vesuvius, and several of its eruptions; and the widow lady, who had never heard of them before, was lost in surprise.

"Mercy on us!" she exclaimed; "then it is a volcano? Does it ever do any harm to anybody?"

"It has destroyed entire towns," he replied: "Pompeii and Herculaneum."

"But the poor inhabitants! Did you see it yourself?"

"No, not either of these eruptions, but I have a sketch taken by myself of an eruption which I did witness."

Then he selected from his portfolio a sketch done with a black-lead pencil; but mamma, who delighted in highly-coloured pictures, looked at the pale sketch, and exclaimed in amazement,—

"You saw it gush out white?"

Mamma got into Herr Alfred's black books for a few minutes, and he felt profound contempt for her; but the light from Kala's eyes soon dispelled his gloom. He bethought him that her mother had no knowledge of drawing, that was all; but she had what was far better—she had the sweet, beautiful Kala.

As might have been expected, Alfred and Kala became engaged, and their betrothal was announced in the newspaper of the town. Mamma bought thirty copies of it, that she might cut the paragraphs out, and inclose them to various friends. The betrothed pair were very happy, and so was the mamma: she felt almost as proud as if her family were going to be connected with Thorwaldsen.

"You are his successor at any rate," she said; and Alfred thought that she had said something very clever. Kala said nothing, but her eyes brightened, and a lovely smile played around her well-formed mouth. Every movement of hers was graceful: she was very beautiful—that cannot be said too often.

Alfred was making busts of Kala and her mother: they sat for him, and saw how with his finger he smoothed and moulded the soft clay.

"It is a compliment to us," said his mother-in-law elect, "that you condescend to do that simple work yourself, instead of letting your men dab all that for you."

"No; it is absolutely necessary that I should do this myself in the clay," he replied.

"Oh! you are always so exceedingly gallant!" said mamma; and Kala gently pressed his hand, to which pieces of clay were sticking.

He discoursed to them about the magnificence of Nature in its creations, the superiority of the living over the dead, plants over minerals, animals over plants, human beings over mere animals; how mind and beauty manifested themselves through form, and that the sculptor sought to bestow on his forms of clay the greatest possible beauty and expression.

Kala remained silent, revolving his words. Her mother said,

"It is difficult to follow you; but though my thoughts go slowly, I hold fast what I hear."

And the power of beauty held him fast; it had subdued him—entranced and enslaved him. Kala's beauty certainly was extraordinary; it was enthroned in every feature of her face, in her whole figure, even to the points of her fingers. The sculptor was bewildered by it; he thought only of her—spoke only of her; and his fancy endowed her with all perfection.

Then came the wedding-day, with the bridal gifts and the bride's-maids; and the marriage ceremony was duly performed. His mother-in-law had placed in the room where the bridal party assembled the bust of Thorwaldsen, enveloped in a dressing-gown. "He ought to be a guest, according to her idea," she said. Songs were sung, and healths were drunk. It was a handsome wedding, and they were a handsome couple. "Pygmalion got his Galathea" was a line in one of the songs.

"That was something from mythology," remarked the widow.

The following day the young couple started for Copenhagen, where they intended to reside; and the mamma accompanied them, to give them a helping hand, she said, which meant to take charge of the house. Kala was to be a mere doll. Everything was new, bright, and charming. There they settled themselves all three; and Alfred, what can be said of him, only that he was like a bishop among a flock of geese?

The magic of beauty had infatuated him. He had gazed upon the case, and not thought of what was in it; and this is unfortunate, very unfortunate, in the marriage state. When the case decays, and the gilding rubs off, one then begins to repent of one's bargain. It was very mortifying to Alfred that in society neither his wife nor his mother-in-law was capable of entering into general conversation—that they said very silly things, which, with all his wittiest efforts, he could not cover.

How often the young couple sat hand in hand, and he spoke, and she dropped a word now and then, always in the same tone, like a clock striking one, two, three! It was quite a relief when Sophie, a female friend, came.

Sophie was not very pretty; she was slightly awry, Kala said; but this was not perceptible except to her female friends. Kala allowed that she was clever. It never occurred to her that her talents might make her dangerous. She came like fresh air into a close, confined puppet show; and fresh air is always pleasant. After a time the young couple and the mother-in-law went to breathe the soft air of Italy. Their wishes were fulfilled.

* * * * *

"Thank Heaven, we are at home again!" exclaimed both the mother and the daughter, when, the following year, they and Alfred returned to Denmark.

"There is no pleasure in travelling," said the mamma; "on the contrary, it is very fatiguing—excuse my saying so. I was excessively tired, notwithstanding that I had my children with me. And travelling is extremely expensive. What hosts of galleries you have to see! What quantities of things to be rushing after! And you are so teased with questions when you come home, as if it were possible to know everything. And then to hear that you have just forgotten to see what was most charming! I am sure I was quite tired of these everlasting Madonnas; one was almost turned into a Madonna one's self."

"And the living was so bad," said Kala.

"Not a single spoonful of honest meat soup," rejoined the mamma. "They dress the victuals so absurdly."

Kala was much fatigued after her journey. She continued very languid, and did not seem to rally—that was the worst of it. Sophie came to stay with them, and she was extremely useful.

The mother-in-law allowed that Sophie understood household affairs well, and had many accomplishments, which she, with her fortune, had no need to trouble herself about; and she confessed, also, that Sophie was very estimable and kind. She could not help seeing this when Kala was lying ill, without making the slightest exertion in any way.

If there be nothing but the case or framework, when it gives way it is all over with the case. And the case had given way. Kala died.

"She was charming!" said her mother. "She was very different from all these antiquities that are half mutilated. Kala was a perfect beauty!"

Alfred wept, and his mother-in-law wept, and they both went into mourning. The mamma went into the deepest mourning, and she wore her mourning longest. She also retained her sorrow the longest; in fact, she remained weighed down with grief until Alfred married again. He took Sophie, who had nothing to boast of in respect to outward charms.

"He has gone to the other extremity," said his mother-in-law; "passed from the most beautiful to the ugliest. He has found it possible to forget his first wife. There is no constancy in man. My husband, indeed, was different; but he died before me."

"Pygmalion got his Galathea," said Alfred. "These words were in the bridal song. I certainly did fall in love with the beautiful statue that became imbued with life in my arms. But the kindred soul, which Heaven sends us, one of those angels who can feel with us, think with us, raise us when we are sinking, I have now found and won. You have come, Sophie, not as a beautiful form, fascinating the eye, but prettier, more pleasing than was necessary. You excel in the main point. You have come and taught the sculptor that his work is but clay—dust; only a copy of the outer shell of the kernel we ought to seek. Poor Kala! her earthly life was but like a short journey. Yonder above, where those who sympathise shall be gathered together, she and I will probably be almost strangers."

"That is not a kind speech," said Sophie; "it is not a Christian one. Up yonder, where 'they neither marry nor are given in marriage,' but, as you say, where spirits shall meet in sympathy—there, where all that is beautiful shall unfold and improve, her soul may perhaps appear so glorious in its excellence that it may far outshine mine and yours. You may then again exclaim, as you did in the first excitement of your earthly admiration, 'Charming—charming!'"

THE END.

* * * * *