leave its court unswept, the peasant's cart upturned where it is, never put away the milk-pans, and as for that old Jutland peasant-woman, turn her at once, like Lot's wife, into a pillar of salt; the ducks and the geese, the ever-raging watch-dogs tearing like mad round their kennels; the moat, part green duckweed, the remnant a bed of raspberries, should all remain. Look at the horse-chesnuts and the limes-what glorious timber!-how well they tone down in the evening's light the colour of the buildings! A very prim old lady in gray gown and snow-white cap, fit châtelaine for such a mansion, invites us to the garden. It is all avenues; a fine green turf, like that of a bishop's in some cathedral town in England; fine groups of limes, fish-stews, and flower-beds-not too many and only for one moment stay and gaze at the old house-how well it covers up its faded charms! leaving only its best features, that fine old octagonal tower and quaint Gothic gable, peeping out from beneath their framework-that old horse-chesnut.

FOVLUM.

Krabbesholm looks

damp and unincleanest, and the

12th. Our steamer starts at six. still asleep, and the bathing-cabins viting; our deck, too, is none of the brass compass appears as though it had been up all night, dull and besmeared.

Skive fiorde is narrow, and her banks brown, varied occasionally by patches of cultivation and a succession of white structures. If her ancient forests still existed, it would be beautiful, for the ground undulates. The morning is gray and slightly overcast-best colouring for the scene before us. The lake of Hald, with its

rich luxuriant beech woods and its deep blue waters, shone glorious in the bright mid-day; but cliff and moor, when barren, tell best in early morn. We now, after a wide opening, again thread our way through a narrow passage. Here the cliffs are green, clothed with soft thymy turf, such as the sheep love to browse upon. We pass Dolby and then Lyby, where, in 1375, a council was held by the priest-ridden nobility of Jutland, at which they agreed unanimously to preserve intact the rights of the clergy as a sure preservative against murrain, fire, plague, and sudden death. Our first stoppage is at Sundsøve. A long narrow tongue of land runs out to sea; a carriage laden with something awaits our arrival; they hoist the red-cross flag, and we receive a Jutland farmer, ten sacks of wheat, and pass on. The sun's rays, as though on purpose, suddenly light up that village church to the right, dazzling in new-born whitewash-that is Fovlum church, concerning which there is a tale to tell-curious, as illustrative of the Jutland jurisprudence of the middle ages. It was in the days of King Frederic II. that a Lutheran parson, Doctor Mads by name, who, though he had reformed his religion, had quite forgotten to extend the same advantages to the licence of his tongue, accused from his pulpit Sir Jørgen Lykke, of Bonderup, of destroying a church, and building himself a mansion with the materials - nothing extraordinary, considering the days of church spoliation in which he lived; but, unfortunately for Dr. Mads, it was false, as the sequel proves. The knight, indignant at the accusation, summoned the scandalous parson for calumny before Bishop Juels of Viborg. The priest is pronounced guilty, and condemned to suffer the punishment awarded by the law.

Now in Jutland there existed in those days an excellent law against scandal-mongers-one which might well be introduced into the still embryo Code Victoria in England"That the individual found guilty of a calumny should himself undergo the punishment awarded to the crime of which he accused his neighbour." The punishment allotted to him who destroyed a church was death. So poor imprudent Parson Mads was condemned, underwent his sentence, and lies buried, head severed from his shoulders, in the parish churchyard of Fovlum. This occurred in the year 1566.

ISLAND OF FUUR.

We are nearing the island of Fuur, and now pass between the straits; green are its banks like an emerald -a village, a church, and a few boats. The women of Fuur are remarkable for their marriage head-dress-a "bonnet mirabolant," all beads and small feathers, more like the South Sea Islanders than the matter-of-fact inhabitants of the Liimfiorde. You may see one preserved, together with the crown of the bride, in the Musée Scandinave of Copenhagen.

If there be nothing absolutely to astonish in our sail of to-day, you will at least be struck by the neverending variety of islands here, promontories there, continents looking down on them from behind quite dignified. Turning and twisting in every direction, a church or a manor attracts your eye. You pass on: the facsimile appears in another direction; why, it's all the same-you've only been spinning round like a teetotum. Depend upon it, there is a great deal of beauty in a low country, if people will only look at it.

ISLAND OF MORS.

We approach the island of Mors-its little capital Nykiobing is already in sight-tall church, somewhat pretentious; harbour, shipping, and red-roofed houses, and the indispensable skov at one side. Boat stops for half an hour so we disembark and walk about. The strand is heaped with flounders, and barges unloading turf, too, which leads you to imagine Mors to be a dry island. Its church is a good specimen of brickwork, with thirtyfive little niches, once populated by saints, in its two side gables-whitewashed, and the granite even painted gray. It was once the church of Dueholm Kloster, with whose monks the inhabitants were ever at loggerheads. These northern churches have always one advantage over others of more common architecture in the fine vaulting of their roofs. We have just time to take a turn through the town-horrid pavement, but clean; each window a conservatory-camellias the high fashion; whenever a household utensil is cracked, whatever may have been its use, it receives back rank as a flower-pot. Mulberries too grow here, as standards, more than they do at Aalborg.

The Morsagers were not celebrated for their bravery, if you credit the old ballad on the Vendel boers' revolt against Christopher the Bavarian, in which Tornekranz* lost his head-a ballad which the Vendel men, even

Tage Heinrich Tornekranz - a very sensible name to apply to an illegitimate offspring, "Crown of Thorns "-is supposed to have been a natural son of a Rosenkrantz, and was brought up at the family manor of Hevringsholm. The family later flourished at Ry, near Silkeborg. The last abbot of Vidskøl, vitae shola, was of this family, which went out in the year 1652; the last member having lived to be upwards of a hundred years of age.

at this present day, lose no opportunity of singing and throwing into the faces of the descendants of their pusillanimous neighbours :

"First, then, they ran, the Morsagers,

And next the traitors of Thy.

After them stood the Vendel men;
But they disdain'd to fly."

Names of Morsagers written up here, there, and everywhere, are Hort, Portman, Brinckmann.

We coast along in the open sea, till we turn straight between two promontories of land, one of which runs. high and commanding, out to sea-the very site for a feudal castle. Two spacious old gabled housesonce a mill, now a depôt for coal-stand by the strand side. This is Feggeklit, sacred in the eyes of all Englishmen as the birthplace of our Shakespeare's Hamlet-Amleth, as he is called in Denmark. It

was at Feggeklit, in the island of Mors, in the very. early ages, dwelt two brothers, smaa konges-Haarde