The angel holds a purse of gold in his hand; my ideas are that the lady has given a purse of gold to build the church, in consequence of a vow she has made. Deaf old sacristan knows nothing, not even to what saint the church is dedicated. We go in; at one end lies an enormous oak chest, cross-barred over with iron bands into a tartan pattern. We try to raise the lid; it requires all the united efforts of aged sacristan and stronger self to do so; and now we find two small square compartments-same form, same pattern-fitted with massive lock and key, expressly to contain the church plate, and preserve it safe from robber hand; but where is it? Two blue glass vessels serve now for the sacrament; on the altar-table the very candles are wooden savealls; a small fat-lamp inserted in the top is used at Sabbath Vespers. Churchwardening flourishes here, even in these high latitudes. The ancient granite font is painted verdant green, like a suburban garden gate. The open seats bear date 1587.

In the churchyard I stumbled on what I have never before met with a grave covered over with the roughly severed trunk of a tree, unbarked, rudely-fashioned; a sarcophagus like that once placed over the grave of Queen Hedvig at Søborg.

And now they summon us from the høi-top, from which we have made out another lake, Lille-Sø by name. The horses are baited; on with our journey. We just distinguish the winding of Juul Lake and a little promontory jutting out into its waters, terminated by a sepulchral mound-the Scandinavian who chose such a site must have been a poet-when, as we climb the hill before arriving at Linaa, concerning which place I have a story to relate, down comes again a torrent

plump upon our heads. We take refuge under railway wrappers, and may have passed through a paradise for what we know. When we again peep forth from our shelter, the postboy points to a branch of elder-flowers the maid-servant bears in her hand, shakes his head, and then points to the clouds fleeting through the air. Mademoiselle Thérèse, in her ignorance, had plucked during our halt at Tulstrup a branch of these flowers, preservatives, if steeped in water, against tan and freckles, without first demanding permission of Hyldemoir, “the elder-queen," who avenges any molestation of her tree, and no peasant would dare to pluck its flowers without first addressing her in the following words :-" O, Hildi, our mother; 0, Hildi, our mother! let me take some of thy elder." These words thrice repeated, she grants permission willingly enough, but, according to the postboy's theory, it was the neglect of this observance which caused this pelting hail, this inhospitable reception to the Highlands of Jutland.

Dark is the superstition of the peasant as regards the elder-queen, and woe to the child who sleeps in a cradle of elder-wood. No sooner does the mother quit the room than Hyldemoir appears; vampire-like, she sucks its life-blood from its breasts, she pulls it by the legs, and torments the helpless infant in every possible manner. Still the elder-tree has been revered from the earliest times, and the peasant as well as the artizan loves to plant it near his dwelling; it brings good luck to the baker and to the gardener; leave it alone, and Hyldemoir will do you no injury.

The elements have ceased their war; and now we enter a glorious valley, hills on each side coated with beech and pine-beech in their golden foliage still;

we are.

the heather brown, the reindeer lichen white and abundant; later the leaves will become brown and the heather purple, so each season has its charms if mankind will only see it. We are now on the royal chaussée; electric telegraph on each side of us. The horses are fagged as We meet troops of peasants, cows, and horses— evidently a fair going on-reach the end of the plain— pouring rain again-turn down a hill, catch sight of a lake, a town, a confused idea of river and other matters-all very charming when you are dry, but disgusting when you are half drowned: and so we made our entry into the most youthful of Denmark's cities, her youngest daughter, the town of Silkeborg.

CHAPTER XXX.

Silkeborg-Cap of Bishop Peter-The Jutland lakes-The treasureseeker - Himmelbjerg, Queen of the Jutland mountains - The fiery beacon-Lovers of Laven Castle - The paper manufactory.

SILKEBORG.

WE found the "Dania" in a terrible state of bustle. no chance of rooms before evening; after a long delay we got our dinners served, and it was a wonder we did, such a crowd as there was below-farmers by the gross buying, selling, and chaffering. Towards supset the fair took itself off, and we were left in peace and quietness. Hans Andersen had described to us what we were to see, and lent us the translation of his charming little book, To Be or not to Be,' which told us the tales and legends of the neighbourhood, for, to the English traveller, Silkeborg is still a terra incognita; the very maps of our country, as well as the Handbook, ignore its existence. When on our arrival at Copenhagen last autumn we spoke of our tour in Jutland, the first question invariably was, "How did you like Silkeborg? Not seen Silkeborg? Is it possible?” until we felt quite cross, and began to look upon it as a sort of Jutland "Mrs. Harris," expressly invented for our botheration. Then we began to inquire what and where Silkeborg really was, and soon learned how some ten years since it was nought but a beautiful and dreary waste, the resort of gipsies, uninhabited and uncul

tivated; and how in the space of a few years it had risen to the rank of a flourishing town of fourteen hundred inhabitants, increasing daily in wealth and prosperity. Fourteen years have now elapsed since Mr. Drewsen, struck by the advantageous site, on the lake side, with the abundant waters of the Guden Aa, determined to turn to account this useless stream, and establish there a paper manufactory; he did so, and succeeded: his paper gained the great prize both at the English and French Exhibitions, no manufacturer having yet equalled the glazing of the material, which is formed by a machine of his own invention. The manufactory stands at the entrance of the town, near the bridge which spans the Guden Aa; beyond stands the modern residence of Mr. Drewsen, in the midst of a fair and fruitful garden, now a wilderness of roses, the old-fashioned yellow cabbage-so luxuriant in the Lion Court of the Alhambra, but most capricious to bloom in England-the Damask, the York and Lancaster, and the Cinnamon, varieties long since expelled from modern English gardens. If you fancy, because Silkeborg is the youngest town of the Danish dominions, she has no history of her own, no legend, you are much mistaken; on the very ground where we now stand once proudly frowned the towers of her castle, a stronghold of the Bishops of Aarhuus. Put by the paper and its manufactory, and fancy yourself carried back to the twelfth century, when Bishop Peter Bagnsen* held the diocese of Aarhuus. For reasons best known to himself, he determined to build a château

* Died 1204. His mother Ingeborg was niece to Sir Asker Ryg, and sister to the murdered cousin whom Bishop Absalon canonized. See vol. i. p. 106.