and, what was worse still, they finished by covering us -tumbling down upon our hats, heads, clothes, my beard, and the ladies' faces. Two of the moths hung sticking to the trees, one of those brown leaf-like species. After passing through the unleafed forest, you suddenly turn into an open space cleared among the trees; to the left before you rises a small châlet with a rustic kitchen, a long table and benches spread out before it, where a decent woman and her pretty dark-eyed daughter keep a small restaurant. We embark in a small boat to view the klints from the sea. They rise up white against the pure blue sky, a range of miniature Apennines-peaks and ridges;— how chalk ever became so convulsed, so romantic, to me remains a mystery.

inquire of the old boat"He lives there," was

"And the Klint Konge," we man, "where does he live?" the answer, pointing to a hole under the Queen's Stool. He came originally from Upsala-han har flytted— to Stevnsklint. Why he abandoned Møen no one can say; but it is supposed he found it dull, and preferred the society of the Elf King, with whom he is also confounded.

You see the range of cliffs, dazzling in their whiteness with their trimmings of green, to full advantage from the wide open sea; but to judge well of their fantastic distorted forms, their sharp sugar-loafed pics, you must follow the greenwood path on the heights above. The highest eminence is that of the Queen's Stool, 450 feet above the level of the sea, a mile English in length to the right perhaps, and then gradually the range of coast descends in altitude, and near the lighthouse you again see table-ground.

With the klints you have exhausted the sights of Møen. The island is richly cultivated, and earlier in the year may have been more beautiful, for it undulates well; but we are now in the month of September; and, let it undulate for ever, there is no beauty in undulating stubble.

Herregaards of antiquity there are none. Møen was a royal property, sold up in the last century. Not far from the picturesque church of Magleby (the Møen churches are highly picturesque and unwhitewashed) is a fine dolmen of seven stones, standing erect on a height-a feature in the surrounding country. When I showed it to a small boy-an unbelieving generation is the present-and explained how it was the work of the ancient Scandinavians, same men who fashioned the knives and chisels he had picked up at Engelstofte, he would give no credit to the truth of my assertion. "They move these great stones? nonsense! I'll never believe it: well, if they did build it a thousand years ago, the stones were then pebbles, and must have grown since." And he stuck to his opinion, looking all the while as stubborn as a young bull-dog. In ancient times, says tradition, Møen was governed by two giants: one, Grøn, after whom the Sound is christened; the other, like the Klint Konge, came from Upsala. Instead of fighting and beating each other's brains out, as giants mostly did, they lived together in amity; and when they died, were buried side by side in the same stone chamber under the høi surmounted by my favourite dolmen.

September 1st.-The harvest-home came off last evering. A cart drove into the court laden with sheaves. of corn and peasants, male and female, shouting and

VOL. II.

Y

singing to the full extent of their voice. Horses, men, women, all were decorated with garlands of leaves and flowers, the latter bearing in their hands large bouquets stuck upon the ends of long sticks, most Bacchanalian, like a picture of Jaques Jordaen's. Then later other carts, decorated and begarlanded like the first, followed in succession; and when all had duly arrived, a sort of rustic Silenus, more horrid-looking than can be ima gined, approaches, according to ancient custom, the farmer and his wife, and, sickle in hand, exclaims

"We have cut the corn; it is ripe; it is gathered in. Will you now that we cut the cabbages in the garden?"

"No, thank you," replied the huusbond and the hustru; "we had rather not."

"But we will: the corn is gathered in; we will now cut the cabbages in the garden."

66

"No," answers the master, as the corn is ripened and is gathered into the barn, we will give you a festival." The company are now satisfied; supper is furnished for them, and they pass an evening of innocent jollity. Beyond this little fête of the harvest-home, Liselund is all quiet and repose. The church-bells alone sound in the distance; they ring up (as the expression goes) the sun, and ring it down again; and then in the midst you hear nine distinct strokes-one, the first, clear and solemn, for the Pater Noster; seven for the seven separate petitions of the Lord's Prayer; and lastly you hear a loud booming ninth proclaiming Amen.*

*The twelve o'clock bell was first appointed in 1455, by Pope Nicho las V., who orders that the bells be rung every day at that hour, ia order that the people, on hearing them, may offer up a prayer for the Christians fighting against the heathen in foreign lands.

CHAPTER LIL

The island of Bornholm; its reputation for salmon- A coachman from the diggings - Round churches of Ny and Ole Churchpushers and hourglasses-The Trolles of Bornholm - Their tricks upon Bondevedde - Their patriotism-How they love butter The three-legged cat - They man the cliffs to defend the island Hammershuus, the prison of Corfitz and Eleanor Ulfeld.

ISLAND OF BORNHOLM.

September 13th.-OUR boat is named the "Mercury," and to start at seven. Cowhides and mouse-traps are our cargo-the last hang suspended to the backs of two itinerant vendors, bound like myself for Rønne. Then we have a dozen odds and ends of passengers, the greater part for Ystad-Germans with dirty faces, the inevitable gold ring on the fore-finger, and long pipes. I fraternise with the mousetrap-vendors, and ask them where they are going? Two boys they are, making their "tour" as journeymen. From Bornholm they pass to Sweden; next year, they hope, to Germany, and so on till their three years are out. Would they not like to settle? I inquire. "Oh, no! they must see the world first. Quite right too they are; better sell mousetraps and see the world, even undergoing a few hardships, than be stuck down at once in some poky village your life's long day.

Wonderful the luggage people of the provinces travel with in Denmark. Only look at that huge chest, with antique lock and repoussé ornaments; the trunk too of

those Zealand peasant-women in their lace caps, with silver crown and flowing ribbons. It is not unlike a cellaret-painted and picked out in various colourstwo hearts united under a wreath, with initials-the wedding-chest of some happy pair long since gathered to the dust.

The coasts of Sweden are flat and uninteresting; after breakfast-breakfasts are excellent on board those steamers such lobsters and dried fish!-I mount in time to admire the splendid old château of a Baron Stjermblad, flanked by two lofty spiral turrets — a Danish edifice built by the Danes when Skaane was their own; then further a building, bigger still-the summer residence of a Judge Sylvan; and then into the little harbour of Ysted. We unload our cow-skins, peasant-women in their quaint costume the porters. Swedish hussar officers in blue uniform and turned-up moustaches loiter and look on. We have exchanged our red-cross pennon for one of yellow on a purple ground, with a sort of hybrid union jack placed in the

corner.

The town of Ysted, commercial in corn, is clean-at least it appears so after the dirty "Mercury;" but its pavement outdoes the Danish in its eccentricity-rock and pebble, pulverised tombstone, and yawning puddle, all coalesce in friendly neighbourhood. Then too it has a wide deserted look-not that "motherly appearance" of the dull island towns of its sister Denmark. We sail out again; the moon is up. Five hours' passage at least, for the boat, though seaworthy, is "meget langsom;" so I retire below. Towards halfpast eleven in bounces the stewardess-" Coming strax to Rønne." On mounting, a flat, faint, dark line appears,