rising in fantastic crags, like those of our own Channel islands; to the right again, across the fresh-water lake which almost touches the boundaries of the sea, rises another green and purple hill, on the opposite side of which you will find a ruined chapel, with a holy well, dedicated, of all queer dedications, to King Solomon.* But if the sea-side view is enchanting, the inland is no less so. Standing upon the walls' height, you look down into the green wooded ravine below: on the other side rises a lofty bankside, scattered with boulders, trees, turf, broom, heath, and cytisus, all mingling together in exquisite variety.

The square tower in which Eleanor Ulfeld passed her year's confinement; the ruined round tower of the outer side, fallen in varied and unstudied desolation, are grand and imposing: even the flora is unlike that of old castles in general; the wild convolvulus here leaps and trails itself like a vine along the crumbling ruins; the sea-pink perfumes the air with its fragrance, and tufts of the dark-blue dwarf veronica (ærenpriis) grow luxuriant among the fallen stones. A heavy stone, fined at the edge to a point, jutted out from the crumbling wall. After hard pulling it came outstrong cement that †-and there it lay in my hand, a massive hammer of the stone age, broken at the place of piercing, marks of the chisel still visible. What a pedigree has that hammer! In its early youth smashing the head and braining some Pagan Scandinavian, in

* King Solomon and the Siege of Troy were favourite subjects of the middle ages.

Of home manufacture, too, for the cement-stone abounds in Bornholm, and great quantities of it, crushed ready for use, are exported in barrels to Copenhagen, Sweden, and other localities.

the twelfth century built into the fortress of Hammershuus, and now soon to be lodged with other stonelumber of the sort in a Mechanics' Museum.

But before we quit Hammershuus, observe even in the remote island of Bornholm how much is done for the healthful enjoyment of the people. Look around how in every direction walks are cut out, trees planted, seats erected, everything turned to account-as it always is in Denmark-and where are people so happy and so respectable? As much is here done among the wild scenery of Hammershuus, and more too, than in the most populous towns of our native England.

CHAPTER LIII.

Farming in Bornholm - Village beacons - The rock scenery - The White Oven visited at Christmas secure from ghosts - Bornholm gold coined by Christian IV. Its diamonds in favour with Queen Louisa Round church of Øster Lars- Fastelavn at Shrovetide-Forest of Alminde - The birds at the Cross-Tower of Christiansminde - Horse-fair-Font of Aakirkeby.

1

September 15th.-DAMM, the coachman-now, don't imagine I'm swearing: it's the man's own name— was round with his horses punctual as the clock struck seven, or, rather, as the hand pointed to the hour on his watch-very good gold watch too-won it as the chief prize for climbing up a greasy pole when in the land of nuggets. Old Mrs. Korts comes in with the bill at the very last moment, with a most determined look about her as though prepared for squalls. Bill just three times as much as elsewhere; but then she is not a regular gjæstgiver, but a lady who “takes people in" as a favour. I pay it tranquilly, and make no remark, having come to Bornholm to amuse myself, and not to get into a passion. We return as far as Olesker, and then make southwards. Fine bracing air. We pass through a succession of cultivated fields. Stubble days gone by, all is ploughed; many portions resown with rye. Farmers' carts, horses, and men, in full activity. In the background rises a ridge of purple rocks; while beyond these, towards the sea, among the thick protecting forests of ash and oaks, lie the farm

houses-small establishments when compared with those of Jutland. The farms here are seldom of more than 200 acres. Land has lately much increased in value. One farm, which some twenty-five years ago was valued at 2000 dollars, was lately sold for 12,000. The peasants are most careful cultivators. When the rye is sown, not one pebble is allowed to remain on the surface of the field. Were it a geraniumbed, it could not be more delicately raked or the ground finer; for this there is but one explanation-the peasant is here no tenant: the land is his own property; four or six horses are the extent of his possessions and a few farm-boys his labourers. The farm-buildings have a "cocky" appearance about them, unlike to sober Denmark. Each gable, be there ten of them, is surmounted by a vane.

We enter the parish of Rø. Perched upon a neighbouring høi stands what first appears a stork's nest on a pile of faggots within an open wooden frame: but it's no such thing; in each successive village you will come across the same- a beacon, always ready prepared, in time of peace as war, in case of a descent upon the island. No sooner does fire blaze up high into the sky than the church belfries send forth a peal. The alarm once given, a dozen others flame in the neighbouring parishes; more bells ring, and the inhabitants rise to arms.

Before arriving at the church of Rø, built by one Simon Rø and his twelve sons--all named, from some vagary of his own, Simon, after himself-we turn off the road to visit the rock scenery of Bornholm. Guide not quite sure of his way; we therefore halloo to a farmer busily sowing his wheat from an oblong basket. Farmer

turns round, having first completed his furrow, and then sows his way down the adjoining ridge to our very car riage-wheel. We are all right; drive on to his farm, put up our horses there, and he is too busy himself, but his grandfather will show us the way to the Holy Well; so we follow his directions, but he soon appears at the house himself, on hospitality bent. We must have a cup of coffee; we decline-then on our return. His hustru was to have shown us the way-but the coffee? Leave it to the pige (servant-girl). Impossible! she is so careless she will be sure to burn it. She consults her husband; first looks at us, then at the coffee, and hospitality has the best of it; so the pige is summoned, and off we set across some fields, more boulders than grass, and then, after more wood, we come to the cliff's side. A narrow winding path leads to the beach below. Fine bold rocks, divided into squares, rise like turrets from the sea which reaches their base. The pige can tell me nothing. She thinks more of her own pretty face-and small blame to her!-than all the saints of paradise; but I find out later that 150 years ago there existed a chapel dedicated to the Trinity, and how this little ravine was planted with stone and wooden crosses, and the chapel hung with votive offerings, long tresses of women's hair among the number. All this has long since disappeared; the poorbox alone remains, iron-bound and massive, nailed to a stake firmly planted in the ground, and, like Hogarth's, with a cobweb across the opening. "Tell the gentleman," laughs the pige, "not to put anything in; "better give the money to me to buy a ribbon." You may be sure I followed her advice. She knows nothing about the Holy Well, but the spring runs from the rock