sandstone carvings, reminding me much of Voer Gaard; built it was (as, indeed, was Vemmetofte) by a Rosenkrantz, having first belonged to old Ellen Marsviin. On the bridge which spans the moat stand massive lions, bearing shields emblazoned with their arms. Mette Rosenkrantz, wife of Peter Oxe, who built the castle

-a pious and virtuous lady, who, says her epitaph, in all affairs combined the mien and gesture of a real cavalier under the garments of a woman. What an awful creature she must have been! We visited the interior; the portraits-Madalena among the rest, in all her glory; the chapel, where the ladies say their prayers, in a sort of peeresses' pew, with the retainers of the establishment,--a second pew under the pulpit being set apart for the deaf ones; mounted the tower to admire the view; then, having been introduced to the original document of the foundation, gorgeously emblazoned, drove off on our way. In the parish church of Vallø hang the pedigrees of the house of Bille, dating from the seventh century. Bille is one of the most ancient of the few remaining Danish families, though perhaps the genealogy may be a little apocryphal. Of this family was Lucia Bille, Danmarks Blomster, the Flower of Denmark-la belle des belles-who lived in 1445 at the court of the Queen Dorothea, and who, to the despair of all young and gallant men, retired to a convent and became a nun. The manor of Billesborg lies hard by.

Before arriving at the town of Kiøge, where we stopped to feed and change horses, we passed the village of Herfølge, site of the engagement between Wellesley and Castenskiold in the early part of the present century. In the church lies interred the last of the

noble house of Rosensparre, killed in a battle against the Swedes in Skaane in 1612. "You are the sole surviving member of your house, the last of an old stock; do not expose your life recklessly," advised his friends, when the battle raged at its utmost fury. “A good name before everything," was the reply. He threw himself into the thickest of the fight, and fell pierced by a hundred wounds. We continued our course, and arrived amidst a blaze of starlight at our old quarters of last year-hostel of the Prindsen at Roeskilde.

LEDREBORG.

October 7th.-The dull cathedral town of Roeskilde is in a state of unusual excitement, on account of the sitting of a rix or rath something-one of the endless innumerable assemblies which Denmark has the ill luck to be cursed with. The Prindsen is wonderfully smartened up since last year-hardly recognisable. Breakfast over, we start on an expedition to Ledreborg, the country seat of Count Holstein, some five or six miles distant.

Ledreborg, planted on a height overlooking a deep valley, is a fine specimen of the residence of a Danish nobleman. In the engravings of Pontoppidan there existed a fine old French garden of terraces, statues, and fountains, most in character with the architecture of the château. This was unfortunately destroyed some thirty years since, and replaced by a jardin Anglais, very beautiful in its way. The family were unluckily absent; but we visited the interior of the house, rich in pictures and works of art; the gorgeous chapel, where hangs a curious picture, a portrait group of the early reformers, Luther, Calvin, &c., and among them

an Englishman named Perkins.* Independent of its princely mansion, its hanging gardens, and its beechen. woods, Ledreborg possesses a deep historic interest, for it stands on the site of the ancient Leira-stronghold of pagan worship in the island of Zealand-rival to Viborg and Sigtuna.

Even in the days of the first Valdemar it was a city of some importance. To the south runs a long ridge of sand-hills, called Dan Mikillati's grave. Not far distant lies the valley of Hertha, still called the Holy Wood, where once stood the principal temple of that goddess in the Danish isles. Here, too, King Ring held his court. His wife, Queen Hvita, was a sorceress, and by her art changed her stepson, Prince Bjørn, into a bear, for which she afterwards suffered a cruel death. The etiquette of the Leiran court appears to have been at a low ebb; for we read that, after dinner, the royal party pelted one another with the bones they had picked clean during the repast.

The town of Leira was founded by King Skiold, son of Odin, though other traditions say he was offspring of Skeff, the Englishman, fourth son of Noah, born in the ark, concerning whose existence the Books of Moses are silent. He arrived in a ship from afar. At this time all Denmark was sad, for the king had no son, and the Danes knew not whom they should choose as a successor, when one day, as they flocked down to the sea-shore, they observed in the distance a sail which approached the land: it was evidently a ship royal; the mast was of gold; it had silken sails, and was laden with

*He was English envoy from Queen Elizabeth, put in, out of compliment, together with the devil and the monks.

great riches of gold and silver. Upon the deck of the vessel lay a beautiful child—a little boy-reposing upon a shield, while his head rested upon a sheaf of wheat. When the people beheld him they cried, "Behold the son of Odin, who comes to be our king!" So they took the child, and sowed the corn, which came up in plenty, each ear bearing more than any ear had before borne in this country; the boy was proclaimed king of Denmark. When only twelve years old he caught a bear and bound it fast in thongs, and at eighteen became king and assumed the reins of government. Courageous and just was King Skiold: in victory he declared “honour is the share of the king, but booty is for the soldiers." Long did he reign over Denmark, and, when an aged man and about to die, he caused himself to be placed in his old ship by his weeping servants, and, when the sails were set, the sun shone bright, and the wind arose, the ship sailed forth; all men wept, and no one knew where he went to. Such is the legend of King Skiold.

CHAPTER LVII.

DESTRUCTION OF THE PALACE OF FREDERIKSBORG BY FIRE.

December 17th.-OUR wanderings were over; and I little thought again to resume my pen to record so sad an event-a national misfortune to the historyloving people of Denmark.

I was sitting in my room at the Oresund, in Elsinore, busily and happily immersed in my books, when the chambermaid, bouncing into my room, announced, "Slot brander in Frederiksborg!"-"the castle's on fire!" On crossing over to the police-office the telegraphic despatch displayed before my eyes left no doubt that the story was, alas! too true. Engines-such engines, toosquirts, and the members of the fire-brigade, were hurrying off (I say so by courtesy) to lend their aid and assistance. In three quarters of an hour's time I was myself en route, fast as Danish post-horses and a highly-booted postilion could carry me.

The day was cold, foggy; the snow lay thick upon the ground. We really did rattle on at a good pace; but the way to me appeared interminable. As we rolled along, never had my recollection of that admirable gallery appeared so vivid as on that day: each figure seemed to start out in chronological order from its frame -singly and separately, one after the other. As we descended the hill, from behind the woods to the left, which obscure the palace from view, rose volumes of black cloudy