been a beautiful woman in her youth, still
retained the dazzling complexion and golden
hair that make up the chief peculiarities of
Danish loveliness. Kalf Dyring, the second
son, was much more what I suppose the real old
Norsemen to have been in their day, than either
father or brother: a laughing, flaxen-haired young
giant, with a broad face and ruddy cheeks: not
very clever, but no fool: a boisterous good-
hearted fellow when well used, but terrible
when in a passion, and able to get into a
passion on light provocation. As for Christina,
the only daughter, I need only say at present
that she was an extremely pretty girl of nineteen.

The Dyrings seemed to treat our invasion of
their hearth and home as a matter of course,
or rather as a piece of good fortune which had
befallen them. At the same time, they
admitted that the affair might have had a tragic
ending, since it is not every belated traveller
who, being lost on a stormy night on a wild
heath in Jutland, can count upon so safe a
bourne at the end of his wanderings. The
kind Danes mentioned many melancholy
accidents that had taken place—in winter for the
most part—between Lonne and Rothesgaard,
or between the castle and the town of
Ringkiöbing. Now, they told of a pedlar who had
been missing for years, and on whose account
the gipsies had been suspected, since all deemed
that the chapman had been made away with for
the sake of his pack, until, in a dry summer,
pack and pedlar were found in a swamp. Now,
they told of a number of wedding guests,
somewhat the worse for brandy and Rostock beer,
who had perished in the snow on the Kobolds'
Moor. There were many such accidents on
record.

By supper-time, I think we were all, more
or less, pleased with one another. Our only
introduction at the gate had been the simple
announcement that we were wayfarers and
Englishmen, and no question had been asked as to
our worldly position. We were left, therefore,
to mention our own names. Williams told his
patronymic and profession, and spoke, casually,
of some Danish gentlemen in Copenhagen to
whom he had brought letters: among them, a
chamberlain of the king, a nobleman with whom
the baron had been at school, but of whom he
had long lost sight.

"You do not go to Copenhagen, then, for
the winter season?" said my companion.

"We never go," said the baron, a little
dryly; and then, as if ashamed of anything that
might savour of churlishness, he rejoined, "Gay
cities like our capital—though I dare say you
smile in your sleeves, young gentlemen, at my
calling our poor little Copenhagen gay—are
not the places for a needy Jutland gentleman.
Ah! You look incredulous, but if you will do
me the favour to stay a few days with us, you
will learn all about our ways. We have plenty
of wheat and barley, plenty of cows and oxen
and swine, plenty of all things except dollars,
and nothing else will pay one's way in city
life. No, no, we must stop and keep a master's
eye over the land and its produce. Of courts
and towns I saw something as a boy, in my
grandfather's time, but I am a plain man and
my children after me will be plain Jutland
squires too. Try this Marcobrunner, Mr.
Williams; pity that Denmark ripens no grape!
We must trust to the land of our German
enemies for the very wine that warms our
hearts."

I was rather puzzled by the baron's good-
humoured confession of poverty, and was
inclined to take it as a jest. Certainly of what
we in England call poverty, there were no signs.
Most of the furniture was old, no doubt; old
enough to have been made in the reign of
Christian the Seventh; but it was well
preserved, and suited the old oak panels and carved
cornices better than modern finery would have
done. The supper was excellent—almost over-
plentiful—the wine was good, and there was
plenty of old silver and old china. To say that
the whole mansion was exquisitely clean, neat,
and in perfect repair, is superfluous; for in
Denmark there is a more than Dutch passion
for cleanliness and order, and every rustic inn
where we had slept in our tour had been
perfection in this respect. The servants were
cheerful, well clad in grey cloth coats or trim
gowns of some bright colour, and conveyed an
impression of anything rather than narrow
circumstances on the part of their master.

"Well," said I to myself, as I looked at the
snow-white sheets redolent of lavender, the
scarlet silk quilt, and the tapestried curtains, of
my bed, and then at the curious looking-glass in
its ebony frame, with dragon's claws on each side
of the mirror to hold a tall wax-light, while on
the walls hung several pictures of worthy
persons in periwigs and plate armour, matched
by ladies whose hair had been tortured by the
barber's art into towers of frizzled curls; "I
know many a more pretentious personage in
England and Ireland who would gladly change
places with my host. Poor, forsooth!"

I was still more puzzled on the following
morning, when the sun rose brilliantly in a sky
of unclouded blue, and sounds of lowing, barking
and singing, with the tramp of horses and
the voices of men and women, called me to
my window. The baron's milch cows were being
driven out in long file, from the yard to the
meadows, and when they had passed, numerous
cattle of various sizes and ages, but all glossy
and well cared for, followed on their way to the
pasture. I was amazed at the signs of agricultural
wealth all around, the number of sleek
cart-horses, the army of poultry, the herds of
swine. The very pigeons, a cloud of which
light-winged birds hovered over the stone
tower that served them for a dovecot, or
perched on roof and post, were surprising in
their numbers. And the many farm-labourers,
the sturdy-limbed "swains" in bluish-grey horn-
buttoned coats, felt hats, and heavy greased
boots; the active rosy dairymaids, trimly
picturesque in black bodice, snooded hair, and