nature are combined with the riches of art.
Here is the temple of Apis—adorned with
columns crowned by Corinthian capitals! A
few steps carry you from ancient Egypt to
modern Switzerland. A châlet stands by the
side of a lake, which is not exactly the Lake of
Geneva. Further on is the Chinese pavilion,
Frederic the Sixth's favourite lunching-place.
Beech is the prevailing tree; its delicate light-
green foliage harmonises well with the general
softness of the scenery and the gentle character of
the population. Nature, in Denmark, has not
confined her beneficent influence to man alone; it is
extended to everything which lives and breathes.
Wild animals are scarcely wild in this excellent
country; the little birds will alight at your feet;
and the very deer, timid as they are, hardly step
aside to let you pass. Man, elsewhere the
tyrant and the assassin of almost every created
being, is in Denmark the animal's sympathising
friend. An Animals' Protection Society would
be an insult to the Danes; for, not a carter
amongst them would overwork or brutally beat
his horse. "One of these days you will come
to Paris?" was inquired of a Dane. "No,"
as the reply; "you treat dumb creatures too
cruelly there." How widely does France differ,
in this respect—it is a Frenchman who confesses
it—from Denmark! Not only, in Denmark,
they do not kill the poor little birds—as in la
belle France—for the sole pleasure of killing
them, but the peasantry carry their compassion
so far as to save them, in winter when the ground
is covered with snow, from the pangs of hunger.
From time to time they fasten to the naked
branches of the trees bunches of millet, as a
charitable offering to these poor little creatures,
whom they could not see suffer without suffering
themselves.

Shakespeare is very popular in Denmark. A
student in whose presence the dénouement of
Hamlet was criticised as an immoral and wanton
piece of butchery, inquired, with a laugh,
"Would you like, then, Laertes to have set up
in business, and Gertrude to start a boarding-
school?"

Is there such a thing as Danish music? To
this plain question, distinctly put, M. Comettant,
a most competent judge, feels himself
bound to answer "No." In fact, although the
Danes are extremely sensible to musical art;
although in Copenhagen, as in Paris, there is a
piano in every story of every house; although
Denmark has given birth to five or six
composers of real merit; it is not the less true that
there is no such thing as Danish music. Nay
more, there is nothing either in the melodic
structure, nor in the harmonic treatment, nor
in the style of the accompaniments, nor in the
inspiration, to distinguish the innumerable small
pieces which sprout daily in the music-publishers'
shops, like mushrooms after autumnal rain,
from the hundred thousand ephemeral compositions
published everywhere more or less, but
more especially in Germany, during the last
century.

The Danish popular airs themselves are
scarcely Danish except in name; widely differing
in that respect from the popular airs of
Sweden, stamped as they are with the melancholy,
dreamy, original, and deeply sympathetic
genius of the North. Certainly, very pretty
little compositions have been written by Danish
authors. M. Weyse has published hundreds.
But on searching their graceful pages for the
mark of genius, you will find only the traces of
imitation. M. Hartmann launches out into that
nebulosity of sounds which has been named
"infinite melody," and whose working out is
best left, in the hands of its patented inventor,
Richard Wagner. His "Dryadens Bryllup,"
a long cantata-symphony, is an unlucky,
because a faithful, imitation of the composer of
the Tannhauser's proceedings. M. Comettant
thinks (and I heartily agree with him) that
one Wagner in the musical world is quite
enough.

Our author heard that strange production at
a concert given at Copenhagen in April last, for
the benefit of the soldiers' widows. As his reputation
and mission merited, a place was reserved
for him in the manager's box. Between the
acts, he wished to go out. Instead of turning
to the left, he turned to the right, and found
himself with five or six ladies of aristocratic
bearing, with gentleness and courtesy stamped
on their countenances. In company with the
ladies was a gentleman of remarkably
distinguished appearance.

Naturally, M. Comettant removed his hat.
The ladies and the gentleman slightly bowed in
acknowledgment of the salutation. Then,
believing himself in a public place, and supposing
he had done enough to conform to the
exigencies of politeness, he replaced his hat on his
head. At that moment he fancied he saw a
slight surprise expressed in the ladies' looks,
while the lips of the gentleman betrayed a
good-natured smile of amusement. The
intruder tried to leave by the opposite door, but to
his great astonishment he found it locked.
Returning therefore, he again saluted the party,
who bowed, and then re-entered his box.

But the rare distinction of the ladies, the
grand air of the gentleman, who certainly was
no common person, made a strong impression
on his mind. Moreover, their faces were not
utterly strange. He felt sure he had seen their
photographs somewhere.

"Would you have the goodness," he said to a
neighbour, "to tell me who are the persons
occupying the side-box? The ladies are charming;
and there is something intelligent and
sympathetic about the gentleman which attracts
the eye and captivates the mind."

"The gentleman, monsieur, is the King of
Denmark, Christian the Ninth, and the ladies
are members of the royal family."

While these explanations were being given,
to his great confusion he distinctly heard the
king inquire (although the words were spoken
in an under tone), "Who is that gentleman?"

"Sire," answered the chamberlain, "his
name is Oscar Comettant. He has been sent