while she, dear soul, took him for a little spectre.

A few years ago there still lived an old ship-carpenter, who
remembered the little, light-haired, blue-eyed boy, that came to his
father in the carving-house at the dock-yard; he was to learn his
father's trade; and as the latter felt how bad it was not to be able
to draw, the boy, then eleven years of age, was sent to the
drawing-school at the Academy of Arts, where he made rapid progress.
Two years afterward, Bertel, or Albert, as we shall in future call
him, was of great assistance to his father; nay, he even improved his
work.

See the hovering ships on the wharves! The Dannebrog waves, the
workmen sit in circle under the shade at their frugal breakfasts; but
foremost stands the principal figure in this picture: it is a boy who
cuts with a bold hand the lifelike features in the wooden image for
the beak-head of the vessel. It is the ship's guardian spirit, and, as
the first image from the hand of Albert Thorwaldsen, it shall wander
out into the wide world. The eternally swelling sea should baptize it
with its waters, and hang its wreaths of wet plants around it.

Our next picture advances a step forward. Unobserved among the other
boys, he has now frequented the Academy's school for six years
already, where, always taciturn and silent, he stood by his
drawing-board. His answer was "yes" or "no," a nod or a shake of the
head; but mildness shone from his features, and good-nature was in
every expression. The picture shows us Albert as a candidate for
confirmation. He is now seventeen years of age--not a very young age
to ratify his baptismal compact; his place at the dean's house is the
last among the poor boys, for his knowledge is not sufficient to place
him higher. There had just at that time been an account in the
newspapers, that the pupil Thorwaldsen had gained the Academy's
smaller medal for a bas-relief representing a "Cupid Reposing." "Is it
your brother that has gained the medal?" inquired the dean. "It is
myself," said Albert, and the clergyman looked kindly on him, placed
him first among all the boys, and from that time always called him
Monsieur Thorwaldsen. Oh! how deeply did that "Monsieur" then sound in
his mind! As he has often said since, it sounded far more powerfully
than any title that kings could give him; he never afterward forgot
it.

In a small house in Aabeuraa--the street where Holberg lets his poor
poets dwell--lived Albert Thorwald