ly menaced; and how
doubtful the contest is between the earnest endeavour of one faith to
overcome every tenet of another, and the outrages of vulgar audacity to
supersede noble sentiment and refinement of manner.

We did not part until much past midnight, and I shall not forget that
last night at Copenhagen for many a long day; and for the time which is
to come I shall ever, lingeringly, look back with memory on the glad
faces which endear the happiness of that evening.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE EXILE'S SOUVENIR--THE DISAPPOINTED ARTIST
--DEPARTURE FROM COPENHAGEN--ARRIVAL AT ELSINEUR
--DESCRIPTION OF THE TOWN--THE CASTLE OF CRONENBORG
--HAMLET'S GARDEN--ESROM LAKE--THE LEGEND OF ESROM
MONASTERY--THE FRENCH WAR-STEAMER--SAILING UP THE
CATTEGAT.

I rose early on the following morning, and went ashore with R----, who
desired to purchase some cherry cordial, rum and brandy, since this was
the last city of any importance we should visit, before our arrival at
Christiania, or Bergen.

The first object which attracted our attention when we returned on
board, was a large nosegay, of sweet colour and perfume, in a jar of
water, standing in the centre of the cabin table; and a small note
directed, to us, lay by its side. When opened, the note read thus:--

"A poor, but proud countryman, begs that you will accept this trifling
present, as it is the only one within his means of offering; and, when
you are again in England, think sometimes of an outcast."

It had no signature; but the hand-writing was Mr. C----'s. A large boat
was seen putting off from the shore, and we hoped that it was Mr.
C----; for R---- was always happy to see him on board his vessel,
however much he might have objected to his companionship in the streets.
As the boat approached, we saw that it was not Mr. C----, but our old
friend the gentleman in spectacles, who had, unhappily, selected this
morning to sketch the yacht; and in ignorance of our intended departure,
had evidently hired a good-sized boat for the day, and brought all the
necessary appendages of his art. In a few seconds we slipped our
moorings, and jib, foresail, and gaff-topsail were hauled out to the
wind, and the main tack dropped, sooner than I have written it.

"Vare de skepp go?" I heard the artist exclaim to the boatman; "det
bl[)a]ser h[)a]rdt--de vind blow hard--moin Gud! vare de skepp go?"

We were soon out of hearing; but we could still see the mute
astonishment of