a kind of Fata Morgana. A ship, which had not yet risen above
the horizon, showed itself in the distance, but the rigging was turned
upside down; the masts were below, the hull above. This is called the
ship of death, and when it is seen people are sure of bad weather and
shipwreck. Later, about midday, it began to blow, and in an hour's time
we had a regular tempest. The sea growled quite charmingly; we travelled
on between sand-hills--they resemble hills and dales in winter time, but
here it is not snow which melts away; here never grows a single green
blade; a black stake stands up here and there, and these are rudders
from wrecks, the histories of which are unknown. In the afternoon arose
a storm such as I had experienced when riding with the man between
the sand-hills. We could not proceed farther, and were obliged on this
account to seek shelter in one of the huts which the fishermen hail
erected among the white sand-hills. There we remained, and I saw the
stranding of a vessel: I shall never forget it! An American ship lay not
a musket-shot from land. They cut the mast; six or seven men clung fast
to it in the waters. O, how they rocked backward and forward in the
dashing spray! The mast took a direction toward the shore; at length
only three men were left clinging to the mast; it was dashed upon land,
but the returning waves again bore it away; it had crushed the arms and
legs of the clinging wretches--ground them like worms! I dreamed of this
for many nights. The waves flung the hull of the vessel up high on the
shore, and drove it into the sand, where it was afterward found. Later,
as we retraced our steps, were the stem and sternpost gone: you saw two
strong wooden walls, between which the road took its course. You even
still travel through the wreck!"

"Up in your country every poetical mind must become a Byron," said
Wilhelm. "On my parents' estate we have only idyls; the whole of Funen
is a garden. We mutually visit each other upon our different estates,
where we lead most merry lives, dance with the peasant-girls at the
brewing-feast, hunt in the woods, and fish in the lakes. The only
melancholy object which presents itself with us is a funeral, and the
only romantic characters we possess are a little hump-backed musician,
a wise woman, and an honest schoolmaster, who still firmly believes, as
Jeronimus did, that the earth is flat, and that, were it to turn round,
we should fall, the devil knows where!"