an enduring vitality, for human nature is the same in all ages, and what is acknowledged to be a true transcript of it now, will be relished as keenly a thousand years hence. There can, however, be no doubt that the circumstance of Andersen's being the first Danish imaginative author introduced to the British public, has aided materially in securing him his monopoly of their esteem; and so thoroughly has he preoccupied the field, that I know for a fact, that the London publishers decline to bring out works of any other Danish author, on that very account. It is also remarkable that Miss Bremer occupies the same position with regard to Sweden. She has won the first suffrages of the English people, who know not any other Swedish writer; but here publishers and critics alike smile with surprise, when I tell them this, and they unanimously declare, that both in Sweden and Denmark, she is accounted only a second-rate Swedish writer. Really, after all is said and done, it is enough to make one mutter something about a prophet and his own country-is it not? the eliminations of God given genius never pass away? The crown of Denmark also frequently aids in bringing out valuable works, which, from their abstruse nature, cannot, of themselves, command a remunerating sale, and, consequently, but for its assistance, would remain unpublished. His late Majesty, Christian VIII., was, I believe, a munificent and discriminating patron of literature and the fine arts. A few months ago, the Bishop of Copenhagen published a translation of Ossian. There are in Copenhagen two literary institutions, principally devoted to reading. One is the Athenæum, and consists of a suite of many very commodious and handsomelyfitted reading-rooms, a refreshment room, and also one devoted to conversation and smoking. It possesses a valuable library of upward of 20,000 volumes, principally in the German language-few shelves only being French and English standard works, including latest editions of the "Encyclopædia Britannica." It is plentifully supplied with Danish, German, and French journals and serials, but rather scantily with English ones. It only takes the Times, Morning Chronicle, Examiner, Athenæum, and Punch; the Edinburgh Quarterly, Foreign Quarterly, and "Law Reviews;" and Tait's and the United Service magazines. None other than regu I felt naturally curious to learn what English writers of fiction are most read in Denmark, and I learned, from an undoubtedly reliable source, that the four favorites are Bulwer, Marryat, Dickens, and James. The sequence of their names, as here given, indicates their relative degrees of popularity.larly-elected members of the first personal They are all much read; and nearly all the copies bought in the original language are of the cheap but very neat edition issued by Fauchnitz, of Leipzig. The remuneration generally given to even first-class Danish authors is very small--not one-fourth so much as English writers usually get for magazine papers. We need not marvel at this, when we consider the very limited public addressed. All Denmark Proper contains one million less inhabitants than London alone. But then, nearly every Danish author of repute has a pension from the State, which thus nobly recognizes the claims of literature-paramount, as Hume says, above all other professions whatsoever. I blush for my own mighty country as I write this, for with all her countless wealth, England, as a state, grudgingly assigns so niggard, so beggarly a mite, for the reward and encouragement of men of genius, of literature, art, and science, that foreigners may well cry shame. When will this burning stain be wiped away? When will British legislators learn that spirit is superior to matter that mammon will perish, but that VOL. XIX. NO. IV. respectability are admitted to this excellent institution; but shortly after my arrival Mr. Philepsen, a Copenhagen publisher, very kindly made application on my behalf to the directors, who immediately accorded me free usage of all the privileges of a member--of which I have daily availed myself. While thus acknowledging the courtesy shown me, I wish I could positively assure my Danish friends that my own countrymen would not be less generous toward any of them, should they sojourn in Britain under similar circumstances. The other establishment, which is called the "Arissalon" (News Room), is a much humbler and less exclusive place, and has only very recently been opened. It is tolerably well supplied with newspapers, and the public can at any time go there, by payment of half a marc (about 24d. English) per visit, or by monthly or quarterly subscriptions. To conclude this chapter of literary gossip, I may just add, that, happening to say to a literary gentleman here, that the phrase, James's solitary horseman," is a standard joke with the English critics, he replied- 34 "Yes, and so is Andersen's solitary stork' with us, for he introduces it into every book he has ever written." THE WATCHMEN OF COPENHAGEN. During the past year of 1849, it has been my lot to reside at four of the most remarkable capitals of Europe, and to successively experience what spring is in London; what summer is in Paris; what autumn is in Edinburgh, and what winter is in Copenhagen. Vividly indeed can I dwell on the marvelous contrast of the night-aspect of each, but one of the most interesting peculiarities I have noticed in any of them is that presented by the watchmen of the last-named. When I first looked on these guardians of the night, I involuntarily thought of Shakspeare's Dogberry and Verges. The sturdy watchers are muffled in uniform great-coats, and also wear fur caps. In their hand they carry a staff of office, on which they screw, when occasion requires, that rather fearful weapon, the Northern Star. They also sometimes may be seen with a lantern at their belt; the candle contained in said lantern they place. at the top of their staff to relight any street lamps which require trimming. In case of fire, the watchmen give signals from the church towers, by striking a number of strokes, varying with the quarter of the city in which the fire occurs, and they also put out from the tower flags and lights pointed in the direction where the destructive element is raging. From eight o'clock in the evening, until four o'clock in the morning, all the year round, they chaunt a fresh verse at the expiration of each hour as they go their rounds. The cadence is generally deep and guttural, but with a peculiar emphasis and tone; and from a distance, it floats on the still night-air with a pleasing and impressive effect, especially to the ear of a stranger. The verses in question are of old antiquity, and were written, I am told, by one of the Danish bishops. They are printed on a large sheet of paper, with an emblematical border rudely engraved in the old style, and in the centre is a large engraving exactly representing one of the ancient watchmen, in the now obsolete custom, with his staff and Northern Star in hand, a lantern at his belt, and his dog at his feet. A copy of the broadside has been procured me, and my friend, Mr. Charles Beckwith, (Andersen's translator), has expressly made for me a verbatim translation of the verses, and his able version I will now give at length. I am induced to When darkness blinds the Earth, Of death's dark grave; To the grave place,* And grant a blissful death. NINE O'CLOCK. Now the day strides down, And the night rolls forth, Forgive, for Jesus' wounds, Our sins, O mildest God! In this land TEN O'CLOCK. That one prepares for bed. Take care of lights and fire, ELEVEN O'CLOCK. A fence around us place! MAURICE Mayfield was exactly what is generally called a remarkably fine boy, and the pride of his mother's heart. As an infant he was rosy, vigorous, and robust, the envy of all the matrons in the neighborhood where his family dwelt. And as he grew in strength and beauty, with his fine rich hair clustering in short curls around his large but well-shaped head, and as he threw about his lusty limbs, and displayed a complexion heightened by vigorous exercise, but never by ill-temper for Maurice was remarkably goodhumored-no wonder that his own fond mother stood gazing at him with a smile almost of exultation lighting up her face and making her look at once both proud and happy. And yet the mother of Maurice Mayfield was a widow, and placed in what are called straitened circumstances; for though she would gladly have indulged her beautiful son by purchasing for him almost anything which he desired to eat, drink, or possess, such was the smallness of her income, that she was often compelled to deny herself and him the gratification of these wishes. It is true they would not have been very easily gratified had Mrs. Mayfield been a much richer woman than she was; for Maurice had a most pressing and peculiar fancy for everything good to eat, whenever it could be had, as well as for everything beautiful to see, amusing to hear, or valuable to possess. People called him a greedy fellow; but they smiled so kindly when they did so, and patted him so gently on his fine rosy cheek, and so often gave him at the same time the very thing he wanted, that for Maurice to entertain an idea that greediness was disagreeable to any of his numerous friends would have been contrary to nature. Nor in fact was the child greedy, according to the general application of the word; for he liked very much to give his good things to other people as soon as his own appetite was satisfied, and he would most willingly have fed the whole human race on sponge-cake and barley-sugar. But Maurice was not the only child of his widowed mother. He had a sister, Isabel, one year older than himself, and between these two children a more than common attachment had been cherished from their early infancy. Indeed, the widow's family altogether was an unusually united one; seldom finding any moments so pleasant as those which were spent together in their own quiet domestic way, around a simple, but always genteel-looking table, or hearth. night, cracking nuts, or cracking jokes, as the fancy might be; sometimes in looking at pictures, or in making pictures himself by drawing shadows on the wall, caricatures, and all sorts of things to amuse his mother and sister, to make them laugh, and so to turn their attention away from his lessons, which had all to be learned for the next morning; and then, when the hour of bed-time came, of taking up his candle and going up stairs just as leisurely as if all his duties had been done; then placing it on the table, giving two or three long, loud yawns, throwing himself into his comfortable bed, and falling fast asleep before his mother went to take his candle away. But the morning was the time to be more particularly noticed by those who may wish to follow Maurice Mayfield's plan; the morning, when Isabel crept out upon the staircase, and went sometimes, in her haste, with bare feet along the cold passage to her brother's door, rousing him so gently, and yet so earnestly, that he could not, with any show of reason, fold himself up in the It is not pretended that this family were bed-clothes and fall asleep again. It is true free from those natural faults which so often this did happen sometimes, but there was create disunion, even where affection exists. always a ready excuse on his part. Isabel No doubt they had each their share of these. had not knocked loud enough, the candle Mrs. Mayfield was, perhaps, too proud of she brought had died out in the socket, he her children, too solicitous that they should had not believed it was so late as she told succeed in the world and obtain the appro-him it was. There was always something bation of her friends. Isabel, the daughter, thought of by Maurice, and brought forward was a trifle too anxious about those whom in his own excuse, for he did not like to she loved, about her brother in particular; be blamed, any more than other people and Maurice-but of him there remains so do. He simply liked to do what was much to tell, that it will be best to let his pleasant to him at the precise moment of character speak for itself. doing it. One thing, however, it may be well to state in the outset that as he advanced in years, it became evident that he was gifted by nature with very superior talents, and could learn more quickly than any of the boys with whom he associated at school or at play. Whether this was a good or an evil appeared sometimes a question with his sister; for, as she used to say-"If Maurice found but half the difficulty in learning which I do, he would be more careful to have his lessons always ready in time." To which sober remark her brother would as frequently reply,-"But you see I never am really too late. It may be worth while to inquire what was Maurice Mayfield's idea of not being really too late. His sister Isabel could have described it very feelingly, for she had a good deal to do with it one way or another. She knew, therefore, that it consisted chiefly in sitting until the latest possible moment at When Maurice did rouse himself, however, there was noise, and stir, and animation enough. Chairs and stools were then knocked over, books were snatched by their old worn backs, and often torn in the struggle; Isabel was called for faster than she could fly to fetch twenty things at once, and all the while she was entreated, implored, nay, sometimes even commanded to stand beside him to hear his declension of a Latin noun, to look over an exercise, or to find the root of some dozen doubtful words. Shoes, breakfast, clothes, brush, string, buttons, clean handkerchief, slate pencil, every imaginable item that could be necessary, was carefully made ready for the young student as punctually as the clock struck eight; but they were seldom laid hold of by his eager hand until a few minutes before nine, the hour at which he had to make his appearance at the door of Mr. Jessop's academy, situated within half a mile of his mother's residence. Thus, if Maurice did manage to be really at the door by the time the last stroke of the hour had sounded from the neighboring belfry, it was only by keeping his mother and sister in attendance upon him for a full hour, and then leaving them unnerved, exhausted, and without appetite for the scattered breakfast which remained after he was gone; by running in breathless haste for the whole distance, and all the while cramming into his capacious mouth such portions of buttered roll as he could keep hold of in his rapid flight. By these means Maurice Mayfield so managed as seldom, if ever, to be what is calledreally too late. "But the time may come," sighed Mrs. Mayfield over her boy, "and if you do not take care, Maurice, it will come yet." Wait until it does, mother," was the accustomed reply of the heedless boy; and with every repeated warning on the part of his mother, and every repeated success at the critical moment on his own, the triumph of Maurice became more exulting, and his confidence in never being actually too late more complete. Mrs. Mayfield's small income required great economy and good management, to enable her to maintain a genteel as well as comfortable appearance throughout her household. She had many rich relations, but she did not wish to be indebted to them for money, even in the education of her children. All that she asked of them at present was their interest to obtain for her son admission into a higher school, in order that his mind might be more cultivated, his manners improved, and his whole character fitted for taking a higher position in the world. Nor was Maurice, in reality, undeserving of his mother's anxious care. Partial as she was, and predisposed to look with favorable eye upon everything which his quick talents enabled him to do, even her fond loving heart scarcely valued his natural gifts beyond their real worth. The great thing was to turn his talents to account. And he did turn them to account sometimes, especially at school. When once there, where there was nothing to tempt him from his studies, nothing to eat or to drink, and nothing either to see or to hear, besides the lessons he had to learn, and the duties he had to perform, he found his place always amongst the cleverest boys, many of whom were much older than himself; while he was esteemed by his master as the most promising of all his pupils. "That boy will be an honor to his family," was the pleasant observation often made by the good schoolmaster, when he drew his chair beside the widow's fire; and Isabel would then stand very still, and look into his face with her deep, searching eyes, and listen, as one listens to sweet music-she loved so much to hear her brother Maurice praised. Nor was Maurice, in return, indifferent to what was said in praise of his sister. When the boys at Mr. Jessop's academy spoke of her as having beautiful eyes, and asked how old she was, or remarked of any one's hair that they liked to see hair worn as Isabel Mayfield wore hers, Maurice felt more than usually disposed to be on good terms with those boys, and would offer to help them with a sum, or an exercise, as if he owed them a kindness, and was delighted to pay off the debt. But there were many serious things for Mrs. Mayfield to think about, besides what agreeable remarks were made upon her boy. It was daily becoming more and more desirable that he should be removed to another school; and sorry as Mr. Jessop felt to part with him, he could not deny that since Maurice had gained the highest place in his academy, his efforts had begun to flag, nor was he altogether free from an impression that, under certain circumstancs, Maurice might yield to habits of procrastination. The first time Mr. Jessop said this, Isabel was standing near him, in her usual place, for she liked the good schoolmaster, who always spoke so kindly of her brother. But now, gently as this was said, her cheek grew pale, her lip quivered, and suddenly tears started into her deep, thoughtful-looking eyes. Ah! what a tender little heart that was of poor Isabel's, to begin life with, and how often it would be likely to ache, if it could not bear a few gentle words like these! Still, it is a sad thing to hear of the faults of those we love, whether from friend or enemy; but it is a far sadder thing to feel, as the sister of Maurice did on this occasion, that, whatever the kind schoolmaster might say, the truth was far worse than he knew; and that in the secret of her affectionate soul there were fears and misgivings of a far more serious nature than any which Mr. Jessop had expressed. It was this feeling that called forth those tears which Isabel now wiped away from her eyes as fast as they came, and still kept wiping away, until the tea was made ready, and the little party drew toward the table, with a shining lamp in the centre; and then, not liking to attract atten |