Lemvig lies, as is well known, on an arm of the Limfjord. The legend relates, that in the Swedish war a troop of the enemy’s cavalry compelled a peasant here to mount his horse and serve as a guide. Darkness came on; they found themselves already upon the high sand-banks. The peasant guided his horse toward a steep precipice; in a farm-house on the other side of the fjord they perceived a light. “That is Lemvig,” said the peasant; “let us hasten!” He set spurs to his horse, the Swedes followed his example, and they were precipitated into the depth: the following morning their corpses were found. The monument of this bold Lemvig peasant consists of this legend and in the songs of the poets; and these are the monuments which endure the longest. Through this legend the bare precipice receives an intellectual beauty, which may truly compare itself with the naturally beautiful view over the city and the bay.

Rosalie and Otto drove into the town. It was two years since he had been here; everything seemed to him, during this time, to have shrunk together: wherever he looked everything was narrow and small. In his recollection, Lemvig was very much larger.

They now drew up before the merchant’s house. The entrance was through the shop, which was decorated with wooden shoes, woolen gloves, and iron ware. Close within the door stood two large casks of tea. Over the counter hung an extraordinary stuffed fish, and a whole bunch of felt hats, for the use of both sexes. It was a business en gros and en dÉtail, which the son of the house managed. The father himself was number one in Lemvig; he had ships at sea, and kept open house, as they call it, in the neighborhood.

The sitting-room door opened, and the wife herself, a stout, square woman, with an honest, contented countenance, stepped out and received the guests with kisses and embraces. Alas! her good Jutland pronunciation cannot be given in writing.

“O, how glorious that the Mamsell comes and brings Mr. Thostrup with her! How handsome he is become! and how grown! Yes, we have his mark still on the door.” She drew Otto along with her. “He has shot up more than a quarter of a yard!”

He looked at the objects which surrounded him.

“Yes,” said she, “that instrument we have had since you were last here; it is a present to Maren from her brother. She will now sing; you something. It is astonishing what a voice she has! Last Whitsuntide she sang in the church with the musical people; she sang louder than the organ!”

Otto approached the sofa, over which a large piece of needlework hung, in a splendid gold frame. “That is Maren’s name-sampler,” said the mistress of the house. “It is very pretty. See! there stand all our names! Can Mr. Thostrup guess who this is? Here are all the figures worked in open stitch. That ship, there, is the Mariane, which was called after me. There you see the Lemvig Arms—a tower which stands on the waves; and here in the corner, in regular and irregular stitches, is her name, ‘Maren, October the 24th, 1828.’ Yes, that is now two years since. She has now worked a cushion for the sofa, with a Turk upon it. It went the round of the city—every one wished to see it; it is astonishing how Maren can use her hands!”

Rosalie inquired after the excellent girl.

“She is preparing the table,” said the lady. “Some good friends are coming to us this evening. The secretary will also come; he will then play with Maren. You will doubtless, in Copenhagen, have heard much more beautiful music; ours is quite simple, but they sing from notes: and I think, most likely the secretary will bring his musical-box with him. That is splendid! Only lately he sang a little song to the box, that was much better than to the larger instrument; for I must say he has not the strong chest which Maren has.”

The whole family assembled themselves for the first time at the dinner-table. The two persons who took the lowest places at table appeared the most original; these were the shopman and the aunt. Both of them had only at dinner the honor of being with the family; they were quite shut out from the evening parties.

The shopman, who in the shop was the first person, and who could there speak a few words, sat here like a quiet, constrained creature; his hair combed toward one side, and exhibiting two red, swollen hands: no sound escaped his lips; kissing the hand of the lady of the house, at coming and going, was all he did beside eat.

The aunt, who was not alone called so by the family, but by the whole of Lemvig, was equally sparing of her words, but her face was constantly laughing. A flowered, red cotton cap fitted close to the thin face, giving something characteristic to the high cheek-bones and hanging lip. “She assisted in the household, but could take no part in genteel company,” as the lady expressed herself. She could never forget how, at the Reformation Festival, when only the singers sang in the church, aunt began singing with them out of her book, so that the churchwarden was forced to beg her to be silent; but this she took very ill, and declared she had as notch right as the others to praise God, and then sang in defiance. Had she not been “aunt,” and not belonged to the family to which she did, she would certainly have been turned out.

She was now the last person who entered and took her place at table. Half an hour had she been sought after before she was found. She had stood at the end of the garden, before the wooden trellis. Grass had been mown in the field behind the garden, and made into a rick; to see this she had gone to the trellis, the odor had agreeably affected her; she had pressed her face against the trellis-work, and from contemplation of it had fallen into thought, or rather out of thought. There she was found, and the dreamer was shaken into motion. She was again right lively, and laughed each time that Otto looked at her. He had his seat between Maren and the lady of the house, at the upper end of the table. Maren was a very pretty girl—little, somewhat round, white and red, and well-dressed. A vast number of bows, and a great variety of colors, were her weak side. She was reading at this time “Cabal and Love.”

“Thou art reading it in German!” said the mother.

“Yes, it must be a beautiful piece. I speak German very well, but when I wish to read it I get on too slowly with it: I like to get to the end of a book!”

The husband had his place at the head of the table. A little black cap sat smoothly on his gray hair, and a pair of clever eyes sparkled in his countenance. With folded hands he prayed a silent prayer, and then bowed his head, before he allowed the dinner to be served. Rosalie sat beside him. Her neighbor on the right seemed very talkative. He was an old soldier, who in his fortieth year had gone as lieutenant with the land’s troops, and had permission to wear the uniform, and therefore sat there in a kind of military coat, and with a stiff cravat. He was already deep in Polignac’s ministry and the triumph of the July days; but he had the misfortune to confound Lafitte and Lafayette together. The son of the house only spoke of bull-calves. The lady at the table was a little mamsell from Holstebro, who sat beside him, dressed like a girl for Confirmation, in a black silk dress and long red shawl. She was in grand array, for she was on a visit. This young lady understood dress-making, and could play upon the flute; which, however, she never did without a certain bashfulness: besides this, she spoke well, especially upon melancholy events. The bottle of wine only circulated at the upper end of the table; the shopman and aunt only drank ale, but it foamed gloriously: it had been made upon raisin-stalks.

“He is an excellent man, the merchant, whom you have received as guardian, Mr. Thostrup,” said the master of the house. “I am in connection with him.”

“But it is strange,” interrupted the lady, “that only one out of his five daughters is engaged. If the young ladies in Copenhagen do not go off better than that, what shall we say here?”

“Now Mr. Thostrup can take one of them,” said the husband. “There is money, and you have fortune also; if you get an office, you can live in floribus!”

Maren colored, although there was no occasion for coloring; she even cast down her eyes.

“What should Mr. Thostrup do with one of them?” pursued the wife. “He shall have a Jutland maiden! There are pretty young ladies enough here in the country-seats,” added she, and laid the best piece of meat upon his plate.

“Do the royal company give pretty operas?” asked Maren, and gave another direction to the conversation.

Otto named several, among others Der FreischÜtz.

“That must be horrible!” said the lieutenant. “They say the wolf-glen is so natural, with a waterfall, and an owl which flutters its wings. Burgomaster Mimi has had a letter from a young lady in Aarhuus, who has been in Copenhagen, and has seen this piece. It was so horrible that she held her hand before her face, and almost fainted. They have a splendid theatre!”

“Yes, but our little theatre was very pretty!” said the lady of the house. “It was quite stupid that the dramatic company should have been unlucky. The last piece we gave is still clear in my recollection; it was the ‘SandseslÖse.’ I was then ill; but because I wished so much to see it, the whole company was so obliging as to act it once more, and that, too, in our sitting-room, where I lay on the sofa and could look on. That was an extraordinary mark of attention from them! Only think—the burgomaster himself acted with them!”

In honor of the strangers, coffee was taken after dinner in the garden, where, under the plum-trees, a swing was fixed. Somewhat later a sailing party was arranged. A small yacht belonging to the merchant lay, just unladen, near the bridge of boats.

Otto found Maren and the young lady from Holstebro sitting in the arbor. Somewhat startled, they concealed something at his entrance.

“The ladies have secrets! May one not be initiated?”

“No, not at all!” replied Maren.

“You have manuscript poems in the little book!” said Otto, and boldly approached. “Perhaps of your own composition?”

“O, it is only a memorandum-book,” said Maren, blushing. “When I read anything pretty I copy it, for we cannot keep the books.”

“Then I may see it!” said Otto. His eye fell upon the written sheet:—

he read. “That is very pretty! ‘Der verlorne Schwimmer,’ the poem is called, is it not?”

“Yes, I have copied it out of the secretary’s memorandum-book; he has so many pretty pieces.”

“The secretary has many splendid things!” said Otto, smiling. “Memorandum-book, musical snuff-box”—

“And a collection of seals!” added the young lady from Holstebro.

“I must read more!” said Otto; but the ladies fled with glowing cheeks.

“Are you already at your tricks, Mr. Thostrup?” said the mother, who now entered the garden. “Yes, you do not know how Maren has thought of you—how much she has spoken of you. You never wrote to us; we never heard anything of you, except when Miss Rosalie related us something out of your letters. That was not nice of you! You and Maren were always called bride and bridegroom. You were a pair of pretty children, and your growth has not been disadvantageous to either of you.”

At four o’clock the evening party assembled—a whole swarm of young ladies, a few old ones, and the secretary, who distinguished himself by a collection of seals hanging to a long watch-chain, and everlastingly knocking against his body; a white shirt-frill, stiff collar, and a cock’s comb, in which each hair seemed to take an affected position. They all walked down to the bay. Otto had some business and came somewhat later. Whilst he was crossing, alone, the court-yard, he heard, proceeding from the back of the house, a fearful, wild cry, which ended in violent sobbing. Terrified, he went nearer, and perceived the aunt sitting in the middle of a large heap of turf. The priestess at Delphi could not have looked more agitated! Her close cap she had torn from her head; her long, gray hair floated over her shoulders; and with her feet she stamped upon the turf, like a willful child, until the pieces flew in various directions. When she perceived Otto she became calm in a moment, but soon she pressed her thin hands before her face and sobbed aloud. To learn from her what was the matter was not to be thought of.

“O, she is only quarrelsome!” said the girl, to whom Otto had turned for an explanation. “Aunt is angry because she was not invited to sail with the company. She always does so,—she can be quite wicked! Just lately, when she should have helped me to wring out the sheets, she always twisted them the same way that I did, so that we could never get done, and my hands hurt me very much!”

Otto walked down to the bay. The sail was unfurled, the secretary brought out his musical-box, and, accompanied by its tones, they glided in the burning sunshine over the water.

On the other side tea was to be drunk, and then Maren was to sing. Her mother asked her to sing the song with the strong tones, so that Otto might hear what a voice she had.

She sang “Dannevang.” Her voice had uncommon power, but no style, no grace.

“Such a voice, I fancy, you have not heard in the theatre at Copenhagen?” said the secretary, with dogmatical gravity.

“You might wish yourself such a chest!” said the lieutenant.

The secretary should now sing; but he had a little cold, which he had always.

“You must sing to the musical-box!” said the lady, and her wish was fulfilled. If Maren had only commenced, one might have believed it a trial of skill between Boreas and Zephyr.

They now walked about, drank tea, and after this they were to return to the house, there to partake of fish and roast meat, a piece of boxed ham, and other good things.

Otto could by no means be permitted to think of leaving them the following morning; he must remain a few days, and gather strength, so that in Copenhagen he might apply himself well to work. But only one day would he enjoy all the good things which they heaped upon him. He yearned for other people, for a more intellectual circle. Two years before he had agreed splendidly with them all, had found them interesting and intellectual; now he felt that Lemvig was a little town, and that the people were good, excellent people.

The following play again brought capital cookery, good foul, and good wine—that was to honor Mr. Thostrup. His health was drunk, Maren was more confidential, the aunt had forgotten her trouble, and again sat with a laughing face beside the constrained shopman. They must, it is true, make a little haste over their dinner, for the fire-engine was to be tried; and this splendor, they maintained, Otto must see, since he so fortunately chanced to lie there.

“How can my mother think that this will give Mr. Thostrup pleasure?” said Maren. “There is nothing to see in it.”

“That has given him pleasure formerly!” answered the mother. “It is, also, laughable when the boys run underneath the engine-rain, and the stream comes just in their necks.”

She spoke of the former Otto and of the present one—he was become so Copenhagenish, so refined and nice, as well in the cut of his clothes as in his manners; yet she still found an opportunity of giving him a little hint to further refinement. Only think! he took the sugar for his coffee with his fingers!

“But where are the sugar-tongs, the massive silver sugar-tongs?” asked she. “Maren, dost thou allow him to take the sugar with his fingers?”

“That is more convenient!” answered Otto. “I do that always.”

“Yes, but if strangers had been here,” said the hostess, in a friendly but teaching tone, “we must, like that grand lady you know of, have thrown the sugar out of the window.”

“In the higher circles, where people have clean fingers, they make use of them!” said Otto. “There would be no end of it if one were to take it with the sugar-tongs.”

“They are of massive silver!” said the lady, and weighed them in her hand.

Toward evening Rosalie went into the garden under the plum trees.

“These, also, remind me of my mountains,” said she; “this is the only fruit which will properly flourish there. Lemvig lies, like La Locle, in a valley,” and she pointed, smiling, to the surrounding sand-hills. “How entirely different it is here from what it is at home on thy grandfather’s estate! There I have been so accustomed to solitude, that it is almost too lively for me here. One diversion follows another.”

It was precisely this which Otto did not like. These amusements of the small towns wearied him, and he could not delight himself with them, no longer mingle in this life.

He wished to set out early the following morning. It would be too exhausting to drive along the dry road in the sun’s heat, they all declared; he must wait until the afternoon, then it would be cooler; it was, also, far pleasanter to travel in the night. Rosalie’s prayers decided him. Thus, after dinner and coffee, the horses should be put into the carriage.

It was the last day. Maren was somewhat in a grave mood. Otto must write in her album. “He would never come to Lemvig again,” said she. As children they had played with each other. Since he went to Copenhagen she had, many an evening, seated herself in the swing near the summer-house and thought of him. Who knows whether she must not have done so when she copied out of the secretary’s memorandum-book, the verses,—

The sea certainly flows between Aarhuus and Copenhagen.

“Maren will perhaps go over for the winter,” said the mother; “but we dare not speak too much about it, for it is not yet quite settled. It will really make her gayer! lately she has been very much inclined to melancholy, although God knows that we have denied her no pleasure!”

There now arrived a quantity of letters from different acquaintance, and from their acquaintance: if Mr. Thostrup would have the goodness to take care of this to Viborg, these to Aarhuus, and the others as far as Copenhagen. It was a complete freight, such as one gets in little towns, just as though no post went through the country.

The carriage stopped before the door.

Rosalie melted into tears. “Write to me!” said she. “Thee I shall never see again! Greet my Switzerland when thou comest there!”

The others were merry. The lady sang,—

The young lady from Holstebro bowed herself before him with an Album-leaf its her hand, upon which she must beg Mr. Thostrup to write her something. Maren gave him her hand, blushed and drew back: but as the carriage rolled away she waved her while handkerchief through the open window: “Farewell! Farewell!”