"Good God, how sweet are all things here!
How beautiful the fields appear!
How cleanly do we feed and lie!
Lord, what good hours do we keep;
How quietly we sleep!
What peace! what unanimity!
How different from the lewd fashion
Is all our business, all our recreation!"
The Complete Angler.

FrØken Helga had filled the porcelain pipe with Kanaster one evening, when she said to her father that he should relate to Herr Hardy what he knew of Folketro.

"What is Folketro?" asked Hardy.

"It is the belief in supernatural subjects; for instance, the belief in the merman is a Folketro."

"I know the beautiful old ballad that is sung in Norway of the merman king rising from the sea in a jewelled dress, where the king's daughter had come to fish with a line of silk. He sings to her, and, charmed with his song, she gives him both her hands, and he draws her under the sea."

"Yes, we all know that ballad," said the Pastor; "it is known to all Scandinavians. We have, however, in Jutland, a tradition founded upon it. Two poor people who lived near Aarhus had an only daughter, called Grethe. One day she was sent to the seashore to fetch sand, when a Havmand (merman) rose up out in the sea. His beard was greener than the salt sea, but otherwise his form was fair, and he enticed the girl to follow him into the sea, by the promise of as much silver as she could wish for. She went to the bottom of the sea, and was married to the Havmand ('Hav' is a Danish word for the sea), and had five children. One day she sat rocking the cradle of her youngest child, when she heard the church bells ring ashore. She had almost forgotten what she had learnt of Christian faith, but the longing was so great to go to church that she wept bitterly. The merman at length allowed her to go, and she went to church. She had not been there long before the merman came to the church and called 'Grethe! Grethe!' She heard him call, but remained; this occurred three times, when the merman was heard loudly lamenting, as he returned to the sea. Grethe remained with her parents, and the merman is often heard bitterly grieving the loss of Grethe."

"The same tradition occurs in many lands," said Hardy.

"Yes, but that is the one we have here in Jutland," replied Pastor Lindal. "There is a story that comes from the neighbourhood of RingkiØbing, which may have a similarity with traditions elsewhere also; but the Jutland story is as follows: For a long time no ship had been wrecked on the west coast of Jutland, and consequently the Havmand had been a long time without a victim. So he went on land and threw a hook at the cattle on the sand hills, whither they frequently wandered from the farms, and dragged them into the sea. Close to the sea lived a Bonde, who had two red yearlings, which he did not wish to lose; so he coupled them together with twigs of the mountain ash, over which the Havmand had no power. However, he threw his hook at them, but could not drag the yearlings down to the sea, as they were protected by the virtue in the mountain ash. His hook stuck in its twigs, and the yearlings came home with it, and the Bonde hung it up in his house by the chimney. One day, when his wife was at home alone, the Havmand came and took away the hook, and said, 'The first calves of red cows, with a mountain ash couple, the Havmand could not drag to the sea, and for want of my hook I have missed many a good catch.' So the Havmand returned to the sea, and since then has never taken any cattle from that part of the coast."

"It is very possible that the cattle were stolen by people landing from the sea," said Hardy.

"Probably," said the Pastor. "There is another story of a Havmand's body being washed up by the sea, close to the church, and it was buried in the churchyard. But the sea every year washed away so much of the sandy coast that the people were afraid the church would be washed away; so they dug up the Havmand, and found him sitting at the bottom of the grave, sucking one of his toes. They carried him down to the sea, for which he thanked them, and said that now the sea should ever cast up as much sand as it washed away, and both the church and churchyard should never suffer from the encroachments of the sea."

"A story with more apparent improbability than usual. But the impression appears to exist that these supernatural beings could never really die. Is it not so?" inquired Hardy.

"It would appear so," replied the Pastor; "but in the case of Trolds or Underjordiske, their deaths are occasionally referred to in the traditions about them."

"But are there no legends of mermaids?" said Hardy.

"Many," replied the Pastor. "The Danish word is 'Havfru,' or sea-woman. On the Jutland coast a mermaid or Havfru was accustomed to drive her cattle up from the sea, so that they could graze in the fields ashore. This the BØnder did not like. They, therefore, one night, surrounded the cattle, and secured both them and the Havfru in an enclosure, and refused to let them go until they had been paid for the grass the sea cattle had consumed from their fields. As she had no money, they demanded that she should give them the belt that she wore round her waist, which appeared to be covered with precious stones. To ransom herself and cattle, she at length consented, and the BØnder received the belt; but as she went to the sea-shore she said to the biggest bull of her herd, 'Root up,' and the bull rooted the earth up that was over the sand in their meadows, and the consequence was the wind blew the sand so that it buried the church. The BØnder, therefore, had small joy of the belt, particularly when they found it was only common rushes."

"There is a ballad," said Hardy, "that I met with in Norway of Count Magnus and the Havfru. She promised him a sword, a horse, and a ship of miraculous powers; but he was true to his earthly love."

"The people often sing it here," said the Pastor, "and a good ballad it is. It is, however, well known in England. There was a common belief that there were cattle in the sea, and it is related that a man once saw a red cow constantly in the evening feeding on his standing corn. He asked his neighbours' assistance, and they secured it. It had five calves whilst in the man's possession, and each of them cow calves; but they gave him so much trouble from their unruly nature that he beat them frequently. One day he did so by the seaside, when a voice from the sea called the cattle, who all rushed into the sea.

"There is a very common story of a fisherman, on the west coast of Jutland, seeing a Havmand riding on a billow of the sea, but shivering with the cold, as he had only one stocking on. The fisherman took off one of his stockings and gave it to the Havmand. Some time after, he was on the sea fishing, when the Havmand appeared, and sang—

'HØr du Mand som Hosen gav.
Tag dit Skib og drag til Land,
Det dundrer under Norge.'
'Listen, you man, who gave the stocking.
Take your ship and make for land,
It thunders under Norway.'

The fisherman obeyed, and a great storm ensued, and many people perished at sea."

"It is common to observe that where the natural disposition of the people is a kindly one, there exists in their legends instances of a similar character, where a kindness is recollected and rewarded," said Hardy.

"It occurs often," said Pastor Lindal, "in the legends of the Underjordiske."

"Hans Christian Andersen has a story about the elder tree, but it is not very clear what position the fairy of the elder tree bears in tradition," said Hardy.

"There is supposed to exist in the elder tree a supernatural being, a gnome or fairy, called the HyldemØer, or fairy of the elder tree," replied the Pastor. "She is said to revenge all injury to the tree; and of a man who cut an elder bush down, it is related that he died shortly after. At dusk, the HyldemØer peeps in through the window at the children, when they are alone. It is also said that she sucks their breasts at night, and that this can be only averted by the juice of an onion."

"Is there any distinct legend of the HyldemØer?" asked Hardy.

"Not that I know of," replied the Pastor. "There is a saying that a child cannot sleep if its cradle is made of elder tree, but there is no story with any incidents, that I am aware of. A cradle of elder tree is not likely to be often made."

"The legend of the were-wolf is very general in all Europe," said Hardy. "Does the tradition exist with you?"

"It is called the Varulv with us," replied the Pastor. "It is said to be a man, who changes into the form of a wolf, and is known by a tuft of hair between the shoulders. When he wishes to change himself from the human form to a wolf, he repeats three times, 'I was, I am,' and immediately his clothes fall off, like a snake changing its skin. It is said that if a woman creeps under the caul of a foal, extended on four sticks, that her children will be born without the usual pains of childbirth, but that the boys will be Varulve, and the daughters Marer, or mares. The superstition about the latter, I will tell you presently. The man, however, is freed by some other person telling him he is a Varulv. In the other traditions on the subject elsewhere, the Varulv is supposed to attack women near their confinement; and it is related that a man, who was a Varulv, was at work in the fields with his wife, when suddenly a wolf appeared, and attacked her. She struck at it with her apron, which the wolf tore to pieces. Then the man reappeared, with a torn piece of the apron in his mouth. 'You are a Varulv,' said the woman; and the man said, 'I was, but now you have told me so I am free.' This is the Jutland legend of the were-wolf."

"What is that of the Marer, or mares?" asked Hardy.

"Marer is the plural of Mare," replied the Pastor. "It is a woman, who, like the Varulv, changes to the form of a mare. It is the nightmare, which, as we all know, is dreadful enough. A woman who is a Mare (the final e is pronounced as a) is known by the hair growing together on her eyebrows. It is a very old superstition. It occurs in Snorro's 'Heimskringla,' where King Vauland complains of a Mare having ridden him in his sleep. There are several stories based on the superstition. A Bondekarl—that is, a farm servant—was ridden every night by a Mare, although he had stopped up every hole to prevent her; but at last he discovered that she came through a hole in an oak post, which he stopped with a wooden pin, as soon as he knew she was in the room. As the day dawned, she assumed her human form, having no power otherwise. The man married her, and they lived together very happily. One day, the man asked his wife if she knew how she came into the house, and showed her the little wooden pin, which yet stood in the oak post. His wife peeped through the hole, and as she stood and looked, she suddenly became so small that she could go through the hole. She disappeared and never returned. There is also a story of a certain Queen of Denmark, who was very fond of horses, but she liked one horse far beyond the others. The groom observed that this horse was always tired in the morning, with the appearance of its having been ridden all night. He at length suspected that it was ridden by a Mare. He, therefore, one night took a bucket of water and threw it over the horse, when, lo! the queen sat on the horse's back."

"The superstition is evidently an ancient one," said Hardy. "There is no doubt that people had the nightmare very badly in old times, from their habits of life and sudden and violent changes taking place in their circumstances."

"There is a method of catching a Mare," said the Pastor; "and that is by putting a sieve over her when she is acting a nightmare. It is said she can then be caught, as she cannot come out until she has counted all the holes in the sieve."

"There are difficulties enough attending that," said Hardy. "But surely this must exhaust all the subjects you call Folketro?"

"By no means," said the Pastor. "We have a very dangerous coast on the west of Jutland, and I have heard sailors say of our sandy coast that they prefer rocks to sands to be wrecked on. There has consequently arisen a superstition as to omens, and these are called Strandvarsler, or omens from the sea-shore or strand. Varsel is an omen, Varsler is the plural of the word. In old times it was said to be dangerous to go on the roads or paths near the coast, as the Strandvarsler were often met. They were ghosts of people who had been drowned and still lay unburied in the sea. It is related that one evening a Strandvarsel jumped on a Bonders back and shouted, 'Carry me to church!' The Bonde had to obey, and went the nearest way to the church. When he came close to the churchyard wall, the Strandvarsel jumped over it; but the Kirkegrim, of whom I will speak directly, seized the Strandvarsel, and immediately a combat took place between them. When they had fought a while, they both rested to take breath. The Strandvarsel asked the Bonde, 'Did I hit him?' 'No,' said the Bonde. So they fought again, and again they rested, and the Strandvarsel put the same question. 'No,' said the Bonde. They fought again, and they rested, and the same question was put by the Strandvarsel. 'Yes,' said the Bonde. 'It was lucky for you that you said "Yes,"' said the Strandvarsel, 'or I would have broken your neck.' The legend goes no farther. There is, however, another story, but of the same character in its bearing. A Bondekone—that is, a farmer's wife—went out to milk her cows. She saw that a corpse had been washed up by the sea, and there was a purse of money on its waist. As there was no one near, she took the money, which she thought she could have as much need of as any one else. But the next night the Strandvarsel came and made so much noise outside her window that she came out, and he said she must help him. There was nothing to do but to obey, she thought; so she said farewell to her children, as she expected death, and went out to the Strandvarsel. When she came out, he told her to take him by his leg and drag him to the nearest churchyard, which was three English miles distant. When they came to the churchyard, the Strandvarsel said, 'Let me go, or the Kirkegrim will seize you.' This she did; but as soon as the Strandvarsel was in the churchyard, the Kirkegrim rushed at the Bondekone, and seized her by her skirt; as this was old, it gave way, and she escaped. But she had a good time of it after, with the money she had taken from the corpse by the sea-shore."

"These legends are fresh and interesting," said Hardy; "thank you very much. But is there no story where an omen had effect?"

"There are several," replied the Pastor, "and the people on the west coast have the reputation of having what is called a clear sight of the future in this respect. There was a man who stated that a ship would be wrecked at Torsminde, which would be laden with such heavy timber that it would take four men to carry each of the pieces of timber. He said he had the warning from a Strandvarsel. A year passed, when a ship was wrecked, with such heavy railway iron that it took four men to carry each rail. It was certainly a mistake for the omen to say it would be timber when it was iron; but as it was correct about four men having to carry each piece of railway iron, and the ship did wreck at Torsminde, it was considered a true warning or omen."

"But that brings the superstition down to quite recent time," said Hardy.

"I have already told you that these superstitions yet live in the hearts of the people; they do not confess them openly, but they do exist here and there."

"What is the superstition about the Kirkegrim?" asked Hardy.

"The Kirkegrim," replied the Pastor, "is a spirit or gnome that inhabits the church, and revenges any injury to it or the churchyard. That is all; there are no stories about it, beyond what I have related, that I know of."

"It is, in fact, a spiritual churchwarden," said Hardy, "after our English notions. It is to be regretted we have not them in England." "I think, little father, you have talked a long time, and you are tired," said FrØken Helga.

"You are right, FrØken," said Hardy. "Thank you, Herr Pastor, for a series of interesting legends. I can only say how sorry I am that I must go to England shortly. My mother wishes to have me at home, as she is lonely without me, and I cannot bear she should be so any longer."

"And when, Herr Hardy, do you propose to leave?" inquired Helga.

"In about a week, FrØken," replied Hardy, to whom he thought it appeared a matter of indifference whether he went or stayed.

"My father will miss you much, and so shall we all," said Helga. "You have been good and kind, and there has nothing happened about you that we have not liked."

Hardy looked at her. It was clear that, as usual, she said nothing but what she meant.

"If you come here again, you will go to Rosendal?" said the Pastor.

"Yes," replied Hardy. "My intention is to go to Rosendal in May, next year, and I hope to bring my mother with me; but, meanwhile, I have told the bailiff that the place is at your disposition, and Karl and Axel can catch all the fish in the lake they can; and as it is my intention to clear the lake of pike and put in trout instead, I hope they will use their best endeavours. My rods and tackle I will leave to assist them." "You are so good to us, Herr Hardy!" said Karl.

"Yes; but I am afraid I have a proposition to make with regard to you, Karl, which may interrupt the fishing."

"And what is that?" asked the Pastor.

"Your present view with regard to Karl is that he should go to Copenhagen and be a legal student. Now, my proposition is that he returns with me to England, that he resides at Hardy Place and learns English, during the winter. I will get a tutor in the English curate with the English rector of my parish. I will, meanwhile, inquire if I can find him a place in an English house of business in London, and, if I can, it will be a better future for him than that of a legal student in Copenhagen. At any rate, the experiment can be tried; and there is another reason—it will cost you, Herr Pastor, nothing."

"It is kind," said the Pastor. "I will think of it, and I thank you, Hardy."

"I have much to thank you for, Herr Pastor. I have learnt much here," said Hardy, "and as you will take nothing from me for the cost I have put you to during my stay here, it will give me the opportunity of repaying in part my debts to you."

The Pastor rose up and extended his hand to Hardy, and said, "I cannot say how much I thank you. I accept it, Hardy."

His daughter had knitted as usual, but her head was bent over her work. "Helga," said the Pastor, "why do you not speak?"

"Because, father," said Helga, "Herr Hardy is so good I do not know what to say. He is better than other men."

When Hardy said "Good night" to her, before he went to his room, she said, "Good night, sir!" in English, but would not take the hand Hardy held out to her.