安徒生童話故事第118篇：《波爾格龍的主教和他的親族》中英文版

引導語：《波爾格龍的主教和他的親族》是安徒生的作品，下面是小編收集的這篇童話故事的中英文版本，我們一起來學習。

我們現在是在尤蘭，在那塊“荒野的沼地”的另一邊。我們可以聽到“西海的呼嘯聲”;可以聽到它的浪花的衝擊聲，而且這就在我們的身旁。不過我們面前現在涌現出了一個巨大的沙山，我們早就看見了它，現在我們在深沉的沙地上慢慢地趕着車子，正要向前走去。這座沙山上有一幢高聳入雲的古老的建築物——波爾格龍修道院。它剩下的最大的一翼現在仍然是一個教堂。有一天我們到這裏來，時間很晚，不過天空卻很明朗，因爲這正是光明之夜的季節。我們能夠望得很遠，向周圍望得很遠，可以從沼地一直望到窩爾堡灣，望到荒地和草原，望到深沉的海的彼岸。

我們現在來到了山上，我們趕着車子在倉房和農莊之間走過。我們拐一個彎，走進那幢古老的建築物的大門。這兒有許多菩提樹沿着牆成行地立着。因爲風暴打不到它們，所以長得非常茂盛，枝葉幾乎把窗子都掩蓋住了。

我們走上盤旋的石級，穿過那些用粗樑蓋成頂的長廊。風在這兒發出奇怪的嘯聲，屋裏屋外都是一樣。誰也弄不清楚這是怎麼回事情。是的，當人們害怕或者把別人弄得害怕的時候，人們就講出很多道理或看出很多道理來。人們說：當我們在唱着彌撒的時候，有許多死滅了的古老大炮靜靜地從我們的身邊走進教堂裏去。人們可以在風的呼嘯聲中聽到它們走過，而這就引起人們許多奇怪的想象——人們想起了那個遠古的時代，結果就使我們走進了那個遠古的時代裏去：

在海灘上，有一隻船擱淺了。主教的下屬都在那兒。海所保留下來的人，他們卻不保留。海洗淨了從那些被打碎了的腦袋裏流出來的血。那些擱淺的貨物成了主教的財產，而這些貨物的數量是很多的。海浦來許多整桶的貴重的酒，來充實這個修道院的酒窖;而這個酒窖裏已經儲藏了不少啤酒和蜜酒。廚房裏的儲藏量也是非常豐富的;有許多宰好了的牛羊、香腸和火腿。外面的水池裏則有許多肥大的鯽魚和鮮美的鯉魚。

波爾格龍的主教是一位非常有權勢的人，他擁有廣大的土地，但是仍然希望擴大他佔有的面積。所有的人必須在這位奧拉夫·格洛布面前低下頭來。

他的一位住在蒂蘭的富有的親族死了。“親族總是互相嫉恨的”;死者的未亡人現在可要體會這句話的真意了。除了教會的產業以外，她的丈夫統治着整個土地。她的兒子在外國：他小時候就被送出去研究異國風俗，因爲這是他的志願。他許多年來一直沒有消息，可能已經躺在墳墓裏，永遠不會回來接替他母親的統治了。

“怎麼，讓一個女人來統治嗎?”主教說。

他召見她，然後讓法庭把她傳去。不過他這樣做有什麼好處呢?她從來沒有觸犯過法體，她有十足的理由來維護自己的權利。

波爾格龍的主教奧拉夫，你的意圖是什麼呢?你在那張光滑的羊皮紙上寫下的是什麼呢?你蓋上印，用帶子把它紮好，叫騎士帶一個僕人把它送到國外，送到那遼遠的教皇城裏去，爲的是什麼呢?

現在是落葉和船隻擱淺的季節，冰凍的冬天馬上就要來。

他已經這樣做了兩次，最後他的騎士和僕人在歡迎聲中回來了，從羅馬帶回教皇的訓令——一封指責敢於違抗這位虔誠的主教的寡婦的訓令：“她和她所有的一切應該受到上帝的詛咒。她應該從教會和教徒中驅逐出去。誰也不應該給她幫助。讓她所有的朋友和親戚避開她，像避開瘟疫和麻風病一樣!”

“凡是不屈服的人必須粉碎他，”波爾格龍的主教說。

所有的人都避開這個寡婦。但是她卻不避開她的上帝。他是她的保護者和幫助者。

只有一個傭人——一個老女僕——仍然對她忠心。這位寡婦帶着她親自下田去耕作。糧食生長起來了，雖然土地受過了教皇和主教的詛咒。

“你這個地獄裏的孩子!我的意志必須實現!”波爾格龍的主教說。“現在我要用教皇的手壓在你的頭上，叫你走進法庭和滅亡!”

於是寡婦把她最後的兩頭牛駕在一輛車子上。她帶着女僕人爬上車子，走過那荒地，離開了丹麥的國境。她作爲一個異國人到異國人的中間去。人們講着異國的語言，保持着異國的風俗。她一程一程地走遠了，走到一些青山發展成爲峻嶺的地方①——一些長滿了葡萄的地方。旅行商人在旁邊走過。他們不安地看守着滿載貨物的車子，害怕騎馬大盜的部下來襲擊。

這兩個可憐的女人，坐在那輛由兩頭黑牛拉着的破車裏，安全地在這崎嶇不平的路上。在陰暗的森林裏向前走。她們來到了法國。她在這兒遇見了一位“豪強騎士”帶着一打全副武裝的隨從。他停了一會兒，把這部奇怪的車子看了一眼，便問這兩個女人爲了什麼目的而旅行，從什麼國家來的。年紀較小的這個女人提起丹麥的蒂蘭這個名字，傾吐出她的悲哀和痛苦——而這些悲愁馬上就要告一終結，因爲這是上帝的意旨。原來這個陌生的騎士就是她的兒子!他握着她的手，擁抱着她。母親哭起來了。她許多年來沒有哭過，而只是把牙齒緊咬着嘴脣，直到嘴脣流出熱血來。

現在是落葉和船隻擱淺的季節。

海上的浪濤把滿桶的酒捲到岸上來，充實主教的酒窖和廚房。烤叉上穿着野味在火上烤着。冬天到來了，但屋子裏是舒適的。這時主教聽到了一個消息：蒂蘭的演斯·格洛布和他的母親一道回來了;演斯·格洛布要設法庭，要在神聖的法庭和國家的法律面前來控告主教。

“那對他沒有什麼用，”主教說。“騎士演斯，你最好放棄這場爭吵吧!”

這是第二年：又是落葉和船隻擱淺的季節。冰凍的冬天又來了;“白色的蜜蜂”又在四處紛飛，刺着行人的臉，一直到它們融化。

人們從門外走進來的時候說：“今天的天氣真是冷得厲害啦!”

演斯·格洛布沉思地站着，火燎到了他的長衫上，幾乎要燒出一個小洞來。

“你，波爾格龍的主教!我是來制服你的!你在教皇的包庇下，法律拿你沒有辦法。但是演斯·格洛布對你有辦法!”

於是他寫了一封信給他住在薩林的妹夫奧拉夫·哈塞，請求他在聖誕節的前夕，在衛得堡的教堂做晨禱的時候來會面。主教本人要念彌撤，因此他得從波爾格龍旅行到蒂蘭來。演斯·格洛布知道這件事情。

草原和沼地現在全蓋上了冰和雪。馬和騎士，全副人馬，主教和他的神父以及僕從都在那上面走過。他們在容易折斷的蘆葦叢中選一條捷徑透過，風在那兒悽慘地呼號。

穿着狐狸皮衣的號手，請你吹起你的黃銅號吧!號聲在晴朗的空中響着。他們在荒地和沼澤地上這樣馳騁着——在炎暑的夏天出現海市蜃樓的原野上馳騁着，一直向衛得堡的教堂馳去。

風也吹起它的號角來，越吹越厲害，它吹起一陣暴風雨，一陣可怕的暴風雨，越來越大的暴風雨。在上帝的暴風雨中，他們向上帝的屋子馳去。上帝的屋子屹立不動，但是上帝的暴風雨卻在田野上和沼澤地上，在陸地上和大海上呼嘯。

波爾格龍的主教到達了教堂;但是奧拉夫·哈塞，不管怎樣飛馳，還是離得很遠。他和他的武士們在海灣的另一邊前進，爲的是要來幫助演斯·格洛布，因爲現在主教要在最高的審判席前出現了。

上帝的屋子就是審判廳，祭壇就是審判席。蠟燭在那個巨大的黃銅燭臺上明亮地燃着。風暴念出控訴和判詞;它的聲音在沼澤地和荒地上，在波濤洶涌的海上回響着。在這樣的`天氣中，任何渡船都渡不過這個海峽。

奧拉夫·哈塞在俄特鬆得停了一下。他在這兒辭退了他的勇士，給了他們馬和馬具，同時准許他們回家去，和他們的妻子團聚。他打算在這呼嘯的海上單獨一個人去冒生命的危險。不過他們得作他的見證;那就是說：如果演斯·格洛布在衛得堡的教堂裏是孤立無援的話，那並不是他的過錯。他的忠實的勇士們不願意離開他，而卻跟着他走下深沉的水裏面去。他們之中有十個人被水捲走了，但是奧拉夫·哈塞和兩個年輕的人到達了海的彼岸。他們還有五十多里路要走。

這已經是半夜過後了。這正是聖誕節之夜。風已經停了。教堂裏照得很亮;閃耀着的光焰透過窗玻璃，射到草原和荒地上面。晨禱已經做完了;上帝的屋子裏是一片靜寂，人們簡直可以聽到融蠟滴到地上的聲音。這時奧拉夫·哈塞到來了。

演斯·格洛布在大門口和他會見。“早安!我剛纔已經和主教達成了協議。”

“你真的這樣辦了嗎?”奧拉夫·哈塞說。“那麼你或主教就不能活着離開這個教堂了。”劍從他的劍鞘裏跳出來了，奧拉夫·哈塞向演斯·格洛布剛纔急忙關上的那扇教堂的門捅了一劍，把它劈成兩半。

“請住手，親愛的兄弟!請先聽聽我所達成的協議吧!我已經把主教和他的武士都刺死了。他們在這問題上再也沒有什麼話可說了。我也不再談我母親所受的冤屈了。”

祭臺上的燭芯正亮得發紅，不過地上亮得更紅。被砍碎了腦袋的主教，以及他的一羣武士都躺在自己的血泊裏。這個神聖的聖誕之夜非常安靜，現在沒有一點聲音。

四天以後，波爾格龍的修道院敲起了喪鐘。那位被害的主教和被刺死的武士們，被陳列在一個黑色的華蓋下面，周圍是用黑紗裹着的燭臺。死者曾經一度是一個威武的主人，現在則穿着銀絲繡的衣服躺着;他的手握着十字杖，已經沒有絲毫權力了。香菸在維繞着;僧衆們在唱着歌。歌聲像哭訴——像忿怒和定罪的判同。風託着它，風唱着它，向全國飛去，讓大家都能聽見。歌聲有時沉靜一會兒，但是它卻永遠不會消失。它總會再升起來，唱着它的歌，一直唱到我們的這個時代，唱着關於波爾格龍的主教和他的厲害的親族的故事。驚恐的莊稼漢，在黑夜中趕着車子走過波爾格龍修道院旁邊沉重的沙路時，聽到了這個聲音。躺在波爾格龍那些厚牆圍着的房間裏的失眠的人也聽到了這個聲音，因爲它老是在通向那個教堂的、發出迴音的長廊裏盤旋。教堂的門是早已用磚封閉了，但是在迷信者的眼中它是沒有封閉的。在他們看來，它仍然在那兒，而且仍然是開着的，亮光仍然在那些黃銅的燭臺上燃着，香菸仍然在盤旋，教堂仍然在射出古時的光彩，僧衆仍然在對那位被人刺死的主教念着彌撒，主教穿着銀絲繡的黑衣，用失去了威權的手拿着十字杖。他那慘白和驕傲的前額上的一塊赤紅的傷痕，像火似地射出光來——光上面燃着一顆世俗的心和罪惡的慾望……

你，可怕的古時的幻影!墜到墳墓裏去吧，墜到黑夜和遺忘中去吧!

請聽在那波濤洶涌的海上呼嘯着的狂暴的風吧!外邊有一陣暴風雨，正要吞噬人的生命!海在這個新的時代裏沒有改變它的思想。這個黑夜無非是一個吞噬生命的血口。至於明天呢，它也許是一顆能夠照出一切的明亮的鏡子——也像在我們已經埋葬了的那個遠古的時代裏一樣。甜蜜地睡去吧，如果你能睡的話!

現在是早晨了。

新的時代把太陽光送進房間裏來。風仍然在猛烈地吹着。有一條船觸礁的消息傳來了——像在那個遠古的時代裏一樣。

在這天夜裏，在洛根附近，在那個有紅屋頂的小漁村裏，我們從窗子裏可以看見一條擱了淺的船。它觸到了礁，不過一架放射器射出一條繩子到這船上來，形成一座聯結這隻破船和陸地的橋樑。所有在船上的人都被救出來了，而且到達了陸地，在牀上得到休息;今天他們被請到波爾格龍修道院裏來。他們在舒適的房間裏受到了殷勤的招待，看到了和善的面孔。大家用他們的民族語言向他們致敬。鋼琴上奏出他們祖國的曲子。在這一切還沒結束以前，另外一根弦震動起來了;它沒有聲音，但是非常洪亮和充滿了信心。思想的波②傳到了遭難者的故國，報道他們的遇救。於是他們所有的憂慮就都消逝了，他們在這天晚上，在波爾格龍大廳裏的舞會中參加跳舞。他們跳着華爾茲舞和波蘭舞的步子。同時唱着關於丹麥和新時代的“英勇的步兵”的歌。

祝福你，新的時代!請你騎着夏天的薰風飛進城裏來吧!把你的太陽光帶進我們的心裏和思想裏來吧!在你光明的畫面上，讓那些過去的、野蠻的、黑暗的時代的故事被擦掉吧。

①這是指阿爾卑斯山脈。丹麥沒有山;從丹麥向法國和意大利去的路程，是一段由平原走向高山的路程。

②此處原文意義不明，疑是指電報。

《波爾格龍的主教和他的親族》英文版：

　　The Bishop of Borglum and His Warriors

OUR scene is laid in Northern Jutland, in the so-called “wild moor.” We hear what is called the “Wester-wow-wow”—the peculiar roar of the North Sea as it breaks against the western coast of Jutland. It rolls and thunders with a sound that penetrates for miles into the land; and we are quite near the roaring. Before us rises a great mound of sand—a mountain we have long seen, and towards which we are wending our way, driving slowly along through the deep sand. On this mountain of sand is a lofty old building—the convent of Børglum. In one of its wings (the larger one) there is still a church. And at this convent we now arrive in the late evening hour; but the weather is clear in the bright June night around us, and the eye can range far, far over field and moor to the Bay of Aalborg, over heath and meadow, and far across the deep blue sea.

Now we are there, and roll past between barns and other farm buildings; and at the left of the gate we turn aside to the Old Castle Farm, where the lime trees stand in lines along the walls, and, sheltered from the wind and weather, grow so luxuriantly that their twigs and leaves almost conceal the windows.

We mount the winding staircase of stone, and march through the long passages under the heavy roof-beams. The wind moans very strangely here, both within and without. It is hardly known how, but the people say—yes, people say a great many things when they are frightened or want to frighten others—they say that the old dead choir-men glide silently past us into the church, where mass is sung. They can be heard in the rushing of the storm, and their singing brings up strange thoughts in the hearers—thoughts of the old times into which we are carried back.

On the coast a ship is stranded; and the bishop’s warriors are there, and spare not those whom the sea has spared. The sea washes away the blood that has flowed from the cloven skulls. The stranded goods belong to the bishop, and there is a store of goods here. The sea casts up tubs and barrels filled with costly wine for the convent cellar, and in the convent is already good store of beer and mead. There is plenty in the kitchen—dead game and poultry, hams and sausages; and fat fish swim in the ponds without.

The Bishop of Børglum is a mighty lord. He has great possessions, but still he longs for more—everything must bow before the mighty Olaf Glob. His rich cousin at Thyland is dead, and his widow is to have the rich inheritance. But how comes it that one relation is always harder towards another than even strangers would be? The widow’s husband had possessed all Thyland, with the exception of the church property. Her son was not at home. In his boyhood he had already started on a journey, for his desire was to see foreign lands and strange people. For years there had been no news of him. Perhaps he had been long laid in the grave, and would never come back to his home, to rule where his mother then ruled.

“What has a woman to do with rule?” said the bishop.

He summoned the widow before a law court; but what did he gain thereby? The widow had never been disobedient to the law, and was strong in her just rights.

Bishop Olaf of Børglum, what dost thou purpose? What writest thou on yonder smooth parchment, sealing it with thy seal, and intrusting it to the horsemen and servants, who ride away, far away, to the city of the Pope?

It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships, and soon icy winter will come.

Twice had icy winter returned before the bishop welcomed the horsemen and servants back to their home. They came from Rome with a papal decree—a ban, or bull, against the widow who had dared to offend the pious bishop. “Cursed be she and all that belongs to her. Let her be expelled from the congregation and the Church. Let no man stretch forth a helping hand to her, and let friends and relations avoid her as a plague and a pestilence!”

“What will not bend must break,” said the Bishop of Børglum.

And all forsake the widow; but she holds fast to her God. He is her helper and defender.

One servant only—an old maid—remained faithful to her; and with the old servant, the widow herself followed the plough; and the crop grew, although the land had been cursed by the Pope and by the bishop.

“Thou child of perdition, I will yet carry out my purpose!” cried the Bishop of Børglum. “Now will I lay the hand of the Pope upon thee, to summon thee before the tribunal that shall condemn thee!”

Then did the widow yoke the last two oxen that remained to her to a wagon, and mounted up on the wagon, with her old servant, and travelled away across the heath out of the Danish land. As a stranger she came into a foreign country, where a strange tongue was spoken and where new customs prevailed. Farther and farther she journeyed, to where green hills rise into mountains, and the vine clothes their sides. Strange merchants drive by her, and they look anxiously after their wagons laden with merchandise. They fear an attack from the armed followers of the robber-knights. The two poor women, in their humble vehicle drawn by two black oxen, travel fearlessly through the dangerous sunken road and through the darksome forest. And now they were in Franconia. And there met them a stalwart knight, with a train of twelve armed followers. He paused, gazed at the strange vehicle, and questioned the women as to the goal of their journey and the place whence they came. Then one of them mentioned Thyland in Denmark, and spoke of her sorrows, of her woes, which were soon to cease, for so Divine Providence had willed it. For the stranger knight is the widow’s son! He seized her hand, he embraced her, and the mother wept. For years she had not been able to weep, but had only bitten her lips till the blood started.

It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships, and soon will icy winter come.

The sea rolled wine-tubs to the shore for the bishop’s cellar. In the kitchen the deer roasted on the spit before the fire. At Børglum it was warm and cheerful in the heated rooms, while cold winter raged without, when a piece of news was brought to the bishop. “Jens Glob, of Thyland, has come back, and his mother with him.” Jens Glob laid a complaint against the bishop, and summoned him before the temporal and the spiritual court.

“That will avail him little,” said the bishop. “Best leave off thy efforts, knight Jens.”

Again it is the time of falling leaves and stranded ships. Icy winter comes again, and the “white bees” are swarming, and sting the traveller’s face till they melt.

“Keen weather to-day!” say the people, as they step in.

Jens Glob stands so deeply wrapped in thought, that he singes the skirt of his wide garment.

“Thou Børglum bishop,” he exclaims, “I shall subdue thee after all! Under the shield of the Pope, the law cannot reach thee; but Jens Glob shall reach thee!”

Then he writes a letter to his brother-in-law, Olaf Hase, in Sallingland, and prays that knight to meet him on Christmas eve, at mass, in the church at Widberg. The bishop himself is to read the mass, and consequently will journey from Børglum to Thyland; and this is known to Jens Glob.

Moorland and meadow are covered with ice and snow. The marsh will bear horse and rider, the bishop with his priests and armed men. They ride the shortest way, through the waving reeds, where the wind moans sadly.

Blow thy brazen trumpet, thou trumpeter clad in fox-skin! it sounds merrily in the clear air. So they ride on over heath and moorland—over what is the garden of Fata Morgana in the hot summer, though now icy, like all the country—towards the church of Widberg.

The wind is blowing his trumpet too—blowing it harder and harder. He blows up a storm—a terrible storm—that increases more and more. Towards the church they ride, as fast as they may through the storm. The church stands firm, but the storm careers on over field and moorland, over land and sea.

Børglum’s bishop reaches the church; but Olaf Hase will scarce do so, however hard he may ride. He journeys with his warriors on the farther side of the bay, in order that he may help Jens Glob, now that the bishop is to be summoned before the judgment seat of the Highest.

The church is the judgment hall; the altar is the council table. The lights burn clear in the heavy brass candelabra. The storm reads out the accusation and the sentence, roaming in the air over moor and heath, and over the rolling waters. No ferry-boat can sail over the bay in such weather as this.

Olaf Hase makes halt at Ottesworde. There he dismisses his warriors, presents them with their horses and harness, and gives them leave to ride home and greet his wife. He intends to risk his life alone in the roaring waters; but they are to bear witness for him that it is not his fault if Jens Glob stands without reinforcement in the church at Widberg. The faithful warriors will not leave him, but follow him out into the deep waters. Ten of them are carried away; but Olaf Hase and two of the youngest men reach the farther side. They have still four miles to ride.

It is past midnight. It is Christmas. The wind has abated. The church is lighted up; the gleaming radiance shines through the window-frames, and pours out over meadow and heath. The mass has long been finished, silence reigns in the church, and the wax is heard dropping from the candles to the stone pavement. And now Olaf Hase arrives.

In the forecourt Jens Glob greets him kindly, and says,

“I have just made an agreement with the bishop.”

“Sayest thou so?” replied Olaf Hase. “Then neither thou nor the bishop shall quit this church alive.”

And the sword leaps from the scabbard, and Olaf Hase deals a blow that makes the panel of the church door, which Jens Glob hastily closes between them, fly in fragments.

“Hold, brother! First hear what the agreement was that I made. I have slain the bishop and his warriors and priests. They will have no word more to say in the matter, nor will I speak again of all the wrong that my mother has endured.”

The long wicks of the altar lights glimmer red; but there is a redder gleam upon the pavement, where the bishop lies with cloven skull, and his dead warriors around him, in the quiet of the holy Christmas night.

And four days afterwards the bells toll for a funeral in the convent of Børglum. The murdered bishop and the slain warriors and priests are displayed under a black canopy, surrounded by candelabra decked with crape. There lies the dead man, in the black cloak wrought with silver; the crozier in the powerless hand that was once so mighty. The incense rises in clouds, and the monks chant the funeral hymn. It sounds like a wail—it sounds like a sentence of wrath and condemnation, that must be heard far over the land, carried by the wind—sung by the wind—the wail that sometimes is silent, but never dies; for ever again it rises in song, singing even into our own time this legend of the Bishop of Børglum and his hard nephew. It is heard in the dark night by the frightened husbandman, driving by in the heavy sandy road past the convent of Børglum. It is heard by the sleepless listener in the thickly-walled rooms at Børglum. And not only to the ear of superstition is the sighing and the tread of hurrying feet audible in the long echoing passages leading to the convent door that has long been locked. The door still seems to open, and the lights seem to flame in the brazen candlesticks; the fragrance of incense arises; the church gleams in its ancient splendor; and the monks sing and say the mass over the slain bishop, who lies there in the black silver-embroidered mantle, with the crozier in his powerless hand; and on his pale proud forehead gleams the red wound like fire, and there burn the worldly mind and the wicked thoughts.

Sink down into his grave—into oblivion—ye terrible shapes of the times of old!

Hark to the raging of the angry wind, sounding above the rolling sea! A storm approaches without, calling aloud for human lives. The sea has not put on a new mind with the new time. This night it is a horrible pit to devour up lives, and to-morrow, perhaps, it may be a glassy mirror—even as in the old time that we have buried. Sleep sweetly, if thou canst sleep!

Now it is morning.

The new time flings sunshine into the room. The wind still keeps up mightily. A wreck is announced—as in the old time.

During the night, down yonder by Løkken, the little fishing village with the red-tiled roofs—we can see it up here from the window—a ship has come ashore. It has struck, and is fast embedded in the sand; but the rocket apparatus has thrown a rope on board, and formed a bridge from the wreck to the mainland; and all on board are saved, and reach the land, and are wrapped in warm blankets; and to-day they are invited to the farm at the convent of Børglum. In comfortable rooms they encounter hospitality and friendly faces. They are addressed in the language of their country, and the piano sounds for them with melodies of their native land; and before these have died away, the chord has been struck, the wire of thought that reaches to the land of the sufferers announces that they are rescued. Then their anxieties are dispelled; and at even they join in the dance at the feast given in the great hall at Børglum. Waltzes and Styrian dances are given, and Danish popular songs, and melodies of foreign lands in these modern times.

Blessed be thou, new time! Speak thou of summer and of purer gales! Send thy sunbeams gleaming into our hearts and thoughts! On thy glowing canvas let them be painted—the dark legends of the rough hard times that are past!