insignificant king's palace, nor the pretty seventeenth century
bridge, which spans the canal before the museum, nor that immense
cenotaph of Thorwaldsen's, adorned with horrible mural painting, and
containing within it a collection of the sculptor's works, nor in a
fine park the toylike chateau of Rosenberg, nor the beautiful
renaissance edifice of the Exchange, nor its spire composed of the
twisted tails of four bronze dragons, nor the great windmill on the
ramparts, whose huge arms dilated in the sea breeze like the sails of
a ship.

What delicious walks we should have had together, my pretty
Virlandaise and I, along the harbour where the two-deckers and the
frigate slept peaceably by the red roofing of the warehouse, by the
green banks of the strait, through the deep shades of the trees
amongst which the fort is half concealed, where the guns are
thrusting out their black throats between branches of alder and
willow.

But, alas! Grauben was far away; and I never hoped to see her again.

But if my uncle felt no attraction towards these romantic scenes he
was very much struck with the aspect of a certain church spire
situated in the island of Amak, which forms the south-west quarter of
Copenhagen.

I was ordered to direct my feet that way; I embarked on a small
steamer which plies on the canals, and in a few minutes she touched
the quay of the dockyard.

After crossing a few narrow streets where some convicts, in trousers