University of Virginia Library

HILDA SILFVERLING.
A Fantasy.

Hilda Gyllenlof was the daughter of a poor Swedish
clergyman. Her mother died before she had
counted five summers. The good father did his best
to supply the loss of maternal tenderness; nor were
kind neighbors wanting, with friendly words, and
many a small gift for the pretty little one. But at the
age of thirteen, Hilda lost her father also, just as she
was receiving rapidly from his affectionate teachings
as much culture as his own education and means
afforded. The unfortunate girl had no other resource
than to go to distant relatives, who were poor, and
could not well conceal that the destitute orphan was a
burden. At the end of a year, Hilda, in sadness and
weariness of spirit, went to Stockholm, to avail herself
of an opportunity to earn her living by her needle,
and some light services about the house.

She was then in the first blush of maidenhood, with
a clear innocent look, and exceedingly fair complexion.
Her beauty soon attracted the attention of Magnus
Andersen, mate of a Danish vessel then lying at the

wharves of Stockholm. He could not be otherwise
than fascinated with her budding loveliness; and alone
as she was in the world, she was naturally prone to
listen to the first words of warm affection she had
heard since her father's death. What followed is the
old story, which will continue to be told as long as
there are human passions and human laws. To do the
young man justice, though selfish, he was not deliberately
unkind; for he did not mean to be treacherous
to the friendless young creature who trusted him.
He sailed from Sweden with the honest intention to
return and make her his wife; but he was lost in a
storm at sea, and the earth saw him no more.

Hilda never heard the sad tidings; but, for another
cause, her heart was soon oppressed with shame and
sorrow. If she had had a mother's bosom on which
to lean her aching head, and confess all her faults and
all her grief, much misery might have been saved.
But there was none to whom she dared to speak of
her anxiety and shame. Her extreme melancholy
attracted the attention of a poor old woman, to whom
she sometimes carried clothes for washing. The good
Virika, after manifesting her sympathy in various
ways, at last ventured to ask outright why one so
young was so very sad. The poor child threw herself
on the friendly bosom, and confessed all her
wretchedness. After that, they had frequent confidential
conversations; and the kind-hearted peasant
did her utmost to console and cheer the desolate orphan.
She said she must soon return to her native
village in the Norwegian valley of Westfjordalen; and
as she was alone in the world, and wanted something

to love, she would gladly take the babe, and
adopt it for her own.

Poor Hilda, thankful for any chance to keep her
disgrace a secret, gratefully accepted the offer. When
the babe was ten days old, she allowed the good Virika
to carry it away; though not without bitter tears,
and the oft-repeated promise that her little one might
be reclaimed, whenever Magnus returned and fulfilled
his promise of marriage.

But though these arrangements were managed
with great caution, the young mother did not escape
suspicion. It chanced, very unfortunately, that soon
after Virika's departure, an infant was found in the
water, strangled with a sash very like one Hilda had
been accustomed to wear. A train of circumstantial
evidence seemed to connect the child with her, and
she was arrested. For some time, she contented herself
with assertions of innocence, and obstinately refused
to tell anything more. But at last, having the
fear of death before her eyes, she acknowledged that
she had given birth to a daughter, which had been
carried away by Virika Gjetter, to her native place, in
the parish of Tind, in the Valley of Westfjordalen.
Inquiries were accordingly made in Norway, but the
answer obtained was that Virika had not been heard
of in her native valley, for many years. Through
weary months, Hilda lingered in prison, waiting in
vain for favourable testimony; and at last, on strong
circumstantial evidence, she was condemned to die.

It chanced there was at that time a very learned
chemist in Stockholm; a man whose thoughts were
all gas, and his hours marked only by combinations

and explosions. He had discovered a process of artificial
cold, by which he could suspend animation in
living creatures, and restore it at any prescribed time.
He had in one apartment of his laboratory a bear that
had been in a torpid state five years, a wolf two years,
and so on. This of course excited a good deal of
attention in the scientific world. A metaphysician
suggested how extremely interesting it would be to
put a human being asleep thus, and watch the reunion
of soul and body, after the lapse of a hundred years.
The chemist was half wild with the magnificence of
this idea; and he forthwith petitioned that Hilda, instead
of being beheaded, might be delivered to him,
to be frozen for a century. He urged that her extreme
youth demanded pity; that his mode of execution
would be a very gentle one, and, being so strictly
private, would be far less painful to the poor young
creature than exposure to the public gaze.

His request, being seconded by several men of
science, was granted by the government; for no one
suggested a doubt of its divine right to freeze human
hearts, instead of chopping off human heads, or choking
human lungs. This change in the mode of
death was much lauded as an act of clemency, and
poor Hilda tried to be as grateful as she was told she
ought to be.

On the day of execution, the chaplain came to pray
with her, but found himself rather embarrassed in
using the customary form. He could not well allude
to her going in a few hours to meet her final judge;
for the chemist said she would come back in a hundred
years, and where her soul would be meantime

was more than theology could teach. Under these
novel circumstances, the old nursery prayer seemed
to be the only appropriate one for her to repeat:

The subject of this curious experiment was conveyed
in a close carriage from the prison to the laboratory.
A shudder ran through soul and body, as she
entered the apartment assigned her. It was built entirely
of stone, and rendered intensely cold by an artificial
process. The light was dim and spectral, being
admitted from above through a small circle of blue
glass. Around the sides of the room, were tiers of
massive stone shelves, on which reposed various objects
in a torpid state. A huge bear lay on his back,
with paws crossed on his breast, as devoutly as some
pious knight of the fourteenth century. There was
in fact no inconsiderable resemblance in the proceedings
by which both these characters gained their
worldly possessions; they were equally based on the
maxim that “might makes right.” It is true, the
Christian obtained a better name, inasmuch as he paid
a tithe of his gettings to the holy church, which the
bear never had the grace to do. But then it must be
remembered that the bear had no soul to save, and the
Christian knight would have been very unlikely to
pay fees to the ferryman, if he likewise had had nothing
to send over.

The two public functionaries, who had attended the
prisoner, to make sure that justice was not defrauded

of its due, soon begged leave to retire, complaining of
the unearthly cold. The pale face of the maiden became
still paler, as she saw them depart. She seized
the arm of the old chemist, and said, imploringly,
“You will not go away, too, and leave me with these
dreadful creatures?”

He replied, not without some touch of compassion
in his tones, “You will be sound asleep, my dear,
and will not know whether I am here or not. Drink
this; it will soon make you drowsy.”

“But what if that great bear should wake up?”
asked she, trembling.

“Never fear. He cannot wake up,” was the brief
reply.

“And what if I should wake up, all alone here?”

“Don't disturb yourself,” said he, “I tell you that
you will not wake up. Come, my dear, drink quick;
for I am getting chilly myself.”

The poor girl cast another despairing glance round
the tomb-like apartment, and did as she was requested.
“And now,” said the chemist, “let us shake
hands, and say farewell; for you will never see me
again.”

“Why, wont you come to wake me up?” inquired
the prisoner; not reflecting on all the peculiar circumstances
of her condition.

“My great-grandson may,” replied he, with a smile.
“Adieu, my dear. It is a great deal pleasanter than
being beheaded. You will fall asleep as easily as a
babe in his cradle.”

She gazed in his face, with a bewildered drowsy
look, and big tears rolled down her cheeks. “Just

step up here, my poor child,” said he; and he offered
her his hand.

“Oh, don't lay me so near the crocodile!” she exclaimed.
“If he should wake up!”

“You wouldn't know it, if he did,” rejoined the
patient chemist; “but never mind. Step up to this
other shelf, if you like it better.”

He handed her up very politely, gathered her garments
about her feet, crossed her arms below her
breast, and told her to be perfectly still. He then
covered his face with a mask, let some gasses escape
from an apparatus in the centre of the room, and immediately
went out, locking the door after him.

The next day, the public functionaries looked in,
and expressed themselves well satisfied to find the
maiden lying as rigid and motionless as the bear, the
wolf, and the snake. On the edge of the shelf where
she lay was pasted an inscription: “Put to sleep for
infanticide, Feb. 10, 1740, by order of the king. To
be wakened Feb. 10, 1840.”

The earth whirled round on its axis, carrying with
it the Alps and the Andes, the bear, the crocodile,
and the maiden. Summer and winter came and went;
America took place among the nations; Bonaparte
played out his great game, with kingdoms for pawns;
and still the Swedish damsel slept on her stone shelf
with the bear and the crocodile.

When ninety-five years had passed, the bear, having
fulfilled his prescribed century, was waked according
to agreement. The curious flocked round him,
to see him eat, and hear whether he could growl as

well as other bears. Not liking such close observation,
he broke his chain one night, and made off for
the hills. How he seemed to his comrades, and what
mistakes he made in his recollections, there were
never any means of ascertaining. But bears, being
more strictly conservative than men, happily escape
the influence of French revolutions, German philosophy,
Fourier theories, and reforms of all sorts; therefore
Bruin doubtless found less change in his fellow
citizens, than an old knight or viking might have
done, had he chanced to sleep so long.

At last, came the maiden's turn to be resuscitated.
The populace had forgotten her and her story long
ago; but a select scientific few were present at the
ceremony, by special invitation. The old chemist
and his children all “slept the sleep that knows no
waking.” But carefully written orders had been transmitted
from generation to generation; and the duty
finally devolved on a great grandson, himself a chemist
of no mean reputation.

Life returned very slowly; at first by almost imperceptible
degrees, then by a visible shivering through
the nerves. When the eyes opened, it was as if by
the movement of pulleys, and there was something
painfully strange in their marble gaze. But the lamp
within the inner shrine lighted up, and gradually shone
through them, giving assurance of the presence of a
soul. As consciousness returned, she looked in the
faces round her, as if seeking for some one; for her
first dim recollection was of the old chemist. For
several days, there was a general sluggishness of soul

and body; an overpowering inertia, which made all
exertion difficult, and prevented memory from rushing
back in too tumultuous a tide.

For some time, she was very quiet and patient; but
the numbers who came to look at her, their perpetual
questions how things seemed to her, what was the
state of her appetite and her memory, made her restless
and irritable. Still worse was it when she went
into the street. Her numerous visitors pointed her
out to others, who ran to doors and windows to stare
at her, and this soon attracted the attention of boys
and lads. To escape such annoyances, she one day
walked into a little shop, bearing the name of a woman
she had formerly known. It was now kept by
ner grand-daughter, an aged woman, who was evidently
as afraid of Hilda, as if she had been a witch
or a ghost.

This state of things became perfectly unendurable.
After a few weeks, the forlorn being made her escape
from the city, at dawn of day, and with money which
had been given her by charitable people, she obtained
a passage to her native village, under the new name
of Hilda Silfverling. But to stand, in the bloom of
sixteen, among well-remembered hills and streams,
and not recognise a single human face, or know a single
human voice, this was the most mournful of all;
far worse than loneliness in a foreign land; sadder
than sunshine on a ruined city. And all these suffocating
emotions must be crowded back on her own
heart; for if she revealed them to any one, she would
assuredly be considered insane or bewitched.

As the thought became familiar to her that even the

little children she had known were all dead long ago,
her eyes assumed an indescribably perplexed and
mournful expression, which gave them an appearance
of supernatural depth. She was seized with an inexpressible
longing to go where no one had ever heard
of her, and among scenes she had never looked upon.
Her thoughts often reverted fondly to old Virika Gjetter,
and the babe for whose sake she had suffered so
much; and her heart yearned for Norway. But then
she was chilled by the remembrance that even if her
child had lived to the usual age of mortals, she must
have been long since dead; and if she had left descendants,
what would they know of her? Overwhelmed
by the complete desolation of her lot on earth,
she wept bitterly. But she was never utterly hopeless;
for in the midst of her anguish, something prophetic
seemed to beckon through the clouds, and call
her into Norway.

In Stockholm, there was a white-haired old clergyman,
who had been peculiarly kind, when he came
to see her, after her centennial slumber. She resolved
to go to him, to tell him how oppressively dreary was
her restored existence, and how earnestly she desired
to go, under a new name, to some secluded village in
Norway, where none would be likely to learn her history,
and where there would be nothing to remind her
of the gloomy past. The good old man entered at
once into her feelings, and approved her plan. He
had been in that country himself, and had staid a few
days at the house of a kind old man, named Eystein
Hansen. He furnished Hilda with means for the
journey, and gave her an affectionate letter of introduction,

in which he described her as a Swedish orphan,
who had suffered much, and would be glad to
earn her living in any honest way that could be pointed
out to her.

It was the middle of June when Hilda arrived at
the house of Eystein Hanson. He was a stout, clumsy,
red-visaged old man, with wide mouth, and big
nose, hooked like an eagle's beak; but there was a
right friendly expression in his large eyes, and when
he had read the letter, he greeted the young stranger
with such cordiality, she felt at once that she had
found a father. She must come in his boat, he said,
and he would take her at once to his island-home,
where his good woman would give her a hearty welcome.
She always loved the friendless; and especially
would she love the Swedish orphan, because
her last and youngest daughter had died the year before.
On his way to the boat, the worthy man introduced
her to several people, and when he told her
story, old men and young maidens took her by the
hand, and spoke as if they thought Heaven had sent
them a daughter and a sister. The good Brenda
received her with open arms, as her husband had said
she would. She was an old weather-beaten woman,
but there was a whole heart full of sunshine in her
honest eyes.

And this new home looked so pleasant under the
light of the summer sky! The house was embowered
in the shrubbery of a small island, in the midst or
a fiord, the steep shores of which were thickly covered
with pine, fir, and juniper, down to the water's edge,

The fiord went twisting and turning about, from promontory
to promontory, as if the Nereides, dancing
up from the sea, had sportively chased each other
into nooks and corners, now hiding away behind some
bold projection of rock, and now peeping out suddenly,
with a broad sunny smile. Directly in front of the
island, the fiord expanded into a broad bay, on the
shores of which was a little primitive romantic-looking
village. Here and there a sloop was at anchor, and
picturesque little boats tacked off and on from cape to
cape, their white sails glancing in the sun. A range
of lofty blue mountains closed in the distance. One
giant, higher than all the rest, went up perpendicularly
into the clouds, wearing a perpetual crown of
glittering snow.. As the maiden gazed on this sublime
and beautiful scenery, a new and warmer tide
seemed to flow through her stagnant heart. Ah, how
happy might life be here among these mountain
homes, with a people of such patriarchal simplicity,
so brave and free, so hospitable, frank and hearty!

The house of Eystein Hansen was built of pine
logs, neatly white-washed. The roof was covered
with grass, and bore a crop of large bushes. A vine,
tangled among these, fell in heavy festoons that waved
at every touch of the wind. The door was painted
with flowers in gay colours, and surmounted with fantastic
carving. The interior of the dwelling was ornamented
with many little grotesque images, boxes,
bowls, ladles, &c., curiously carved in the close-grained
and beautifully white wood of the Norwegian
fir. This was a common amusement with the peasantry,

and Eystein being a great favourite among
them, received many such presents during his frequent
visits in the surrounding parishes.

But nothing so much attracted Hilda's attention as
a kind of long trumpet, made of two hollow half cylinders
of wood, bound tightly together with birch
bark. The only instrument of the kind she had ever
seen was in the possession of Virika Gjetter, who called
it a luhr, and said it was used to call the cows
home in her native village, in Upper Tellemarken.
She showed how it was used, and Hilda, having a
quick ear, soon learned to play upon it with considerable
facility.

And here in her new home, this rude instrument
reappeared; forming the only visible link between her
present life and that dreamy past! With strange
feelings, she took up the pipe, and began to play one
of the old tunes. At first, the tones flitted like phantoms
in and out of her brain; but at last, they all came
back, and took their places rank and file. Old Brenda
said it was a pleasant tune, and asked her to play
it again; but to Hilda it seemed awfully solemn, like
a voice warbling from the grave. She would learn
other tunes to please the good mother, she said; but
this she would play no more; it made her too sad, for
she had heard it in her youth.

“Thy youth!” said Brenda, smiling.” One sees
well that must have been a long time ago. To hear
thee talk, one might suppose thou wert an old autumn
leaf, just ready to drop from the bough, like myself.”

Hilda blushed, and said she felt old, because she
had had much trouble.

“Poor child,” responded the good Brenda: “I hope
thou hast had thy share.”

“I feel as if nothing could trouble me here,” replied
Hilda, with a grateful smile; “all seems so kind
and peaceful.” She breathed a few notes through the
luhr, as she laid it away on the shelf where she had
found it. “But, my good mother,” said she, “how
clear and soft are these tones! The pipe I used to
hear was far more harsh.”

“The wood is very old,” rejoined Brenda: “They
say it is more than a hundred years. Alerik Thorild
gave it to me, to call my good man when he is out in
the boat. Ah, he was such a Berserker[1] of a boy!
and in truth he was not much more sober when he
was here three years ago. But no matter what he
did; one could never help loving him.”

“And who is Alerik?” asked the maiden.

Brenda pointed to an old house, seen in the distance,
on the declivity of one of the opposite hills. It
overlooked the broad bright bay, with its picturesque
little islands, and was sheltered in the rear by a noble
pine forest. A water-fall came down from the hillside,
glancing in and out among the trees; and when
the sun kissed it as he went away, it lighted up with
a smile of rainbows.

“That house,” said Brenda, “was built by Alerik's
grandfather. He was the richest man in the village.
But his only son was away among the wars for a long
time, and the old place has been going to decay. But
they say Alerik is coming back to live among us; and

he will soon give it a different look. He has been
away to Germany and Paris, and other outlandish
parts, for a long time. Ah! the rogue! there was no
mischief he didn't think of. He was always tying cats
together under the windows, and barking in the middle
of the night, till he set all the dogs in the neighbourhood
a howling. But as long as it was Alerik
that did it, it was all well enough: for everybody
loved him, and he always made one believe just what
he liked. If he wanted to make thee think thy hair
was as black as Noeck's[2] mane, he would make thee
think so.”

Hilda smiled as she glanced at her flaxen hair,
with here and there a gleam of paly gold, where the
sun touched it. “I think it would be hard to prove
this was black,” said she.

“Nevertheless,” rejoined Brenda, “if Alerik undertook
it, he would do it. He always has his say,
and does what he will. One may as well give in to
him first as last.”

This account of the unknown youth carried with it
that species of fascination, which the idea of uncommon
power always has over the human heart. The secluded
maiden seldom touched the luhr without thinking
of the giver; and not unfrequently she found herself
conjecturing when this wonderful Alerik would come
home.

Meanwhile, constant but not excessive labour, the
mountain air, the quiet life, and the kindly hearts
around her, restored to Hilda more than her original

loveliness. In her large blue eyes, the inward-looking
sadness of experience now mingled in strange
beauty with the out-looking clearness of youth. Her
fair complexion was tinged with the glow of health,
and her motions had the airy buoyancy of the mountain
breeze. When she went to the mainland, to attend
church, or rustic festival, the hearts of young
and old greeted her like a May blossom. Thus with
calm cheerfulness her hours went by, making no noise
in their flight, and leaving no impress. But here was
an unsatisfied want! She sighed for hours that did
leave a mark behind them. She thought of the
Danish youth, who had first spoken to her of love;
and plaintively came the tones from her luhr, as she
gazed on the opposite hills, and wondered whether
the Alerik they talked of so much, was indeed so
very superior to other young men.

Father Hansen often came home at twilight with a
boat full of juniper boughs, to be strewed over the
floors, that they might diffuse a balmy odour, inviting
to sleep. One evening, when Hilda saw him coming
with his verdant load, she hastened down to the water's
edge to take an armful of the fragrant boughs. She
had scarcely appeared in sight, before he called out,
“I do believe Alerik has come! I heard the organ
up in the old house. Somebody was playing on it
like a Northeast storm; and surely, said I, that must
be Alerik.”

“Is there an organ there?” asked the damsel, in
surprise.

“Yes. He built it himself, when he was here
three years ago. He can make anything he chooses.

An organ, or a basket cut from a cherry stone, is all
one to him.

When Hilda returned to the cottage, she of course
repeated the news to Brenda, who exclaimed joyfully,
“Ah, then we shall see him soon! If he does not
come before, we shall certainly see him at the weddings
in the church to-morrow.

“And plenty of tricks we shall have now,” said
Father Hansen, shaking his head with a good-natured
smile. “There will be no telling which end of the
world is uppermost, while he is here.”

“Oh yes, there will, my friend,” answered Brenda,
laughing; “for it will certainly be whichever end
Alerik stands on. The handsome little Berserker!
How I should like to see him!”

The next day there was a sound of lively music on
the waters; for two young couples from neighbouring
islands were coming up the fiord, to be married at the
church in the opposite village. Their boats were
ornamented with gay little banners, friends and
neighbours accompanied them, playing on musical
instruments, and the rowers had their hats decorated
with garlands. As the rustic band floated thus gayly
over the bright waters, they were joined by Father
Hansen, with Brenda and Hilda in his boat.

Friendly villagers had already decked the simple
little church with ever-greens and flowers, in honour
of the bridal train. As they entered, Father Hansen
observed that two young men stood at the door with
clarinets in their hands. But he thought no more of
it, till, according to immemorial custom, he, as clergy
man's assistant, began to sing the first lines of the

hymn that was given out. The very first note he
sounded, up struck the clarinets at the door. The
louder they played, the louder the old man bawled;
but the instruments gained the victory. When he
essayed to give out the lines of the next verse, the
merciless clarinets brayed louder than before. His
stentorian voice had become vociferous and rough,
from thirty years of halloing across the water, and
singing of psalms in four village churches. He exerted
it to the utmost, till the perspiration poured down
his rubicund visage; but it was of no use. His
rivals had strong lungs, and they played on clarinets
in F. If the whole village had screamed fire, to the
shrill accompaniment of rail-road whistles, they would
have over-topped them all.

Father Hansen was vexed at heart, and it was plain
enough that he was so. The congregation held down
their heads with suppressed laughter; all except one
tall vigorous young man, who sat up very serious and
dignified, as if he were reverently listening to some
new manifestation of musical genius. When the
people left church, Hilda saw this young stranger approaching
toward them, as fast as numerous handshakings
by the way would permit. She had time to
observe him closely. His noble figure, his vigorous
agile motions, his expressive countenance, hazel eyes
with strongly marked brows, and abundant brown hair,
tossed aside with a careless grace, left no doubt in her
mind that this was the famous Alerik Thorild; but
what made her heart beat more wildly was his strong
resemblance to Magnus the Dane. He went up to
Brenda and kissed her, and threw his arms about

Father Hansen's neck, with expressions of joyful recognition.
The kind old man, vexed as he was, received
these affectionate demonstrations with great
friendliness. “Ah, Alerik,” said he, after the first
salutations were over, “that was not kind of thee.”

“Me! What!” exclaimed the young man, with
well-feigned astonishment.

“To put up those confounded clarinets to drown my
voice,” rejoined he bluntly. “When a man has led
the singing thirty years in four parishes, I can assure
thee it is not a pleasant joke to be treated in that style.
I know the young men are tired of my voice, and
think they could do things in better fashion, as young
fools always do; but I may thank thee for putting it
into their heads to bring those cursed clarinets.”

“Oh, dear Father Hansen,” replied the young man,
in the most coaxing tones, and with the most caressing
manner, “you couldn't think I would do such a
thing!”

“On the contrary, it is just the thing I think thou
couldst do,” answered the old man: “Thou need not
think to cheat me out of my eye-teeth, this time.
Thou hast often enough made me believe the moon
was made of green cheese. But I know thy tricks.
I shall be on my guard now; and mind thee, I am
not going to be bamboozled by thee again.”

Alerik smiled mischievously; for he, in common
with all the villagers, knew it was the easiest thing in
the world to gull the simple-hearted old man. “Well,
come, Father Hansen,” said he, “shake hands and be
friends. When you come over to the village, to-morrow,

we will drink a mug of ale together, at the
Wolf's Head.”

“Oh yes, and be played some trick for his pains,”
said Brenda.

“No, no,” answered Alerik, with great gravity;
“he is on his guard now, and I cannot bamboozle him
again.” With a friendly nod and smile, he bounded
off, to greet some one whom he recognised. Hilda
had stepped back to hide herself from observation.
She was a little afraid of the handsome Berserker;
and his resemblance to the Magnus of her youthful
recollections made her sad.

The next afternoon, Alerik met his old friend, and
reminded him of the agreement to drink ale at the
Wolf's head. On the way, he invited several young
companions. The ale was excellent, and Alerik told
stories and sang songs, which filled the little tavern
with roars of laughter. In one of the intervals of
merriment, he turned suddenly to the honest old man,
and said, “Father Hansen, among the many things
I have learned and done in foreign countries, did I
ever tell you I had made a league with the devil, and
am shot-proof?”

“One might easily believe thou hadst made a league
with the devil, before thou wert born,” replied Eystein,
with a grin at his own wit; “but as for being shot-proof,
that is another affair.”

“Try and see,” rejoined Alerik. “These friends
are winesses that I tell you it is perfectly safe to try.
Come, I will stand here; fire your pistol, and you
will soon see that the Evil One will keep the bargain he
made with me.”

“Be done with thy nonsense, Alerik,” rejoined his
old friend.

“Ah, I see how it is,” replied Alerik, turning towards
the young men. “Father Hansen used to be
a famous shot. Nobody was more expert in the bear
or the wolf-hunt than he; but old eyes grow dim,
and old hands will tremble. No wonder he does not
like to have us see how much he fails.”

This was attacking honest Eystein Hansen on his
weak side. He was proud of his strength and skill
in shooting, and he did not like to admit that he was
growing old. “I not hit a mark!” exclaimed he, with
indignation: “When did I ever miss a thing I aimed
at?”

“Never, when you were young,” answered one of
the company; “but it is no wonder you are afraid to
try now.”

“Afraid!” exclaimed the old hunter, impatiently.
“Who the devil said I was afraid?”

Alerik shrugged his shoulders, and replied carelessly,
“It is natural enough that these young men
should think so, when they see you refuse to aim at
me, though I assure you that I am shot proof, and
that I will stand perfectly still.”

“But art thou really shot-proof?” inquired the
guileless old man. “The devil has helped thee to do
so many strange things, that one never knows what
he will help thee to do next.”

“Really, Father Hansen, I speak in earnest. Take
up your pistol and try, and you will soon see with
your own eyes that I am shot-proof.”

Eystein looked round upon the company like one

perplexed. His wits, never very bright, were somewhat
muddled by the ale. “What shall I do with
this wild fellow?” inquired he. “You see he will
be shot.”

“Try him, try him,” was the general response.
“He has assured you he is shot-proof; what more
do you need?”

The old man hesitated awhile, but after some further
parley, took up his pistol and examined it. “Before
we proceed to business,” said Alerik, “let me
tell you that if you do not shoot me, you shall have a
gallon of the best ale you ever drank in your life.
Come and taste it, Father Hansen, and satisfy yourself
that it is good.”

While they were discussing the merits of the ale,
one of the young men took the ball from the pistol.
“I am ready now,” said Alerik: “Here I stand.
Now don't lose your name for a good marksman.”

The old man fired, and Alerik fell back with a
deadly groan. Poor Eystein stood like a stone image
of terror. His arms adhered rigidly to his sides, his
jaw dropped, and his great eyes seemed starting from
their sockets. “Oh, Father Hansen, how could you
do it!” exclaimed the young men.

The poor horrified dupe stared at them wildly, and
gasping and stammering replied, “Why he said he
was shot-proof; and you all told me to do it.”

“Oh yes,” said they; “but we supposed you would
have sense enough to know it was all in fun. But
don't take it too much to heart. You will probably
forfeit your life; for the government will of course
consider it a poor excuse, when you tell them that

you fired at a man merely to oblige him, and because
he said he was shot-proof. But don't be too much
cast down, Father Hansen. We must all meet death
in some way; and if worst comes to worst, it will be
a great comfort to you and your good Brenda that you
did not intend to commit murder.”

The poor old man gazed at them with an expression
of such extreme suffering, that they became alarmed,
and said, “Cheer up, cheer up. Come, you must
drink something to make you feel better.” They
took him by the shoulders, but as they led him out,
he continued to look back wistfully on the body.

The instant he left the apartment, Alerik sprang
up and darted out of the opposite door; and when
Father Hansen entered the other room, there he sat,
as composedly as possible, reading a paper, and smoking
his pipe.

“There he is!” shrieked the old man, turning paler
than ever.

“Who is there?” inquired the young men.

“Don't you see Alerik Thorild?” exclaimed he,
pointing, with an expression of intense horror.

They turned to the landlord, and remarked, in a
compassionate tone, “Poor Father Hansen has shot
Alerik Thorild, whom he loved so well; and the
dreadful accident has so affected his brain, that he
imagines he sees him.”

The old man pressed his broad hand hard against
his forehead, and again groaned out, “Oh, don't you
see him?”

The tones indicated such agony, that Alerik had

not the heart to prolong the scene. He sprang on his
feet, and exclaimed, “Now for your gallon of ale,
Father Hansen! You see the devil did keep his bargain
with me.”

“And are you alive?” shouted the old man.

The mischievous fellow soon convinced him of that,
by a slap on the shoulder, that made his bones ache.

Eystein Hansen capered like a dancing bear. He
hugged Alerik, and jumped about, and clapped his
hands, and was altogether beside himself. He drank
unknown quantities of ale, and this time sang loud
enough to drown a brace of clarinets in F.

The night was far advanced when he went on
board his boat to return to his island home. He pulled
the oars vigorously, and the boat shot swiftly across
the moon-lighted waters. But on arriving at the customary
landing, he could discover no vestige of his
white-washed cottage. Not knowing that Alerik, in
the full tide of his mischief, had sent men to paint the
house with a dark brown wash, he thought he must
have made a mistake in the landing; so he rowed
round to the other side of the island, but with no better
success. Ashamed to return to the mainland, to
inquire for a house that had absconded, and a little
suspicious that the ale had hung some cobwebs in his
brain, he continued to row hither and thither, till his
strong muscular arms fairly ached with exertion. But
the moon was going down, and all the landscape
settling into darkness; and he at last reluctantly concluded
that it was best to go back to the village mn.

Alerik, who had expected this result much sooner,

had waited there to receive him. When he had kept
him knocking a sufficient time, he put his head out of
the window, and inquired who was there.

“Eystein Hansen,” was the disconsolate reply.
“For the love of mercy let me come in and get a few
minutes sleep, before morning. I have been rowing
about the bay these four hours, and I can't find my
house any where.”

“This is a very bad sign,” replied Alerik, solemnly.
“Houses don't run away, except from drunken
men. Ah, Father Hansen! Father Hansen! what
will the minister say?”

He did not have a chance to persecute the weary
old man much longer; for scarcely had he come under
the shelter of the house, before he was snoring in
a profound sleep.

Early the next day, Alerik sought his old friends in
their brown-washed cottage. He found it not so easy
to conciliate them as usual. They were really grieved;
and Brenda even said she believed he wanted to
be the death of her old man. But he had brought
them presents, which he knew they would like particularly
well; and he kissed their hands, and talked
over his boyish days, till at last he made them laugh.
“Ah now,” said he, “you have forgiven me, my dear
old friends. And you see, father, it was all your own
fault. You put the mischief into me, by boasting before
all those young men that I could never bamboozle
you again.”

“Ah thou incorrigible rogue!” answered the old
man. “I believe thou hast indeed made a league

with the devil; and he gives thee the power to make
every body love thee, do what thou wilt.”

Alerik's smile seemed to express that he always
had a pleasant consciousness of such power. The
luhr lay on the table beside him, and as he took it up,
he asked, “Who plays on this? Yesterday, when I
was out in my boat, I heard very wild pretty little
variations on some of my old favourite airs.”

Brenda, instead of answering, called, “Hilda! Hilda!”
and the young girl came from the next room,
blushing as she entered. Alerik looked at her with
evident surprise. “Surely, this is not your Gunilda?”
said he.

“No,” replied Brenda, “She is a Swedish orphan,
whom the all-kind Father sent to take the place of
our Gunilda, when she was called hence.”

After some words of friendly greeting, the visitor
asked Hilda if it was she who played so sweetly on
the luhr. She answered timidly, without looking up.
Her heart was throbbing; for the tones of his voice
were like Magnus the Dane.

The acquaintance thus begun, was not likely to
languish on the part of such an admirer of beauty as
was Alerik Thorild. The more he saw of Hilda,
during the long evenings of the following winter, the
more he was charmed with her natural refinement of
look, voice, and manner. There was, as we have
said, a peculiarity in her beauty, which gave it a higher
character than mere rustic loveliness. A deep,
mystic, plaintive expression in her eyes; a sort of
graceful bewilderment in her countenance, and at

times in the carriage of her head, and the motions of
her body; as if her spirit had lost its way, and was
listening intently. It was not strange that he was
charmed by her spiritual beauty, her simple untutored
modesty. No wonder she was delighted with his
frank strong exterior, his cordial caressing manner,
his expressive eyes, now tender and earnest, and now
sparkling with merriment, and his “smile most musical,”
because always so in harmony with the inward
feeling, whether of sadness, fun, or tenderness. Then
his moods were so bewitchingly various. Now powerful
as the organ, now bright as the flute, now naive
as the oboe. Brenda said every thing he did seemed
to be alive. He carved a wolf's head on her old man's
cane, and she was always afraid it would bite her.

Brenda, in her simplicity, perhaps gave as good a
description of genius as could be given, when she said
everything it did seemed to be alive. Hilda thought
it certainly was so with Alerik's music. Sometimes
all went madly with it, as if fairies danced on the
grass, and ugly gnomes came and made faces at them,
and shrieked, and clutched at their garments; the
fairies pelted them off with flowers, and then all died
away to sleep in the moonlight. Sometimes, when
he played on flute, or violin, the sounds came mournfully
as the midnight wind through ruined towers;
and they stirred up such sorrowful memories of the
past, that Hilda pressed her hand upon her swelling
heart, and said, “Oh, not such strains as that, dear
Alerik.” But when his soul overflowed with love
and happiness, oh, then how the music gushed and
nestled!

The old luhr was a great favourite with Alerik;
not for its musical capabilities, but because it was entwined
with the earliest recollections of his childhood.
“Until I heard thee play upon it,” said he, “I half repented
having given it to the good Brenda. It has
been in our family for several generations, and my
nurse used to play upon it when I was in my cradle.
They tell me my grandmother was a foundling. She
was brought to my great-grandfather's house by an
old peasant woman, on her way to the valley of
Westfjordalen. She died there, leaving the babe and
the luhr in my great-grandmother's keeping. They
could never find out to whom the babe belonged; but
she grew up very beautiful, and my grandfather married
her.”

“What was the old woman's name?” asked Hilda;
and her voice was so deep and suppressed, that it
it made Alerik start.

“Virika Gjetter, they have always told me,” he replied.
“But my dearest one, what is the matter?”

Hilda, pale and fainting, made no answer. But
when he placed her head upon his bosom, and kissed
her forehead, and spoke soothingly, her glazed eyes
softened, and she burst into tears. All his entreaties,
however, could obtain no information at that time.
“Go home now,” she said, in tones of deep despondency.
“To-morrow I will tell thee all. I have had
many unhappy hours; for I have long felt that I ought
to tell thee all my past history; but I was afraid to do

it, for I thought thou wouldst not love me any more;
and that would be worse than death. But come to-morrow,
and I will tell thee all.”

“Well, dearest Hilda, I will wait,” replied Alerik;
“but what my grandmother, who died long before I
was born, can have to do with my love for thee, is
more than I can imagine.”

The next day, when Hilda saw Alerik coming to
claim the fulfilment of her promise, it seemed almost
like her death-warrant. “He will not love me any
more,” thought she, “he will never again look at me
so tenderly; and then what can I do, but die?”

With much embarrassment, and many delays, she
at last began her strange story. He listened to the
first part very attentively, and with a gathering frown;
but as she went on, the muscles of his face relaxed
into a smile; and when she ended by saying, with the
most melancholy seriousness, “So thou seest, dear
Alerik, we cannot be married; because it is very likely
that I am thy great-grandmother”—he burst into immoderate
peals of laughter.

When his mirth had somewhat subsided, he replied,
“Likely as not thou art my great-grandmother, dear
Hilda; and just as likely I was thy grandfather, in
the first place. A great German scholar[3] teaches
that our souls keep coming back again and again into
new bodies. An old Greek philosopher is said to
have come back for the fourth time, under the name
of Pythagoras. If these things are so, how the deuce
is a man ever to tell whether he marries his grandmother
or not?”

“But, dearest Alerik, I am not jesting,” rejoined
she. “What I have told thee is really true. They
did put me to sleep for a hundred years.”

“Oh, yes,” answered he, laughing,“ I remember
reading about it in the Swedish papers; and I thought
it a capital joke. I will tell thee how it is with thee,
my precious one. The elves sometimes seize people,
to carry them down into their subterranean caves;
but if the mortals run away from them, they, out of
spite, forever after fill their heads with gloomy insane
notions. A man in Drontheim ran away from them,
and they made him believe he was an earthen coffeepot.
He sat curled up in a corner all the time, for
fear somebody would break his nose off.”

“Nay, now thou art joking, Alerik; but really”—

“No, I tell thee, as thou hast told me, it was no
joke at all,” he replied. “The man himself told me
he was a coffee-pot.”

“But be serious, Alerik,” said she, “and tell me,
dost thou not believe that some learned men can put
people to sleep for a hundred years?”

“I don't doubt some of my college professors could,”
rejoined he; “provided their tongues could hold out
so long.”

“But, Alerik, dost thou not think it possible that
people may be alive, and yet not alive?”

“Of course I do,” he replied; “the greater part of
the world are in that condition.”

“Oh, Alerik, what a tease thou art! I mean, is it
not possible that there are people now living, or staying
somewhere, who were moving about on this earth
ages ago?”

“Nothing more likely,” answered he; “for instance,
who knows what people there may be under the ice-sea
of Folgefond? They say the cocks are heard
crowing down there, to this day. How a fowl of any
feather got there is a curious question; and what
kind of atmosphere he has to crow in, is another puzzle.
Perhaps they are poor ghosts, without sense of
shame, crowing over the recollections of sins committed
in the human body. The ancient Egyptians
thought the soul was obliged to live three thousand
years, in a succession of different animals, before it could
attain to the regions of the blest. I am pretty sure I
have already been a lion and a nightingale. What I
shall be next, the Egyptians know as well as I do. One
of their sculptors made a stone image, half woman and
half lioness. Doubtless his mother had been a lioness,
and had transmitted to him some dim recollection of
it. But I am glad, dearest, they sent thee back in
the form of a lovely maiden; for if thou hadst come
as a wolf, I might have shot thee; and I shouldn't
like to shoot my—great-grandmother. Or if thou
hadst come as a red herring, Father Hansen might
have eaten thee in his soup; and then I should have
had no Hilda Silfverling.”

Hilda smiled, as she said, half reproachfully, “I
see well that thou dost not believe one word I say.”

“Oh yes, I do, dearest,” rejoined he, very seriously.
“I have no doubt the fairies carried thee off some
summer's night and made thee verily believe thou
hadst slept for a hundred years. They do the strangest
things. Sometimes they change babies in the
cradle; leave an imp, and carry off the human to the

metal mines, where he hears only clink! clink!
Then the fairies bring him back, and put him in some
other cradle. When he grows up, how he does hurry
skurry after the silver! He is obliged to work all his
life, as if the devil drove him. The poor miser never
knows what is the matter with him; but it is all because
the gnomes brought him up in the mines, and
he could never get the clink out of his head. A more
poetic kind of fairies sometimes carry a babe to Æolian
caves, full of wild dreamy sounds; and when he is
brought back to upper earth, ghosts of sweet echoes
keep beating time in some corner of his brain, to
something which they hear, but which nobody else is
the wiser for. I know that is true; for I was brought
up in those caves myself.”

Hilda remained silent for a few minutes, as he sat
looking in her face with comic gravity. “Thou wilt
do nothing but make fun of me,” at last she said. “I
do wish I could persuade thee to be serious. What I
told thee was no fairy story. It really happened. I
remember it as distinctly as I do our sail round the
islands yesterday. I seem to see that great bear now,
with his paws folded up, on the shelf opposite to me.”

“He must have heen a great bear to have staid
there,” replied Alerik, with eyes full of roguery. “If
I had been in his skin, may I be shot if all the drugs
and gasses in the world would have kept me there,
with my paws folded on my breast.”

Seeing a slight blush pass over her cheek, he added,
more seriously, “After all, I ought to thank that
wicked elf, whoever he was, for turning thee into a
stone image; for otherwise thou wouldst have been

in the world a hundred years too soon for me, and so
I should have missed my life's best blossom.”

Feeling her tears on his hand, he again started off
into a vein of merriment. “Thy case was not so very
peculiar,” said he. “There was a Greek lady, named
Niobe, who was changed to stone. The Greek gods
changed women into trees, and fountains, and all
manner of things. A man couldn't chop a walking-stick
in those days, without danger of cutting off some
lady's finger. The tree might be—his great-grandmother;
and she of course would take it very unkindly
of him.”

“All these things are like the stories about Odin
and Frigga,” rejoined Hilda. “They are not true,
like the Christian religion. When I tell thee a true
story, why dost thou always meet me with fairies and
fictions?”

“But tell me, best Hilda,” said he, “what the
Christian religion has to do with penning up young
maidens with bears and crocodiles? In its marriage
ceremonies, I grant that it sometimes does things not
very unlike that, only omitting the important part
of freezing the maiden's heart. But since thou hast
mentioned the Christian religion, I may as well give
thee a bit of consolation from that quarter. I have
read in my mother's big Bible, that a man must not
marry his grandmother; but I do not remember that
it said a single word against his marrying his great-grandmother.”

Hilda laughed, in spite of herself. But after a
pause, she looked at him earnestly, and said, “Dost

thou indeed think there would be no harm in marrying,
under these circumstances, if I were really thy great-grandmother?
Is it thy earnest? Do be serious for
once, dear Alerik!”

“Certainly there would be no harm,” answered he.
“Physicians have agreed that the body changes entirely
once in seven years. That must be because the
soul outgrows its clothes; which proves that the soul
changes every seven years, also. Therefore, in the
course of one hundred years, thou must have had
fourteen complete changes of soul and body. It is
therefore as plain as daylight, that if thou wert my
great-grandmother when thou fell asleep, thou couldst
not have been my great-grandmother when they
waked thee up.”

“Ah, Alerik,” she replied, “it is as the good Brenda
says, there is no use in talking with thee. One
might as well try to twist a string that is not fastened
at either end.”

He looked up merrily in her face. The wind was
playing with her ringlets, and freshened the colour on
her cheeks. “I only wish I had a mirror to hold
before thee,” said he; “that thou couldst see how very
like thou art to a—great grandmother.”

“Laugh at me as thou wilt,” answered she; “but
I assure thee I have strange thoughts about myself
sometimes. Dost thou know,” added she, almost in a
whisper, “I am not always quite certain that I have
not died, and am now in heaven?”

A ringing shout of laughter burst from the lighthearted
lover. “Oh, I like that! I like that!” exclaimed

he. “That is good! That a Swede coming
to Norway does not know certainly whether she is in
heaven or not.”

“Do be serious, Alerik,” said she imploringly.
“Don't carry thy jests too far.”

“Serious? I am serious. If Norway is not heaven,
one sees plainly enough that it must have been the
scaling place, where the old giants got up to heaven;
for they have left their ladders standing. Where
else wilt thou find clusters of mountains running up
perpendicularly thousands of feet right into the sky?
If thou wast to see some of them, thou couldst tell
whether Norway is a good climbing place into heaven.”

“Ah, dearest Alerik, thou hast taught me that already,”
she replied, with a glance full of affection;
“so a truce with thy joking. Truly one never knows
how to take thee. Thy talk sets everything in the
world, and above it, and below it, dancing together in
the strangest fashion.”

“Because they all do dance together,” rejoined the
perverse man.

“Oh, be done! be done, Alerik!” she said, putting
her hand playfully over his mouth. “Thou wilt tie
my poor brain all up into knots.”

He seized her hand and kissed it, then busied himself
with braiding the wild spring flowers into a garland
for her fair hair. As she gazed on him earnestly,
her eyes beaming with love and happiness, he drew
her to his breast, and exclaimed fervently, “Oh, thou
art beautiful as an angel; and here or elsewhere, with
thee by my side, it seemeth heaven.”

They spoke no more for a long time. The birds

now and then serenaded the silent lovers with little
twittering gushes of song. The setting sun, as he
went away over the hills, threw diamonds on the bay,
and a rainbow ribbon across the distant waterfall.
Their hearts were in harmony with the peaceful
beauty of Nature. As he kissed her drowsy eyes,
she murmured, “Oh, it was well worth a hundred
years with bears and crocodiles, to fall asleep thus on
thy heart.”

* * * * *

The next autumn, a year and a half after Hilda's
arrival in Norway, there was another procession of
boats, with banners, music and garlands. The little
church was again decorated with evergreens; but no
clarinet players stood at the door to annoy good Father
Hansen. The worthy man had in fact taken the hint,
though somewhat reluctantly, and had good-naturedly
ceased to disturb modern ears with his clamorous
vociferation of the hymns. He and his kind-hearted
Brenda were happy beyond measure at Hilda's good
fortune. But when she told her husband anything
he did not choose to believe, they could never rightly
make out what he meant by looking at her so slily,
and saying, “Pooh! Pooh! tell that to my—great-grandmother.”