Recollection of this afterwards gave rise to his little poem, "The Soldier," which has been translated by Chamisso into German, and by Mary Howitt into our language.

He seldom played with other boys, but amused himself with dolls, and puppet theatres, or went about with his eyes closed in dreamy thought. He sometimes went with his mother to glean in the harvest fields. One day they saw the bailiff coming, and all ran away but young Andersen, who lost his shoes, and could not run on account of the thorns. The brutal bailiff lifted his whip to strike, but the young boy exclaimed

"How dare you strike me when God can see it?"

The savage man looked mild, and gave him some money, which he carried to his mother.

At that time he went to the theatre, where he saw represented in German, "Das Donauweibchen," and saw Holberg's Village Politicians treated as an opera. His first impression at the theatre was anything but poetic; "Now," he exclaimed, "if we only had as many casks of butter as there are people here, then I would eat lots of butter!" Soon after he imagined to himself a whole play, from the name of the piece and the characters in it, on a play-bill.

Among plays, stories, and histories, his father read to him the Bible. One day closing it he exclaimed, "Christ was a man like us, but an extraordinary man!" at which his mother burst into tears, and he prayed God to forgive his father's blasphemy. Again his father said, "There is no other devil than that which we have in our own hearts," which made him believe, with his mother and the neighbors, that three scratches which were found one morning on his father's arm, had been made by the devil, who had visited him in order to prove his own existence.

His father rambled oftener in the woods, grew more and more unhappy, and at length became entirely occupied with the events of the war in Germany, and with the success of his hero-Napoleon. He enlisted as a private soldier in hope of returning home a lieutenant. His wife wept, and his neighbors thought it a folly to give himself up to be shot without occasion for it. Hans Christian was sick with the measles. His father kissed him passionately, and went away, accompanied by his wife, as far as the city gate. When they were gone, his grandmother came in and said it would be a good thing if he were to die. That was his first day of sorrow.

The regiment in which his father served went no farther than Holstein. Peace succeeded, the poor shoemaker returned chagrined, suffering in health, and not long after woke one morning delirious, talking only of war and Napoleon. Christian was sent to ask counsel of a wise woman in the next village.

"Go now," said she, "by the river side toward home. If your father will die this time, then you will see his ghost."

Full of anxiety and distress he returned without seeing the ghost; nevertheless in three days his father died.

After this his mother went out washing, and he was left entirely to himself. He stayed at home mostly and busied himself with his puppet theatre, until Madame Bunkeflod, wife of a deceased clergyman, opened to him her doors. Her husband had written poems, and there he first heard the name of poet, which he learned to associate with a something glorious, with a something fortunate. He then first read a translation of Shakspeare, acted his plays in a puppet theatre, saw Hamlet's ghost, and lived upon the plain with Lear. He was most pleased with the deaths in a play, and wrote a tragedy in which every body died. Madame Bunkeflod and her sister-in-law praised his piece, and he went about reading it to every one, until the people laughed

at him and called him the "play-writer." He wept over it for a whole night; still, spite of his ill success, he wrote another, in which a king and queen were among the dramatis personæ. Having procured a sort of lexicon, in which were German, French and English words, with Danish definitions, he invented a regular Babel-like language for those dignified personages. He read it to every body, until the boys shouted after him, "There goes the play-writer."

His mother's worldly affairs growing worse, his grandmother with deep affliction took him to the manufactory where other boys of his age earned money. The workmen were mostly Germans, of very coarse habits, but their impure words were unintelligible to the innocent ears of childhood. They soon discovered that he had a fine soprano voice, and that he knew whole scenes in Holberg and Shakspeare, and did his work while he amused them with singing and acting. His delicacy was soon after so shocked by their brutal acts, that he left the manufactory and went again to his friend Madame Bunkeflod, who permitted him to read aloud to her works which she had from the circulating library. He seems to have regarded that good woman with a kind of reverence.

Once in harvest time he went with his mother some miles from Odense to the seat of a nobleman. In a barn they helped the country people pick hops. They were sitting around a great bin, and each one was relating what wonderful things he had seen or heard of. An old man said that God knew everything, both what had happened and what would happen. That idea occupied his whole mind, and he went to a pond near by where the thought passed through his mind, that, if he should jump in, it would not be as God wished. Determining all at once to do it, he ran to where the pond was deepest, but a new thought struck him-"It is the devil who wishes to have power over me!" He shrieked, and ran weeping to his mother's arms, who could not wring from him what had happened.

His mother married again, but his step-father would have nothing to do with his education, so he must leave his peep-show, his puppet theatre, and learn the tailor's trade. He plead to go to the theatre and be an actor, but his mother knew of no other theatre than those of the strolling players and rope-dancers, and wisely enough refused to let him go. Nothing would do but that he should be a tailor. His passion for reading could not longer be indulged. His knowledge of dramatic scenes, and his very fine voice, attracted the attention of many influential families in Odense, among whom was Prince Christian, afterwards king of Denmark. They sent for him at their houses, where he enjoyed much, but all must be left for the tailor's trade. He had been to a charity school, where he learned to write, and acquired little enough of arithmetic, but no more than was necessary, for using the needle with dexterity.

Before he could be apprenticed, it was necessary for him to be confirmed. In the parish the children of the so-called superior families entered their names with the provost, those of the other families with the chaplain. Young Andersen chose to announce himself to the former, though he was obliged to take his place at the foot. This he did not attribute to vanity, for he feared the rougher boys, who called him a "play-writer." His father's great coat was altered by an old tailor-woman into a confirmation suit. Then, for the first time, he wore a pair of new boots, of which he was very proud, and by which his devotion was very much disturbed.

After this his mother insisted that he should be apprenticed to a tailor, but he besought her that he might first make a journey to Copenhagen, that he might see the largest city in the world.

"What wilt thou do there ?" asked his mother.

"I will become famous," he replied, and then told her all that he had read about extraordinary men. People have," he said, "at first an immense deal of adversity to go through, and then they become famous." He wept, prayed, and his mother consented, after having sent for a wise woman to read his fortune.

"Your son will become a great man," she said, "and Odense will one day be illuminated in honor of him.”

His mother wept, and consented that he might travel, but seemed to think that he would soon return. He had saved during the last year thirteen rix dollars banco, ($7 25) which was to serve for his travelling expenses. -Having procured a letter of introduction to Madame Schall, a solodancer who had won great applause at Odense, he went, accompanied by his mother, to the city gate. There stood his old grandmother, who fell upon his neck and wept, without being able to say a word. Thus they parted forever. The postillion blew his horn, and young Andersen, then about fourteen years of age, went first to Nyborg, on the Great Belt, thence by ship to Zealand, and entered Copenhagen, September 5, 1819.

We have thus described his boyhood, because it is really the index to his whole future life. Childhood is in fact the embryo of future years; when we have given its history, we have given the future character. Nothing is truer than the poetical paradox of Wordsworth, "The boy is father of the man." "The first man," says Novalis, "is the first Spirit-seer; all appears to him as a Spirit. What are children but first men? The fresh gaze of the child is richer in significance than the forecasting of the most indubitable seer."

The city, when he entered, was in a commotion from a Jews' quarrel, and he turned into a small hotel, his whole stock of cash being about two dollars. His first ramble was to the theatre, around which he went many times. The next day, dressed in his confirmation suit, he hastened to present his letter of introduction to the dancer, Madame Schall. Before ringing, he fell on his knees and prayed God for help and support. A maid servant gave him some money, as though he were a beggar. At length he was admitted to the dancer, who was amazed, for she knew nothing of the man who had given the letter. In reply to her inquiry as to what he could play, he mentioned Cinderella, and, pulling off his boots, began it with such strange gestures, that she thought him insane, and lost no time in getting rid of him. He next went to the manager of the theatre, and asked for an engagement; but the manager answered him that he was too thin for the theatre.

"Oh," he replied, "if you will engage me with one hundred rix dollars banco salary, then I shall soon get fat!"

He was gravely bidden to go away, for none but educated people were engaged. He was deeply wounded, but knew no one to whom to apply for counsel or consolation. His thoughts turned upon God, and he wept bitterly, saying, "When everything happens really miserable, then he sends help. I have always read so. People must first of all suffer a great deal before they can bring anything to accomplishment." He bought a ticket and went to the theatre. The separation of the lovers in Paul and Virginia made him weep bitterly, because it reminded him that he was to be separated from his Virginia-the stage. Paying his bill next morning, he had but one dollar left. He determined to go to work with some handicraftsman rather than to return home, where he would have to endure the jeers of the people. A cabinet maker was found who needed an apprentice, but he did not stay long, on account of the brutal rudeness of the young fellows who worked with him. He then recollected to have read in a newspaper at Odense the name of Siboni, who was director of the Academy of Music in

Copenhagen. Relying upon his fine voice, he went to the house of Siboni. He related to the housekeeper, who opened the door, the whole history of his life. She listened with sympathy, and retired. Siboni was accompanied by Weyse, the composer, the poet Baggesen, and others, who were dining with him. He sang and repeated from Holberg, until coming to a scene that touched his own case, he burst into tears. The company clapped their hands in applause.

"I prophesy," said Baggesen, "that one day something will come out of him; but do not be vain when, some day, the whole public shall applaud thee !"

Siboni promised to cultivate his voice, and Weyse raised by subscription seventy rix dollars banco for him. He wrote full of joy to his mother, giving an account of his good fortune. But in six months his voice broke, and Siboni advised him to return to Odense and learn a trade. Agonized with such a thought, he wrote to the poet Guldberg, whose brother had be friended him in Odense. The generous poet gave him the profits of a little work which he had just published, exceeding one hundred rix dollars banco. He took up his abode at the house of a widow woman for sixteen dollars a month, which sum Weyse, Guldberg and others paid monthly in advance. A poor woman in the meantime gave him lessons in German; Lindgrön, the first comic actor at the theatre, induced by Guldberg, instructed him in comedy; and a friend of Guldberg gave him two lessons a week in Latin. He was admitted at the house of the dancer, Dahlen, whose wife was very kind to him. He was taken to the dancing school, but made little progress. Dahlen arranged a ballet of Armida, in which he received a part with the lady of Professor Heiberg, then a little girl. His name was then first printed. "I fancied," he says, "I could see in it a foretaste of immortality. I was continually looking at the printed paper. I carried the programme of the ballet with me at night to bed, lay and read my name by candle-light-in short, I was happy."

He had been two years in Copenhagen, his money was gone, and shame deterred him from making known his wants. He lodged in the house of a poor woman, where he only had breakfast. Those were dreary, dark days. He says, "God was with me in my little room; and many a night, when I had said my evening prayers, I asked of him like a child, Will things soon be better with me?'"

6

In the spring of the third year he first went out of the city. In the garden of the Fredericksberg, the summer residence of Frederick VI., overcome with joy, he shouted aloud, threw his arms around a tree, and kissed it. A man behind him asked, "Is he mad?" which so shocked him, that he ran away from the place. His voice had regained in part its richness, and he was admitted into the school-choir, but his Latin was neglected, and he received his first reprimand from Guldberg. At this time he was befriended by Mrs. Colkjörnsen, her daughter, and the interesting wife of the poet Kahbek. He read aloud to the latter a tragedy which he had begun. On hearing the first scene she exclaimed," But you have actually taken whole passages from Oehlenschlager and Ingemann."

"Yes, but they are so beautiful!" he replied, and read on.

She first called him a poet. It was said half in jest, but it went through him soul and body, and tears filled his eyes.

Professor Thiele, then a student, became his real friend, whilst many others only amused themselves with him. He heard it said every day that he ought to study, but no exertion was made to provide the means,-therefore he determined to write a tragedy, which should supply his wants. In fourteen days the Robbers in Wissenberg was completed. A young lady whom he had met at Odense, paid some one to prepare a legible copy, and

presented it for perusal. In six weeks it was returned with a note saying, that a work which betrayed such want of elementary knowledge could not be retained. His means were gone; it was necessary for him to write something that must be accepted. The result of a second effort was a tragedy which he called Alfsol. The rural Dean Gutfeldt exerted himself for the tragedy. He suffered bitter want while in suspense as to his tragedy, yet he gave to the circulating library, that he might read the works of Walter Scott, what ought to have bought him a dinner.

He was at that time introduced to Collin, who procured from the king means for his education, and became to him all that a father could be. His tragedy was rejected, and he was sent away by Collin to the school at Slagelse, twelve Danish miles from Copenhagen.

There he took his place in the lowest class among the little boys, for he knew nothing of school studies. Advancement however was made, so that he received the commendation of his friends the next year when he returned on a visit to Copenhagen. At the same time a brother of the poet Guldberg, in Odense, furnished him with means to visit his native place, where he was received with great eclat. He returned to the school, but the clownish rector was a continual source of grief to him. His only happy hours seem to have been spent among the ruins of an old castle, with which were associated some curious legends. He made a visit to the city of Söro, a short distance from Slagelse, where there was an academy for the nobility, founded by the poet Holberg. There he became acquainted with Petit and Karl Bagger, who have become known in Danish literature.

He soon after removed with the rector to Helsingor, one of the loveliest places in all Denmark. He there was incarcerated in the house of the rector, where he suffered the ridicule of a tyrannical master, who was very angry with him because he had spent his time in writing a little poem, which he called "The Dying Child." It has become one of the most popular of all his works. When on a visit at this time to Copenhagen, he was kindly entertained at the house of Admiral Wulff, where he first became acquainted with the great Danish poet, Adam Oehlenscläger. He was also removed by Collin from the house of the rector, who gave him a parting curse. He then hired a garret, and engaged a young man to teach him Latin and Greek.

His mind became more at ease, and he showed a disposition to turn every thing into ridicule, in which he was encouraged by Wulff's eldest daughter. Heiberg at that time had gained a good reputation as a poet, and was the conductor of an excellent weekly journal, in which some of Andersen's humorous pieces obtained a conspicuous place.

In September, 1828, he was a student, and graduated in the same month, 1829. In the meantime a published volume of his was well received, and was reprinted in Sweden. Among the students he was very popular, and was considered one of the sixteen poets, whom the people in jest divided into four great and twelve small poets. A dramatic satire of his, which ridiculed the enthusiasm for the vaudeville, was not so well received.

He next travelled over his native Denmark, the scenery of which greatly expanded his mind. At the house of a rich family in a small city a new world was opened to him.

"A pair of dark eyes fired my sight,

They were my world, my home, my delight;
The soul beamed in them, and childlike peace,
And never on earth will their memory cease."

But she loved, alas! another!

He became acquainted with the young poet Orla Schmann, with whom he read Heine in German. Most persons were inclined to think him vain, and did not hesitate to express it. His works were, too, severely criticised, and he real