rotesque to your
unaccustomed eyes, but remember there are many things very ridiculous at
home.

A blackened gate, a confused mass of houses, an open square, and the
pebbles again, and we are in Holstein, Denmark, in the public square and
market place of Altona. Here it is that the Danish state lotteries are
drawn, and we might moralise upon that subject, but that we prefer to
press onwards to the real village of Altona.

Here through this beautiful avenue of trees; here where the sunshine is
broken into patches by the waving foliage; far away from the din of
trumpets, huxterers and showmen; here can the sweet air whisper its low
song of peace and lull our fervid imaginations into tranquillity. This
is no solitude, though all is quiet and in repose. Under the trees and
in the road are throngs of loiterers, but there is no rude laughter, no
coarse jests; a moving crowd is there, but a quiet and happy one. And
now we come upon the venerable church with its low steeple, its
time-eaten stone walls, and its humble, grassy, flower-spangled graves.
We see a passer-by calling the attention of his friend to a stone tablet,
green and worn with age, and surrounded by a slight railing. Can it be
that there is a spirit hovering over that grave whose influence is peace
and love? May not some mighty man lie buried there, the once frail
tenement of a great mind whose noble thoughts have years ago wakened a
besotted world to truths and aspirations hitherto unknown? There is
veneration and respect in every countenance that gazes upon that simple
stone; a solemn tread in every foot that trenches on its limits. This is
the grave of a great poet. A man whose works, though little read in
modern times, were once the wonder of his country; and whose very name
comes upon the German people in a gush of melody, and a halo of bright
thoughts. It is like an old legend breathed through the chords of a
harp. This is the grave of Klopstock, the Milton of Germany. We will
enter the churchyard, and look for a moment on the unimposing tablet.
The inscription is scarcely legible, but the poet's mother lies also
buried here, and some others of his family. Could there be anything more
humble, more unobtrusive? No; but there is something about the grave of
a great poet that serves to dignify the simplest monument, and shed a
lustre round the lowest mound.

We will cross the churchyard to yonder low brick wall which confines it.
There are clu