traveler on my way to Iceland for the
purpose of making some sketches of the country, and would take the
liberty of calling at the appointed hour. It may be a matter of
interest to an American reader to have some idea of the peculiar
neighborhood and style of house in which a great Danish author has
chosen to take up his abode. The city of Copenhagen, it should be
borne in mind, is intersected by canals which, during the summer
months, are crowded with small trading vessels from Sweden and
Jutland, and fishing-smacks from the neighboring islands and coast of
Norway. The wharves bordering on these canals present an exceedingly
animated appearance. Peasants, sailors, traders, and fishermen, in
every variety of costume, are gathered in groups, enjoying a social
gossip, or interchanging their various products and wares, and
strawberries from Amak and fish from the Skager-Rack mingle their
odors. In the second story of a dingy and dilapidated house, fronting
one of these unsavory canals, a confused pile of dirty, shambling old
tenements in the rear, and a curious medley of fish and fishermen,
sloops and schooners, mud-scows and skiffs in front, lives the
world-renowned author, Hans Christian Andersen. I say he lives there,
but, properly speaking, he only lodges. It seems to be a peculiarity
of his nature to move about from time to time into all the queer and
uninviting places possible to be discovered within the limits of
Copenhagen--not where

"The mantling vine
Lays forth her grape and gently creeps
Luxuriant,"

but where the roughest, noisiest, busiest, and fishiest of an
amphibious population is to be found. Here it is, apparently amid the
most incongruous elements, that he draws from all around him the most
delicate traits of human nature, and matures for the great outer world
the most exquisite creations of his fancy. It is purely a labor of
love in which he spends his life. The products of his pen have
furnished him with ample means to live in elegant style, surrounded by
all the allurements of rank and fashion, but he prefers the obscurity
of a plain lodging amid the haunts of those classes whose lives and
pursuits he so well portrays. Here he cordially receives all who call
upon him, and they are not few. Pilgrims of every condition in life
and from all nations do homage to his genius, yet, valuable as his
time is, he finds enough to spare for the kindly reception of his
visitors. His