评论
打印
Evening came； there was a swelling roar in the air， a wailing or moaning like the voices of despairing spirits， that sounded above the thunder of the waves. The fisherman's little cottage was on the very margin， and the sand rattled against the window panes； every now and then a violent gust of wind shook the house to its foundation. It was dark， but about midnight the moon would rise. Later on the air became clearer， but the storm swept over the perturbed sea with undiminished fury； the fisher folks had long since gone to bed， but in such weather there was no chance of closing an eye. Presently there was a tapping at the window； the door was opened， and a voice said：
“there's a large ship stranded on the farthest reef.”
In a moment the fisher people sprung from their beds and hastily dressed themselves. The moon had risen， and it was light enough to make the surrounding objects visible to those who could open their eyes in the blinding clouds of sand； the violence of the wind was terrible， and it was only possible to pass among the sand-hills if one crept forward between the gusts； the salt spray flew up from the sea like down， and the ocean foamed like a roaring cataract towards the beach. Only a practised eye could discern the vessel out in the offing； she was a fine brig， and the waves now lifted her over the reef， three or four cables' length out of the usual channel. She drove towards the shore， struck on the second reef， and remained fixed.
It was impossible to render assistance； the sea rushed in upon the vessel， making a clean breach over her. Those on shore thought they heard cries for help from those on board， and could plainly distinguish the busy but useless efforts made by the stranded sailors. Now a wave came rolling onward. It fell with enormous force on the bowsprit， tearing it from the vessel， and the stern was lifted high above the water. Two people were seen to embrace and plunge together into the sea， and the next moment one of the largest waves that rolled towards the sand-hills threw a body on the beach. It was a woman； the sailors said that she was quite dead， but the women thought they saw signs of life in her， so the stranger was carried across the sand-hills to the fisherman's cottage. How beautiful and fair she was！ She must be a GREat lady， they said.
they laid her upon the humble bed； there was not a yard of linen on it， only a woollen coverlet to keep the occupant warm.
Life returned to her， but she was delirious， and knew nothing of what had happened or where she was； and it was better so， for everything she loved and valued lay buried in the sea. The same thing happened to her ship as to the one spoken of in the song about “The King of England's Son.”
“Alas！ how terrible to see the gallant bark sink rapidly.”
Fragments of the wreck and pieces of wood were washed ashore； they were all that remained of the vessel. The wind still blew violently on the coast.
For a few moments the strange lady seemed to rest； but she awoke in pain， and uttered cries of anguish and fear. She opened her wonderfully beautiful eyes， and spoke a few words， but nobody understood her.—And lo！ as a reward for the sorrow and suffering she had undergone， she held in her arms a new-born babe. The child that was to have rested upon a magnificent couch， draped with silken curtains， in a luxurious home； it was to have been welcomed with joy to a life rich in all the good things of this world； and now Heaven had ordained that it should be born in this humble retreat， that it should not even receive a kiss from its mother， for when the fisherman's wife laid the child upon the mother's bosom， it rested on a heart that beat no more—she was dead.
the child that was to have been reared amid wealth and luxury was cast into the world， washed by the sea among the sand-hills to share the fate and hardships of the poor.
Here we are reminded again of the song about “The King of England's Son，” for in it mention is made of the custom prevalent at the time， when knights and squires plundered those who had been saved from shipwreck. The ship had stranded some distance south of Nissum Bay， and the cruel， inhuman days， when， as we have just said， the inhabitants of Jutland treated the shipwrecked people so crudely were past， long ago. Affectionate sympathy and self-sacrifice for the unfortunate existed then， just as it does in our own time in many a bright example. The dying mother and the unfortunate child would have found kindness and help wherever they had been cast by the winds， but nowhere would it have been more sincere than in the cottage of the poor fisherman's wife， who had stood， only the day before， beside her child's grave， who would have been five years old that day if God had spared it to her.
No one knew who the dead stranger was， they could not even form a conjecture； the fragments of wreckage gave no clue to the matter.
No tidings reached Spain of the fate of the daughter and son-in-law. They did not arrive at their destination， and violent storms had raged during the past weeks. At last the verdict was given： “Foundered at sea—all lost.” But in the fisherman's cottage among the sand-hills near Huusby， there lived a little scion of the rich Spanish family.
Where Heaven sends food for two， a third can manage to find a meal， and in the depth of the sea there is many a dish of fish for the hungry.
they called the boy Jorgen.
“It must certainly be a Jewish child， its skin is so dark，” the people said.
“It might be an Italian or a Spaniard，” remarked the clergyman.
But to the fisherman's wife these nations seemed all the same， and she consoled herself with the thought that the child was baptized as a Christian.
the boy throve； the noble blood in his veins was warm， and he became strong on his homely fare. He GREw apace in the humble cottage， and the Danish dialect spoken by the West Jutes became his language. The pomegranate seed from Spain became a hardy plant on the coast of West Jutland. Thus may circumstances alter the course of a man's life！ To this home he clung with deep-rooted affection； he was to experience cold and hunger， and the misfortunes and hardships that surround the poor； but he also tasted of their joys.
Childhood has bright days for every one， and the memory of them shines through the whole after-life. The boy had many sources of pleasure and enjoyment； the coast for miles and miles was full of playthings， for it was a mosaic of pebbles， some red as coral or yellow as amber， and others again white and rounded like birds' eggs and smoothed and prepared by the sea. Even the bleached fishes' skeletons， the water plants dried by the wind， and seaweed， white and shining long linen-like bands waving between the stones—all these seemed made to give pleasure and occupation for the boy's thoughts， and he had an intelligent mind； many GREat talents lay dormant in him. How readily he remembered stories and songs that he heard， and how dexterous he was with his fingers！ With stones and mussel-shells he could put together pictures and ships with which one could decorate the room； and he could make wonderful things from a stick， his foster-mother said， although he was still so young and little. He had a sweet voice， and every melody seemed to flow naturally from his lips. And in his heart were hidden chords， which might have sounded far out into the world if he had been placed anywhere else than in the fisherman's hut by the North Sea.
One day another ship was wrecked on the coast， and among other things a chest filled with valuable flower bulbs was washed ashore. Some were put into saucepans and cooked， for they were thought to be fit to eat， and others lay and shrivelled in the sand—they did not accomplish their purpose， or unfold their magnificent colours. Would Jorgen fare better？ The flower bulbs had soon played their part， but he had years of apprenticeship before him. Neither he nor his friends noticed in what a monotonous， uniform way one day followed another， for there was always plenty to do and see. The ocean itself was a GREat lesson-book， and it unfolded a new leaf each day of calm or storm—the crested wave or the smooth surface.
the visits to the church were festive occasions， but among the fisherman's house one was especially looked forward to； this was， in fact， the visit of the brother of Jorgen's foster-mother， the eel-breeder from Fjaltring， near Bovbjerg. He came twice a year in a cart， painted red with blue and white tulips upon it， and full of eels； it was covered and locked like a box， two dun oxen drew it， and Jorgen was allowed to guide them.
