He was popular in Denmark now, although his name as a story-writer was first recognised by the common people, who quickly appreciated and understood the vein of simplicity which runs through every page of Hans Andersen’s tales.
The characters in these stories, whether of men or animals, whether animate or inanimate, became living breathing creatures when he read his stories aloud, for in spite of his humble birth, his pronunciation of his native language was pure, correct, and noble.
While listening, it seemed not impossible that the objects described might be beings possessing souls, and the power of becoming sad or joyous, sublime or ridiculous as the author represented.
In the year 1845, King Christian VIII. of Denmark, placed a very pleasant shooting box, situated in the thickest covert of the magnificent part of Fredericksburg, at the disposal of Hans Andersen, who had been a widower for many years.
This unused building was now named “Pheasant Court,” it had a large garden and was to be used by the poet as his own, for life.
It was about this time that Andersen made a tour of the different countries of Europe, and those who knew him personally speak with delight of having met him at dinner parties, and of the glowing descriptions he would give of the places he had visited, and the persons he had met during his travels.
Scottish scenery charmed him, and he would speak of Sir Walter Scott and Robert Burns, to whom he was introduced, in the most glowing terms. Among his friends nearer home were the two renowned Swedish ladies, ‘Frederika Bremer, and Jenny Lind,” both of whom had a touching sisterly affection for the poet.
His love of flowers was a poet’s love of the beautiful, and even from the first appearance of that decay of nature which was to remove him at last from earth, he would have fresh flowers in his room daily, often remarking on their beauty and fragrance.
In 1872 Andersen had suffered from a severe illness, while visiting at Rolighed, the country residence of a merchant named Melchior. Finding himself as he thought better he returned home, but was still obliged to keep in his room the whole winter.
In the spring of 1873 he travelled to Switzerland, and there went through a course of goats’ milk, among the mountains at Glion, on the lake of Geneva.
He there became so much better and stronger that he was able to take long drives, and returned to his home full of hope, that his health was quite restored.
But this hope soon faded, and in the spring of 1875 it became evident that his days were numbered. But he was not forsaken by his friends. Frau Melchior watched over him with tender care, and as the summer passed and he became weaker, she had him removed to their country house, Rolighed.
The king came to visit him many times, and the crown prince much
