Litchfield enquirer., 1856-09-25

Nearly century elapsed, and again tn scene was Copenhagen. The streets wer, densely crowded with eager. sorrowing specta tors and every window of every house wal filled with sadly-expectant faces. At lengtt the cry, They come !" was echoed from grour 1 to group and the crowd swayed to and fro un der the sympathetic swell of one common emo ton.
 A withercd old woman was seated at the up l per window of Q house, when the cry was ta ken up, she raised her Yrinkled countenance and passed her hands over her eyes, as though to clear away the mist of more than seventy winters. An immense procession drew nigh Appropriate military music preceded corpse belng conveyed to it's last earthly abiding place Tn king of the land, the royal family, the no bility, the clergy, the learned, the brave, the gifted, the renowned, walked after it. The ban. ners of mourning were waved, and trumpets walled, and ten thousand sobs broke alike from stern and gentle breats, and tears from the eyes of warriors as we'll as lovely women showercd like rain. It was the funeral of Bertel Thor yadsen, with the Danish nation for mourners! And she, the old woman who gazed at it as it slowly wound by-she was Amalie, his first love Thoryaldsen had never married, niether had she.
 "Ah, Himlen 2 murn,ured the old woman, wiping away tears from source which for ma ny long years had been dry. how marvellous is tho will Of God To think that l should live to behold this sight Poor, poor Bertel Ali that l predicted came to pass but, ah me 1 who knows whether you might not have enjoy ed happier life, after all, had you stayed with your old father and mother, and married me i? An, Himlen, there's only One can tell !! Poor Bertel l"
 Four years more sped, and one fine Sabbath morning an aged and decrepit female painfully dragged her weary limbs through the crowded lower rooms of that wondrous building known as Thorvaldsen's Museum. She paused not to glance at the mntchless works of the sculptor but crept onward until she reached an open doorway leading into the inner quadrangle. in the centre of which is low tomb of gray mar. ble encloses the mortal remains of him whose haud created the works which created the edi- flee. Step by step she drew close to the tomb. and sank on the pavement by it's side. Then she laid down her erutch and pressed her bony hands tightly over her skinny brow. "Ja Ja q mnrmured sle "they told me to lie here. and prayed to God to give me strength to crawl to the spot--ah'i He has heard me- AH, Hia,:- Zen, Ican die happy now 1"
 She withdrew her hands, and pecrred at the simple, but all comprehensive inscription of " Bertel Thorvaldsen," deep cut on the side of the tomp. Then she raised her fore-finger. and earnestly traced with it every letter to the end Smiling feebly, she let fall her hand, and con- placently sighed, while an evanesccnt gleam of subtitle emotion lighted up her lineaments.- " lis true he moulders here. Poor Bcrtel we shall meet agnin--in hes ven P
 Her eyes closed, aud her head slowly sank on her breast. in which attitude she remained until one of tho officers of the museum, who had noticed her singular behaviour, came ap.- :" Gammel kone" told wife, @said he, "what arc you doing s'
 She answered not and he slightly touched her shoulder, thinking sho was asleep Her body gently slid to the ground at the touch, end he then saw that she slept the sleep of death