Ch. 13 - Upsala

It is commonly said, that Memory is a young girl with light blue eyes.
Most poets say so; but we cannot always agree with most poets. To us
memory comes in quite different forms, all according to that land, or
that town to which she belongs. Italy sends her as a charming Mignon,
with black eyes and a melancholy smile, singing Bellini's soft,
touching songs. From Scotland Memory's sprite appears as a powerful
lad with bare knees; the plaid hangs over his shoulder, the
thistle-flower is fixed on his cap; Burns's songs then fill the air
like the heath-lark's song, and Scotland's wild thistle flowers
beautifully fragrant as the fresh rose. But now for Memory's sprite
from Sweden, from Upsala. He comes thence in the form of a student--at
least, he wears the Upsala student's white cap with the black rim. To
us it points out its home, as the Phrygian cap denotes Ganymede.

It was in the year 1843, that the Danish students travelled to Upsala.
Young hearts met together; eyes sparkled: they laughed, they sang.
Young hearts are the future--the conquering future--in the beautiful,
true and good; it is so good that brothers should know and love each
other. Friendship's meeting is still annually remembered in the
palace-yard of Upsala, before the monument of Gustavus Vasa--by the
hurra! for Denmark, in warm-hearted compliment to me.

Two summers afterwards, the visit was returned. The Swedish students
came to Copenhagen, and that they might there be known amongst the
multitude, the Upsala students wore a white cap with a black rim: this
cap is accordingly a memorial,--the sign of friendship's bridge over
that river of blood which once flowed between kindred nations. When
one meets in heart and spirit, a blissful seed is then sown. Memory's
sprite, come to us! we know thee by the cap from Upsala: be thou our
guide, and from our more southern home, after years and days, we will
make the voyage over again, quicker than if we flew in Doctor Faustus'
magic cloak. We are in Stockholm: we stand on the Ridderholm where the
steamers lie alongside the bulwarks: one of them sends forth clouds of
thick smoke from its chimney; the deck is crowded with passengers, and
the white cap with the black rim is not wanting.

We are off to Upsala; the paddles strike the waters of the Mälar, and
we shoot away from the picturesque city of Stockholm. The whole
voyage, direct to Upsala, is a kaleidescope on a large scale. It is
true, there is nothing of the magical in the scenery, but landscape
gives place to landscape, and clouds and sunshine refresh their
variegated beauty. The Mälar lake curves, is compressed, and widens
again: it is as if one passed from lake to lake through narrow canals
and broad rivers. Sometimes it