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Oehlenschlæger’s "Hakon Jarl and Palnatoke." We
see Vadstene cloister’s library, in thick hog’s
leather bindings, and think of the fair hands of
the nuns that have borne them, the pious, mild
eyes that conjured the spirit out of the dead letters.
Here is the celebrated Codex Argentius, the
translation of the "Four Evangelists."[1] Gold
and silver letters glisten from the red parchment
leaves. We see ancient Icelandic manuscripts,
from de la Gardie’s refined French
saloon, and Thauberg’s Japanese manuscripts.
By merely looking at these books, their
bindings and names, one at last becomes, as it
were, quite worm-eaten in spirit, and longs to
be out in the free air – and we are there; by
Upsala’s ancient hills. Thither do thou lead
us, remembrance’s elf, out of the city, out on
the far extended plain, where Denmark’s
church stands – the church that was erected
from the booty which the Swedes gained in the
war against the Danes. We follow the broad
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