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Chap. XLIX.
SNOGHØI.
281
followed by a rustic ball, to last all night, and late next
morning too perhaps.
We wander to the scene of action. The shooting is
fair enough—nothing like the Tyrol marksmen, but the
“hane” comes tumbling down occasionally. We could
not, however, remain, for we had friends at Snoghøi, on
the Jutland coast, and were engaged to pass the evening
there.
I have described so many herregaards, that it may be
something novel to visit a real Danish villa, and a
prettier specimen can nowhere be found than that of
Snoghøi. Planted by the ferry-side, a long low house,
with well-proportioned rooms, built for comfort, not for
state, terminated by a large, square, open loggia,
embowered in clematis; its look-out, Middelfart, most
picturesque of all towns when viewed from the Little Belt
and the adjoining forests. Behind rises a hill, laid out
in the prettiest of gardens, an arboretum of rare shrubs
and forest trees, pines and araucarias. The whole have
been planted by the proprietor, M. de Riegels—twice
planted; for in the war of ’49 and ’50 Snoghøi was the
scene of strife and bloodshed; her fair plaisaunces
destroyed, and rendered uninhabitable to the family for
three years. Now all again is smiling; a rock-work
of cannon-balls alone chronicles the previous
devastation of the property. While we strolled in the hanging
gardens of the villa, brilliant with summer flowers, the
youthful members of the families fished from a punt in
the waters of the Belt, whiting and flounder their prey.
The moon rises red and tawny—just like the
opera; but we are in honest respectable Denmark,
far from the land of Cherubinos and Almavivas.
When people say “ Buona notte ” here they mean
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