Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/34

. 9, 1859.] “Poor child!” said he, “how little it needs to make thee happy! You know not those vast and insatiable longings—that indeﬁnable want of know ledge that grows for ever—the aspiration of the soul toward the inﬁnite.”

Raising his eyes to the cloudless and spangled heaven, “Is  it  an  illusion?” he  cried,  as  he  fixed his gaze  upon  a star,  till  then  unnoticed,  that blazed brilliantly  near  the  constellation  of  Cassiopea. “Look there!” said  he  to  his  attendants. “Do I dream? See you  that  flashing  globe  that hangs there  over  the  tower?”

“Yes, my  lord,”  they  answered; “and  its  light eclipses all  the  neighbouring  stars.”

“Whence comast  thou,  then,”  said  he,  “new and unknown  world? O science, inexhaustible and sublime,  thou  art  still  my  only  love!”

He withdrew  hastily,  and  shut  himself  into  his observatory. Christina and  all  other  earthly things were  soon  forgotten  before  the  new  celestial visitor.

By the  dawn  of  the  next  morning,  Christina, habited for  her  voyage,  was  waiting  anxiously  the moment when  she  could  speak  with  the  astronomer; but  his  assistants  had  been  ordered  to permit  none  to  interrupt  him. Succeeding at  last in transmitting  a message  to  him—that  she  was ready to  start  for  Copenhagen,  according  to  the arrangement of  the  evening  before — she  was entrusted with  a letter  addressed  to  the  king; and placing  that  most  precious  document  in  her bosom, hastened  to  the  boat,  which  awaited  her; and, as  the  weather  was  favourable,  arrived  in Copenhagen  the  same  day,  and  presented  herself at the  palace. The notorious  aversion  of  Frederic the Second  from  everything  in  the  shape  of  ceremony and  etiquette,  together  with  his  respect  for Tycho Brahd,  whose  reputation  he  considered  an honour  to  his  reign,  of  course  smoothed  away  all difficulties in  the  way  of  an  audience;  and Christina in  a few  minutes  found  herself  in  the presence of  a little,  affable,  plainly  dressed,  elderly gentleman. While he  was  reading  the  letter,  she breathed an  earnest  prayer  that  he  might  not refuse its  request,  on  which  the  happiness  of  her life depended;  and  anxiously  watched  his  majesty’s countenance, thinking  it  strange  that  he  never raised his  eyes  to  look  at  her,  or  showed  any symptom of  surprise.

“Tell him,”  said  the  king,  quietly  laying  aside the letter,  “that  I will  do  what  he  desires. I shall give the  necessary  orders  at  once.”

“Indeed, sire?” said  Christina,  “you  consent, then? I was dreading  a refusal”

“Why should  I refuse,  child?”  said  the king.

“Because, sire,  I am  only  the  daughter  of  a poor  peasant,  and  he  is  a noble.”

“And what  has  that  to  do  with  it?” said  his Majesty in  some  astonishment,  “there  must  be some  mistake! Do you  know  that  he  is  only asking me  for  a book?”

“A book, sir!” repeated  the  amazed  Christina. “I thought he  asked  your  Majesty’s  consent to  our  marriage! — he always  said  he  loved me!”

“I have  no  doubt  he  does,”  replied  Frederic, laughing. “But a new  star,  it  seems,  has  made him forget the old one. Here! read what he says, for yourself!”

On this discovery all poor Christina’s hopes took wing, and ﬂew away ever so high above her head. She took the letter despondingly, and read these words:

Sire, — A new star  has  appeared  to  me  this  evening. I am in  need  of  a book  which  is  indispensable  to  my calculations,  for  I cannot  altogether  trust  my  memory. The observatory  of  Leipzig  contains  a copy  of  the  work of Leovitius,  which  I remember  to  have  read  in  my youth. Will your  Majesty  be  so  good  as  to  have  it  sent to me  with  all  convenient  expedition?

“Tell him  from  me,”  continued  the  king,  “that he shall  have  it  within  a week,  and  scold  him  at the  same  time  for  thinking  more  of  the  book  than of yourself.”

“Sire,” said  Christina,  “I  will  go  myself  to Leipzig — since  the  book  is  so  important  that  it has  made  him  forget  to  make  me  happy. I wish him to  receive  it  from  my  own  hands.”

“No, no,  child,”  said  Frederic,  “they  would not entrust  it  to  you. Return to  Veen  and  have patience with  your  disappointment! Tycho Brahè will most  probably  send  you  to  me  again  in  a day or two.”

“I hope  so,  sire,”  said  Christina  with  a sigh; “for I am  sure  he  loves  me,  and  did  not  mean  to deceive  me.”

On her  arrival  in  Veen,  she  returned  to  her father’s house,  and  was  forbidden  by  him  to  visit Uranienborg again — a superfluous  prohibition,  for Tycho Brahb  still  remained  in  his  observatory  and seemed to  have  altogether  forgotten  this  lower world. His nights  were  spent  in  gazing  upon  the strange and  beautiful  visitor  whose  brilliancy  outshone Venus;  and  his  days  in  consulting  the records and  calculations  of  his  predecessors. His eyes constantly  bent  upon  it,  he  measured  its distance and  inquired  of  himself  how  a new  world had been  suddenly  lighted  up  in  space,  and whether it  should  remain  fixed  where  he  saw  it, or retire  again  into  the  dark  and  measureless depths from  which  it  had  come  forth. He took possession of  it,  like  a navigator  who  appropriates a newly discovered  land; he  gave  it  his  name, and commanded  it  to  tell  of  him  to  future  generations.

One doubt,  however,  cast  a shadow  upon  his exultation— others in  times  past  had  probably observed the  same  mass  of  radiance. He found in Josephus  that  a star  of  the  same  magnitude  and brilliancy had  shone  over  Jerusalem  and  announced its fall  Hipparchus  had  seen  it  outblazing  Cassiopea  and  paling  again  beside  that  constellation; and the  more  recent  work  of  Leovitius,  which  was sent by  the  king,  informed  him  of  the  appearance of the  same  star  three  hundred  years  before. Still he gazed  upon  it  unweariedly— days  and  weeks flew away  unmeasured. When clouds  hid  it  from his view,  he  was  impatient; when  it  shone  out  in the  clear  expanse  his  ecstacy  returned. In fact,  it was  no  longer  mere  science  that  guided  him  with its inflexible  laws,  but  a glowing  imagination—that  spirit  of  poetry  which  slumbers  in  every  soul—bore  him  away  upon  its  rainbow-wings.