XXXI 



FEW journeys of equal length afford so many agreeable 

 May in contrasts as that between Berlin and Copen- 

 Denmark h a g en . For a hundred and fifty miles the 

 route lies through a vast, unfenced, sandy plain, barred 

 with belts of gloomy pines ; at Warnemiiride the dusty 

 corridor train is exchanged for a bright little steamer 

 which, in a couple of hours, runs you across the spark- 

 ling Ostsee to Danish Gjeddesrodde ; whence an amphi- 

 bious railway winds its leisurely course towards the 

 capital, through smiling pastures, English hedgerows, 

 and beechwoods beloved of Hans Andersen. Not less 

 surprising is the difference in the people from those you 

 have left behind. German officials never suffer you to 

 forget the ' mailed fist ' ; one feels lucky to escape from 

 them without incurring some frightful penalty for 

 breach of all-pervading military etiquette. But in 

 Denmark all is changed; militarism has disappeared; 

 the guard of the train is no longer an exaggerated 

 drill-sergeant, nor has the stationmaster the bear- 

 ing of a brigadier. The formalities of the doiwne 

 are carried out sympathetically almost apologeti- 



126 



