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Updated: May 13, 2025
"No, that can scarcely be," replied the old grandfather; "but I have seen it, and I have tried to carve it in wood as I have kept it in my memory. In the Denmark, on board which I was, in Steen Bille's squadron, I had a man at my side it seemed as if the bullets were afraid of him! Merrily he sang old songs, and shot and fought as if he were something more than a man.
It was a long time ago, while the English fleet lay in the roads, on the second of April, when we showed that we were true, ancient Danes. I was on board the Denmark, in Steene Bille's squadron; I had a man by my side whom even the cannon balls seemed to fear. He sung old songs in a merry voice, and fired and fought as if he were something more than a man.
There, if anywhere, I felt the silent march of the French muses through Time and Space. A capable journalist named Gregoire, a sickly, prematurely aged, limping fellow, with alert wits, an Alsatian, who knew Danish and regularly read Bille's Daily Paper, had in many ways taken me up almost from the first day of my sojourn on French soil.
The first hitch in our relations occurred when in 1869 I published a translation of Mill's Subjection of Women. This book roused Bille's exasperation and displeasure. He forbade it to be reviewed in his paper, refused me permission to defend it in the paper, and would not even allow the book in his house, so that his family had to read it clandestinely, as a dangerous and pernicious work.
To me, for instance, Ploug's The Fatherland was at that time Denmark's most intellectual organ, whereas Bille's Daily Paper disgusted me, more particularly on account of the superficiality and the tone of finality which distinguished its literary criticisms.
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