Fortune's Shoes

Every author has some peculiarity in his descriptions or in his style of writing. Those who do not like him, magnify it, shrug up their shoulders, and exclaim—there he is again! I, for my part, know very well how I can bring about this movement and this exclamation. It would happen immediately if I were to begin here, as I intended to do, with: “Rome has its Corso, Naples its Toledo”—“Ah! that Andersen; there he is again!” they would cry; yet I must, to please my fancy, continue quite quietly, and add: “But Copenhagen has its East Street.”

Every author has some quirk in their descriptions or writing style. People who dislike the author exaggerate that quirk, shrug their shoulders, and exclaim, “There he is again!” For my part, I know very well how to make them shrug and say those words. They would do so immediately if I began as I intended, with: “Rome has its Corso, Naples its Toledo.” “Ah! That Andersen, there he is again!” they would cry. Yet I must follow my whim and continue calmly: “But Copenhagen has its East Street.”

Here, then, we will stay for the present. In one of the houses not far from the new market a party was invited—a very large party, in order, as is often the case, to get a return invitation from the others. One half of the company was already seated at the card-table, the other half awaited the result of the stereotype preliminary observation of the lady of the house:

We will stay here for now. In a house not far from the new market, a very large party had been invited. As often happens, the hosts hoped the guests would invite them in return. Half the guests were already seated at the card table. The other half waited to see what would follow the hostess's usual opening remark:

“Now let us see what we can do to amuse ourselves.”

“Now let's see what we can do for fun.”

They had got just so far, and the conversation began to crystallise, as it could but do with the scanty stream which the commonplace world supplied. Amongst other things they spoke of the middle ages: some praised that period as far more interesting, far more poetical than our own too sober present; indeed Councillor Knap defended this opinion so warmly, that the hostess declared immediately on his side, and both exerted themselves with unwearied eloquence. The Councillor boldly declared the time of King Hans to be the noblest and the most happy period.*

They had reached this point, and the conversation began to settle into a fixed shape. That was inevitable, given how little the ordinary world offered them to talk about. Among other things, they discussed the Middle Ages. Some praised the period as far more interesting and poetic than their own overly sober present. Councillor Knap defended this view so warmly that the hostess immediately took his side. Both argued tirelessly and eloquently. The Councillor boldly declared that the reign of King Hans was the noblest and happiest period.*

* A.D. 1482-1513

* A.D. 1482 to 1513

While the conversation turned on this subject, and was only for a moment interrupted by the arrival of a journal that contained nothing worth reading, we will just step out into the antechamber, where cloaks, mackintoshes, sticks, umbrellas, and shoes, were deposited. Here sat two female figures, a young and an old one. One might have thought at first they were servants come to accompany their mistresses home; but on looking nearer, one soon saw they could scarcely be mere servants; their forms were too noble for that, their skin too fine, the cut of their dress too striking. Two fairies were they; the younger, it is true, was not Dame Fortune herself, but one of the waiting-maids of her handmaidens who carry about the lesser good things that she distributes; the other looked extremely gloomy—it was Care. She always attends to her own serious business herself, as then she is sure of having it done properly.

The conversation continued on this subject, interrupted only briefly by the arrival of a newspaper with nothing worth reading. Meanwhile, let us step into the antechamber, where cloaks, raincoats, walking sticks, umbrellas, and shoes had been left. Two women sat there, one young and one old. At first, one might have thought they were servants waiting to accompany their mistresses home. But a closer look showed they could hardly be mere servants. Their figures were too noble, their skin too fine, and the cut of their dresses too striking. They were two fairies. The younger was not Dame Fortune herself, but a waiting maid to one of her handmaidens. Those handmaidens carry around the lesser gifts Dame Fortune distributes. The other fairy looked extremely gloomy. She was Care. She always attends to her own serious business herself, because then she can be sure it is done properly.

They were telling each other, with a confidential interchange of ideas, where they had been during the day. The messenger of Fortune had only executed a few unimportant commissions, such as saving a new bonnet from a shower of rain, etc.; but what she had yet to perform was something quite unusual.

They shared with each other, in confidence, where they had been that day. Fortune's messenger had only carried out a few unimportant tasks. These included saving a new bonnet from a rain shower and other such things. But what she still had to do was quite unusual.

“I must tell you,” said she, “that to-day is my birthday; and in honor of it, a pair of walking-shoes or galoshes has been entrusted to me, which I am to carry to mankind. These shoes possess the property of instantly transporting him who has them on to the place or the period in which he most wishes to be; every wish, as regards time or place, or state of being, will be immediately fulfilled, and so at last man will be happy, here below.”

“I must tell you,” she said, “that today is my birthday. In its honor, I have been entrusted with a pair of walking shoes, or galoshes, to bring to mankind. These shoes instantly transport whoever wears them to the place or time they most wish to be in. Every wish about time, place, or state of being will be granted immediately. And so, at last, people will be happy here on earth.”

“Do you seriously believe it?” replied Care, in a severe tone of reproach. “No; he will be very unhappy, and will assuredly bless the moment when he feels that he has freed himself from the fatal shoes.”

“Do you really believe it?” Care replied sharply, in a scolding tone. “No, he will be very unhappy. He will surely bless the moment he realizes he has freed himself from the deadly shoes.”

“Stupid nonsense!” said the other angrily. “I will put them here by the door. Some one will make a mistake for certain and take the wrong ones—he will be a happy man.”

“Stupid nonsense!” the other said angrily. “I’ll put them here by the door. Someone is sure to make a mistake and take the wrong ones. He’ll be a happy man.”

Such was their conversation.

That was their conversation.

It was late; Councillor Knap, deeply occupied with the times of King Hans, intended to go home, and malicious Fate managed matters so that his feet, instead of finding their way to his own galoshes, slipped into those of Fortune. Thus caparisoned the good man walked out of the well-lighted rooms into East Street. By the magic power of the shoes he was carried back to the times of King Hans; on which account his foot very naturally sank in the mud and puddles of the street, there having been in those days no pavement in Copenhagen.

It was late, and Councillor Knap was deeply absorbed in the times of King Hans. He meant to go home, but mischievous Fate arranged things so that he slipped his feet into Fortune's galoshes instead of his own. Wearing them, the good man walked out of the brightly lit rooms into East Street. The magic shoes carried him back to the times of King Hans. So, quite naturally, his foot sank into the mud and puddles in the street. In those days, Copenhagen's streets had no pavement.

“Well! This is too bad! How dirty it is here!” sighed the Councillor. “As to a pavement, I can find no traces of one, and all the lamps, it seems, have gone to sleep.”

“Well! This is awful! How dirty it is here!” sighed the Councillor. “I can't find any sign of a paved road, and all the lamps seem to have gone to sleep.”

The moon was not yet very high; it was besides rather foggy, so that in the darkness all objects seemed mingled in chaotic confusion. At the next corner hung a votive lamp before a Madonna, but the light it gave was little better than none at all; indeed, he did not observe it before he was exactly under it, and his eyes fell upon the bright colors of the pictures which represented the well-known group of the Virgin and the infant Jesus.

The moon was not yet very high. It was also rather foggy, so all objects seemed mixed together in the darkness. At the next corner, a votive lamp hung before an image of the Madonna, but it gave almost no light. In fact, he did not notice the lamp until he was directly beneath it. Then his eyes fell on the bright colors of the pictures showing the familiar image of the Virgin and the infant Jesus.

“That is probably a wax-work show,” thought he; “and the people delay taking down their sign in hopes of a late visitor or two.”

“That is probably a waxwork show,” he thought. “The people are leaving their sign up in hopes of attracting a late visitor or two.”

A few persons in the costume of the time of King Hans passed quickly by him.

A few people dressed in clothes from the time of King Hans hurried past him.

“How strange they look! The good folks come probably from a masquerade!”

“How strange they look! Those people probably came from a costume party!”

Suddenly was heard the sound of drums and fifes; the bright blaze of a fire shot up from time to time, and its ruddy gleams seemed to contend with the bluish light of the torches. The Councillor stood still, and watched a most strange procession pass by. First came a dozen drummers, who understood pretty well how to handle their instruments; then came halberdiers, and some armed with cross-bows. The principal person in the procession was a priest. Astonished at what he saw, the Councillor asked what was the meaning of all this mummery, and who that man was.

Suddenly, drums and fifes could be heard. From time to time, a fire blazed up brightly. Its reddish glow seemed to compete with the bluish light of the torches. The Councillor stood still and watched a very strange procession pass by. First came a dozen drummers who played their instruments quite well. Then came halberdiers and some people armed with crossbows. The main figure in the procession was a priest. Astonished by what he saw, the Councillor asked what all this spectacle meant and who the man was.

“That's the Bishop of Zealand,” was the answer.

“That's the Bishop of Zealand,” came the answer.

“Good Heavens! What has taken possession of the Bishop?” sighed the Councillor, shaking his head. It certainly could not be the Bishop; even though he was considered the most absent man in the whole kingdom, and people told the drollest anecdotes about him. Reflecting on the matter, and without looking right or left, the Councillor went through East Street and across the Habro-Platz. The bridge leading to Palace Square was not to be found; scarcely trusting his senses, the nocturnal wanderer discovered a shallow piece of water, and here fell in with two men who very comfortably were rocking to and fro in a boat.

“Good heavens! What has come over the Bishop?” sighed the Councillor, shaking his head. Surely it could not be the Bishop, though he was considered the most absent-minded man in the whole kingdom. People told the funniest stories about him. Thinking about this, the Councillor walked along East Street and across the Habro-Platz without looking to either side. The bridge leading to Palace Square was nowhere to be found. Hardly able to believe his senses, the nighttime wanderer found a shallow stretch of water. There he came upon two men rocking comfortably back and forth in a boat.

“Does your honor want to cross the ferry to the Holme?” asked they.

“Would you like to take the ferry across to the Holme, sir?” they asked.

“Across to the Holme!” said the Councillor, who knew nothing of the age in which he at that moment was. “No, I am going to Christianshafen, to Little Market Street.”

“Across to the Holme!” said the Councillor. He had no idea what time period he was in. “No, I am going to Christianshafen, to Little Market Street.”

Both men stared at him in astonishment.

Both men stared at him in surprise.

“Only just tell me where the bridge is,” said he. “It is really unpardonable that there are no lamps here; and it is as dirty as if one had to wade through a morass.”

“Just tell me where the bridge is,” he said. “It’s really unforgivable that there are no lamps here. And it’s so dirty that it’s as if one had to wade through a swamp.”

The longer he spoke with the boatmen, the more unintelligible did their language become to him.

The longer he spoke with the boatmen, the harder it became for him to understand their language.

“I don't understand your Bornholmish dialect,” said he at last, angrily, and turning his back upon them. He was unable to find the bridge: there was no railway either. “It is really disgraceful what a state this place is in,” muttered he to himself. Never had his age, with which, however, he was always grumbling, seemed so miserable as on this evening. “I'll take a hackney-coach!” thought he. But where were the hackney-coaches? Not one was to be seen.

“I don't understand your Bornholmish dialect,” he said angrily at last, turning his back on them. He could not find the bridge, and there was no railway either. “It's really disgraceful what a state this place is in,” he muttered to himself. He was always complaining about his own age, but it had never seemed so miserable as it did that evening. “I'll take a cab!” he thought. But where were the cabs? There wasn't one in sight.

“I must go back to the New Market; there, it is to be hoped, I shall find some coaches; for if I don't, I shall never get safe to Christianshafen.”

“I must go back to the New Market. I hope I'll find some coaches there, because if I don't, I'll never get safely to Christianshafen.”

So off he went in the direction of East Street, and had nearly got to the end of it when the moon shone forth.

So he headed toward East Street. He had almost reached the end of the street when the moon came out.

“God bless me! What wooden scaffolding is that which they have set up there?” cried he involuntarily, as he looked at East Gate, which, in those days, was at the end of East Street.

“Good heavens! What is that wooden scaffolding they’ve put up there?” he cried without thinking, looking at East Gate. In those days, East Gate stood at the end of East Street.

He found, however, a little side-door open, and through this he went, and stepped into our New Market of the present time. It was a huge desolate plain; some wild bushes stood up here and there, while across the field flowed a broad canal or river. Some wretched hovels for the Dutch sailors, resembling great boxes, and after which the place was named, lay about in confused disorder on the opposite bank.

However, he found a small side door open and went through it. He stepped into what is now our New Market. It was a huge, desolate plain. A few wild bushes grew here and there, and a broad canal or river flowed across the field. On the opposite bank, some miserable hovels for Dutch sailors stood scattered in disorder. The hovels looked like large boxes, and the place was named after them.

“I either behold a fata morgana, or I am regularly tipsy,” whimpered out the Councillor. “But what's this?”

“I’m either seeing a mirage or I’m really drunk,” whimpered the Councillor. “But what’s this?”

He turned round anew, firmly convinced that he was seriously ill. He gazed at the street formerly so well known to him, and now so strange in appearance, and looked at the houses more attentively: most of them were of wood, slightly put together; and many had a thatched roof.

He turned around again, convinced that he was seriously ill. He stared at the street, which had once been so familiar but now looked so strange. He looked more closely at the houses. Most were made of wood and flimsy in construction, and many had thatched roofs.

“No—I am far from well,” sighed he; “and yet I drank only one glass of punch; but I cannot suppose it—it was, too, really very wrong to give us punch and hot salmon for supper. I shall speak about it at the first opportunity. I have half a mind to go back again, and say what I suffer. But no, that would be too silly; and Heaven only knows if they are up still.”

“No, I’m far from well,” he sighed. “And yet I drank only one glass of punch. But I can’t imagine it was the punch. It really was very wrong to serve us punch and hot salmon for supper. I’ll speak about it at the first opportunity. I’m half tempted to go back and tell them how much I’m suffering. But no, that would be too silly. And Heaven only knows if they’re still up.”

He looked for the house, but it had vanished.

He looked for the house, but it was gone.

“It is really dreadful,” groaned he with increasing anxiety; “I cannot recognise East Street again; there is not a single decent shop from one end to the other! Nothing but wretched huts can I see anywhere; just as if I were at Ringstead. Oh! I am ill! I can scarcely bear myself any longer. Where the deuce can the house be? It must be here on this very spot; yet there is not the slightest idea of resemblance, to such a degree has everything changed this night! At all events here are some people up and stirring. Oh! oh! I am certainly very ill.”

“This is truly dreadful,” he groaned, growing more anxious. “I don’t recognize East Street anymore. There isn’t a single decent shop from one end to the other! All I can see are miserable huts, just as if I were in Ringstead. Oh! I’m ill! I can hardly stand it anymore. Where on earth can the house be? It must be right here. Yet nothing looks even slightly familiar, so much has everything changed tonight! At least some people are awake and moving about. Oh! Oh! I’m certainly very ill.”

He now hit upon a half-open door, through a chink of which a faint light shone. It was a sort of hostelry of those times; a kind of public-house. The room had some resemblance to the clay-floored halls in Holstein; a pretty numerous company, consisting of seamen, Copenhagen burghers, and a few scholars, sat here in deep converse over their pewter cans, and gave little heed to the person who entered.

He came upon a half-open door, with a faint light shining through the gap. It was an inn of the time, a kind of public house. The room looked somewhat like the clay-floored halls in Holstein. A fairly large group of sailors, Copenhagen townspeople, and a few scholars sat talking intently over their pewter mugs. They paid little attention to the person who entered.

“By your leave!” said the Councillor to the Hostess, who came bustling towards him. “I've felt so queer all of a sudden; would you have the goodness to send for a hackney-coach to take me to Christianshafen?”

“Excuse me!” said the Councillor to the Hostess, who came hurrying toward him. “I've suddenly started feeling very strange. Could you please send for a coach to take me to Christianshafen?”

The woman examined him with eyes of astonishment, and shook her head; she then addressed him in German. The Councillor thought she did not understand Danish, and therefore repeated his wish in German. This, in connection with his costume, strengthened the good woman in the belief that he was a foreigner. That he was ill, she comprehended directly; so she brought him a pitcher of water, which tasted certainly pretty strong of the sea, although it had been fetched from the well.

The woman looked at him in astonishment and shook her head. Then she spoke to him in German. The Councillor thought she did not understand Danish, so he repeated his request in German. His German, along with his clothes, made the good woman even more certain that he was a foreigner. She immediately understood that he was ill, so she brought him a pitcher of water. Although the water came from the well, it tasted quite strongly of the sea.

The Councillor supported his head on his hand, drew a long breath, and thought over all the wondrous things he saw around him.

The Councillor rested his head on his hand and took a deep breath. He thought about all the wonderful things he saw around him.

“Is this the Daily News of this evening?” he asked mechanically, as he saw the Hostess push aside a large sheet of paper.

“Is this evening’s Daily News?” he asked automatically, as he saw the Hostess push aside a large sheet of paper.

The meaning of this councillorship query remained, of course, a riddle to her, yet she handed him the paper without replying. It was a coarse wood-cut, representing a splendid meteor “as seen in the town of Cologne,” which was to be read below in bright letters.

Of course, she had no idea what his question about being a councillor meant, but she handed him the paper without answering. It was a rough woodcut showing a splendid meteor. Below it, in bright letters, were the words “as seen in the town of Cologne.”

“That is very old!” said the Councillor, whom this piece of antiquity began to make considerably more cheerful. “Pray how did you come into possession of this rare print? It is extremely interesting, although the whole is a mere fable. Such meteorous appearances are to be explained in this way—that they are the reflections of the Aurora Borealis, and it is highly probable they are caused principally by electricity.”

“That is very old!” said the Councillor, who was becoming much more cheerful at the sight of this antique. “How did you come to own this rare print? It is extremely interesting, although the whole story is just a fable. Such appearances in the sky can be explained as reflections of the Aurora Borealis. It is highly probable that they are caused mainly by electricity.”

Those persons who were sitting nearest him and heard his speech, stared at him in wonderment; and one of them rose, took off his hat respectfully, and said with a serious countenance, “You are no doubt a very learned man, Monsieur.”

The people sitting nearest him heard him speak and stared at him in wonder. One of them stood up, respectfully took off his hat, and said with a serious expression, “You are no doubt a very learned man, Monsieur.”

“Oh no,” answered the Councillor, “I can only join in conversation on this topic and on that, as indeed one must do according to the demands of the world at present.”

“Oh no,” answered the Councillor, “I can only join in conversations on various topics, as one must in the world today.”

“Modestia is a fine virtue,” continued the gentleman; “however, as to your speech, I must say mihi secus videtur: yet I am willing to suspend my judicium.”

“Modesty is a fine virtue,” the gentleman continued. “However, I must say I disagree with your speech. Still, I am willing to reserve judgment.”

“May I ask with whom I have the pleasure of speaking?” asked the Councillor.

“May I ask who I’m speaking with?” asked the Councillor.

“I am a Bachelor in Theologia,” answered the gentleman with a stiff reverence.

“I have a bachelor’s degree in theology,” the gentleman replied with a stiff bow.

This reply fully satisfied the Councillor; the title suited the dress. “He is certainly,” thought he, “some village schoolmaster—some queer old fellow, such as one still often meets with in Jutland.”

The reply fully satisfied the Councillor. The title suited the clothes. “He must certainly be a village schoolmaster,” he thought, “one of those odd old fellows you still often meet in Jutland.”

“This is no locus docendi, it is true,” began the clerical gentleman; “yet I beg you earnestly to let us profit by your learning. Your reading in the ancients is, sine dubio, of vast extent?”

“This is not a place for teaching, I admit,” began the clergyman. “But I earnestly ask you to share your knowledge with us. You have no doubt read a great deal of the ancient writers?”

“Oh yes, I've read something, to be sure,” replied the Councillor. “I like reading all useful works; but I do not on that account despise the modern ones; 'tis only the unfortunate 'Tales of Every-day Life' that I cannot bear—we have enough and more than enough such in reality.”

“Oh yes, I've read a few things, certainly,” replied the Councillor. “I like reading all useful books. But that doesn't mean I look down on modern books. It's only those unfortunate 'Tales of Every-day Life' that I can't stand. We have more than enough of everyday life in reality.”

“'Tales of Every-day Life?'” said our Bachelor inquiringly.

“'Tales of Every-day Life?'” our Bachelor asked.

“I mean those new fangled novels, twisting and writhing themselves in the dust of commonplace, which also expect to find a reading public.”

“I mean those trendy new novels, twisting and writhing in the dust of the ordinary, yet expecting to find readers.”

“Oh,” exclaimed the clerical gentleman smiling, “there is much wit in them; besides they are read at court. The King likes the history of Sir Iffven and Sir Gaudian particularly, which treats of King Arthur, and his Knights of the Round Table; he has more than once joked about it with his high vassals.”

“Oh,” said the clergyman with a smile, “there is much wit in them. Besides, they are read at court. The King particularly likes the story of Sir Iffven and Sir Gaudian, which is about King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. He has joked about the story more than once with his high-ranking vassals.”

“I have not read that novel,” said the Councillor; “it must be quite a new one, that Heiberg has published lately.”

“I haven’t read that novel,” said the Councillor. “It must be a very new one that Heiberg published recently.”

“No,” answered the theologian of the time of King Hans: “that book is not written by a Heiberg, but was imprinted by Godfrey von Gehmen.”

“No,” replied the theologian from King Hans’s time. “That book was not written by a Heiberg, but was printed by Godfrey von Gehmen.”

“Oh, is that the author's name?” said the Councillor. “It is a very old name, and, as well as I recollect, he was the first printer that appeared in Denmark.”

“Oh, is that the author's name?” said the Councillor. “It's a very old name. If I remember correctly, he was the first printer in Denmark.”

“Yes, he is our first printer,” replied the clerical gentleman hastily.

“Yes, he is our first printer,” the clergyman replied quickly.

So far all went on well. Some one of the worthy burghers now spoke of the dreadful pestilence that had raged in the country a few years back, meaning that of 1484. The Councillor imagined it was the cholera that was meant, which people made so much fuss about; and the discourse passed off satisfactorily enough. The war of the buccaneers of 1490 was so recent that it could not fail being alluded to; the English pirates had, they said, most shamefully taken their ships while in the roadstead; and the Councillor, before whose eyes the Herostratic [*] event of 1801 still floated vividly, agreed entirely with the others in abusing the rascally English. With other topics he was not so fortunate; every moment brought about some new confusion, and threatened to become a perfect Babel; for the worthy Bachelor was really too ignorant, and the simplest observations of the Councillor sounded to him too daring and phantastical. They looked at one another from the crown of the head to the soles of the feet; and when matters grew to too high a pitch, then the Bachelor talked Latin, in the hope of being better understood—but it was of no use after all.

So far, everything had gone well. One of the respectable townsmen mentioned the terrible plague that had swept through the country a few years earlier, in 1484. The Councillor thought he meant cholera, which people made such a fuss about. So the conversation went well enough. The war with the buccaneers in 1490 was so recent that it was bound to come up. The townsmen said that English pirates had shamefully seized their ships while they were anchored in the harbor. The Herostratic [*] event of 1801 was still vivid in the Councillor's mind. So he readily joined the others in condemning the scoundrelly English. With other subjects, he was less fortunate. Every moment brought some new confusion and threatened to turn the conversation into a complete Babel. The respectable Bachelor was simply too ignorant, and even the Councillor's simplest remarks sounded too daring and fantastical to him. They looked each other up and down. When things became too heated, the Bachelor spoke Latin, hoping to be better understood. But even that was no use.

“What's the matter?” asked the Hostess, plucking the Councillor by the sleeve; and now his recollection returned, for in the course of the conversation he had entirely forgotten all that had preceded it.

“What's the matter?” asked the Hostess, tugging at the Councillor's sleeve. Now he remembered again, for during the conversation he had completely forgotten everything that had happened before it.

“Merciful God, where am I!” exclaimed he in agony; and while he so thought, all his ideas and feelings of overpowering dizziness, against which he struggled with the utmost power of desperation, encompassed him with renewed force. “Let us drink claret and mead, and Bremen beer,” shouted one of the guests—“and you shall drink with us!”

“Merciful God, where am I!” he cried in agony. As he thought this, all his thoughts and feelings of overwhelming dizziness came over him again. He struggled against them with all the strength of desperation. “Let us drink claret, mead, and Bremen beer,” shouted one of the guests, “and you shall drink with us!”

Two maidens approached. One wore a cap of two staring colors, denoting the class of persons to which she belonged. They poured out the liquor, and made the most friendly gesticulations; while a cold perspiration trickled down the back of the poor Councillor.

Two young women approached. One wore a cap in two striking colors that showed the class she belonged to. They poured out the liquor and made very friendly gestures. Meanwhile, a cold sweat trickled down the poor Councillor’s back.

“What's to be the end of this! What's to become of me!” groaned he; but he was forced, in spite of his opposition, to drink with the rest. They took hold of the worthy man; who, hearing on every side that he was intoxicated, did not in the least doubt the truth of this certainly not very polite assertion; but on the contrary, implored the ladies and gentlemen present to procure him a hackney-coach: they, however, imagined he was talking Russian.

“What will happen in the end! What will become of me!” he groaned. But despite his objections, he was forced to drink with the others. They took hold of the good man. Hearing people on every side say he was drunk, he had no doubt that the rather rude claim was true. Instead, he begged the ladies and gentlemen present to get him a carriage for hire. But they thought he was speaking Russian.

Never before, he thought, had he been in such a coarse and ignorant company; one might almost fancy the people had turned heathens again. “It is the most dreadful moment of my life: the whole world is leagued against me!” But suddenly it occurred to him that he might stoop down under the table, and then creep unobserved out of the door. He did so; but just as he was going, the others remarked what he was about; they laid hold of him by the legs; and now, happily for him, off fell his fatal shoes—and with them the charm was at an end.

He thought he had never been among such rude and ignorant people before. One might almost imagine they had become heathens again. “This is the most dreadful moment of my life: the whole world is against me!” But suddenly he realized he could duck under the table and crawl out the door unnoticed. He did so, but just as he was leaving, the others noticed what he was doing. They grabbed him by the legs. Luckily for him, his disastrous shoes fell off, and the spell was broken.

The Councillor saw quite distinctly before him a lantern burning, and behind this a large handsome house. All seemed to him in proper order as usual; it was East Street, splendid and elegant as we now see it. He lay with his feet towards a doorway, and exactly opposite sat the watchman asleep.

The Councillor could clearly see a burning lantern ahead of him, with a large, handsome house behind it. Everything seemed to him to be in its usual order. It was East Street, splendid and elegant, just as we see it now. He lay with his feet pointing toward a doorway, and the watchman sat asleep directly opposite him.

“Gracious Heaven!” said he. “Have I lain here in the street and dreamed? Yes; 'tis East Street! How splendid and light it is! But really it is terrible what an effect that one glass of punch must have had on me!”

“Good heavens!” he said. “Have I been lying here in the street, dreaming? Yes, this is East Street! How bright and splendid it is! But that one glass of punch must have had a terrible effect on me!”

Two minutes later, he was sitting in a hackney-coach and driving to Frederickshafen. He thought of the distress and agony he had endured, and praised from the very bottom of his heart the happy reality—our own time—which, with all its deficiencies, is yet much better than that in which, so much against his inclination, he had lately been.

Two minutes later, he was riding in a carriage to Frederickshafen. He thought of the distress and agony he had endured. From the bottom of his heart, he praised the happy reality of his own time. Despite all its flaws, it was much better than the time he had recently found himself in against his will.

“Why, there is a pair of galoshes, as sure as I'm alive!” said the watchman, awaking from a gentle slumber. “They belong no doubt to the lieutenant who lives over the way. They lie close to the door.”

“Why, there’s a pair of galoshes, sure enough!” said the watchman, waking from a light sleep. “They must belong to the lieutenant who lives across the street. They’re lying right by the door.”

The worthy man was inclined to ring and deliver them at the house, for there was still a light in the window; but he did not like disturbing the other people in their beds, and so very considerately he left the matter alone.

The good man was tempted to ring the bell and deliver them, because there was still a light in the window. But he did not want to disturb the other people in their beds. So, very considerately, he left things as they were.

“Such a pair of shoes must be very warm and comfortable,” said he; “the leather is so soft and supple.” They fitted his feet as though they had been made for him. “'Tis a curious world we live in,” continued he, soliloquizing. “There is the lieutenant, now, who might go quietly to bed if he chose, where no doubt he could stretch himself at his ease; but does he do it? No; he saunters up and down his room, because, probably, he has enjoyed too many of the good things of this world at his dinner. That's a happy fellow! He has neither an infirm mother, nor a whole troop of everlastingly hungry children to torment him. Every evening he goes to a party, where his nice supper costs him nothing: would to Heaven I could but change with him! How happy should I be!”

“Shoes like these must be very warm and comfortable,” he said. “The leather is so soft and flexible.” They fit his feet as if they had been made for him. “The world we live in is a curious place,” he continued, talking to himself. “Take the lieutenant. He could quietly go to bed if he wanted to, and no doubt stretch out comfortably there. But does he? No, he strolls up and down his room, probably because he ate too much good food at dinner. He's a lucky man! He has no sick mother or whole crowd of constantly hungry children to trouble him. Every evening he goes to a party, where he gets a nice supper for free. I wish to heaven I could change places with him! How happy I would be!”

While expressing his wish, the charm of the shoes, which he had put on, began to work; the watchman entered into the being and nature of the lieutenant. He stood in the handsomely furnished apartment, and held between his fingers a small sheet of rose-colored paper, on which some verses were written—written indeed by the officer himself; for who has not, at least once in his life, had a lyrical moment? And if one then marks down one's thoughts, poetry is produced. But here was written:

As he expressed his wish, the magic of the shoes he had put on began to work. The watchman took on the lieutenant’s identity and nature. He stood in the handsomely furnished apartment, holding a small sheet of pink paper between his fingers. Some verses were written on the paper, and the officer himself had written them. After all, who has not had a lyrical moment at least once in their life? And if you write down your thoughts at such a moment, you produce poetry. But the paper read:

Such verses as these people write when they are in love! But no man in his senses ever thinks of printing them. Here one of the sorrows of life, in which there is real poetry, gave itself vent; not that barren grief which the poet may only hint at, but never depict in its detail—misery and want: that animal necessity, in short, to snatch at least at a fallen leaf of the bread-fruit tree, if not at the fruit itself. The higher the position in which one finds oneself transplanted, the greater is the suffering. Everyday necessity is the stagnant pool of life—no lovely picture reflects itself therein. Lieutenant, love, and lack of money—that is a symbolic triangle, or much the same as the half of the shattered die of Fortune. This the lieutenant felt most poignantly, and this was the reason he leant his head against the window, and sighed so deeply.

People write verses like these when they are in love! But no man in his right mind ever thinks of printing them. Here, one of life’s sorrows found expression, a sorrow that holds real poetry. It was not that barren grief a poet may only hint at, but never describe in detail: misery and poverty. It is the animal need to snatch at least a fallen leaf from the breadfruit tree, if not the fruit itself. The higher the position one finds oneself moved into, the greater the suffering. Everyday need is the stagnant pool of life. No lovely picture is reflected in it. A lieutenant, love, and lack of money form a symbolic triangle, much like half of Fortune’s shattered die. The lieutenant felt this most keenly. That was why he leaned his head against the window and sighed so deeply.

“The poor watchman out there in the street is far happier than I. He knows not what I term privation. He has a home, a wife, and children, who weep with him over his sorrows, who rejoice with him when he is glad. Oh, far happier were I, could I exchange with him my being—with his desires and with his hopes perform the weary pilgrimage of life! Oh, he is a hundred times happier than I!”

“The poor watchman out there in the street is much happier than I am. He knows nothing of what I call hardship. He has a home, a wife, and children. They weep with him over his sorrows and rejoice with him when he is glad. Oh, how much happier I would be if I could trade lives with him! I would make the weary journey through life with his desires and hopes. Oh, he is a hundred times happier than I am!”

In the same moment the watchman was again watchman. It was the shoes that caused the metamorphosis by means of which, unknown to himself, he took upon him the thoughts and feelings of the officer; but, as we have just seen, he felt himself in his new situation much less contented, and now preferred the very thing which but some minutes before he had rejected. So then the watchman was again watchman.

At that same moment, the watchman was a watchman again. The shoes had caused the transformation, making him take on the officer’s thoughts and feelings without knowing it. But, as we have just seen, he was much less content in his new situation. He now preferred the very thing he had rejected only minutes before. So the watchman was a watchman again.

“That was an unpleasant dream,” said he; “but 'twas droll enough altogether. I fancied that I was the lieutenant over there: and yet the thing was not very much to my taste after all. I missed my good old mother and the dear little ones; who almost tear me to pieces for sheer love.”

“That was an unpleasant dream,” he said, “but it was quite amusing overall. I dreamed I was the lieutenant over there. But being the lieutenant was not really to my taste after all. I missed my dear old mother and the dear little ones, who almost tear me to pieces out of love.”

He seated himself once more and nodded: the dream continued to haunt him, for he still had the shoes on his feet. A falling star shone in the dark firmament.

He sat down again and nodded off. The dream continued to haunt him because he still had the shoes on his feet. A shooting star shone in the dark sky.

“There falls another star,” said he: “but what does it matter; there are always enough left. I should not much mind examining the little glimmering things somewhat nearer, especially the moon; for that would not slip so easily through a man's fingers. When we die—so at least says the student, for whom my wife does the washing—we shall fly about as light as a feather from one such a star to the other. That's, of course, not true: but 'twould be pretty enough if it were so. If I could but once take a leap up there, my body might stay here on the steps for what I care.”

“There goes another falling star,” he said. “But what does it matter? There are always plenty left. I wouldn't mind looking at those little glimmering things a bit closer, especially the moon. It wouldn't slip through a man's fingers so easily. When we die, we shall fly from star to star, as light as a feather. At least, that's what the student says, the one my wife does the washing for. Of course, that's not true, but it would be lovely if it were. If I could just take one leap up there, my body could stay here on the steps for all I care.”

Behold—there are certain things in the world to which one ought never to give utterance except with the greatest caution; but doubly careful must one be when we have the Shoes of Fortune on our feet. Now just listen to what happened to the watchman.

There are certain things in this world that one should never say without great caution. But we must be twice as careful when we have the Shoes of Fortune on our feet. Now listen to what happened to the watchman.

As to ourselves, we all know the speed produced by the employment of steam; we have experienced it either on railroads, or in boats when crossing the sea; but such a flight is like the travelling of a sloth in comparison with the velocity with which light moves. It flies nineteen million times faster than the best race-horse; and yet electricity is quicker still. Death is an electric shock which our heart receives; the freed soul soars upwards on the wings of electricity. The sun's light wants eight minutes and some seconds to perform a journey of more than twenty million of our Danish [*] miles; borne by electricity, the soul wants even some minutes less to accomplish the same flight. To it the space between the heavenly bodies is not greater than the distance between the homes of our friends in town is for us, even if they live a short way from each other; such an electric shock in the heart, however, costs us the use of the body here below; unless, like the watchman of East Street, we happen to have on the Shoes of Fortune.

We all know how fast steam can carry us. We have experienced it on railroads or on boats crossing the sea. But even that speed is like a sloth’s compared with the speed of light. Light travels nineteen million times faster than the best racehorse, and electricity is faster still. Death is an electric shock to the heart. The freed soul soars upward on the wings of electricity. Sunlight takes eight minutes and a few seconds to travel more than twenty million Danish [*] miles. Carried by electricity, the soul takes a few minutes less to make the same journey. To the soul, the distance between heavenly bodies is no greater than the distance between friends’ homes in town, even if they live a short way from each other. Such an electric shock to the heart, however, costs us the use of our bodies here on earth. That is, unless we happen to be wearing the Shoes of Fortune, like the watchman of East Street.

In a few seconds the watchman had done the fifty-two thousand of our miles up to the moon, which, as everyone knows, was formed out of matter much lighter than our earth; and is, so we should say, as soft as newly-fallen snow. He found himself on one of the many circumjacent mountain-ridges with which we are acquainted by means of Dr. Madler's “Map of the Moon.” Within, down it sunk perpendicularly into a caldron, about a Danish mile in depth; while below lay a town, whose appearance we can, in some measure, realize to ourselves by beating the white of an egg in a glass of water. The matter of which it was built was just as soft, and formed similar towers, and domes, and pillars, transparent and rocking in the thin air; while above his head our earth was rolling like a large fiery ball.

In a few seconds, the watchman had traveled the fifty-two thousand miles to the moon. As everyone knows, the moon was formed from matter much lighter than our earth. We would say it is as soft as freshly fallen snow. He found himself on one of the many surrounding mountain ridges we know from Dr. Madler's “Map of the Moon.” Inside the ridge, the ground dropped straight down into a basin about a Danish mile deep. At the bottom lay a town. We can get some idea of its appearance by beating an egg white in a glass of water. The material it was built from was just as soft. It formed similar towers, domes, and pillars, transparent and swaying in the thin air. Above his head, our earth rolled like a large ball of fire.

He perceived immediately a quantity of beings who were certainly what we call “men”; yet they looked different to us. A far more correct imagination than that of the pseudo-Herschel* had created them; and if they had been placed in rank and file, and copied by some skilful painter's hand, one would, without doubt, have exclaimed involuntarily, “What a beautiful arabesque!”

He immediately saw many beings who were certainly what we call “men,” yet they looked different from us. A far more accurate imagination than that of the pseudo-Herschel* had created them. If they had been arranged in rows and painted by a skilled artist, one would certainly have exclaimed without thinking, “What a beautiful arabesque!”

*This relates to a book published some years ago in Germany, and said to be by Herschel, which contained a description of the moon and its inhabitants, written with such a semblance of truth that many were deceived by the imposture.

*This refers to a book published in Germany some years ago and said to be by Herschel. It described the moon and its inhabitants so convincingly that many people were deceived by the hoax.

Probably a translation of the celebrated Moon hoax, written by Richard A. Locke, and originally published in New York.

Probably a translation of the famous Moon hoax, written by Richard A. Locke and first published in New York.

They had a language too; but surely nobody can expect that the soul of the watchman should understand it. Be that as it may, it did comprehend it; for in our souls there germinate far greater powers than we poor mortals, despite all our cleverness, have any notion of. Does she not show us—she the queen in the land of enchantment—her astounding dramatic talent in all our dreams? There every acquaintance appears and speaks upon the stage, so entirely in character, and with the same tone of voice, that none of us, when awake, were able to imitate it. How well can she recall persons to our mind, of whom we have not thought for years; when suddenly they step forth “every inch a man,” resembling the real personages, even to the finest features, and become the heroes or heroines of our world of dreams. In reality, such remembrances are rather unpleasant: every sin, every evil thought, may, like a clock with alarm or chimes, be repeated at pleasure; then the question is if we can trust ourselves to give an account of every unbecoming word in our heart and on our lips.

They had a language too, but surely no one can expect the watchman’s soul to understand it. Even so, his soul did understand it. For far greater powers grow in our souls than we poor mortals, despite all our cleverness, can imagine. Doesn’t the soul, the queen of the land of enchantment, show us her astonishing dramatic talent in all our dreams? In dreams, every acquaintance appears and speaks on stage, perfectly in character and with the same tone of voice. None of us could imitate them so well when awake. How well she can bring people back to mind whom we haven’t thought of for years! Suddenly they appear, “every inch a man,” resembling the real people down to their finest features. They become the heroes or heroines of our dream world. In reality, such memories are rather unpleasant. Every sin and every evil thought may be repeated at will, like a clock’s alarm or chimes. Then the question is whether we can trust ourselves to account for every improper word in our hearts and on our lips.

The watchman's spirit understood the language of the inhabitants of the moon pretty well. The Selenites* disputed variously about our earth, and expressed their doubts if it could be inhabited: the air, they said, must certainly be too dense to allow any rational dweller in the moon the necessary free respiration. They considered the moon alone to be inhabited: they imagined it was the real heart of the universe or planetary system, on which the genuine Cosmopolites, or citizens of the world, dwelt. What strange things men—no, what strange things Selenites sometimes take into their heads!

The watchman’s spirit understood the language of the moon’s inhabitants quite well. The Selenites* had various debates about our earth and doubted whether anyone could live there. They said the air must be too dense for any rational inhabitant of the moon to breathe freely. They believed that only the moon was inhabited. They imagined it was the true heart of the universe, or planetary system, and that the genuine Cosmopolites, or citizens of the world, lived there. What strange ideas men, no, what strange ideas Selenites sometimes get into their heads!

* Dwellers in the moon.

* People who live in the moon.

About politics they had a good deal to say. But little Denmark must take care what it is about, and not run counter to the moon; that great realm, that might in an ill-humor bestir itself, and dash down a hail-storm in our faces, or force the Baltic to overflow the sides of its gigantic basin.

They had a lot to say about politics. But little Denmark must be careful and not go against the moon. That great realm might get into a bad mood and stir itself. It might send a hailstorm down on our faces or make the Baltic overflow its gigantic basin.

We will, therefore, not listen to what was spoken, and on no condition run in the possibility of telling tales out of school; but we will rather proceed, like good quiet citizens, to East Street, and observe what happened meanwhile to the body of the watchman.

So we will not listen to what was said or risk telling secrets under any circumstances. Instead, like good, quiet citizens, we will go to East Street. There we will see what happened meanwhile to the watchman's body.

He sat lifeless on the steps: the morning-star,* that is to say, the heavy wooden staff, headed with iron spikes, and which had nothing else in common with its sparkling brother in the sky, had glided from his hand; while his eyes were fixed with glassy stare on the moon, looking for the good old fellow of a spirit which still haunted it.

He sat lifeless on the steps. The morning-star,* a heavy wooden staff tipped with iron spikes, had slipped from his hand. It had nothing else in common with its sparkling brother in the sky. His eyes were fixed in a glassy stare on the moon, looking for the good old fellow of a spirit who still haunted it.

*The watchmen in Germany, had formerly, and in some places they still carry with them, on their rounds at night, a sort of mace or club, known in ancient times by the above denomination.

*In the past, watchmen in Germany carried a kind of mace or club on their nightly rounds. In some places, they still do. In ancient times, this weapon was known by the name given above.

“What's the hour, watchman?” asked a passer-by. But when the watchman gave no reply, the merry roysterer, who was now returning home from a noisy drinking bout, took it into his head to try what a tweak of the nose would do, on which the supposed sleeper lost his balance, the body lay motionless, stretched out on the pavement: the man was dead. When the patrol came up, all his comrades, who comprehended nothing of the whole affair, were seized with a dreadful fright, for dead he was, and he remained so. The proper authorities were informed of the circumstance, people talked a good deal about it, and in the morning the body was carried to the hospital.

“What time is it, watchman?” asked a passerby. The watchman did not answer. The cheerful reveler was returning home from a noisy drinking bout. He decided to see what would happen if he tweaked the watchman's nose. The supposed sleeper lost his balance and fell. His body lay motionless on the pavement: the man was dead. When the patrol arrived, all his comrades were terribly frightened. They could not understand what had happened, but he was dead, and he stayed dead. The authorities were informed, and people talked a great deal about it. In the morning, the body was taken to the hospital.

Now that would be a very pretty joke, if the spirit when it came back and looked for the body in East Street, were not to find one. No doubt it would, in its anxiety, run off to the police, and then to the “Hue and Cry” office, to announce that “the finder will be handsomely rewarded,” and at last away to the hospital; yet we may boldly assert that the soul is shrewdest when it shakes off every fetter, and every sort of leading-string—the body only makes it stupid.

Now that would be a fine joke if the spirit came back to look for its body in East Street and found none. No doubt the anxious spirit would run to the police, then to the “Hue and Cry” office to announce that “the finder will be handsomely rewarded.” At last, it would rush off to the hospital. Yet we can confidently say that the soul is shrewdest when it throws off every shackle and every kind of restraint. The body only makes it stupid.

The seemingly dead body of the watchman wandered, as we have said, to the hospital, where it was brought into the general viewing-room: and the first thing that was done here was naturally to pull off the galoshes—when the spirit, that was merely gone out on adventures, must have returned with the quickness of lightning to its earthly tenement. It took its direction towards the body in a straight line; and a few seconds after, life began to show itself in the man. He asserted that the preceding night had been the worst that ever the malice of fate had allotted him; he would not for two silver marks again go through what he had endured while moon-stricken; but now, however, it was over.

As we have said, the watchman's seemingly dead body wandered to the hospital. There, it was taken to the general viewing room. Naturally, the first thing they did was pull off the galoshes. His spirit, which had merely gone off in search of adventure, must then have returned to its earthly home like lightning. It traveled straight toward the body, and a few seconds later, the man began to show signs of life. He said the previous night had been the worst that the cruelty of fate had ever given him. He would not endure again what he had suffered while moon-struck, not even for two silver marks. But now, at least, it was over.

The same day he was discharged from the hospital as perfectly cured; but the Shoes meanwhile remained behind.

That same day, he was released from the hospital, completely cured. But the Shoes were left behind.

Every inhabitant of Copenhagen knows, from personal inspection, how the entrance to Frederick's Hospital looks; but as it is possible that others, who are not Copenhagen people, may also read this little work, we will beforehand give a short description of it.

Every resident of Copenhagen has seen the entrance to Frederick's Hospital and knows what it looks like. But people from outside Copenhagen may also read this little work, so we will first briefly describe the entrance.

The extensive building is separated from the street by a pretty high railing, the thick iron bars of which are so far apart, that in all seriousness, it is said, some very thin fellow had of a night occasionally squeezed himself through to go and pay his little visits in the town. The part of the body most difficult to manage on such occasions was, no doubt, the head; here, as is so often the case in the world, long-headed people get through best. So much, then, for the introduction.

A fairly high railing separates the large building from the street. Its thick iron bars are so far apart that, in all seriousness, some very thin fellow is said to have occasionally squeezed through at night to pay his little visits in town. The hardest part of the body to get through was no doubt the head. Here, as so often in the world, long-headed people get through best. So much for the introduction.

One of the young men, whose head, in a physical sense only, might be said to be of the thickest, had the watch that evening. The rain poured down in torrents; yet despite these two obstacles, the young man was obliged to go out, if it were but for a quarter of an hour; and as to telling the door-keeper about it, that, he thought, was quite unnecessary, if, with a whole skin, he were able to slip through the railings. There, on the floor lay the galoshes, which the watchman had forgotten; he never dreamed for a moment that they were those of Fortune; and they promised to do him good service in the wet; so he put them on. The question now was, if he could squeeze himself through the grating, for he had never tried before. Well, there he stood.

One of the young men was on watch that evening. His head might have been called one of the thickest, but only in the physical sense. Rain was pouring down. Yet despite these two obstacles, he had to go out, even if only for a quarter of an hour. He thought there was no need to tell the doorkeeper, if he could slip through the railings without injury. The galoshes the watchman had forgotten lay there on the floor. The young man never dreamed they were Fortune's galoshes. They seemed just the thing for the wet weather, so he put them on. Now the question was whether he could squeeze through the railings. He had never tried before. Well, there he stood.

“Would to Heaven I had got my head through!” said he, involuntarily; and instantly through it slipped, easily and without pain, notwithstanding it was pretty large and thick. But now the rest of the body was to be got through!

“If only I could get my head through!” he said without thinking. Instantly, his head slipped through easily and without pain, though it was fairly large and thick. But now the rest of his body had to get through!

“Ah! I am much too stout,” groaned he aloud, while fixed as in a vice. “I had thought the head was the most difficult part of the matter—oh! oh! I really cannot squeeze myself through!”

“Ah! I am much too fat,” he groaned aloud, stuck as if in a vise. “I thought the head would be the hardest part. Oh! Oh! I really can't squeeze through!”

He now wanted to pull his over-hasty head back again, but he could not. For his neck there was room enough, but for nothing more. His first feeling was of anger; his next that his temper fell to zero. The Shoes of Fortune had placed him in the most dreadful situation; and, unfortunately, it never occurred to him to wish himself free. The pitch-black clouds poured down their contents in still heavier torrents; not a creature was to be seen in the streets. To reach up to the bell was what he did not like; to cry aloud for help would have availed him little; besides, how ashamed would he have been to be found caught in a trap, like an outwitted fox! How was he to twist himself through! He saw clearly that it was his irrevocable destiny to remain a prisoner till dawn, or, perhaps, even late in the morning; then the smith must be fetched to file away the bars; but all that would not be done so quickly as he could think about it. The whole Charity School, just opposite, would be in motion; all the new booths, with their not very courtier-like swarm of seamen, would join them out of curiosity, and would greet him with a wild “hurrah!” while he was standing in his pillory: there would be a mob, a hissing, and rejoicing, and jeering, ten times worse than in the rows about the Jews some years ago—“Oh, my blood is mounting to my brain; 'tis enough to drive one mad! I shall go wild! I know not what to do. Oh! were I but loose; my dizziness would then cease; oh, were my head but loose!”

He now wanted to pull his head back, having put it through too hastily, but he could not. There was enough room for his neck, but nothing more. At first he felt angry. Then his spirits sank to zero. The Shoes of Fortune had put him in a terrible situation, and unfortunately, he never thought to wish himself free. The pitch-black clouds poured down rain in even heavier torrents. Not a creature could be seen in the streets. He did not want to reach up to the bell, and crying out for help would have done little good. Besides, how ashamed he would be if he were found caught in a trap, like a fox that had been outwitted! How could he twist his way out? He could see that he was doomed to remain a prisoner until dawn, or perhaps even late in the morning. Then the smith would have to be fetched to file away the bars, but that would not happen as quickly as he could imagine it. The whole Charity School, just opposite, would be in an uproar. All the sailors swarming around the new booths, who were hardly courtly in their manners, would join them out of curiosity. They would greet him with a wild “hurrah!” as he stood there as if in a pillory. There would be a mob, hissing, rejoicing, and jeering, ten times worse than during the riots against the Jews some years ago. “Oh, the blood is rushing to my head. It's enough to drive me mad! I'll go wild! I don't know what to do. Oh, if only I were free, my dizziness would go away. Oh, if only my head were free!”

You see he ought to have said that sooner; for the moment he expressed the wish his head was free; and cured of all his paroxysms of love, he hastened off to his room, where the pains consequent on the fright the Shoes had prepared for him, did not so soon take their leave.

You see, he should have said that sooner. The moment he expressed the wish, his head was free. Cured of all his fits of love, he hurried to his room. But the pain caused by the fright the Shoes had given him took longer to leave him.

But you must not think that the affair is over now; it grows much worse.

But don't think the matter is over yet. It gets much worse.

The night passed, the next day also; but nobody came to fetch the Shoes.

The night passed, and so did the next day, but nobody came to get the Shoes.

In the evening “Dramatic Readings” were to be given at the little theatre in King Street. The house was filled to suffocation; and among other pieces to be recited was a new poem by H. C. Andersen, called, My Aunt's Spectacles; the contents of which were pretty nearly as follows:

That evening, “Dramatic Readings” were to be held at the little theatre in King Street. The theatre was packed to the point of suffocation. Among the pieces to be recited was a new poem by H. C. Andersen called My Aunt's Spectacles. The poem went pretty much as follows:

“A certain person had an aunt, who boasted of particular skill in fortune-telling with cards, and who was constantly being stormed by persons that wanted to have a peep into futurity. But she was full of mystery about her art, in which a certain pair of magic spectacles did her essential service. Her nephew, a merry boy, who was his aunt's darling, begged so long for these spectacles, that, at last, she lent him the treasure, after having informed him, with many exhortations, that in order to execute the interesting trick, he need only repair to some place where a great many persons were assembled; and then, from a higher position, whence he could overlook the crowd, pass the company in review before him through his spectacles. Immediately 'the inner man' of each individual would be displayed before him, like a game of cards, in which he unerringly might read what the future of every person presented was to be. Well pleased the little magician hastened away to prove the powers of the spectacles in the theatre; no place seeming to him more fitted for such a trial. He begged permission of the worthy audience, and set his spectacles on his nose. A motley phantasmagoria presents itself before him, which he describes in a few satirical touches, yet without expressing his opinion openly: he tells the people enough to set them all thinking and guessing; but in order to hurt nobody, he wraps his witty oracular judgments in a transparent veil, or rather in a lurid thundercloud, shooting forth bright sparks of wit, that they may fall in the powder-magazine of the expectant audience.”

“A certain person had an aunt who boasted of her special skill at telling fortunes with cards. People constantly besieged her, hoping to glimpse the future. But she was very mysterious about her art, and a certain pair of magic spectacles was essential to it. Her nephew was a cheerful boy and his aunt’s favorite. He begged for the spectacles so often that she finally lent him the treasure. First, she gave him plenty of instructions. To perform the fascinating trick, he needed only to go somewhere a large crowd had gathered. Then he should find a high spot overlooking the crowd and look over everyone through the spectacles. Each person’s ‘inner self’ would immediately appear before him like a hand of cards. From this he could read, without error, what the future held for each person he saw. Delighted, the little magician hurried off to test the spectacles at the theater. He could think of no better place for the trial. He asked the kind audience for permission and put the spectacles on his nose. A colorful parade of visions appears before him, and he describes it with a few satirical strokes. Yet he does not openly state his opinion. He tells the people enough to set them all thinking and guessing. But, so as not to hurt anyone, he wraps his witty, prophetic judgments in a transparent veil. Or rather, he wraps them in a glowing thundercloud. It shoots out bright sparks of wit, so that they may fall into the expectant audience’s powder magazine.”

The humorous poem was admirably recited, and the speaker much applauded. Among the audience was the young man of the hospital, who seemed to have forgotten his adventure of the preceding night. He had on the Shoes; for as yet no lawful owner had appeared to claim them; and besides it was so very dirty out-of-doors, they were just the thing for him, he thought.

The humorous poem was recited wonderfully, and the speaker received much applause. Among the audience was the young man from the hospital, who seemed to have forgotten his adventure the night before. He was wearing the Shoes because no rightful owner had yet come forward to claim them. Besides, it was so muddy outside that he thought the Shoes were just what he needed.

The beginning of the poem he praised with great generosity: he even found the idea original and effective. But that the end of it, like the Rhine, was very insignificant, proved, in his opinion, the author's want of invention; he was without genius, etc. This was an excellent opportunity to have said something clever.

He praised the beginning of the poem generously. He even found the idea original and effective. But in his opinion, the ending was very insignificant, like the Rhine. He thought this showed the author lacked imagination and had no genius, and so on. This was an excellent opportunity to say something clever.

Meanwhile he was haunted by the idea—he should like to possess such a pair of spectacles himself; then, perhaps, by using them circumspectly, one would be able to look into people's hearts, which, he thought, would be far more interesting than merely to see what was to happen next year; for that we should all know in proper time, but the other never.

Meanwhile, he could not stop thinking about how much he would like a pair of those spectacles. Perhaps, if used carefully, they would let a person look into people's hearts. He thought that would be far more interesting than merely seeing what would happen next year. After all, we would all learn what happened next year in due time, but we would never see into people's hearts.

“I can now,” said he to himself, “fancy the whole row of ladies and gentlemen sitting there in the front row; if one could but see into their hearts—yes, that would be a revelation—a sort of bazar. In that lady yonder, so strangely dressed, I should find for certain a large milliner's shop; in that one the shop is empty, but it wants cleaning plain enough. But there would also be some good stately shops among them. Alas!” sighed he, “I know one in which all is stately; but there sits already a spruce young shopman, which is the only thing that's amiss in the whole shop. All would be splendidly decked out, and we should hear, 'Walk in, gentlemen, pray walk in; here you will find all you please to want.' Ah! I wish to Heaven I could walk in and take a trip right through the hearts of those present!”

“I can picture the whole row of ladies and gentlemen sitting there in front,” he said to himself. “If only I could see into their hearts! Yes, that would be a revelation, like a bazaar. In that strangely dressed lady over there, I would surely find a large hat shop. In that other lady, the shop is empty, but it certainly needs cleaning. But there would be some fine, grand shops among them too. Alas!” he sighed. “I know one where everything is grand. But a neat young shop assistant is already sitting there. He is the only thing wrong with the whole shop. Everything would be splendidly decorated, and we would hear, 'Come in, gentlemen, please come in. Here you will find anything you could want.' Ah! I wish to Heaven I could walk in and travel right through the hearts of everyone here!”

And behold! to the Shoes of Fortune this was the cue; the whole man shrunk together and a most uncommon journey through the hearts of the front row of spectators, now began. The first heart through which he came, was that of a middle-aged lady, but he instantly fancied himself in the room of the “Institution for the cure of the crooked and deformed,” where casts of mis-shapen limbs are displayed in naked reality on the wall. Yet there was this difference, in the institution the casts were taken at the entry of the patient; but here they were retained and guarded in the heart while the sound persons went away. They were, namely, casts of female friends, whose bodily or mental deformities were here most faithfully preserved.

And behold! This was the cue for the Shoes of Fortune. The man shrank, and a most unusual journey began through the hearts of the spectators in the front row. The first heart he entered belonged to a middle-aged lady. But he immediately imagined himself in a room at the “Institution for the cure of the crooked and deformed.” There, casts of misshapen limbs were displayed on the walls in all their naked reality. Yet there was a difference. At the institution, the casts were made when patients arrived. But here, the casts were kept and guarded in the heart while the healthy people went away. They were casts of female friends, whose physical or mental deformities were most faithfully preserved there.

With the snake-like writhings of an idea he glided into another female heart; but this seemed to him like a large holy fane. [*] The white dove of innocence fluttered over the altar. How gladly would he have sunk upon his knees; but he must away to the next heart; yet he still heard the pealing tones of the organ, and he himself seemed to have become a newer and a better man; he felt unworthy to tread the neighboring sanctuary which a poor garret, with a sick bed-rid mother, revealed. But God's warm sun streamed through the open window; lovely roses nodded from the wooden flower-boxes on the roof, and two sky-blue birds sang rejoicingly, while the sick mother implored God's richest blessings on her pious daughter.

With the snake-like twists of an idea, he glided into another woman’s heart. But to him, her heart seemed like a great holy temple. [*] The white dove of innocence fluttered over the altar. How gladly he would have knelt there, but he had to move on to the next heart. He could still hear the organ ringing out, and he felt like a new and better man. He felt unworthy to enter the next sanctuary, revealed in a poor attic room where a sick mother lay bedridden. But God’s warm sun streamed through the open window. Lovely roses nodded from wooden flower boxes on the roof. Two sky-blue birds sang joyfully, while the sick mother begged God to richly bless her devout daughter.

He now crept on hands and feet through a butcher's shop; at least on every side, and above and below, there was nought but flesh. It was the heart of a most respectable rich man, whose name is certain to be found in the Directory.

He now crawled on his hands and knees through a butcher's shop. At least, there was nothing but flesh on every side, above and below him. It was the heart of a very respectable rich man, whose name was sure to be found in the Directory.

He was now in the heart of the wife of this worthy gentleman. It was an old, dilapidated, mouldering dovecot. The husband's portrait was used as a weather-cock, which was connected in some way or other with the doors, and so they opened and shut of their own accord, whenever the stern old husband turned round.

He was now in the heart of this worthy gentleman's wife. Her heart was an old, crumbling, decaying dovecot. Her husband's portrait served as a weather vane. It was somehow connected to the doors, so they opened and closed on their own whenever the stern old husband turned around.

Hereupon he wandered into a boudoir formed entirely of mirrors, like the one in Castle Rosenburg; but here the glasses magnified to an astonishing degree. On the floor, in the middle of the room, sat, like a Dalai-Lama, the insignificant “Self” of the person, quite confounded at his own greatness. He then imagined he had got into a needle-case full of pointed needles of every size.

Then he wandered into a boudoir made entirely of mirrors, like the one in Castle Rosenburg. But the mirrors here magnified everything to an astonishing degree. In the middle of the floor sat the person’s insignificant “Self,” like a Dalai-Lama, utterly bewildered by his own greatness. He then imagined he had entered a needle case full of sharp needles of every size.

“This is certainly the heart of an old maid,” thought he. But he was mistaken. It was the heart of a young military man; a man, as people said, of talent and feeling.

“This must be the heart of an old maid,” he thought. But he was mistaken. It was the heart of a young military man, whom people described as talented and sensitive.

In the greatest perplexity, he now came out of the last heart in the row; he was unable to put his thoughts in order, and fancied that his too lively imagination had run away with him.

Completely confused, he now came out of the last heart in the row. He could not put his thoughts in order and thought his overactive imagination had run away with him.

“Good Heavens!” sighed he. “I have surely a disposition to madness—'tis dreadfully hot here; my blood boils in my veins and my head is burning like a coal.” And he now remembered the important event of the evening before, how his head had got jammed in between the iron railings of the hospital. “That's what it is, no doubt,” said he. “I must do something in time: under such circumstances a Russian bath might do me good. I only wish I were already on the upper bank.” [*]

“Good heavens!” he sighed. “Surely I’m prone to madness. It’s terribly hot here. My blood is boiling in my veins, and my head is burning like a coal.” Then he remembered the important event of the previous evening. His head had gotten stuck between the hospital’s iron railings. “That must be the cause,” he said. “I must do something before it’s too late. A Russian bath might do me good under the circumstances. I only wish I were already on the upper bank.” [*]

And so there he lay on the uppermost bank in the vapor-bath; but with all his clothes on, in his boots and galoshes, while the hot drops fell scalding from the ceiling on his face.

And so he lay on the top bench in the steam bath. But he still had all his clothes on, including his boots and galoshes, while scalding drops fell from the ceiling onto his face.

“Holloa!” cried he, leaping down. The bathing attendant, on his side, uttered a loud cry of astonishment when he beheld in the bath, a man completely dressed.

“Hello!” he cried, jumping down. The bathing attendant cried out in surprise when he saw a fully dressed man in the bath.

The other, however, retained sufficient presence of mind to whisper to him, “'Tis a bet, and I have won it!” But the first thing he did as soon as he got home, was to have a large blister put on his chest and back to draw out his madness.

The other, however, kept enough presence of mind to whisper to him, “It was a bet, and I won it!” But as soon as he got home, the first thing he did was have a large blistering plaster put on his chest and back to draw out his madness.

The next morning he had a sore chest and a bleeding back; and, excepting the fright, that was all that he had gained by the Shoes of Fortune.

The next morning, his chest was sore and his back was bleeding. Except for the fright, that was all he had gained from the Shoes of Fortune.

The watchman, whom we have certainly not forgotten, thought meanwhile of the galoshes he had found and taken with him to the hospital; he now went to fetch them; and as neither the lieutenant, nor anybody else in the street, claimed them as his property, they were delivered over to the police-office.*

Meanwhile, the watchman thought of the galoshes he had found and taken to the hospital. We certainly haven't forgotten him. He went back to get them. Neither the lieutenant nor anyone else in the street claimed the galoshes, so they were handed over to the police station.*

*As on the continent, in all law and police practices nothing is verbal, but any circumstance, however trifling, is reduced to writing, the labor, as well as the number of papers that thus accumulate, is enormous. In a police-office, consequently, we find copying-clerks among many other scribes of various denominations, of which, it seems, our hero was one.

*On the continent, nothing in legal or police work is left to spoken accounts. Every detail, however small, is written down. As a result, the work is enormous, and so is the amount of paperwork. Police offices therefore employ copy clerks among many other kinds of clerks. Our hero, it seems, was one of these copy clerks.

“Why, I declare the Shoes look just like my own,” said one of the clerks, eying the newly-found treasure, whose hidden powers, even he, sharp as he was, was not able to discover. “One must have more than the eye of a shoemaker to know one pair from the other,” said he, soliloquizing; and putting, at the same time, the galoshes in search of an owner, beside his own in the corner.

“Why, those shoes look just like mine,” said one of the clerks, eyeing the newly found treasure. Sharp as he was, even he could not discover its hidden powers. “You would need more than a shoemaker's eye to tell the two pairs apart,” he said to himself. As he spoke, he put the ownerless galoshes beside his own in the corner.

“Here, sir!” said one of the men, who panting brought him a tremendous pile of papers.

“Here, sir!” said one of the men, panting as he brought him a huge pile of papers.

The copying-clerk turned round and spoke awhile with the man about the reports and legal documents in question; but when he had finished, and his eye fell again on the Shoes, he was unable to say whether those to the left or those to the right belonged to him. “At all events it must be those which are wet,” thought he; but this time, in spite of his cleverness, he guessed quite wrong, for it was just those of Fortune which played as it were into his hands, or rather on his feet. And why, I should like to know, are the police never to be wrong? So he put them on quickly, stuck his papers in his pocket, and took besides a few under his arm, intending to look them through at home to make the necessary notes. It was noon; and the weather, that had threatened rain, began to clear up, while gaily dressed holiday folks filled the streets. “A little trip to Fredericksburg would do me no great harm,” thought he; “for I, poor beast of burden that I am, have so much to annoy me, that I don't know what a good appetite is. 'Tis a bitter crust, alas! at which I am condemned to gnaw!”

The copying clerk turned around and spoke with the man for a while about the reports and legal documents in question. But when they finished, he looked at the Shoes again. He could not tell whether the pair on the left or the pair on the right was his. “At least, mine must be the wet ones,” he thought. But despite his cleverness, he guessed quite wrong this time. He chose Fortune’s Shoes, which seemed to play right into his hands, or rather, onto his feet. And why, I would like to know, should the police never be wrong? So he quickly put them on and stuffed his papers into his pocket. He tucked a few more under his arm, intending to look them over at home and make the necessary notes. It was noon, and the threatening weather was beginning to clear. People in colorful holiday clothes filled the streets. “A little trip to Fredericksburg wouldn’t do me any harm,” he thought. “I’m a poor beast of burden with so much to trouble me that I don’t know what a good appetite is. Alas, I’m condemned to gnaw on a bitter crust!”

Nobody could be more steady or quiet than this young man; we therefore wish him joy of the excursion with all our heart; and it will certainly be beneficial for a person who leads so sedentary a life. In the park he met a friend, one of our young poets, who told him that the following day he should set out on his long-intended tour.

Nobody could be more steady or quiet than this young man. So we wish him joy on his outing with all our hearts. It will certainly be good for someone who spends so much time sitting. In the park, he met a friend, one of our young poets. The poet told him that the next day he would set out on the tour he had long planned.

“So you are going away again!” said the clerk. “You are a very free and happy being; we others are chained by the leg and held fast to our desk.”

“So you’re going away again!” said the clerk. “You’re so free and happy. The rest of us are chained by the leg to our desks.”

“Yes; but it is a chain, friend, which ensures you the blessed bread of existence,” answered the poet. “You need feel no care for the coming morrow: when you are old, you receive a pension.”

“Yes, but it is a chain, my friend, that guarantees you the blessing of a livelihood,” the poet replied. “You need not worry about tomorrow. When you are old, you will receive a pension.”

“True,” said the clerk, shrugging his shoulders; “and yet you are the better off. To sit at one's ease and poetise—that is a pleasure; everybody has something agreeable to say to you, and you are always your own master. No, friend, you should but try what it is to sit from one year's end to the other occupied with and judging the most trivial matters.”

“True,” said the clerk, shrugging his shoulders. “And yet you have the better life. It’s a pleasure to sit at ease and write poetry. Everyone has something pleasant to say to you, and you are always your own master. No, friend, you should try sitting and dealing with the most trivial matters, judging them from one year’s end to the next.”

The poet shook his head, the copying-clerk did the same. Each one kept to his own opinion, and so they separated.

The poet shook his head, and the copying clerk did the same. Each kept his own opinion, so they parted ways.

“It's a strange race, those poets!” said the clerk, who was very fond of soliloquizing. “I should like some day, just for a trial, to take such nature upon me, and be a poet myself; I am very sure I should make no such miserable verses as the others. Today, methinks, is a most delicious day for a poet. Nature seems anew to celebrate her awakening into life. The air is so unusually clear, the clouds sail on so buoyantly, and from the green herbage a fragrance is exhaled that fills me with delight. For many a year have I not felt as at this moment.”

“Poets are a strange lot!” said the clerk, who was very fond of talking to himself. “I’d like to try being a poet myself someday. I’m quite sure I wouldn’t write such miserable verses as the others. Today seems like a wonderful day for a poet. Nature seems to be celebrating its awakening to life again. The air is unusually clear, and the clouds sail along so lightly. The fragrance rising from the green grass and plants fills me with delight. I haven’t felt like this for many years.”

We see already, by the foregoing effusion, that he is become a poet; to give further proof of it, however, would in most cases be insipid, for it is a most foolish notion to fancy a poet different from other men. Among the latter there may be far more poetical natures than many an acknowledged poet, when examined more closely, could boast of; the difference only is, that the poet possesses a better mental memory, on which account he is able to retain the feeling and the thought till they can be embodied by means of words; a faculty which the others do not possess. But the transition from a commonplace nature to one that is richly endowed, demands always a more or less breakneck leap over a certain abyss which yawns threateningly below; and thus must the sudden change with the clerk strike the reader.

From his outpouring above, we can already see that he has become a poet. But in most cases, further proof would be dull. It is foolish to imagine that a poet is different from other people. Among those other people, some may have far more poetic natures than many a recognized poet would reveal on closer inspection. The only difference is that a poet has a better mental memory. This allows the poet to hold on to feelings and thoughts until they can be put into words. Others lack this ability. But the change from an ordinary nature to a richly gifted one always demands a more or less reckless leap over a threatening abyss. The clerk’s sudden change must strike the reader in the same way.

“The sweet air!” continued he of the police-office, in his dreamy imaginings; “how it reminds me of the violets in the garden of my aunt Magdalena! Yes, then I was a little wild boy, who did not go to school very regularly. O heavens! 'tis a long time since I have thought on those times. The good old soul! She lived behind the Exchange. She always had a few twigs or green shoots in water—let the winter rage without as it might. The violets exhaled their sweet breath, whilst I pressed against the windowpanes covered with fantastic frost-work the copper coin I had heated on the stove, and so made peep-holes. What splendid vistas were then opened to my view! What change—what magnificence! Yonder in the canal lay the ships frozen up, and deserted by their whole crews, with a screaming crow for the sole occupant. But when the spring, with a gentle stirring motion, announced her arrival, a new and busy life arose; with songs and hurrahs the ice was sawn asunder, the ships were fresh tarred and rigged, that they might sail away to distant lands. But I have remained here—must always remain here, sitting at my desk in the office, and patiently see other people fetch their passports to go abroad. Such is my fate! Alas!”—sighed he, and was again silent. “Great Heaven! What is come to me! Never have I thought or felt like this before! It must be the summer air that affects me with feelings almost as disquieting as they are refreshing.”

“The sweet air!” the man from the police office continued, lost in his daydreams. “How it reminds me of the violets in my aunt Magdalena’s garden! Yes, I was a little wild boy then, and I did not go to school very regularly. Oh, heavens! It has been a long time since I thought about those days. The dear old soul! She lived behind the Exchange. She always kept a few twigs or green shoots in water, no matter how fiercely winter raged outside. The violets gave off their sweet scent. I would heat a copper coin on the stove and press it against the windowpanes, covered in fantastic frost patterns. That made little peepholes. What splendid views opened before me! What changes, what magnificence! Out in the canal, the ships lay frozen in the ice, abandoned by all their crews. Their only occupant was a screaming crow. But when spring announced her arrival with a gentle stirring, a new, busy life began. With songs and cheers, people sawed through the ice. The ships were freshly tarred and rigged so they could sail away to distant lands. But I have stayed here, and I must always stay here. I sit at my desk in the office, patiently watching other people collect their passports to travel abroad. That is my fate! Alas!” He sighed and fell silent again. “Great Heaven! What has come over me! I have never thought or felt like this before! It must be the summer air, stirring feelings in me that are almost as unsettling as they are refreshing.”

He felt in his pocket for the papers. “These police-reports will soon stem the torrent of my ideas, and effectually hinder any rebellious overflowing of the time-worn banks of official duties”; he said to himself consolingly, while his eye ran over the first page. “DAME TIGBRITH, tragedy in five acts.” “What is that? And yet it is undeniably my own handwriting. Have I written the tragedy? Wonderful, very wonderful!—And this—what have I here? 'INTRIGUE ON THE RAMPARTS; or THE DAY OF REPENTANCE: vaudeville with new songs to the most favorite airs.' The deuce! Where did I get all this rubbish? Some one must have slipped it slyly into my pocket for a joke. There is too a letter to me; a crumpled letter and the seal broken.”

He reached into his pocket for the papers. “These police reports will soon dam the flood of my ideas. They will keep it from rebelliously overflowing the well-worn banks of my official duties,” he thought reassuringly as he glanced over the first page. “DAME TIGBRITH, tragedy in five acts.” “What is that? And yet it is unmistakably my own handwriting. Did I write the tragedy? Amazing, absolutely amazing! And this, what do I have here? 'INTRIGUE ON THE RAMPARTS; or THE DAY OF REPENTANCE: vaudeville with new songs set to the most popular tunes.' Good grief! Where did I get all this rubbish? Someone must have slipped it into my pocket as a joke. There is a letter to me, too. It's crumpled, and the seal is broken.”

Yes; it was not a very polite epistle from the manager of a theatre, in which both pieces were flatly refused.

Yes, it was a rather impolite letter from a theater manager, flatly refusing both pieces.

“Hem! hem!” said the clerk breathlessly, and quite exhausted he seated himself on a bank. His thoughts were so elastic, his heart so tender; and involuntarily he picked one of the nearest flowers. It is a simple daisy, just bursting out of the bud. What the botanist tells us after a number of imperfect lectures, the flower proclaimed in a minute. It related the mythus of its birth, told of the power of the sun-light that spread out its delicate leaves, and forced them to impregnate the air with their incense—and then he thought of the manifold struggles of life, which in like manner awaken the budding flowers of feeling in our bosom. Light and air contend with chivalric emulation for the love of the fair flower that bestowed her chief favors on the latter; full of longing she turned towards the light, and as soon as it vanished, rolled her tender leaves together and slept in the embraces of the air. “It is the light which adorns me,” said the flower.

“Hem! hem!” said the clerk, breathless and exhausted, as he sat down on a bank. His thoughts were so lively, and his heart so tender. Without thinking, he picked one of the flowers nearest him. It was a simple daisy, just opening from its bud. The flower revealed in a minute what a botanist tells us after a number of imperfect lectures. It told the story of its birth and the power of sunlight. The sunlight spread its delicate petals and made them fill the air with their fragrance. The clerk then thought of the many struggles of life. In the same way, those struggles awaken the budding flowers of feeling in our hearts. Light and air competed like knights for the love of the lovely flower. She favored the air most. Longingly, she turned toward the light. As soon as it vanished, she folded her tender petals and slept in the embrace of the air. “It is the light that makes me beautiful,” said the flower.

“But 'tis the air which enables thee to breathe,” said the poet's voice.

“But it is the air that allows you to breathe,” said the poet's voice.

Close by stood a boy who dashed his stick into a wet ditch. The drops of water splashed up to the green leafy roof, and the clerk thought of the million of ephemera which in a single drop were thrown up to a height, that was as great doubtless for their size, as for us if we were to be hurled above the clouds. While he thought of this and of the whole metamorphosis he had undergone, he smiled and said, “I sleep and dream; but it is wonderful how one can dream so naturally, and know besides so exactly that it is but a dream. If only to-morrow on awaking, I could again call all to mind so vividly! I seem in unusually good spirits; my perception of things is clear, I feel as light and cheerful as though I were in heaven; but I know for a certainty, that if to-morrow a dim remembrance of it should swim before my mind, it will then seem nothing but stupid nonsense, as I have often experienced already—especially before I enlisted under the banner of the police, for that dispels like a whirlwind all the visions of an unfettered imagination. All we hear or say in a dream that is fair and beautiful is like the gold of the subterranean spirits; it is rich and splendid when it is given us, but viewed by daylight we find only withered leaves. Alas!” he sighed quite sorrowful, and gazed at the chirping birds that hopped contentedly from branch to branch, “they are much better off than I! To fly must be a heavenly art; and happy do I prize that creature in which it is innate. Yes! Could I exchange my nature with any other creature, I fain would be such a happy little lark!”

Nearby, a boy plunged his stick into a wet ditch. Drops of water splashed up to the green, leafy roof. The clerk thought of the millions of tiny creatures in a single drop of water. They had been thrown to a height that, for their size, was surely as great as if we were hurled above the clouds. As he thought about this and his own complete transformation, he smiled and said, “I am asleep and dreaming. But it is wonderful how naturally one can dream, while knowing so clearly that it is only a dream. If only I could remember it all this vividly when I wake tomorrow! I seem to be in unusually good spirits. I see things clearly, and I feel as light and cheerful as if I were in heaven. But I know for certain that a dim memory of it may come back to me tomorrow. If it does, it will seem like nothing but stupid nonsense. That has often happened to me before, especially before I joined the police. The police sweep away all the visions of an unfettered imagination like a whirlwind. Everything fair and beautiful that we hear or say in a dream is like the gold of underground spirits. It is rich and splendid when given to us, but in daylight we find only withered leaves. Alas!” He sighed sadly and looked at the chirping birds hopping contentedly from branch to branch. “They are much better off than I am! Flying must be a heavenly art, and I think any creature born with that gift is fortunate. Yes! If I could trade my nature for that of any other creature, I would gladly be a happy little lark!”

He had hardly uttered these hasty words when the skirts and sleeves of his coat folded themselves together into wings; the clothes became feathers, and the galoshes claws. He observed it perfectly, and laughed in his heart. “Now then, there is no doubt that I am dreaming; but I never before was aware of such mad freaks as these.” And up he flew into the green roof and sang; but in the song there was no poetry, for the spirit of the poet was gone. The Shoes, as is the case with anybody who does what he has to do properly, could only attend to one thing at a time. He wanted to be a poet, and he was one; he now wished to be a merry chirping bird: but when he was metamorphosed into one, the former peculiarities ceased immediately. “It is really pleasant enough,” said he: “the whole day long I sit in the office amid the driest law-papers, and at night I fly in my dream as a lark in the gardens of Fredericksburg; one might really write a very pretty comedy upon it.” He now fluttered down into the grass, turned his head gracefully on every side, and with his bill pecked the pliant blades of grass, which, in comparison to his present size, seemed as majestic as the palm-branches of northern Africa.

He had hardly spoken these hasty words when the skirts and sleeves of his coat folded into wings. His clothes became feathers, and his galoshes became claws. He noticed it all perfectly well and laughed to himself. “Now there is no doubt that I am dreaming, but I have never been aware of such wild happenings before.” He flew up into the green canopy and sang. But there was no poetry in his song, for the spirit of the poet was gone. The Shoes could attend to only one thing at a time, like anyone who does their job properly. He had wanted to be a poet, and he had been one. Now he wished to be a cheerful, chirping bird. But when he was transformed into one, his earlier qualities vanished at once. “This is really pleasant enough,” he said. “All day I sit in the office among the driest legal papers. At night I dream that I fly like a lark in the gardens of Fredericksburg. One could really write a very pretty comedy about it.” He fluttered down into the grass and turned his head gracefully from side to side. With his beak, he pecked at the flexible blades of grass. Compared with his present size, they seemed as majestic as the palm branches of northern Africa.

Unfortunately the pleasure lasted but a moment. Presently black night overshadowed our enthusiast, who had so entirely missed his part of copying-clerk at a police-office; some vast object seemed to be thrown over him. It was a large oil-skin cap, which a sailor-boy of the quay had thrown over the struggling bird; a coarse hand sought its way carefully in under the broad rim, and seized the clerk over the back and wings. In the first moment of fear, he called, indeed, as loud as he could—“You impudent little blackguard! I am a copying-clerk at the police-office; and you know you cannot insult any belonging to the constabulary force without a chastisement. Besides, you good-for-nothing rascal, it is strictly forbidden to catch birds in the royal gardens of Fredericksburg; but your blue uniform betrays where you come from.” This fine tirade sounded, however, to the ungodly sailor-boy like a mere “Pippi-pi.” He gave the noisy bird a knock on his beak, and walked on.

Unfortunately, the pleasure lasted only a moment. Soon, black night fell over our enthusiast, who had so completely failed in his role as a copying clerk at a police office. Some huge object seemed to be thrown over him. It was a large oilskin cap, thrown over the struggling bird by a sailor boy from the quay. A rough hand carefully reached under the broad brim and seized the clerk by his back and wings. At first, frightened, he shouted as loudly as he could, “You insolent little scoundrel! I am a copying clerk at the police office. You know you cannot insult anyone in the police force without being punished. Besides, you worthless rascal, catching birds in the royal gardens of Fredericksburg is strictly forbidden. But your blue uniform gives away where you come from.” To the wicked sailor boy, however, this fine speech sounded like nothing more than “Pippi-pi.” He gave the noisy bird a knock on the beak and walked on.

He was soon met by two schoolboys of the upper class—that is to say as individuals, for with regard to learning they were in the lowest class in the school; and they bought the stupid bird. So the copying-clerk came to Copenhagen as guest, or rather as prisoner in a family living in Gother Street.

He soon met two schoolboys from the upper class, meaning their social class. When it came to learning, they were in the lowest class in the school. They bought the stupid bird. So the copying-clerk came to Copenhagen as a guest, or rather as a prisoner, in a family living on Gother Street.

“'Tis well that I'm dreaming,” said the clerk, “or I really should get angry. First I was a poet; now sold for a few pence as a lark; no doubt it was that accursed poetical nature which has metamorphosed me into such a poor harmless little creature. It is really pitiable, particularly when one gets into the hands of a little blackguard, perfect in all sorts of cruelty to animals: all I should like to know is, how the story will end.”

“It’s a good thing I’m dreaming,” said the clerk, “or I really would get angry. First I was a poet, and now I’ve been sold as a lark for a few pennies. No doubt my cursed poetic nature has turned me into such a poor, harmless little creature. It’s really pitiful, especially when you fall into the hands of a little scoundrel skilled in every kind of cruelty to animals. All I want to know is how the story will end.”

The two schoolboys, the proprietors now of the transformed clerk, carried him into an elegant room. A stout stately dame received them with a smile; but she expressed much dissatisfaction that a common field-bird, as she called the lark, should appear in such high society. For to-day, however, she would allow it; and they must shut him in the empty cage that was standing in the window. “Perhaps he will amuse my good Polly,” added the lady, looking with a benignant smile at a large green parrot that swung himself backwards and forwards most comfortably in his ring, inside a magnificent brass-wired cage. “To-day is Polly's birthday,” said she with stupid simplicity: “and the little brown field-bird must wish him joy.”

The two schoolboys, who now owned the transformed clerk, carried him into an elegant room. A stout, dignified lady greeted them with a smile. But she was very displeased that a common field bird, as she called the lark, should appear in such high society. She would allow it for today, however. They were to shut him in the empty cage standing in the window. “Perhaps he will amuse my good Polly,” the lady added. She smiled kindly at a large green parrot swinging comfortably back and forth on his ring inside a magnificent brass-wire cage. “Today is Polly's birthday,” she said with foolish simplicity, “and the little brown field bird must wish him a happy birthday.”

Mr. Polly uttered not a syllable in reply, but swung to and fro with dignified condescension; while a pretty canary, as yellow as gold, that had lately been brought from his sunny fragrant home, began to sing aloud.

Mr. Polly said nothing in reply, but swung back and forth with dignified superiority. Meanwhile, a pretty canary, as yellow as gold, began to sing loudly. It had recently been brought from its sunny, fragrant home.

“Noisy creature! Will you be quiet!” screamed the lady of the house, covering the cage with an embroidered white pocket handkerchief.

“Noisy creature! Will you be quiet!” screamed the lady of the house. She covered the cage with an embroidered white handkerchief.

“Chirp, chirp!” sighed he. “That was a dreadful snowstorm”; and he sighed again, and was silent.

“Chirp, chirp!” he sighed. “That was a terrible snowstorm.” He sighed again and fell silent.

The copying-clerk, or, as the lady said, the brown field-bird, was put into a small cage, close to the Canary, and not far from “my good Polly.” The only human sounds that the Parrot could bawl out were, “Come, let us be men!” Everything else that he said was as unintelligible to everybody as the chirping of the Canary, except to the clerk, who was now a bird too: he understood his companion perfectly.

The copying clerk, or the brown field bird, as the lady called him, was put in a small cage. It was close to the Canary and not far from “my good Polly.” The only human words the Parrot could shout were, “Come, let us be men!” Everything else the Parrot said was as hard for everyone to understand as the Canary’s chirping. But the clerk, who was now a bird too, understood his companion perfectly.

“I flew about beneath the green palms and the blossoming almond-trees,” sang the Canary; “I flew around, with my brothers and sisters, over the beautiful flowers, and over the glassy lakes, where the bright water-plants nodded to me from below. There, too, I saw many splendidly-dressed paroquets, that told the drollest stories, and the wildest fairy tales without end.”

“I flew beneath the green palms and the blossoming almond trees,” sang the Canary. “I flew with my brothers and sisters over the beautiful flowers and clear lakes. Bright water plants nodded to me from below the surface. There, I also saw many splendidly dressed parakeets. They told the funniest stories and the wildest fairy tales without end.”

“Oh! those were uncouth birds,” answered the Parrot. “They had no education, and talked of whatever came into their head.

“Oh! Those birds were crude,” answered the Parrot. “They had no education and talked about whatever came into their heads.

“If my mistress and all her friends can laugh at what I say, so may you too, I should think. It is a great fault to have no taste for what is witty or amusing—come, let us be men.”

“If my mistress and all her friends can laugh at what I say, I think you can too. It’s a great fault not to appreciate anything witty or amusing. Come, let’s be men.”

“Ah, you have no remembrance of love for the charming maidens that danced beneath the outspread tents beside the bright fragrant flowers? Do you no longer remember the sweet fruits, and the cooling juice in the wild plants of our never-to-be-forgotten home?” said the former inhabitant of the Canary Isles, continuing his dithyrambic.

“Ah, do you no longer remember your love for the lovely young women who danced beneath the open tents beside the bright, fragrant flowers? Do you no longer remember the sweet fruits and the refreshing juice of the wild plants in our unforgettable home?” said the former inhabitant of the Canary Isles, continuing his rapturous speech.

“Oh, yes,” said the Parrot; “but I am far better off here. I am well fed, and get friendly treatment. I know I am a clever fellow; and that is all I care about. Come, let us be men. You are of a poetical nature, as it is called—I, on the contrary, possess profound knowledge and inexhaustible wit. You have genius; but clear-sighted, calm discretion does not take such lofty flights, and utter such high natural tones. For this they have covered you over—they never do the like to me; for I cost more. Besides, they are afraid of my beak; and I have always a witty answer at hand. Come, let us be men!”

“Oh, yes,” said the Parrot, “but I am much better off here. I am well fed and treated kindly. I know I am clever, and that is all I care about. Come, let us be men. You have what they call a poetic nature. I, on the other hand, have deep knowledge and endless wit. You have genius, but clear-headed, calm judgment does not soar so high or make such lofty, natural sounds. That is why they have covered you up. They never do that to me, because I cost more. Besides, they are afraid of my beak, and I always have a witty answer ready. Come, let us be men!”

“O warm spicy land of my birth,” sang the Canary bird; “I will sing of thy dark-green bowers, of the calm bays where the pendent boughs kiss the surface of the water; I will sing of the rejoicing of all my brothers and sisters where the cactus grows in wanton luxuriance.”

“O warm, spicy land where I was born,” sang the Canary bird, “I will sing of your dark green groves. I will sing of your calm bays, where hanging branches kiss the surface of the water. I will sing of all my brothers and sisters rejoicing where the cactus grows in wild abundance.”

“Spare us your elegiac tones,” said the Parrot giggling. “Rather speak of something at which one may laugh heartily. Laughing is an infallible sign of the highest degree of mental development. Can a dog, or a horse laugh? No, but they can cry. The gift of laughing was given to man alone. Ha! ha! ha!” screamed Polly, and added his stereotype witticism. “Come, let us be men!”

“Spare us your mournful tones,” said the Parrot, giggling. “Instead, talk about something we can laugh heartily at. Laughter is a sure sign of the highest level of mental development. Can a dog or a horse laugh? No, but they can cry. The gift of laughter was given to humans alone. Ha! ha! ha!” screamed Polly, and added his usual joke. “Come, let us be men!”

“Poor little Danish grey-bird,” said the Canary; “you have been caught too. It is, no doubt, cold enough in your woods, but there at least is the breath of liberty; therefore fly away. In the hurry they have forgotten to shut your cage, and the upper window is open. Fly, my friend; fly away. Farewell!”

“Poor little Danish grey-bird,” said the Canary, “you have been caught too. Your woods are surely cold enough, but at least you can breathe freely there. So fly away. In their hurry, they forgot to shut your cage, and the upper window is open. Fly, my friend, fly away. Goodbye!”

Instinctively the Clerk obeyed; with a few strokes of his wings he was out of the cage; but at the same moment the door, which was only ajar, and which led to the next room, began to creak, and supple and creeping came the large tomcat into the room, and began to pursue him. The frightened Canary fluttered about in his cage; the Parrot flapped his wings, and cried, “Come, let us be men!” The Clerk felt a mortal fright, and flew through the window, far away over the houses and streets. At last he was forced to rest a little.

The Clerk obeyed instinctively. With a few beats of his wings, he was out of the cage. But at that same moment, the partly open door to the next room began to creak. A large tomcat crept smoothly into the room and began to chase him. The frightened Canary fluttered about in his cage. The Parrot flapped his wings and cried, “Come, let us be men!” The Clerk was terrified and flew through the window, far away over the houses and streets. At last he had to rest a little.

The neighboring house had a something familiar about it; a window stood open; he flew in; it was his own room. He perched upon the table.

The neighboring house looked familiar. A window was open, so he flew in. It was his own room. He perched on the table.

“Come, let us be men!” said he, involuntarily imitating the chatter of the Parrot, and at the same moment he was again a copying-clerk; but he was sitting in the middle of the table.

“Come, let us be men!” he said, copying the Parrot’s chatter without meaning to. At that very moment, he became a copying clerk again, but he was sitting in the middle of the table.

“Heaven help me!” cried he. “How did I get up here—and so buried in sleep, too? After all, that was a very unpleasant, disagreeable dream that haunted me! The whole story is nothing but silly, stupid nonsense!”

“Heaven help me!” he cried. “How did I get up here, and sleep so deeply too? After all, that dream that haunted me was very unpleasant and disturbing! The whole story is nothing but silly, stupid nonsense!”

The following day, early in the morning, while the Clerk was still in bed, someone knocked at his door. It was his neighbor, a young Divine, who lived on the same floor. He walked in.

Early the next morning, while the Clerk was still in bed, someone knocked at his door. It was his neighbor, a young clergyman who lived on the same floor. He came in.

“Lend me your Galoshes,” said he; “it is so wet in the garden, though the sun is shining most invitingly. I should like to go out a little.”

“Lend me your galoshes,” he said. “The garden is so wet, though the sunshine looks very inviting. I’d like to go out for a little while.”

He got the Galoshes, and he was soon below in a little duodecimo garden, where between two immense walls a plumtree and an apple-tree were standing. Even such a little garden as this was considered in the metropolis of Copenhagen as a great luxury.

He got the Galoshes and was soon below in a tiny garden. A plum tree and an apple tree stood there between two immense walls. Even a garden this small was considered a great luxury in the city of Copenhagen.

The young man wandered up and down the narrow paths, as well as the prescribed limits would allow; the clock struck six; without was heard the horn of a post-boy.

The young man wandered up and down the narrow paths, as far as the set boundaries allowed. The clock struck six. Outside, a post-boy's horn sounded.

“To travel! to travel!” exclaimed he, overcome by most painful and passionate remembrances. “That is the happiest thing in the world! That is the highest aim of all my wishes! Then at last would the agonizing restlessness be allayed, which destroys my existence! But it must be far, far away! I would behold magnificent Switzerland; I would travel to Italy, and—”

“To travel! To travel!” he exclaimed, overwhelmed by painful, passionate memories. “Travel is the happiest thing in the world! It is what I wish for most of all! Then, at last, the agonizing restlessness that is destroying my life would be soothed! But I must travel far, far away! I would see magnificent Switzerland. I would travel to Italy, and...”

It was a good thing that the power of the Galoshes worked as instantaneously as lightning in a powder-magazine would do, otherwise the poor man with his overstrained wishes would have travelled about the world too much for himself as well as for us. In short, he was travelling. He was in the middle of Switzerland, but packed up with eight other passengers in the inside of an eternally-creaking diligence; his head ached till it almost split, his weary neck could hardly bear the heavy load, and his feet, pinched by his torturing boots, were terribly swollen. He was in an intermediate state between sleeping and waking; at variance with himself, with his company, with the country, and with the government. In his right pocket he had his letter of credit, in the left, his passport, and in a small leathern purse some double louis d'or, carefully sewn up in the bosom of his waistcoat. Every dream proclaimed that one or the other of these valuables was lost; wherefore he started up as in a fever; and the first movement which his hand made, described a magic triangle from the right pocket to the left, and then up towards the bosom, to feel if he had them all safe or not. From the roof inside the carriage, umbrellas, walking-sticks, hats, and sundry other articles were depending, and hindered the view, which was particularly imposing. He now endeavored as well as he was able to dispel his gloom, which was caused by outward chance circumstances merely, and on the bosom of nature imbibe the milk of purest human enjoyment.

It was a good thing that the Galoshes worked as instantly as lightning striking a gunpowder store. Otherwise, the poor man and his extravagant wishes would have taken him travelling too far for his own good and ours. In short, he was travelling. He was in the middle of Switzerland, packed inside a constantly creaking stagecoach with eight other passengers. His head ached as though it would split. His tired neck could hardly support his heavy head, and his feet were terribly swollen in his painfully tight boots. He was halfway between sleeping and waking, unhappy with himself, his fellow passengers, the country, and the government. In his right pocket he carried his letter of credit, and in his left pocket, his passport. Some double louis d'or coins were carefully sewn inside his waistcoat in a small leather purse. Every dream told him that one or another of these valuables was lost. So he would start awake as if feverish. His hand would trace a magic triangle from his right pocket to his left, then up to his chest. He was checking that they were all safe. Umbrellas, walking sticks, hats, and various other things hung from the carriage ceiling, blocking the view, which was especially impressive. His gloom was caused only by the circumstances around him. He now tried as best he could to shake it off and, in the bosom of nature, drink the milk of the purest human enjoyment.

Grand, solemn, and dark was the whole landscape around. The gigantic pine-forests, on the pointed crags, seemed almost like little tufts of heather, colored by the surrounding clouds. It began to snow, a cold wind blew and roared as though it were seeking a bride.

The whole landscape was grand, solemn, and dark. The enormous pine forests on the pointed cliffs looked almost like little tufts of heather, colored by the surrounding clouds. Snow began to fall, and a cold wind blew and roared as though it were looking for a bride.

“Augh!” sighed he, “were we only on the other side the Alps, then we should have summer, and I could get my letters of credit cashed. The anxiety I feel about them prevents me enjoying Switzerland. Were I but on the other side!”

“Ah!” he sighed. “If only we were on the other side of the Alps, it would be summer, and I could cash my letters of credit. Worrying about them keeps me from enjoying Switzerland. If only I were on the other side!”

And so saying he was on the other side in Italy, between Florence and Rome. Lake Thracymene, illumined by the evening sun, lay like flaming gold between the dark-blue mountain-ridges; here, where Hannibal defeated Flaminius, the rivers now held each other in their green embraces; lovely, half-naked children tended a herd of black swine, beneath a group of fragrant laurel-trees, hard by the road-side. Could we render this inimitable picture properly, then would everybody exclaim, “Beautiful, unparalleled Italy!” But neither the young Divine said so, nor anyone of his grumbling companions in the coach of the vetturino.

As he said this, he was on the other side, in Italy, between Florence and Rome. Lake Thracymene lay between the dark blue mountain ridges, glowing like flaming gold in the evening sun. Here, where Hannibal defeated Flaminius, the rivers now held each other in their green embrace. Lovely, half-naked children tended a herd of black pigs beneath fragrant laurel trees beside the road. If we could properly capture this matchless scene, everyone would exclaim, “Beautiful, unparalleled Italy!” But neither the young theologian nor any of his grumbling companions in the vetturino’s carriage said so.

The poisonous flies and gnats swarmed around by thousands; in vain one waved myrtle-branches about like mad; the audacious insect population did not cease to sting; nor was there a single person in the well-crammed carriage whose face was not swollen and sore from their ravenous bites. The poor horses, tortured almost to death, suffered most from this truly Egyptian plague; the flies alighted upon them in large disgusting swarms; and if the coachman got down and scraped them off, hardly a minute elapsed before they were there again. The sun now set: a freezing cold, though of short duration pervaded the whole creation; it was like a horrid gust coming from a burial-vault on a warm summer's day—but all around the mountains retained that wonderful green tone which we see in some old pictures, and which, should we not have seen a similar play of color in the South, we declare at once to be unnatural. It was a glorious prospect; but the stomach was empty, the body tired; all that the heart cared and longed for was good night-quarters; yet how would they be? For these one looked much more anxiously than for the charms of nature, which every where were so profusely displayed.

Poisonous flies and gnats swarmed around by the thousands. People waved myrtle branches wildly, but it was no use. The bold insects kept stinging, and everyone in the crowded carriage had a swollen, sore face from their ravenous bites. The poor horses suffered most from this truly Egyptian plague, tormented almost to death. The flies settled on them in large, disgusting swarms. If the coachman got down and scraped the flies off, they returned in less than a minute. The sun now set, and a brief, freezing cold spread through the whole world. It was like a horrible gust from a burial vault on a warm summer day. But all around, the mountains kept that wonderful green shade we see in some old paintings. Unless we have seen a similar play of colors in the South, we immediately declare that shade unnatural. It was a glorious view, but our stomachs were empty and our bodies tired. All we cared about and longed for was a good place to spend the night. But what would our lodgings be like? We looked for them far more anxiously than we looked at the beauty of nature, so lavishly displayed everywhere.

The road led through an olive-grove, and here the solitary inn was situated. Ten or twelve crippled-beggars had encamped outside. The healthiest of them resembled, to use an expression of Marryat's, “Hunger's eldest son when he had come of age”; the others were either blind, had withered legs and crept about on their hands, or withered arms and fingerless hands. It was the most wretched misery, dragged from among the filthiest rags. “Excellenza, miserabili!” sighed they, thrusting forth their deformed limbs to view. Even the hostess, with bare feet, uncombed hair, and dressed in a garment of doubtful color, received the guests grumblingly. The doors were fastened with a loop of string; the floor of the rooms presented a stone paving half torn up; bats fluttered wildly about the ceiling; and as to the smell therein—no—that was beyond description.

The road led through an olive grove, where a solitary inn stood. Ten or twelve beggars with disabilities had camped outside. The healthiest looked like, to use Marryat's expression, “Hunger's eldest son when he had come of age.” The others were blind, or had withered legs and crawled on their hands, or had withered arms and hands without fingers. Their misery was terrible, exposed from beneath the filthiest rags. “Excellenza, miserabili!” they sighed, holding out their deformed limbs. The hostess greeted the guests grumpily. She was barefoot, her hair was uncombed, and her clothing was of uncertain color. The doors were fastened with loops of string. The stone floors in the rooms were half torn up. Bats fluttered wildly around the ceiling. And the smell inside, well, that was beyond description.

“You had better lay the cloth below in the stable,” said one of the travellers; “there, at all events, one knows what one is breathing.”

“You had better set the table downstairs in the stable,” said one of the travelers. “At least there, you know what you’re breathing.”

The windows were quickly opened, to let in a little fresh air. Quicker, however, than the breeze, the withered, sallow arms of the beggars were thrust in, accompanied by the eternal whine of “Miserabili, miserabili, excellenza!” On the walls were displayed innumerable inscriptions, written in nearly every language of Europe, some in verse, some in prose, most of them not very laudatory of “bella Italia.”

The windows were quickly opened to let in some fresh air. But the beggars thrust their thin, yellowish arms through the windows faster than the breeze. They whined, as always, “Miserabili, miserabili, excellenza!” The walls were covered with countless inscriptions in nearly every European language. Some were in verse, some in prose, and most had little praise for “bella Italia.”

The meal was served. It consisted of a soup of salted water, seasoned with pepper and rancid oil. The last ingredient played a very prominent part in the salad; stale eggs and roasted cocks'-combs furnished the grand dish of the repast; the wine even was not without a disgusting taste—it was like a medicinal draught.

The meal was served. It began with a soup of salt water, seasoned with pepper and rancid oil. The salad had a great deal of rancid oil in it. The main dish consisted of stale eggs and roasted roosters' combs. Even the wine tasted disgusting, like a medicinal drink.

At night the boxes and other effects of the passengers were placed against the rickety doors. One of the travellers kept watch while the others slept. The sentry was our young Divine. How close it was in the chamber! The heat oppressive to suffocation—the gnats hummed and stung unceasingly—the “miserabili” without whined and moaned in their sleep.

At night, the passengers’ boxes and other belongings were placed against the rickety doors. One traveler kept watch while the others slept. Our young clergyman was on watch. How stuffy the room was! The heat was almost suffocating. Gnats hummed and stung without stopping. Outside, the “miserabili” whined and moaned in their sleep.

“Travelling would be agreeable enough,” said he groaning, “if one only had no body, or could send it to rest while the spirit went on its pilgrimage unhindered, whither the voice within might call it. Wherever I go, I am pursued by a longing that is insatiable—that I cannot explain to myself, and that tears my very heart. I want something better than what is but what is fled in an instant. But what is it, and where is it to be found? Yet, I know in reality what it is I wish for. Oh! most happy were I, could I but reach one aim—could but reach the happiest of all!”

“Traveling would be pleasant enough,” he said with a groan, “if only I had no body. Or if I could send my body to rest while my spirit traveled unhindered, wherever the voice within called it. Wherever I go, I am pursued by a longing that can never be satisfied. I cannot explain the longing to myself, and it tears at my heart. I want something better than what exists but vanishes in an instant. But what is it, and where can it be found? Yet I do know what I really want. Oh, how happy I would be if I could reach just one goal, the happiest of all!”

And as he spoke the word he was again in his home; the long white curtains hung down from the windows, and in the middle of the floor stood the black coffin; in it he lay in the sleep of death. His wish was fulfilled—the body rested, while the spirit went unhindered on its pilgrimage. “Let no one deem himself happy before his end,” were the words of Solon; and here was a new and brilliant proof of the wisdom of the old apothegm.

As he spoke the word, he was back in his home. Long white curtains hung from the windows, and a black coffin stood in the middle of the floor. He lay in the coffin, in the sleep of death. His wish had come true. His body rested, while his spirit continued its journey without hindrance. “Let no one consider himself happy before his life has ended,” said Solon. Here was a new and brilliant proof of the wisdom of that old saying.

Every corpse is a sphynx of immortality; here too on the black coffin the sphynx gave us no answer to what he who lay within had written two days before:

Every corpse is a sphinx of immortality. Here too, the sphinx on the black coffin gave us no answer to what the man inside had written two days before:

Two figures were moving in the chamber. We knew them both; it was the fairy of Care, and the emissary of Fortune. They both bent over the corpse.

Two figures were moving around the room. We knew them both. They were the fairy of Care and Fortune's messenger. Both bent over the body.

“Do you now see,” said Care, “what happiness your Galoshes have brought to mankind?”

“Do you see now,” said Care, “how much happiness your Galoshes have brought to humankind?”

“To him, at least, who slumbers here, they have brought an imperishable blessing,” answered the other.

“At least they have brought a lasting blessing to the one who sleeps here,” the other replied.

“Ah no!” replied Care. “He took his departure himself; he was not called away. His mental powers here below were not strong enough to reach the treasures lying beyond this life, and which his destiny ordained he should obtain. I will now confer a benefit on him.”

“Oh no!” replied Care. “He left on his own. He was not called away. His mind was not strong enough in this life to reach the treasures beyond it. Yet he was destined to obtain those treasures. I will now do him a kindness.”

And she took the Galoshes from his feet; his sleep of death was ended; and he who had been thus called back again to life arose from his dread couch in all the vigor of youth. Care vanished, and with her the Galoshes. She has no doubt taken them for herself, to keep them to all eternity.

And she took the Galoshes off his feet. His deathlike sleep ended, and the man who had been called back to life rose from his dreadful bed, full of the vigor of youth. Care vanished, and the Galoshes vanished with her. No doubt she took them for herself, to keep for all eternity.