The Shoes Of Fortune

by Hans Christian Andersen

I. A Beginning Every author has some peculiarity in his descriptions or in his style ofwriting. Those who do not like him, magnify it, shrug up their shoulders, andexclaim--there he is again! I, for my part, know very well how I can bringabout this movement and this exclamation. It would happen immediately if Iwere to begin here, as I intended to do, with: "Rome has its Corso, Naples itsToledo"--"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 itsEast Street." Here, then, we will stay for the present. In one of the houses not far fromthe new market a party was invited--a very large party, in order, as is oftenthe case, to get a return invitation from the others. One half of the companywas already seated at the card-table, the other half awaited the result of thestereotype preliminary observation of the lady of the house: "Now let us see what we can do to amuse ourselves." They had got just so far, and the conversation began to crystallise, as itcould but do with the scanty stream which the commonplace world supplied.Amongst other things they spoke of the middle ages: some praised that periodas far more interesting, far more poetical than our own too sober present;indeed Councillor Knap defended this opinion so warmly, that the hostessdeclared immediately on his side, and both exerted themselves with unweariedeloquence. The Councillor boldly declared the time of King Hans to be thenoblest and the most happy period.* * A.D. 1482-1513 While the conversation turned on this subject, and was only for a momentinterrupted 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, ayoung and an old one. One might have thought at first they were servants cometo accompany their mistresses home; but on looking nearer, one soon saw theycould scarcely be mere servants; their forms were too noble for that, theirskin too fine, the cut of their dress too striking. Two fairies were they; theyounger, it is true, was not Dame Fortune herself, but one of thewaiting-maids of her handmaidens who carry about the lesser good things thatshe distributes; the other looked extremely gloomy--it was Care. She alwaysattends to her own serious business herself, as then she is sure of having itdone properly. They were telling each other, with a confidential interchange of ideas, wherethey had been during the day. The messenger of Fortune had only executed a fewunimportant commissions, such as saving a new bonnet from a shower of rain,etc.; but what she had yet to perform was something 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 tocarry to mankind. These shoes possess the property of instantly transportinghim 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 immediatelyfulfilled, and so at last man will be happy, here below." "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 hefeels that he has freed himself from the fatal 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 ahappy man." Such was their conversation. II. What Happened to the Councillor 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 ofFortune. Thus caparisoned the good man walked out of the well-lighted roomsinto East Street. By the magic power of the shoes he was carried back to thetimes of King Hans; on which account his foot very naturally sank in the mudand puddles of the street, there having been in those days no pavement inCopenhagen. "Well! This is too bad! How dirty it is here!" sighed the Councillor. "As to apavement, I can find no traces of one, and all the lamps, it seems, have goneto sleep." The moon was not yet very high; it was besides rather foggy, so that in thedarkness all objects seemed mingled in chaotic confusion. At the next cornerhung a votive lamp before a Madonna, but the light it gave was little betterthan none at all; indeed, he did not observe it before he was exactly underit, and his eyes fell upon the bright colors of the pictures which representedthe well-known group of the Virgin and the infant Jesus. "That is probably a wax-work show," thought he; "and the people delay takingdown their sign in hopes of a late visitor or two." A few persons in the costume of the time of King Hans passed quickly by him. "How strange they look! The good folks come probably from a masquerade!" Suddenly was heard the sound of drums and fifes; the bright blaze of a fireshot up from time to time, and its ruddy gleams seemed to contend with thebluish light of the torches. The Councillor stood still, and watched a moststrange procession pass by. First came a dozen drummers, who understood prettywell how to handle their instruments; then came halberdiers, and some armedwith cross-bows. The principal person in the procession was a priest.Astonished at what he saw, the Councillor asked what was the meaning ofall this mummery, and who that man was. "That's the Bishop of Zealand," was the answer. "Good Heavens! What has taken possession of the Bishop?" sighed theCouncillor, shaking his head. It certainly could not be the Bishop; eventhough he was considered the most absent man in the whole kingdom, and peopletold the drollest anecdotes about him. Reflecting on the matter, and withoutlooking right or left, the Councillor went through East Street and across theHabro-Platz. The bridge leading to Palace Square was not to be found; scarcelytrusting his senses, the nocturnal wanderer discovered a shallow piece ofwater, and here fell in with two men who very comfortably were rocking to andfro in a boat. "Does your honor want to cross the ferry to the Holme?" asked they. "Across to the Holme!" said the Councillor, who knew nothing of the age inwhich he at that moment was. "No, I am going to Christianshafen, to LittleMarket Street." Both men stared at him in astonishment. "Only just tell me where the bridge is," said he. "It is really unpardonablethat there are no lamps here; and it is as dirty as if one had to wade througha morass." The longer he spoke with the boatmen, the more unintelligible did theirlanguage become to him. "I don't understand your Bornholmish dialect," said he at last, angrily, andturning his back upon them. He was unable to find the bridge: there was norailway 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 alwaysgrumbling, seemed so miserable as on this evening. "I'll take ahackney-coach!" thought he. But where were the hackney-coaches? Not onewas to be seen. "I must go back to the New Market; there, it is to be hoped, I shall find somecoaches; for if I don't, I shall never get safe to Christianshafen." So off he went in the direction of East Street, and had nearly got to the endof it when the moon shone forth. "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, wasat the end of East Street. He found, however, a little side-door open, and through this he went, andstepped 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 abroad canal or river. Some wretched hovels for the Dutch sailors, resemblinggreat boxes, and after which the place was named, lay about in confuseddisorder on the opposite bank. "I either behold a fata morgana, or I am regularly tipsy," whimpered out theCouncillor. "But what's this?" He turned round anew, firmly convinced that he was seriously ill. He gazed atthe 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, slightlyput together; and many had a thatched roof. "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 andhot salmon for supper. I shall speak about it at the first opportunity. I havehalf a mind to go back again, and say what I suffer. But no, that would be toosilly; and Heaven only knows if they are up still." He looked for the house, but it had vanished. "It is really dreadful," groaned he with increasing anxiety; "I cannotrecognise East Street again; there is not a single decent shop from one end tothe other! Nothing but wretched huts can I see anywhere; just as if I were atRingstead. Oh! I am ill! I can scarcely bear myself any longer. Where thedeuce can the house be? It must be here on this very spot; yet there is notthe slightest idea of resemblance, to such a degree has everything changedthis night! At all events here are some people up and stirring. Oh! oh! I amcertainly very ill." He now hit upon a half-open door, through a chink of which a faint lightshone. It was a sort of hostelry of those times; a kind of public-house. Theroom had some resemblance to the clay-floored halls in Holstein; a prettynumerous company, consisting of seamen, Copenhagen burghers, and a fewscholars, sat here in deep converse over their pewter cans, and gave littleheed to the person who entered. "By your leave!" said the Councillor to the Hostess, who came bustling towardshim. "I've felt so queer all of a sudden; would you have the goodness to sendfor a hackney-coach to take me to Christianshafen?" The woman examined him with eyes of astonishment, and shook her head; she thenaddressed him in German. The Councillor thought she did not understand Danish,and therefore repeated his wish in German. This, in connection with hiscostume, 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 ofwater, which tasted certainly pretty strong of the sea, although it had beenfetched from the well. The Councillor supported his head on his hand, drew a long breath, and thoughtover all the wondrous things he saw around him. "Is this the Daily News of this evening?" he asked mechanically, as he saw theHostess 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 tobe read below in bright letters. "That is very old!" said the Councillor, whom this piece of antiquity began tomake considerably more cheerful. "Pray how did you come into possession ofthis rare print? It is extremely interesting, although the whole is a merefable. Such meteorous appearances are to be explained in this way--that theyare the reflections of the Aurora Borealis, and it is highly probable they arecaused principally by electricity." Those persons who were sitting nearest him and heard his speech, stared at himin wonderment; and one of them rose, took off his hat respectfully, and saidwith a serious countenance, "You are no doubt a very learned man, Monsieur." "Oh no," answered the Councillor, "I can only join in conversation on thistopic and on that, as indeed one must do according to the demands of the worldat present." "Modestia is a fine virtue," continued the gentleman; "however, as to yourspeech, I must say mihi secus videtur: yet I am willing to suspend myjudicium." "May I ask with whom I have the pleasure of speaking?" asked the Councillor. "I am a Bachelor in Theologia," answered the gentleman with a stiff reverence. This reply fully satisfied the Councillor; the title suited the dress. "He iscertainly," thought he, "some village schoolmaster--some queer old fellow,such as one still often meets with in Jutland." "This is no locus docendi, it is true," began the clerical gentleman; "yet Ibeg you earnestly to let us profit by your learning. Your reading in theancients is, sine dubio, of vast extent?" "Oh yes, I've read something, to be sure," replied the Councillor. "I likereading all useful works; but I do not on that account despise the modernones; 'tis only the unfortunate 'Tales of Every-day Life' that I cannotbear--we have enough and more than enough such in reality." "'Tales of Every-day Life?'" said our Bachelor inquiringly. "I mean those new fangled novels, twisting and writhing themselves in the dustof commonplace, which also expect to find a reading public." "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 andSir Gaudian particularly, which treats of King Arthur, and his Knights of theRound Table; he has more than once joked about it with his high vassals." "I have not read that novel," said the Councillor; "it must be quite a newone, that Heiberg has published lately." "No," answered the theologian of the time of King Hans: "that book is notwritten by a Heiberg, but was imprinted 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 inDenmark." "Yes, he is our first printer," replied the clerical gentleman hastily. So far all went on well. Some one of the worthy burghers now spoke of thedreadful pestilence that had raged in the country a few years back, meaningthat of 1484. The Councillor imagined it was the cholera that was meant, whichpeople made so much fuss about; and the discourse passed off satisfactorilyenough. The war of the buccaneers of 1490 was so recent that it could not failbeing alluded to; the English pirates had, they said, most shamefully takentheir ships while in the roadstead; and the Councillor, before whose eyes theHerostratic* event of 1801 still floated vividly, agreed entirely with theothers in abusing the rascally English. With other topics he was not sofortunate; every moment brought about some new confusion, and threatened tobecome a perfect Babel; for the worthy Bachelor was really too ignorant, andthe simplest observations of the Councillor sounded to him too daring andphantastical. They looked at one another from the crown of the head to thesoles of the feet; and when matters grew to too high a pitch, then theBachelor talked Latin, in the hope of being better understood--but it was ofno use after all. * Herostratus, or Eratostratus--an Ephesian, who wantonly set fire to thefamous temple of Diana, in order to commemorate his name by so uncommon anaction. "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 hehad entirely forgotten all that had preceded 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 hestruggled with the utmost power of desperation, encompassed him with renewedforce. "Let us drink claret and mead, and Bremen beer," shouted one of theguests--"and you shall drink with us!" Two maidens approached. One wore a cap of two staring colors, denoting theclass of persons to which she belonged. They poured out the liquor, and madethe most friendly gesticulations; while a cold perspiration trickled down theback of the poor Councillor. "What's to be the end of this! What's to become of me!" groaned he; but he wasforced, in spite of his opposition, to drink with the rest. They took hold ofthe worthy man; who, hearing on every side that he was intoxicated, did not inthe least doubt the truth of this certainly not very polite assertion; but onthe contrary, implored the ladies and gentlemen present to procure him ahackney-coach: they, however, imagined he was talking 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 mostdreadful moment of my life: the whole world is leagued against me!" Butsuddenly it occurred to him that he might stoop down under the table, and thencreep unobserved out of the door. He did so; but just as he was going, theothers 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 anend. The Councillor saw quite distinctly before him a lantern burning, and behindthis a large handsome house. All seemed to him in proper order as usual; itwas East Street, splendid and elegant as we now see it. He lay with his feettowards a doorway, and exactly opposite sat the watchman asleep. "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 terriblewhat an effect that one glass of punch must have had on me!" Two minutes later, he was sitting in a hackney-coach and driving toFrederickshafen. He thought of the distress and agony he had endured, andpraised from the very bottom of his heart the happy reality--our owntime--which, with all its deficiencies, is yet much better than that in which,so much against his inclination, he had lately been. III. The Watchman's Adventure "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 wholives over the way. They lie close to the door." The worthy man was inclined to ring and deliver them at the house, for therewas still a light in the window; but he did not like disturbing the otherpeople in their beds, and so very considerately he left the matter alone. "Such a pair of shoes must be very warm and comfortable," said he; "theleather is so soft and supple." They fitted his feet as though they had beenmade 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, whereno doubt he could stretch himself at his ease; but does he do it? No; hesaunters up and down his room, because, probably, he has enjoyed too many ofthe good things of this world at his dinner. That's a happy fellow! He hasneither an infirm mother, nor a whole troop of everlastingly hungry childrento torment him. Every evening he goes to a party, where his nice supper costshim nothing: would to Heaven I could but change with him! How happy should Ibe!" While expressing his wish, the charm of the shoes, which he had put on, beganto work; the watchman entered into the being and nature of the lieutenant. Hestood in the handsomely furnished apartment, and held between his fingers asmall sheet of rose-colored paper, on which some verses were written--writtenindeed 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 isproduced. But here was written: OH, WERE I RICH! "Oh, were I rich! Such was my wish, yea suchWhen hardly three feet high, I longed for much.Oh, were I rich! an officer were I,With sword, and uniform, and plume so high.And the time came, and officer was I!But yet I grew not rich. Alas, poor me!Have pity, Thou, who all man's wants dost see. "I sat one evening sunk in dreams of bliss,A maid of seven years old gave me a kiss,I at that time was rich in poesyAnd tales of old, though poor as poor could be;But all she asked for was this poesy.Then was I rich, but not in gold, poor me!As Thou dost know, who all men's hearts canst see. "Oh, were I rich! Oft asked I for this boon.The child grew up to womanhood full soon.She is so pretty, clever, and so kindOh, did she know what's hidden in my mind--A tale of old. Would she to me were kind!But I'm condemned to silence! oh, poor me!As Thou dost know, who all men's hearts canst see. "Oh, were I rich in calm and peace of mind,My grief you then would not here written find!O thou, to whom I do my heart devote,Oh read this page of glad days now remote,A dark, dark tale, which I tonight devote!Dark is the future now. Alas, poor me!Have pity Thou, who all men's pains dost see." Such verses as these people write when they are in love! But no man in hissenses ever thinks of printing them. Here one of the sorrows of life, in whichthere is real poetry, gave itself vent; not that barren grief which the poetmay only hint at, but never depict in its detail--misery and want: that animalnecessity, in short, to snatch at least at a fallen leaf of the bread-fruittree, if not at the fruit itself. The higher the position in which one findsoneself transplanted, the greater is the suffering. Everyday necessity is thestagnant 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 thehalf of the shattered die of Fortune. This the lieutenant felt mostpoignantly, and this was the reason he leant his head against the window, andsighed so deeply. "The poor watchman out there in the street is far happier than I. He knows notwhat I term privation. He has a home, a wife, and children, who weep with himover his sorrows, who rejoice with him when he is glad. Oh, far happier wereI, could I exchange with him my being--with his desires and with his hopesperform the weary pilgrimage of life! Oh, he is a hundred times happier thanI!" In the same moment the watchman was again watchman. It was the shoes thatcaused the metamorphosis by means of which, unknown to himself, he took uponhim the thoughts and feelings of the officer; but, as we have just seen, hefelt himself in his new situation much less contented, and now preferred thevery thing which but some minutes before he had rejected. So then the watchmanwas again watchman. "That was an unpleasant dream," said he; "but 'twas droll enough altogether. Ifancied that I was the lieutenant over there: and yet the thing was not verymuch to my taste after all. I missed my good old mother and the dear littleones; who almost tear me to pieces for sheer love." He seated himself once more and nodded: the dream continued to haunt him, forhe still had the shoes on his feet. A falling star shone in the darkfirmament. "There falls another star," said he: "but what does it matter; there arealways enough left. I should not much mind examining the little glimmeringthings somewhat nearer, especially the moon; for that would not slip so easilythrough a man's fingers. When we die--so at least says the student, for whommy wife does the washing--we shall fly about as light as a feather from onesuch a star to the other. That's, of course, not true: but 'twould be prettyenough if it were so. If I could but once take a leap up there, my body mightstay here on the steps for what I care." Behold--there are certain things in the world to which one ought never to giveutterance except with the greatest caution; but doubly careful must one bewhen we have the Shoes of Fortune on our feet. Now just listen to whathappened to the watchman. As to ourselves, we all know the speed produced by the employment of steam; wehave 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 thevelocity with which light moves. It flies nineteen million times faster thanthe best race-horse; and yet electricity is quicker still. Death is anelectric shock which our heart receives; the freed soul soars upwards on thewings of electricity. The sun's light wants eight minutes and some seconds toperform a journey of more than twenty million of our Danish* miles; borne byelectricity, the soul wants even some minutes less to accomplish the sameflight. To it the space between the heavenly bodies is not greater than thedistance between the homes of our friends in town is for us, even if they livea 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 EastStreet, we happen to have on the Shoes of Fortune. * A Danish mile is nearly 4 3/4 English. In a few seconds the watchman had done the fifty-two thousand of our miles upto the moon, which, as everyone knows, was formed out of matter much lighterthan our earth; and is, so we should say, as soft as newly-fallen snow. Hefound himself on one of the many circumjacent mountain-ridges with which weare acquainted by means of Dr. Madler's "Map of the Moon." Within, down itsunk perpendicularly into a caldron, about a Danish mile in depth; while belowlay a town, whose appearance we can, in some measure, realize to ourselves bybeating the white of an egg in a glass of water. The matter of which it wasbuilt 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 wasrolling like a large fiery ball. 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 thanthat of the pseudo-Herschel* had created them; and if they had been placed inrank and file, and copied by some skilful painter's hand, one would, withoutdoubt, have exclaimed involuntarily, "What a beautiful arabesque!" *This relates to a book published some years ago in Germany, and said to be byHerschel, which contained a description of the moon and its inhabitants,written with such a semblance of truth that many were deceived by theimposture. Probably a translation of the celebrated Moon hoax, written by Richard A.Locke, and originally published in New York. They had a language too; but surely nobody can expect that the soul of thewatchman should understand it. Be that as it may, it did comprehend it; for inour souls there germinate far greater powers than we poor mortals, despite allour cleverness, have any notion of. Does she not show us--she the queen in theland of enchantment--her astounding dramatic talent in all our dreams? Thereevery acquaintance appears and speaks upon the stage, so entirely incharacter, and with the same tone of voice, that none of us, when awake, wereable to imitate it. How well can she recall persons to our mind, of whom wehave not thought for years; when suddenly they step forth "every inch a man,"resembling the real personages, even to the finest features, and become theheroes or heroines of our world of dreams. In reality, such remembrances arerather unpleasant: every sin, every evil thought, may, like a clock with alarmor chimes, be repeated at pleasure; then the question is if we can trustourselves to give an account of every unbecoming word in our heart and on ourlips. The watchman's spirit understood the language of the inhabitants of the moonpretty well. The Selenites* disputed variously about our earth, and expressedtheir doubts if it could be inhabited: the air, they said, must certainly betoo dense to allow any rational dweller in the moon the necessary freerespiration. They considered the moon alone to be inhabited: they imagined itwas the real heart of the universe or planetary system, on which the genuineCosmopolites, or citizens of the world, dwelt. What strange things men--no,what strange things Selenites sometimes take into their heads! * Dwellers in the moon. About politics they had a good deal to say. But little Denmark must take carewhat it is about, and not run counter to the moon; that great realm, thatmight 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. We will, therefore, not listen to what was spoken, and on no condition run inthe possibility of telling tales out of school; but we will rather proceed,like good quiet citizens, to East Street, and observe what happened meanwhileto the body of the watchman. He sat lifeless on the steps: the morning-star,* that is to say, the heavywooden staff, headed with iron spikes, and which had nothing else in commonwith its sparkling brother in the sky, had glided from his hand; while hiseyes were fixed with glassy stare on the moon, looking for the good old fellowof a spirit which still haunted it. *The watchmen in Germany, had formerly, and in some places they still carrywith them, on their rounds at night, a sort of mace or club, known in ancienttimes by the above denomination. "What's the hour, watchman?" asked a passer-by. But when the watchman gave noreply, the merry roysterer, who was now returning home from a noisy drinkingbout, took it into his head to try what a tweak of the nose would do, on whichthe supposed sleeper lost his balance, the body lay motionless, stretched outon 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 dreadfulfright, for dead he was, and he remained so. The proper authorities wereinformed of the circumstance, people talked a good deal about it, and in themorning the body was carried to the hospital. Now that would be a very pretty joke, if the spirit when it came back andlooked 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 tothe hospital; yet we may boldly assert that the soul is shrewdest when itshakes off every fetter, and every sort of leading-string--the body only makesit stupid. The seemingly dead body of the watchman wandered, as we have said, to thehospital, where it was brought into the general viewing-room: and the firstthing that was done here was naturally to pull off the galoshes--when thespirit, that was merely gone out on adventures, must have returned with thequickness of lightning to its earthly tenement. It took its direction towardsthe body in a straight line; and a few seconds after, life began to showitself in the man. He asserted that the preceding night had been the worstthat ever the malice of fate had allotted him; he would not for two silvermarks again go through what he had endured while moon-stricken; but now,however, it was over. The same day he was discharged from the hospital as perfectly cured; but theShoes meanwhile remained behind. IV. A Moment of Head Importance--An Evening's "Dramatic Readings"--A MostStrange Journey Every inhabitant of Copenhagen knows, from personal inspection, how theentrance to Frederick's Hospital looks; but as it is possible that others, whoare not Copenhagen people, may also read this little work, we will beforehandgive a short description of it. 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 issaid, some very thin fellow had of a night occasionally squeezed himselfthrough to go and pay his little visits in the town. The part of the body mostdifficult to manage on such occasions was, no doubt, the head; here, as is sooften the case in the world, long-headed people get through best. So much,then, for the introduction. One of the young men, whose head, in a physical sense only, might be said tobe of the thickest, had the watch that evening. The rain poured down intorrents; yet despite these two obstacles, the young man was obliged to goout, if it were but for a quarter of an hour; and as to telling thedoor-keeper about it, that, he thought, was quite unnecessary, if, with awhole skin, he were able to slip through the railings. There, on the floor laythe galoshes, which the watchman had forgotten; he never dreamed for a momentthat they were those of Fortune; and they promised to do him good service inthe wet; so he put them on. The question now was, if he could squeeze himselfthrough the grating, for he had never tried before. Well, there he stood. "Would to Heaven I had got my head through!" said he, involuntarily; andinstantly through it slipped, easily and without pain, notwithstanding it waspretty large and thick. But now the rest of the body was to be got through! "Ah! I am much too stout," groaned he aloud, while fixed as in a vice. "I hadthought the head was the most difficult part of the matter--oh! oh! I reallycannot squeeze myself through!" He now wanted to pull his over-hasty head back again, but he could not. Forhis neck there was room enough, but for nothing more. His first feeling was ofanger; his next that his temper fell to zero. The Shoes of Fortune had placedhim in the most dreadful situation; and, unfortunately, it never occurred tohim to wish himself free. The pitch-black clouds poured down their contents instill heavier torrents; not a creature was to be seen in the streets. To reachup to the bell was what he did not like; to cry aloud for help would haveavailed him little; besides, how ashamed would he have been to be found caughtin a trap, like an outwitted fox! How was he to twist himself through! He sawclearly 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 fileaway the bars; but all that would not be done so quickly as he could thinkabout it. The whole Charity School, just opposite, would be in motion; all thenew booths, with their not very courtier-like swarm of seamen, would join themout of curiosity, and would greet him with a wild "hurrah!" while he wasstanding in his pillory: there would be a mob, a hissing, and rejoicing, andjeering, 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 gowild! I know not what to do. Oh! were I but loose; my dizziness would thencease; oh, were my head but loose!" You see he ought to have said that sooner; for the moment he expressed thewish his head was free; and cured of all his paroxysms of love, he hastenedoff to his room, where the pains consequent on the fright the Shoes hadprepared for him, did not so soon take their leave. But you must not think that the affair is over now; it grows much worse. The night passed, the next day also; but nobody came to fetch the Shoes. In the evening "Dramatic Readings" were to be given at the little theatre inKing Street. The house was filled to suffocation; and among other pieces to berecited was a new poem by H. C. Andersen, called, My Aunt's Spectacles; thecontents of which were pretty nearly as follows: "A certain person had an aunt, who boasted of particular skill infortune-telling with cards, and who was constantly being stormed by personsthat wanted to have a peep into futurity. But she was full of mystery abouther art, in which a certain pair of magic spectacles did her essentialservice. Her nephew, a merry boy, who was his aunt's darling, begged so longfor these spectacles, that, at last, she lent him the treasure, after havinginformed him, with many exhortations, that in order to execute the interestingtrick, he need only repair to some place where a great many persons wereassembled; and then, from a higher position, whence he could overlook thecrowd, 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 ofevery person presented was to be. Well pleased the little magician hastenedaway to prove the powers of the spectacles in the theatre; no place seeming tohim more fitted for such a trial. He begged permission of the worthy audience,and set his spectacles on his nose. A motley phantasmagoria presents itselfbefore him, which he describes in a few satirical touches, yet withoutexpressing his opinion openly: he tells the people enough to set them allthinking and guessing; but in order to hurt nobody, he wraps his wittyoracular judgments in a transparent veil, or rather in a lurid thundercloud,shooting forth bright sparks of wit, that they may fall in the powder-magazineof the expectant audience." The humorous poem was admirably recited, and the speaker much applauded. Amongthe audience was the young man of the hospital, who seemed to have forgottenhis adventure of the preceding night. He had on the Shoes; for as yet nolawful owner had appeared to claim them; and besides it was so very dirtyout-of-doors, they were just the thing for him, he thought. The beginning of the poem he praised with great generosity: he even found theidea original and effective. But that the end of it, like the Rhine, was veryinsignificant, proved, in his opinion, the author's want of invention; he waswithout genius, etc. This was an excellent opportunity to have said somethingclever. Meanwhile he was haunted by the idea--he should like to possess such a pair ofspectacles himself; then, perhaps, by using them circumspectly, one would beable to look into people's hearts, which, he thought, would be far moreinteresting than merely to see what was to happen next year; for that weshould all know in proper time, but the other never. "I can now," said he to himself, "fancy the whole row of ladies and gentlemensitting 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 strangelydressed, I should find for certain a large milliner's shop; in that one theshop is empty, but it wants cleaning plain enough. But there would also besome good stately shops among them. Alas!" sighed he, "I know one in which allis stately; but there sits already a spruce young shopman, which is the onlything that's amiss in the whole shop. All would be splendidly decked out, andwe should hear, 'Walk in, gentlemen, pray walk in; here you will find all youplease to want.' Ah! I wish to Heaven I could walk in and take a trip rightthrough the hearts of those present!" And behold! to the Shoes of Fortune this was the cue; the whole man shrunktogether and a most uncommon journey through the hearts of the front row ofspectators, now began. The first heart through which he came, was that of amiddle-aged lady, but he instantly fancied himself in the room of the"Institution for the cure of the crooked and deformed," where casts ofmis-shapen limbs are displayed in naked reality on the wall. Yet there wasthis difference, in the institution the casts were taken at the entry of thepatient; but here they were retained and guarded in the heart while the soundpersons went away. They were, namely, casts of female friends, whose bodily ormental deformities were here most faithfully preserved. 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 innocencefluttered over the altar. How gladly would he have sunk upon his knees; but hemust away to the next heart; yet he still heard the pealing tones of theorgan, and he himself seemed to have become a newer and a better man; he feltunworthy to tread the neighboring sanctuary which a poor garret, with a sickbed-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-bluebirds sang rejoicingly, while the sick mother implored God's richest blessingson her pious daughter. * temple He now crept on hands and feet through a butcher's shop; at least on everyside, and above and below, there was nought but flesh. It was the heart of amost respectable rich man, whose name is certain 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 aweather-cock, which was connected in some way or other with the doors, and sothey opened and shut of their own accord, whenever the stern old husbandturned round. Hereupon he wandered into a boudoir formed entirely of mirrors, like the onein 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, theinsignificant "Self" of the person, quite confounded at his own greatness. Hethen imagined he had got into a needle-case full of pointed needles of everysize. "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 andfeeling. In the greatest perplexity, he now came out of the last heart in the row; hewas unable to put his thoughts in order, and fancied that his too livelyimagination had run away with him. "Good Heavens!" sighed he. "I have surely a disposition to madness--'tisdreadfully hot here; my blood boils in my veins and my head is burning like acoal." And he now remembered the important event of the evening before, howhis head had got jammed in between the iron railings of the hospital. "That'swhat it is, no doubt," said he. "I must do something in time: under suchcircumstances a Russian bath might do me good. I only wish I were already onthe upper bank."* *In these Russian (vapor) baths the person extends himself on a bank or form,and as he gets accustomed to the heat, moves to another higher up towards theceiling, where, of course, the vapor is warmest. In this manner he ascendsgradually to the highest. And so there he lay on the uppermost bank in the vapor-bath; but with all hisclothes on, in his boots and galoshes, while the hot drops fell scalding fromthe ceiling on his face. "Holloa!" cried he, leaping down. The bathing attendant, on his side, uttereda loud cry of astonishment when he beheld in the bath, a man completelydressed. 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 gothome, was to have a large blister put on his chest and back to draw out hismadness. The next morning he had a sore chest and a bleeding back; and, excepting thefright, that was all that he had gained by the Shoes of Fortune. V. Metamorphosis of the Copying-Clerk The watchman, whom we have certainly not forgotten, thought meanwhile of thegaloshes he had found and taken with him to the hospital; he now went to fetchthem; and as neither the lieutenant, nor anybody else in the street, claimedthem as his property, they were delivered over to the police-office.* *As on the continent, in all law and police practices nothing is verbal, butany circumstance, however trifling, is reduced to writing, the labor, as wellas the number of papers that thus accumulate, is enormous. In apolice-office, consequently, we find copying-clerks among many other scribesof various denominations, of which, it seems, our hero was one. "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 toknow one pair from the other," said he, soliloquizing; and putting, at thesame time, the galoshes in search of an owner, beside his own in the corner. "Here, sir!" said one of the men, who panting brought him a tremendous pile ofpapers. The copying-clerk turned round and spoke awhile with the man about the reportsand legal documents in question; but when he had finished, and his eye fellagain on the Shoes, he was unable to say whether those to the left or those tothe 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, orrather on his feet. And why, I should like to know, are the police never to bewrong? So he put them on quickly, stuck his papers in his pocket, and tookbesides a few under his arm, intending to look them through at home to makethe necessary notes. It was noon; and the weather, that had threatened rain,began to clear up, while gaily dressed holiday folks filled the streets. "Alittle 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 knowwhat a good appetite is. 'Tis a bitter crust, alas! at which I am condemned tognaw!" Nobody could be more steady or quiet than this young man; we therefore wishhim joy of the excursion with all our heart; and it will certainly bebeneficial for a person who leads so sedentary a life. In the park he met afriend, one of our young poets, who told him that the following day he shouldset out on his long-intended tour. "So you are going away again!" said the clerk. "You are a very free and happybeing; we others are chained by the leg and held fast to our desk." "Yes; but it is a chain, friend, which ensures you the blessed bread ofexistence," answered the poet. "You need feel no care for the coming morrow:when you are old, you receive a pension." "True," said the clerk, shrugging his shoulders; "and yet you are the betteroff. To sit at one's ease and poetise--that is a pleasure; everybody hassomething 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 otheroccupied with and judging the most trivial matters." The poet shook his head, the copying-clerk did the same. Each one kept to hisown opinion, and so they separated. "It's a strange race, those poets!" said the clerk, who was very fond ofsoliloquizing. "I should like some day, just for a trial, to take such natureupon me, and be a poet myself; I am very sure I should make no such miserableverses 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 sounusually clear, the clouds sail on so buoyantly, and from the green herbage afragrance is exhaled that fills me with delight. For many a year have I notfelt as at this moment." We see already, by the foregoing effusion, that he is become a poet; to givefurther proof of it, however, would in most cases be insipid, for it is a mostfoolish notion to fancy a poet different from other men. Among the latterthere may be far more poetical natures than many an acknowledged poet, whenexamined more closely, could boast of; the difference only is, that the poetpossesses a better mental memory, on which account he is able to retain thefeeling and the thought till they can be embodied by means of words; a facultywhich the others do not possess. But the transition from a commonplace natureto one that is richly endowed, demands always a more or less breakneck leapover a certain abyss which yawns threateningly below; and thus must the suddenchange with the clerk strike the reader. "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. Oheavens! 'tis a long time since I have thought on those times. The good oldsoul! She lived behind the Exchange. She always had a few twigs or greenshoots in water--let the winter rage without as it might. The violets exhaledtheir sweet breath, whilst I pressed against the windowpanes covered withfantastic frost-work the copper coin I had heated on the stove, and so madepeep-holes. What splendid vistas were then opened to my view! What change--whatmagnificence! Yonder in the canal lay the ships frozen up, and deserted bytheir whole crews, with a screaming crow for the sole occupant. But when thespring, with a gentle stirring motion, announced her arrival, a new and busylife arose; with songs and hurrahs the ice was sawn asunder, the ships werefresh tarred and rigged, that they might sail away to distant lands. But Ihave 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 myfate! Alas!"--sighed he, and was again silent. "Great Heaven! What is come tome! Never have I thought or felt like this before! It must be the summer airthat affects me with feelings almost as disquieting as they are refreshing." He felt in his pocket for the papers. "These police-reports will soon stem thetorrent of my ideas, and effectually hinder any rebellious overflowing of thetime-worn banks of official duties"; he said to himself consolingly, while hiseye ran over the first page. "DAME TIGBRITH, tragedy in five acts." "What isthat? And yet it is undeniably my own handwriting. Have I written the tragedy?Wonderful, very wonderfulwhat have I here? 'INTRIGUE ON THERAMPARTS; or THE DAY OF REPENTANCE: vaudeville with new songs to the mostfavorite airs.' The deuce! Where did I get all this rubbish? Some one musthave slipped it slyly into my pocket for a joke. There is too a letter to me;a crumpled letter and the seal broken." Yes; it was not a very polite epistle from the manager of a theatre, in whichboth pieces were flatly refused. "Hem! hem!" said the clerk breathlessly, and quite exhausted he seated himselfon a bank. His thoughts were so elastic, his heart so tender; andinvoluntarily he picked one of the nearest flowers. It is a simple daisy, justbursting out of the bud. What the botanist tells us after a number ofimperfect lectures, the flower proclaimed in a minute. It related the mythusof its birth, told of the power of the sun-light that spread out its delicateleaves, and forced them to impregnate the air with their incense--and then hethought of the manifold struggles of life, which in like manner awaken thebudding flowers of feeling in our bosom. Light and air contend with chivalricemulation for the love of the fair flower that bestowed her chief favors onthe latter; full of longing she turned towards the light, and as soon as itvanished, rolled her tender leaves together and slept in the embraces of theair. "It is the light which adorns me," said the flower. "But 'tis the air which enables thee to breathe," said the poet's voice. Close by stood a boy who dashed his stick into a wet ditch. The drops of watersplashed up to the green leafy roof, and the clerk thought of the million ofephemera which in a single drop were thrown up to a height, that was as greatdoubtless 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, hesmiled and said, "I sleep and dream; but it is wonderful how one can dream sonaturally, and know besides so exactly that it is but a dream. If onlyto-morrow on awaking, I could again call all to mind so vividly! I seem inunusually good spirits; my perception of things is clear, I feel as light andcheerful as though I were in heaven; but I know for a certainty, that ifto-morrow a dim remembrance of it should swim before my mind, it will thenseem nothing but stupid nonsense, as I have often experiencedalready--especially before I enlisted under the banner of the police, for thatdispels like a whirlwind all the visions of an unfettered imagination. All wehear or say in a dream that is fair and beautiful is like the gold of thesubterranean spirits; it is rich and splendid when it is given us, but viewedby 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 doI prize that creature in which it is innate. Yes! Could I exchange my naturewith any other creature, I fain would be such a happy little lark!" He had hardly uttered these hasty words when the skirts and sleeves of hiscoat folded themselves together into wings; the clothes became feathers, andthe galoshes claws. He observed it perfectly, and laughed in his heart. "Nowthen, there is no doubt that I am dreaming; but I never before was aware ofsuch mad freaks as these." And up he flew into the green roof and sang; but inthe 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 onlyattend to one thing at a time. He wanted to be a poet, and he was one; he nowwished 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; onemight really write a very pretty comedy upon it." He now fluttered down intothe grass, turned his head gracefully on every side, and with his bill peckedthe pliant blades of grass, which, in comparison to his present size, seemedas majestic as the palm-branches of northern Africa. Unfortunately the pleasure lasted but a moment. Presently black nightovershadowed our enthusiast, who had so entirely missed his part ofcopying-clerk at a police-office; some vast object seemed to be thrown overhim. It was a large oil-skin cap, which a sailor-boy of the quay had thrownover the struggling bird; a coarse hand sought its way carefully in under thebroad rim, and seized the clerk over the back and wings. In the first momentof fear, he called, indeed, as loud as he could--"You impudent littleblackguard! I am a copying-clerk at the police-office; and you know you cannotinsult any belonging to the constabulary force without a chastisement.Besides, you good-for-nothing rascal, it is strictly forbidden to catch birdsin the royal gardens of Fredericksburg; but your blue uniform betrays whereyou come from." This fine tirade sounded, however, to the ungodly sailor-boylike a mere "Pippi-pi." He gave the noisy bird a knock on his beak, and walkedon. He was soon met by two schoolboys of the upper class--that is to say asindividuals, for with regard to learning they were in the lowest class in theschool; and they bought the stupid bird. So the copying-clerk came toCopenhagen as guest, or rather as prisoner in a family living in GotherStreet. "'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 thataccursed poetical nature which has metamorphosed me into such a poor harmlesslittle creature. It is really pitiable, particularly when one gets into thehands of a little blackguard, perfect in all sorts of cruelty to animals: allI should like to know is, how the story will end." The two schoolboys, the proprietors now of the transformed clerk, carried himinto an elegant room. A stout stately dame received them with a smile; but sheexpressed much dissatisfaction that a common field-bird, as she called thelark, should appear in such high society. For to-day, however, she would allowit; 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 abenignant smile at a large green parrot that swung himself backwards andforwards most comfortably in his ring, inside a magnificent brass-wired cage."To-day is Polly's birthday," said she with stupid simplicity: "and the littlebrown field-bird must wish him joy." Mr. Polly uttered not a syllable in reply, but swung to and fro with dignifiedcondescension; while a pretty canary, as yellow as gold, that had lately beenbrought from his sunny fragrant home, began to sing aloud. "Noisy creature! Will you be quiet!" screamed the lady of the house, coveringthe cage with an embroidered white pocket handkerchief. "Chirp, chirp!" sighed he. "That was a dreadful snowstorm"; and he sighedagain, and was silent. The copying-clerk, or, as the lady said, the brown field-bird, was put into asmall cage, close to the Canary, and not far from "my good Polly." The onlyhuman sounds that the Parrot could bawl out were, "Come, let us be men!"Everything else that he said was as unintelligible to everybody as thechirping of the Canary, except to the clerk, who was now a bird too: heunderstood his companion perfectly. "I flew about beneath the green palms and the blossoming almond-trees," sangthe Canary; "I flew around, with my brothers and sisters, over the beautifulflowers, and over the glassy lakes, where the bright water-plants nodded to mefrom below. There, too, I saw many splendidly-dressed paroquets, that told thedrollest 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. "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 oramusing--come, let us be men." "Ah, you have no remembrance of love for the charming maidens that dancedbeneath the outspread tents beside the bright fragrant flowers? Do you nolonger remember the sweet fruits, and the cooling juice in the wild plants ofour never-to-be-forgotten home?" said the former inhabitant of the CanaryIsles, continuing his dithyrambic. "Oh, yes," said the Parrot; "but I am far better off here. I am well fed, andget friendly treatment. I know I am a clever fellow; and that is all I careabout. 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 havegenius; but clear-sighted, calm discretion does not take such lofty flights,and utter such high natural tones. For this they have covered you over--theynever 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!" "O warm spicy land of my birth," sang the Canary bird; "I will sing of thydark-green bowers, of the calm bays where the pendent boughs kiss the surfaceof the water; I will sing of the rejoicing of all my brothers and sisterswhere the cactus grows in wanton luxuriance." "Spare us your elegiac tones," said the Parrot giggling. "Rather speak ofsomething at which one may laugh heartily. Laughing is an infallible sign ofthe highest degree of mental development. Can a dog, or a horse laugh? No, butthey 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!" "Poor little Danish grey-bird," said the Canary; "you have been caught too. Itis, no doubt, cold enough in your woods, but there at least is the breath ofliberty; therefore fly away. In the hurry they have forgotten to shut yourcage, and the upper window is open. Fly, my friend; fly away. Farewell!" Instinctively the Clerk obeyed; with a few strokes of his wings he was out ofthe cage; but at the same moment the door, which was only ajar, and which ledto the next room, began to creak, and supple and creeping came the largetomcat into the room, and began to pursue him. The frightened Canary flutteredabout in his cage; the Parrot flapped his wings, and cried, "Come, let us bemen!" The Clerk felt a mortal fright, and flew through the window, far awayover the houses and streets. At last he was forced 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. "Come, let us be men!" said he, involuntarily imitating the chatter of theParrot, and at the same moment he was again a copying-clerk; but he wassitting 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 hauntedme! The whole story is nothing but silly, stupid nonsense!" VI. The Best That the Galoshes Gave 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 onthe same floor. He walked in. "Lend me your Galoshes," said he; "it is so wet in the garden, though the sunis shining most invitingly. I should like to go out a little." He got the Galoshes, and he was soon below in a little duodecimo garden, wherebetween two immense walls a plumtree and an apple-tree were standing. Evensuch a little garden as this was considered in the metropolis of Copenhagen asa great luxury. The young man wandered up and down the narrow paths, as well as the prescribedlimits would allow; the clock struck six; without was heard the horn of apost-boy. "To travel! to travel!" exclaimed he, overcome by most painful and passionateremembrances. "That is the happiest thing in the world! That is the highestaim of all my wishes! Then at last would the agonizing restlessness beallayed, which destroys my existence! But it must be far, far away! I wouldbehold magnificent Switzerland; I would travel to Italy, and--" It was a good thing that the power of the Galoshes worked as instantaneouslyas lightning in a powder-magazine would do, otherwise the poor man with hisoverstrained wishes would have travelled about the world too much for himselfas well as for us. In short, he was travelling. He was in the middle ofSwitzerland, but packed up with eight other passengers in the inside of aneternally-creaking diligence; his head ached till it almost split, his wearyneck could hardly bear the heavy load, and his feet, pinched by his torturingboots, were terribly swollen. He was in an intermediate state between sleepingand waking; at variance with himself, with his company, with the country, andwith the government. In his right pocket he had his letter of credit, in theleft, 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 thatone or the other of these valuables was lost; wherefore he started up as in afever; and the first movement which his hand made, described a magic trianglefrom the right pocket to the left, and then up towards the bosom, to feel ifhe had them all safe or not. From the roof inside the carriage, umbrellas,walking-sticks, hats, and sundry other articles were depending, and hinderedthe view, which was particularly imposing. He now endeavored as well as he wasable to dispel his gloom, which was caused by outward chance circumstancesmerely, and on the bosom of nature imbibe the milk of purest human enjoyment. Grand, solemn, and dark was the whole landscape around. The giganticpine-forests, on the pointed crags, seemed almost like little tufts ofheather, colored by the surrounding clouds. It began to snow, a cold wind blewand roared as though it were seeking a bride. "Augh!" sighed he, "were we only on the other side the Alps, then we shouldhave summer, and I could get my letters of credit cashed. The anxiety I feelabout them prevents me enjoying Switzerland. Were I but 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 betweenthe dark-blue mountain-ridges; here, where Hannibal defeated Flaminius, therivers now held each other in their green embraces; lovely, half-nakedchildren tended a herd of black swine, beneath a group of fragrantlaurel-trees, hard by the road-side. Could we render this inimitable pictureproperly, then would everybody exclaim, "Beautiful, unparalleled Italy!" Butneither the young Divine said so, nor anyone of his grumbling companions inthe coach of the vetturino. The poisonous flies and gnats swarmed around by thousands; in vain one wavedmyrtle-branches about like mad; the audacious insect population did not ceaseto sting; nor was there a single person in the well-crammed carriage whoseface was not swollen and sore from their ravenous bites. The poor horses,tortured almost to death, suffered most from this truly Egyptian plague; theflies alighted upon them in large disgusting swarms; and if the coachman gotdown and scraped them off, hardly a minute elapsed before they were thereagain. The sun now set: a freezing cold, though of short duration pervaded thewhole creation; it was like a horrid gust coming from a burial-vault on a warmsummer's day--but all around the mountains retained that wonderful green tonewhich we see in some old pictures, and which, should we not have seen asimilar play of color in the South, we declare at once to be unnatural. It wasa glorious prospect; but the stomach was empty, the body tired; all that theheart cared and longed for was good night-quarters; yet how would they be? Forthese one looked much more anxiously than for the charms of nature, whichevery where were so profusely displayed. 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 themresembled, to use an expression of Marryat's, "Hunger's eldest son when he hadcome of age"; the others were either blind, had withered legs and crept abouton their hands, or withered arms and fingerless hands. It was the mostwretched misery, dragged from among the filthiest rags. "Excellenza,miserabili!" sighed they, thrusting forth their deformed limbs to view. Eventhe hostess, with bare feet, uncombed hair, and dressed in a garment ofdoubtful color, received the guests grumblingly. The doors were fastened witha loop of string; the floor of the rooms presented a stone paving half tornup; bats fluttered wildly about the ceiling; and as to the smelltherein--no--that was beyond description. "You had better lay the cloth below in the stable," said one of thetravellers; "there, at all events, one knows what one is 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 thrustin, accompanied by the eternal whine of "Miserabili, miserabili, excellenza!"On the walls were displayed innumerable inscriptions, written in nearly everylanguage of Europe, some in verse, some in prose, most of them not verylaudatory of "bella Italia." The meal was served. It consisted of a soup of salted water, seasoned withpepper and rancid oil. The last ingredient played a very prominent part in thesalad; stale eggs and roasted cocks'-combs furnished the grand dish of therepast; the wine even was not without a disgusting taste--it was like amedicinal draught. At night the boxes and other effects of the passengers were placed against therickety doors. One of the travellers kept watch while the others slept. Thesentry was our young Divine. How close it was in the chamber! The heatoppressive to suffocation--the gnats hummed and stung unceasingly--the"miserabili" without whined and moaned in their sleep. "Travelling would be agreeable enough," said he groaning, "if one only had nobody, or could send it to rest while the spirit went on its pilgrimageunhindered, whither the voice within might call it. Wherever I go, I ampursued by a longing that is insatiable--that I cannot explain to myself, andthat tears my very heart. I want something better than what is but what isfled in an instant. But what is it, and where is it to be found? Yet, I knowin reality what it is I wish for. Oh! most happy were I, could I but reach oneaim--could but reach the happiest of all!" And as he spoke the word he was again in his home; the long white curtainshung down from the windows, and in the middle of the floor stood the blackcoffin; in it he lay in the sleep of death. His wish was fulfilled--the bodyrested, while the spirit went unhindered on its pilgrimage. "Let no one deemhimself happy before his end," were the words of Solon; and here was a new andbrilliant proof of the wisdom of the old apothegm. Every corpse is a sphynx of immortality; here too on the black coffin thesphynx gave us no answer to what he who lay within had written two daysbefore: "O mighty Death! thy silence teaches nought,Thou leadest only to the near grave's brink;Is broken now the ladder of my thoughts?Do I instead of mounting only sink? Our heaviest grief the world oft seeth not,Our sorest pain we hide from stranger eyes:And for the sufferer there is nothing leftBut the green mound that o'er the coffin lies." Two figures were moving in the chamber. We knew them both; it was the fairy ofCare, and the emissary of Fortune. They both bent over the corpse. "Do you now see," said Care, "what happiness your Galoshes have brought tomankind?" "To him, at least, who slumbers here, they have brought an imperishableblessing," answered the other. "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 treasureslying beyond this life, and which his destiny ordained he should obtain. Iwill now confer a benefit on him." And she took the Galoshes from his feet; his sleep of death was ended; and hewho had been thus called back again to life arose from his dread couch in allthe vigor of youth. Care vanished, and with her the Galoshes. She has no doubttaken them for herself, to keep them to all eternity.

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