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        　　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.
        　　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!"
        　　*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.
        　　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 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.
        　　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
            
            

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        　　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!
        　　* Dwellers 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.
        　　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.
        　　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.
        　　*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.
        　　"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.
        　　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.
        　　The seemingly dead body of the watchman wandered, as we have said, to the
            
            

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        　　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.
        　　The same day he was discharged from the hospital as perfectly cured; but the
        　　Shoes meanwhile remained behind.
        　　IV. A Moment of Head Importance--An Evening's "Dramatic Readings"--A Most
        　　Strange Journey
        　　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.
        　　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.
        　　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.
        　　"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!
        　　"Ah! I am much too stout," groaned he aloud, while fixed as in a vice. "I had
            
            

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        　　thought the head was the most difficult part of the matter--oh! oh! I really
        　　cannot squeeze myself 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!"
        　　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.
        　　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 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:
        　　"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
            
            

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        　　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."
        　　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 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.
        　　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.
        　　"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
       
            
            

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        　　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!"
        　　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.
        　　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.
        　　* temple
        　　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 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.
            
            

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        　　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.
        　　"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.
        　　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.
        　　"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."*
        　　*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 the
        　　ceiling, where, of course, the vapor is warmest. In this manner he ascends
        　　gradually to the highest.
        　　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.
        　　"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.
        　　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 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.
        　　V. Metamorphosis of the Copying-Clerk
        　　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.*
            
            

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        　　*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.
        　　"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.
        　　"Here, sir!" said one of the men, who panting brought him a tremendous 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!"
        　　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.
        　　"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."
        　　"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:
            
            

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

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