Front Cover
 Half Title
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 Memoir of Hans Christian Ander...
 A picture-book without picture...
 Back Cover

Group Title: Francis & Co.'s little library
Title: A picture-book without pictures
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00002223/00001
 Material Information
Title: A picture-book without pictures and other stories
Series Title: Francis & Co.'s little library
Physical Description: 175 p. : <1> port. ; 15 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Andersen, H. C ( Hans Christian ), 1805-1875
Childs, Benjamin F., 1814-1863 ( Engraver )
Hartmann, Carl ( Illustrator )
Francis, Joseph H ( Publisher )
C.S. Francis & Co ( Publisher )
Publisher: C.S. Francis & Co.
J.H. Francis
Place of Publication: New-York
Publication Date: 1852
Subject: Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1852   ( lcsh )
Pictorial cloth bindings (Binding) -- 1852   ( rbbin )
Biographies -- 1852   ( rbgenr )
Bldn -- 1852
Genre: Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Pictorial cloth bindings (Binding)   ( rbbin )
Biographies   ( rbgenr )
individual biography   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: United States -- New York -- New York
United States -- Massachusetts -- Boston
Statement of Responsibility: from the Danish of Hans Christian Andersen ; translated by Mary Howitt ; with a memoir of the author
General Note: Port. of Hans Christian Andersen engraved and signed by Childs from a painting by Carl Hartmann.
Funding: Brittle Books Program
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00002223
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved, Board of Trustees of the University of Florida.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002221183
oclc - 45839693
notis - ALG1403

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
        Front Cover 3
    Half Title
        Page 1
        Page 2
        Half Title 3
        Page 3
        Page 4
        Frontispiece 3
    Title Page
        Page 5
        Title Page 2
    Table of Contents
        Page 6
        Table of Contents 2
    Memoir of Hans Christian Andersen
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
    A picture-book without pictures
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text


The Baldwin Library

.,. ., r .,: ..: .,. ..... .,,..;.d .. ... ... .. ..,. .. ..... .. .. .

~i~-~~f~s~w~ a~ ~-~89~5~9~4~ ~i~fmaPs~--n---- ---mse~p ----

FRANCIS & 00.'8

IL n Ir T IL IE IL IB R A a is 7


francida k o.'s little liftrars.

C. 8. FRANcls & Co., New York, have published a uniform Seria
of Choice volumes for Young People, by some of the most dist'r
guished writers for Children. .lfetly bound in cloth, and illuis
treated by Engravings.
L. MARIA CHILD.-FLowERS Fro CmL.vxan: No. 1, for Chi-
dren eight or nine years old.
- FLOWERs FOR CHIIDREN: No. 2, for Children three or fow
years old.
- FLOWERS FOR CHILDREN: NO. 3, for Children eleven or
twelve years old.
- THE CHRISTMAS TREE: A Book of Stories.
- THE TURTLE DovE OF CARMEL; and otherStories.
VERANCZ, and other Tales. By Mary Hlowitt, Mrs. S.
C. Hall, and others.
THE BIRDS. Designed for the nstruction of Children
respecting their Treatment of Animale.
Tales of the American Revolution.
ING: Thirteen New Stories from the Danish of liana
Christian Andersen.
by Hans Christian Andersen. Translated by lMary
Howitt, with a Memoir of the Author.
A Swiss Tale. By a Mother; author of "Always Hap.
py," "True Stories from History," &c.
compiled from the Memoirs of Remarkable Women.
By a Mother.
HOLIDAY STORIES. Containing five MoralTales.
and her Young Family.
- THE CLIKOYMHN'S WIDOW, and her Young Family.
- THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW, and her Young Family.
Instruction and Amusement of Young Persons. By the
author of American Popular Lessons," &C.
Te PRIVATE PURSE; Ci.EVERNEs8, and other Tal1s

k^~ ,,



Froni a P"aitilin I by Carl Ha;rtmann





Snub *t1er Stories.






aitb a jetmoil of tbh utber.














S 125

S 133

.* 143






WHETHER regarded as the human being as
serting in his own person the true nobility of
mind and moral worth, or the man of genius,
whose works alone have raised him from the
lowest poverty and obscurity, to be an honor-
ed guest with kings and queens, Hans Chris-
tian Andersen is one of the most remarkable
men of his day.
Like most men of great original talent, he
is emphatically one of the people; and writ-
ing as he has done, principally of popular
life, he describes what he himself has suffered
and seen. Poverty or hardship, however,
never soured his mind; on the contrary,
whatever he has written is singularly genial,
and abounds with the most kindly andimi-
versal sympathy. Human life, with all its

trials, privations, and its tears, is to him a holy
thing; he lays bare the heart, not to bring
forth hidden and revolting passions or crimes,
but to show how lovely it is in its simplicity
and truth: how touching in its weaknesses
and its short-comings; how much it is to be
loved and pitied, and borne and striven with.
In short, this great writer, with all the ardor
of a strong poetical nature, and with great
.power in delineating passion, is eminently
Christian in spirit.
It is a great pleasure to me that I have
been the means of making the .principal
works of Hans Christian Andersen known,
through my translations, to English readers;
they have been well received by them, and I
now give a slight memoir of their author,
drawn from the True Story of his own Life,
sent by him to me for translation, and which
has lately been published.
The father of Hans Christian Andersen
was a shoemaker of Odense. When scarcely
twenty, he married a young girl about as
poor as himself. The poverty of this couple
may be imagined from the circumstance that
the house afforded no better bedstead than a


wooden frame, made to support the coffin of
some count in the neighborhood, whose body
lay in state before his interment. This frame,
covered with black cloth, and which the
young shoemaker purchased at a very low
price, served as the family bedstead many
years. Upon this humble bed was born, on
the second of April, 1805, Hans Christian
The father of Andersen was not without
education; his mother was the kindest of
human beings; they lived on the best terms
with each other, but still the husband was
not happy. He read comedies and the Ara-
bian Tales, and made a puppet theatre for
his little son, and often on Sundays took him
out with him into the woods round Odense,
where the solitude was congenial to his mind.
Andersen's grandmother had also great
influence over him, and to her he was greatly
attached. She was employed in taking care
of a garden belonging to a lunatic asylum,
and here he spent most of the summer after-
noons of his early childhood.
Among his earliest recollections is the resi-
dence of the Spaniards in Funen, in the years


1808 and 1809. A soldier of an Asturian
regiment took him one day in his arms,
danced with him amid tears of joy, which no
doubt were called forth by the remembrance
of a child he had left at home, and pressed
the Madonna to his lips, which occasioned
great trouble to his pious mother, who was a
In OdenAe at that time many old festivities
were still in use, which made a deep impres-
sion on the boy, and were as so much mate-
rial laid up in his richly poetical mind for
after use, as all who are familiar with his
works must be well aware. His father,
among other works, industriously read in his
Bible. One day he closed it with these words:
"Christ became a man like unto us, but a
very uncommon man!" at which his. wife
burst into tears, greatly distressed and shock-
ed at what she called "blasphemy." This
made a deep impression on the boy, and he
prayed in secret for the soul of his father.
Another day his father said, There is no
other devil but what a man bears in his own
breast!" After which, finding his arm
scratched one morning when he awoke, his


wife said it was a punishment of the devil, to
teach him his real existence.
The unhappy temper of the father increas-
ed from day to day; he longed to go forth
into the world. At that time war was raging
in Germany. Napoleon was his hero, and
as Denmark had now allied itself to France,
he enlisted as a private soldier in a recruiting
regiment, hoping that some time or other he
might return as a lieutenant. The neighbors,
however, thought it was all a folly to let him-
self be shot for no purpose at all. The corps
in which he served went no farther than Hol-
stein; the peace succeeded, and the poor shoe-
maker returned to his trade, only chagrined
to have seen no service, nor even been in for-
eign lands. But though he had seen no ser-
vice, his health had suffered; he awoke one
morning delirious, and talked about cam-
paigns and Napoleon. Young Andersen,
then nine years old, was sent to the next vil-
lage to ask counsel from a wise woman.
"Will my poor father die ?" inquired he,
If thy father will die," replied she, thou
wilt meet his ghost on thy way home."


Terrified almost out of his senses lest he
should meet the ghost, he set out on his
homeward way, and reached his own door
without any such apparition presenting itself,
but for all that, his father died on the third
From this time young Andersen was left
to himself. The whole instruction that he
ever received was in a charity-school and
consisted of reading, writing, and arithmetic,
but of the two last he knew scarcely any-
About this time he was engaged by the
widow of a clergyman in Odense, to read
aloud to herself and her sister-in-law. She
was the widow of a clergyman who had writ-
ten poems. In this house Andersen first heard
the appellation of poet; and saw with what
love the poetical talent of the deceased pastor
was regarded. This sunk deeply into his
mind; he read tragedies, and resolved to be-
come a poet, as this good man had been be-
fore him.
He wrote a tragedy, therefore, which the
two ladies praised highly; it was handed
about in manuscript, and people laughed at


it, and ridiculed him as the "play-writer."
This wounded him so deeply, that he passed
one whole night weeping, and was only pa-
cified, or rather, silenced, by his mother threat-
ening to give him a good beating for his folly.
Spite, however, of his ill success, he wrote
again and again, studying, among other de-
vices, German and French words, to give
dignity to his dialogue. Again the whole
town read his productions, and the boys
shouted after him as he went, "Look I look:
there goes the play-writer."
One day he took to his schoolmaster, as a
birthday present, a garland, with which he
had twisted up a little poem. The school-
master was angry with him; he saw nothing
but folly and false quantities in the verses,
and thus the poor lad had nothing but trouble
and tears.
The worldly affairs of the mother grew
worse and worse, and as boys of his age
earned money in a manufactory near, it was
resolved that there also Hans Christian
should be sent. His old grandmother took
him to the manufactory, and shed bitter tears
because the lot of the boy was so early toil


and sorrow. The workmen in the factory
were principally German, and discovering
that Andersen had a fine voice, and knew
many popular songs, they made him sing to
them while the other boys did his work. He
knew himself that he had a good voice, be-
cause the neighbors always listened when he
sang at home, and once a whole party of rich
people had stopped to hear him, and had
praised his beautiful voice. Everybody in
the manufactory heard him with equal de-
"I can act comedy as well said the poor
boy one day, encouraged by their applause,
and began to recite whole scenes from the
comedies which his father had been in the
habit of reading. The workmen were de-
lighted, and the other boys were made to do
his tasks while he amused them alL This
smooth life of comedy acting and singing
lasted but for a short time, and he returned
The boy must go and act at the theatre I"
many of the neighbors said to his mother;
but as she knew of no other theatre than that
of the strolling players, she shook her head,


and resolved rather to put her son apprentice
to a tailor.
He was now twelve, and had nothing to
do; he devoured, therefore, the contents of
every book which came in his way. His
favorite reading was an old prose translation
of Shakspere. From this, with little figures
which he made of pasteboard, he performed
the whole of King Lear, and the Merchant
of Venice.
Andersen's passion for reading, and his
beautiful voice, had in the meantime drawn
upon him the attention of several of the
higher families of the city, who introduced
him to their houses. His simple, child-like
behavior, his wonderful memory, and his
sweet voice, gave to him a peculiar charm;
people talked of him, and he soon had many
friends; among others, a Colonel Guldborg,
brother to the well-known poet of that name,
and who afterwards introduced him to Prince
Christian of Denmark.
About this time his mother married a
second time, and as the step-father would not
spend a penny, or do any thing for her son's
education, he had still more leisure.. He had


no playfellows, and often wandered by him-
self to the neighboring forest, or seated himself
at home, in a corer of the house, and dressed
up little dolls for his theatre, his mother in
the meantime thinking that, as he was des-
tined for a tailor, this was all good practice.
At length the time came when he was to
be confirmed. On this occasion he had his
first pair of boots; he was very vain of them,
and that all the world might see them, he
pulled them up over his trousers. An old
sempstress was employed to make him a con-
firmation-suit out of his deceased father's
great coat. Never before had he been possess-
ed of such excellent clothes; the very thoughts
of them disturbed his devotions on the day of
It had been determined that Andersen was
to be apprenticed to a tailor after his confir-
mation, but he earnestly besought his mother
to give up this idea, and consent to his going
to Copenhagen, that he might get employ-
ment at the theatre there. He read to her
the lives of celebrated men who had been
quite as poor as himself, and assured her that
he also would cue day be a celebrated man.


For several years he had been hoarding up
his money; he had now about thirty shillings,
English, which seemed to him an inexhausti-
ble sum. As soon as his mother heard of
this fund, her heart inclined towards his
wishes, and she promised to consent on con-
dition that they should consult a wise woman,
and that his going or staying should be de-
cided by her augury. The sibyl was fetched
to the house, and after she had read the cards,
and studied the coffee-grounds, she pronounc-
ed these words.
"Your son will become a great man. The
city of Odense will one day be illuminated
in his honor."
A prophecy like this removed all doubts.
Go, in God's name P' said his mother, and
he lost no time in preparing for his great
Some one had mentioned to him a certain
female dancer at the Royal Theatre as a
person of great influence; he obtained, there-
fore, from a gentleman universally esteemed
in Odense, a letter of introduction to this lady;
and with this, and his thirteen rix-dollars, he
commenced the journey on which depended


his whole fate. His mother accompanied
him to the city gate, and there his good old
grandmother met him; she kissed him with
many tears, blessed him, and he never saw
her more.
It was not until he had crossed the Great
Belt that he felt how forlorn he was in the
world; he stepped aside from the road, fell
on his knees, and besought God to be his
friend. He rose up comforted, and walked
on through towns and villages, until, on Mon-
day morning, the 5th of September, 1819, he
saw the towers of Copenhagen; and with his
little bundle under his arm he entered that
great city.
On the day after his arrival, dressed in his
confirmation-suit, he betook himself with his
letter of introduction in his hand, to the
house of the all-potential dancer. The lady
allowed him to wait a long time on the steps
of her house, and when at length he entered,
his awkward, simple behavior and appear-
ance displeased her; she fancied him insane,
more particularly as the. gentleman from
whom he brought the letter was unknown to


He next went to the director of the the-
atre, requesting some appointment.
"You are too thin for the theatre," was
the answer he obtained.
"Oh," replied poor Andersen, "only ensure
me one hundred rix-dollars, and I. will soon
get fat!"
But the director would make no agreement
of this kind, and then informed him that
they engaged none at the theatre but people
of education. This settled the question; he
had nothing to say on his own behalf and,
dejected in spirit, went out into the street.
He knew no human creature; he thought of
death, and this thought turned his mind to
"When everything goes adversely," said
he, then God will help me; it is written so
in every book that I ever read, and in God I
will put my trust!"
Days and weeks went on, bringing with
them nothing but disappointment and des-
pair; his money was all gone, and for some
time he worked with a joiner. At length,
as, with a heavy heart, he was walking'one
day along the crowded streets of the city, it


occurred to him that as yet nobody had
heard his fine voice. Full of this thought,
he hastened at once to the house of Professor
Siboni, where a large party happened to be
at dinner, and among the guests Baggesen,
the poet, and the celebrated composer, Pro-
fessor Weyse. He knocked at the door,
which was opened by a female servant, and
to her he related, quite open-heartedly, how
forlorn and friendless he was, and how great
a desire he had to be engaged at the theatre;
the young woman went in and related this
to the company. All were interested in the
little adventurer; he was ordered in, and de-
sired to sing, and to give some scenes from
Holberg. One of these scenes bore a resem-
blance to his own melancholy circumstances,
and he burst into tears. The company ap-
plauded him.
"I prophecy," said Baggesen, "that thou
wilt turn out something remarkable; only
don't become vain when the public admires
Professor Siboni promised immediately that
he would cultivate Andersen's voice, and that
he should make his debut at the Theatre


Royal. He had a good friend too in Profes-
sor Weyse, and a year and a half were spent
in elementary instruction. But a new mis-
fortune now befell him; he lost his beautiful
voice, and Siboni counselled him to put him-
self to some handicraft trade. He once more
seemed abandoned to a hopeless fate. Cast-
ing about in his hind who might possibly
befriend him, he bethought himself of the poet
Guldborg, whose brother the colonel had
been so kind to him in Odense. To him he
went, and in him he happily found a friend;
although poverty still pursued him, and his
sufferings, which no one knew, almost over-
came him.
He wrote a rhymed tragedy, which obtain-
ed some little praise from Oehlenbchlager and
Ingemann-but no debut was permitted him
on the theatre. He wrote a second and third,
but the theatre would not accept them.
These youthful efforts fell, however, into the
hand of a powerful and good man, Confer-
ence Counsellor Collin, who, perceiving the
genius that slumbered in the young poet,
went immediately to the king, and obtained
permission from him that he should be sent,


at Government charges, to one of the learned
schools in the provinces, in which, however,
he suffered immensely, till his heart was
almost broken by unkindness. From this
school he went to college, and became very
soon favorably known to the public by true
poetical works. Ingemann, Oehlenschlager,
and others then obtained for him a royal
stipend, to enable him to travel; and he
visited Germany, France, Switzerland, and
Italy. Italy, and the poetical character of
life in that beautiful country, inspired him;
and he wrote the Improvisatore," one of the
most exquisite works, whether for truthful
delineation of character, or pure and noble
sentiment, that ever was penned. This
work most harmoniously combines the warm
coloring and intensity of Italian life with
the freshest and strong simplicity of the
north. His romance of O. T." followed;
this is a true picture of the secluded, sober
life of the north, and is a great favorite
there. His third work, "Only a Fiddler,"
is remarkable for its strongly drawn personal
and national characteristics, founded upon
his own experience in early life. Perhaps


there never was a more affecting picture of
the hopeless attempts of a genius of second
rate order to combat against and rise above
poverty and adverse circumstances, than is
given in the life of poor Christian, who dies
at last "only a fiddler."
In all these works Andersen has drawn
from his own experience, and in this lies their
extraordinary power. There is a child-like
tenderness and simplicity in his writings; a
sympathy with the poor and the struggling,
and an elevation and purity of tone, which
have something absolutely holy about them;
it is the inspiration of true genius, combined
with great experience of life, and a spirit
baptized with the tenderness of Christianity.
This is it which is the secret of the extreme
charm his celebrated stories have for children.
They are as simple and as touching as the old
Bible narratives of Joseph and his brethren,
and the little lad who died in the corn field.
We wonder not at their being the most pop-
ular books of their kind in Europe.
It has been my happiness, as I said before,
to translate his three principal works, his
Picture Book without Pictures, and several of


his stories for children. They have been
likewise translated into German, and some
of them into Dutch. and even Russian. He
speaks nobly of this circumstance in his life.
"My works," says he, "seem to come forth
under a lucky star, they fly over all lands.
There is something elevating, but at the same
time something terrific in seeing one's thoughts
spread so far, and among so many people;
it is indeed ahlost a fearful thing to belong
to so many. The noble and good in us be-
comes a blessing, but the bad, one's errors,
shoot forth also; and involuntarily the prayer
forces itself from us-' God! let me never
write down a word of which I shall not be
able to give an account to thee !' a peculiar
feeling, a mixture of joy and anxiety, fills my
heart every time my good genius conveys
my fictions to a foreign people."
Of Andersen's present life we need only say
that he spends a great deal of his time in
traveling; he goes from land to land, and
from court to court, everywhere an honored
guest, and enjoying the glorious reward of
a manly struggle against adversity, and the


triumph of a lofty and pure genius in seeing
its claims generously acknowledged.
Let us now see the son of the poor shoe-
maker of Odense-the friendless, ill-clad, al-
most heart-broken boy of Copenhagen-on
one of those occasions, which would make an
era in the life of any other literary man, but
which are of every day occurrence in his. I
will quote from his own words.
"I received a letter from the ministry, Count
Rantzau Breitenburg, containing an invita-
tion from their majesties of Denmark to join
them at the watering-place of Fdhr; this
island lies in the North Sea, on the coast of
Sleswick. It was just now five and-twenty
years since I a poor lad, traveled alone and
helpless to Copenhagen. Exactly the five-and
twentieth anniversary would be celebrated by
my being with my king and queen. Every-
thing which surrounded me, man and nature,
reflected themselves imperishably in my soul;
I felt myself, as it were, conducted to a point
from which I could look forth more distinctly
over the past, with all the good fortune and
happiness which it had evolved for me.
Wyck, the largest town of Fohr, in which


are the baths, is built like a Dutch town,
with houses one story high, sloping roofs,
and gables turned to the street. The number
of strangers there, and the presence of the
Court, gave a peculiar animation to it. The
Danish flag was seen waving, and music was
heard on all hands. I was soon established
in my quarters, and was invited every day to
dine with their majesties as well as to pass
the evening in their circle. On several eve-
nings I read aloud my little stories to them,
and nothing could be more gracious and kind
than they were. It is so well when a noble
human nature will reveal itself, where other-
wise only the king's crown and the purple
mantle might be discovered.
I sailed in the train of their majesties, to
the largest of the Halligs, those grassy runes
in the ocean, which bear testimony to a
sunken country. The violence of the sea has
changed the mainland into islands, has again
riven these, and buried men and villages.
Year after year are new portions rent away
and in half a century's time there will be no-
thing left but sea. The Halligs are now low
islets, covered with a dark turf, on which a few


focks graze. When the sea rises, these are
driven to the garrets for refuge, and the waves
roll over this little region, which lies miles dis-
tant from any shore. Oland, which we visited,
contains a little town; the houses stand
closely side by side, as if in their sore need
they had huddled together ; -they are all erect-
ed on a platform, and have little windows like
the cabin of a ship. There, solitary through
half the year, sit the wives and daughters
spinning. Yet I found books in all the
houses ; the people read and work, and the
sea rises round the houses, which lie like a
wreck on the ocean. The church-yard is
half washed away; coffins and corpses are
frequently exposed to view. It is an appalling
sight, and yet the inhabitants of the Halligs
are attached to their little home, and fre-
quently die of home-sickness when removed
from it.
"We found only one man upon the island,
and he had only lately arisen from a sick-
bed; the others were out on long voyages.
We were received by women and girls; they
had erected before the church a trium-,
phal arch with flowers, which they had


fetched from F6hr, but it was so small and
low, that one was obliged to go round it; it
nevertheless showed their good will. The
Queen was deeply affected by their having
cut down their only shrub, a rose-bush, to lay
over a marshy place which she had to cross.
On our return, dinner was served on board
the royal steamer, and afterwards as we sail-
ed in a glorious sunset through this archipe-
lago, the deck of the vessel was changed to a
dancing hall: servants flew hither and thith-
er with refreshments; sailors stood upon the
paddle-boxes and took soundings, and their
deep tones might be heard giving the depth
of the water. The moon rose round and
large, and the promontory of Amrom assumed
the appearance of a snow-covered chain of
The next day he visited the wild regions
about the promontory, but our space will not
admit of our giving any portions of wild and
grand sea-landscape which he here describes.
In the evening he returned to the royal din-
ner-table. It was on the above mentioned
4ve-and-twentieth anniversary, on the 5th of
September; he says,


"The whole of my former life passed in
review before my mind. I was obliged to
summon all my strength to prevent myself
bursting into tears. There are moments of
gratitude, in which we feel, as it were, a de-
sire to press God to our hearts How deeply
I felt at this time my own nothingness, and
how all, all had come from him After din-
ner the king, to whom Rantzau had told how
interesting the day was to me, wished me
happiness., and that most kindly. He wished
me happiness in that which I had endured
and won. He asked me about my early,
struggling life, and I related to him some
traits of it.
"In the course of conversation he asked
me of my annual income. I told him.
"' That is not much,' said he.
'But I do not need much,' I replied;
'my writings furnish something.'
"'If I can in any way be serviceable to
you, come to me,' said the king in conclusion.
In the evening, during the concert, some
of my friends reproached me for not making
use of my opportunity.
'The king,' said they, 'put the words
into your mouth.'


'I could not have done more,' said I; if
the king thought I required an addition to
my income, he would give it of his own free
And I was right; in the following year
the king increased my annual stipend, so that
with this and my writings I can live honor-
ably and free from care.
"The 5th of September was to me a festi-
val day. Even the German visitors at the
baths honored me by drinking my. health in
the pump-room.
"So many flattering circumstances, some
people argue, may spoil a man and make
him vain. But no, they do not spoil him,
they make him, on the contrary, better; they
purify his mind, and he thereby feels an im-
pulse, a wish to deserve all that he enjoys."
Such are truly the feelings of a pure and
noble nature. Andersen has stood the test
through every trial, of poverty and adversity;
the harder trial that of a sun-bright prosper-
ity, is new proving him, and so far, thank
God, the sterling nature of the man has re-
mained unspoiled.



IT 1i wonderful! When my heart feels
the mc at warmly, and my emotions are the
noblest, it is as if my hands and my tongue
were tied; I cannot describe, I cannot ex-
press my own inward state; and yet I am a
painter ; my eye tells me so; and every one
who has seen my sketches and my tablets ac-
knowledges it.
I am a poor youth; I live over there in one
of the narrowest streets, but I have no want
of light, because I live up aloft, with a view
over all the house-tops. The first day I
came into the city it seemed to me so confined
and lonesome; instead of the woods and the


green breezy heights, I had only the grey
chimneys as far as I could see. I did not
possess one friend here; not a single face
which I knew saluted me.
One evening, very much depressed in mind,
I stood at my window; I opened it and look-
ed out. Nay, how glad it made me; I saw
a face which I knew; a round, friendly face,
that of my dearest friend in heaven; it was
the Moon-the dear old Moon, the very same,
precisely the same, as when she peeped at
me between the willow trees on the marshes.
I kissed my hand to her; she shone right
down into my chamber, and promised me,
that every night when she was out she would
take a peep at me. And she has honestly
kept her word-pity only that she can re-
main for so short a time!
Every night she comes she tells me one
thing or another which she has seen either
that night or the night before. "Make a
sketch," said she, on her first visit, "of what


I tell thee, and thus thou shalt make a really
beautiful picture-book !"
This I have done; and in this way I might
give a new Thousand and One Nights in
pictures: but that would be too much; those
which I have given have not been selected,
but are just as I heard them. A great, ge-
nial-hearted painter, a poet, or a musician,
may make more of them if he will; that
which I present is only a slight outline on
paper, and mixed up with my own thoughts,
because it was not every night that the moon
came; there was now and then a cloud be.
tween us.



Last night,-these are the Moon's own
words,-I glided through the clear air of In-
dia; I mirrored myself in the Ganges. My
beams sought to penetrate the thick fence
which the old plantains had woven, and
which formed itself into an arch as firm as
the shell of the tortoise. A Hindoo girl, light
as the gazelle, beautiful as Eve, came forth
from the thicket. There is scarcely anything
so airy and yet so affluent in the luxuriance
of beauty, as the daughter of India. I could
see her thoughts through her delicate skin
The thorny lianas tore her sandals from her
feet, but she stepped rapidly forward; the
wild beast which came from the river, where
it had quenched its thirst, sprang past her,


for the girl held in her hand a burning lamp.
I could see the fresh blood in her fingers as
she curved them into a shade for the flame.
She approached the river; placed the lamp
on the stream; and the lamp sailed away.
The flame flickered as if it would go out;
but still it burned, and the girl's dark, flash-
ing eyes followed it with her whole soul
beaming from under her long silken eyelashes;
she knew that if the lamp burned as long
as she could see it, then her beloved was alive;
but if it went out, then that he was dead.
The lamp burned and fluttered, and her heart
burned and fluttered also; she sank on her
knee and breathed a prayer: close beside
her, in the grass, lay a water-snake, but she
thought only of Brama and her beloved. He
lives!" exclaimed she, rejoicingly, and the
mountains repeated her words, "he lives r



It was last evening,--aid the Moon,-
that I peeped down into a yard inclosed
by houses. A hen was there with eleven
chickens; a little girl was playing around
them; the hen set up a cackling cry, she
was frightened, and spread out her wings
over her eleven young ones. With that, out
amne the father of the child and scolded her.
This evening (it is only a few minutes since,)
the moon looked down again into that yard.
Everything was quite still; presently, how-
ever, out came the little girl, and stole very
softly to the hen-house, lifted the latch, and
crept in to the hen and the chickens. The hen
and chickens set up a loud cry, and flew here
and there, and the little girl ran after them.


Again the father came out, and now he was
very angry indeed, and scolded her, and
pulled her out of the hen-house by her arm;
she hung back her head, and there were large
tears in her blue eyes.
What wast thou doing here ?" asked the
father. She wept; "I only wanted," said she,
" to kiss the hen, and ask her to forgive me
for yesterday: but I did not dare to tell
The father kissed the sweet innocent on
her forehead; the moonlight fell lovingly
upon her eyes and mouth.



In a narrow street, just by,-said the
Moon,-which is so very confined that only
just for one minute can my beams fall upon
the walls of the houses-and yet at this
moment I can look abroad and see the world
as it moves-into this narrow street I looked
and saw a woman. Sixteen years ago and
she was a child; she lived away in the
country, and played in the old pastor's garden.
The hedges of roses had grown out of bounds
for many years; they threw their wild un-
trimmed branches across the path, and sent
up long, green shoots into the apple-trees;
there was only a rose here and there, and
they were not beautiful as the queen of flow-
ers may be, although the color and the


odor were there. The pastor's little daughter,
however, was a much more beautiful rose: she
sate upon her little wooden stool under the
wild untrimmed hedge, and kissed her doll
with the broken face.
Ten years later I saw her again; I saw
her in the splendid dancing-hall; she was
the lovely bride of a rich tradesman, and I
rejoiced in her good fortune. I visited her in
the still evening. Alas! my rose had put
forth also wild shoots like the roses in the
pastor's garden!
Every-day life has its tragedy-this evening
I saw the last act. Sick to death, she lay in
that narrow street, upon her bed. The wick-
ed landlord, her only protector, a man rude
and cold-hearted, drew back the curtain.
"Get up!" said he, "thy cheeks are pale
and hollow; paint thyself! Get money, or I
will turn thee out into the streets! Get up
quickly !"
"Death is at my heart!" said she, "oh!
let me rest!"
He compelled her to rise; painted her
cheeks, twined roses in her hair, placed her
at the window, with a burning light beside


her, and went his way. I glanced at her;
she sate immoveable ; her hands fell upon hei
lap. The window blew open, so that one of
the panes of glass was broken; but she
moved not; the curtains of the window were
blown around her like a flame. She was
dead. From that open window the dead
preached powerfully; my rose of the pastor's



I was last evening at a German play,-
said the Moon;-it was in a little city. The
theatre was a stable; that is to say, the
stalls were made use of and decorated for
boxes, the old wood-work was covered over
with figured paper. There hung from the
low roof a little iron chandelier, and in order
that it might rise the moment the prompter's
bell rang (as is the custom in large theatres),
it was now covered by a tub turned upside
down. The bell rang, and the little iron
chandelier made a leap of half an ell, and by
that token people knew that the comedy had
begun. A young prince and his wife, who
were traveling through the town, were to be
present at the performance, and therefore it


was a very full house, excepting that under
the chandelier it was like a little crater. Not
a single soul sate there; the chandelier kept
dropping its oil-drop drop! It was so hot
in the little theatre that they were obliged to
open all the holes in the walls to let in fresh
air, and through all these peeped in lads and
lasses from the outside, although the police
sate by and drove them off with sticks.
Close by the orchestra, people saw the
young princely couple sitting in two old arm-
chairs, which otherwise would have been
occupied by the burgomaster and his lady;
as it was, however, they sate upon wooden
benches, like other townsfolk. "One may
see that there are falcons above falcons !" was
Madame's silent observation; and after this
all became more festal; the chandelier made
a leap upwards, the people began counting on
their fingers, and I-yes, the Moon-was
present during the whole comedy.



Yesterday,--said the Moon,-I looked
down upon busy Paris. I gazed into the
chambers of the Louvre. An old grandmother,
wretchedly clad, and who belonged to the
lower class, entered the large, empty throne-
room, accompanied by one of the under ser-
vants of the palace. It had cost her many
small sacrifices, and very much eloquence
had she used before she could be admitted
here. She folded her thin hands, and looked
as reverentially around her as if she had been
in a church.
"It was here!" she said, "here !" and she
approached the throne which was covered
with a cloth of rich velvet, trimmed with gold.
"There !" said she, "there !" and she bowed


her knee and kissed the crimson velvet-I
think she wept.
"It was not that velvet," said the at.
tendant, while a smile played round his
"But still it was here!" said the woman,
"and it looked in this room just so!"
"Just so," replied he; and yet it was not
just so either: the windows were beaten out;
the doors were torn off their hinges, and
there was blood upon the floor! You can
say, however, for all that, that your son
died upon the throne of France I"
"Died I" repeated the old woman.
No more was said; they left the hall;
the shades of evening fell deeper, and the
moonlight streamed in with twofold bright-
ness on the rich velvet of the throne of
I will tell thee a story. It was in the
revolution of July, towards evening, on the
most brilliant day of victory, when every
house was a fortress, every window a redoubt,
the people stormed the Tuilleries. Even
women and children fought among the com-
batants; they thronged in through the


chambers and halls of the palace. A poor,
half-grown lad, in ragged clothing, fought
desperately among the elder warriors; mor-
tally wounded at length by the thrusts of
many bayonets, he sank to the ground; this
took place in the throne-room. They wrap-
ped the velvet about his wounds; the blood
streamed over the royal purple. It was a
picture The magnificent hall; the combat-
ing groups; a rent banner on the floor; the
tri-colored flag floating above the bayonets;
and upon the throne the poor lad, with his
pale, glorified countenance, his eyes turned
towards heaven; his limbs stiffening in
death; his uncovered breast; his miserable
garments, and around these the rich folds of
the velvet, embroidered with silver lilies I
As that boy lay in the cradle, it had been
foretold that he should die on the throne of
France! His mother's heart had dreamed
of a new Napoleon. The moonbeams have
kissed the garland of everlasting upon his
grave; her beams this night kissed the old
grandmother's forehead as she dreamed of
this picture-The poor lad upon the throne
of France!
a 4



I have been in Upsala,-said the Moon.
She looked down upon the great castle, with
the miserable grass of its trampled fields. She
mirrored herself in the river Fyris, whilst the
steam-boat drove the terrified fish among the
reeds. Clouds careered along the moonlit
sky, and cast long shadows over the graves,
as they are called, of Odin, Thor, and Freya.
Names are carved in the scanty turf upon
the heights. Here there is no building-stone
in which the visitors can hew their names;
no walled fences on which they can paint
them; they cut away, therefore, the turf, and
the naked earth stares forth in the large
letters of their names, which look like a huge
net spread over the hill. An immortality
which a fresh growth of turf destroys.


A man stood on the hill-top; he was a
poet. He emptied a silver-rimmed mead-
horn, and whispered a name, which he bade
the wind not to reveal; a count's coronet
shone above it, and therefore he breathed it
low-the moonbeams smiled upon him, for a
poet's crown shone above his! The noble
name of Eleonora d'Este is united to Tasso's.
I know where the rose of beauty grows. A
cloud passed before the moon. May no
cloud pass between the poet and his rose I



Down by the seaside there extends n
wood of oaks and beeches, fresh and fragrant
and every branch is visited by hundreds of
nightingales. Close beside is the sea, the
eternally-moving sea, and between the sea
and the wood runs the broad high-road. One
carriage after another rolled past. I follow-
ed them not; my eye rested mostly on one
spot where was a barrow, or old warrior's
grave. Brambles and white thorns grew up
from among the stones. There is the poetry
of nature. Dost thou believe that this is felt
by every one ? Listen to what occurred there
only last night.
First of all, two rich countrymen drove
past. There are some splendid trees there,"


said one. "There are ten loads of fire-wood
in each," replied the other. "If the winter be
severe, one should get forty rix dollars in
spring for the measure!" and they were gone.
"The road is abominable here," said an-
other traveller. "It is those cursed trees," re-
plied his neighbor; "there is no circulation
of air here, excepting from the sea:" and they
advanced onward.
At that moment the diligence came by.
All were asleep at the most beautiful point:
the driver blew his horn, but he only thought,
" I blow it capitally, and here it sounds well;
what will they think of it?" And with that
the diligence was gone.
Next came by two young country-fellows
on horseback. The champagne of youth cir-
culated through their blood; a smile was on
their lips as they looked towards the moss-
grown height, and the dark bushes. "I went
there with Christine Miller," said one to the
other; and they were gone.
The flowers sent forth their fragrance;
every breeze slept; the sea looked like a por-
tion of heaven spread out over a deep valley;
a carriage drove along; there were six per-


sons in it, four of whom were asleep; the
fifth was thinking of his new summer-coat
which was so becoming to him; the sixth
leaned forward to the driver, and asked
whether there was anything remarkable
about that heap of stones: No," said the fel-
low, "it's only a heap of stones, but the trees
are remarkable!" "Tell me about them,"
said the other. "Yes, they are very remark-
able; you see, in winter, when the snow co-
vers the ground, and everything, as it were,
goes out in a twinkling, then those trees serve
me as a landmark by which I can guide my-
self, and not drive into the sea; they are,
therefore, you see, very remarkable,"-and by
this time the carriage had passed the trees.
A painter now came up; his eyes flashed;
he said hot a word, he whistled, and the
nightingales sang, one louder than another;
" hold your tongues !" exclaimed he, and noted
down with accuracy the colors and tints of the
trees; "blue, black, dark-brown." It would
be a beautiful painting He made a sketch,
as hints for his intended picture, and all the
time he whistled a march of Rossini's.
The last who came by was a poor girl;

she sate down to rest herself upon the old
warrior's grave, and put her bundle beside
her. Her lovely, pale face inclined itself to-
wards the wood as she sate listening; her
eyes flashed as she looked heaven-ward across
the sea; her hands folded themselves, and
she murmured the Lord's Prayer. She did
not understand the emotions which penetrated
her soul; but, nevertheless, in future years,
this moment, in which she was surrounded
by nature, will return to her much more
beautifully, nay, will be fixed more faithfully
in her memory, than on the tablets of the
painter, though he noted down every shade
of color. She went forward, and the moon-
beams lighted her path, until daylight kissed
her forehead I



There were thick clouds over the sky;
the Moon was not visible; I stood in twofold
solitude in my little room, and looked out
into the night, which should have been illu-
minated by her beams. My thoughts fled
far away, up to the great friend who told me
stories so beautifully every evening, and show-
ed me pictures. Yes, what has not she seen!
She looked down upon the waters of the
deluge, and smiled on the ark as she now
smiles upon me, and brought consolation to
a new world which should again bloom
forth. When the children of Israel stood
weeping by the rivers of Babylon, she look-
ed mournfully down upon the willows where
their harps hung. When Romeo ascended

to the balcony, and the kiss of love went like
a cherub's thought from earth, the round
Moon stood in the transparent atmosphere,
half concealed amid the dark cypresses. She
saw the hero on St. Helena, when from his
solitary rock he looked out over the ocean of
the world, whilst deep thoughts were at work
in his breast. Yes, what could not the Moon
relate! The life of the world is a history for
her. This evening I see thee not, old friend!
I can paint no picture in remembrance of thy
visit!-and as I dreamingly looked up into
the clouds, light shone forth; it was a moon-
beam, but it is gone again; dark clouds float
past; but that ray was a salutation, a friend-
ly evening salutation from the Moon.



Again the air is clear; I had again mate-
rial for a sketch; listen to that which I
learned from the Moon.
The birds of the polar region flew on-
ward, and the whale swam towards the
eastern coast of Greenland. Rocks covered
with ice and clouds shut in a valley in which
the bramble and whortleberry were in full
bloom. The fragrant lichen diffused its odor;
the Moon shone faintly; its crescent was pale
as the leaf of the water-lily, which, torn from
its stalk, has floated for weeks upon the water.
The northern-lights burned brightly; their
circle was broad, and rays went upwards
from them like whirling pillars of fire, as-
cending through the whole sphere of the


heavens, in colors of green and cnmson.
The inhabitants of the valley assembled for
dance and mirth, but they looked not with
admiring eyes at the magnificent spectacle
which was familiar to them. Let the dead
play at ball with the heads of the walrus !"
thought they, according to their belief; and
occupied themselves only with the dance and
the song. In the middle of the circle, wrap-
ped in fur, stood a Greenlander with his
hand-drum, and accompanied himself as he
sung of seal-hunting, and the people answer-
ed in chorus with an "Eia! eia! a !" and
skipped round and round in their white furs
like so many bears dancing. With this, trial
and judgment began. They who were ad-
versaries came forward; the plaintiff impro-
vised in a bold and sarcastic manner the
crime of his opponent, and all the while
the dance went on to the sound of the drum;
the defendant replied in the same manner;
but the assembly laughed and passed sen-
tence upon him in the meantime. A loud
noise was now heard from the mountains:
the icy cliffs were cleft asunder, and the huge
tumbling masses were dashed to atoms in


their fall. That was a beautiful Greenland
At the distance of a hundred paces, there
lay a sick man within an open tent of
skins; there was life still in his veins, but for
all that he must die, because he himself be-
lieved it, and the people all around him believed
it too. His wife, therefore, had sewn his cloak
of skin tightly around him, that she might
not be obliged to touch the dead; and she
asked him--" Wilt thou be buried upon the
mountains in the eternal snow? I will
decorate the place with thy boat and thy
arrows. The spirits of the mist shall dance
away over it! Or wouldst thou rather be
sunk in the sea ?" In the sea !" whisper-
ed he, and nodded with a melancholy smile.
" There thou wilt have a beautiful summer-
tent," said the wife; there will gambol about
thee thousands of seals; there will the walrus
sleep at thy feet, and the hunting will be
certain and merry!" The children, amid
loud howling, tore down the outstretched
skin from the window, that the dying man
might be borne out to the sea-the swelling
sea, which gave bin food during his lifetime,
and now rest in death.


His funeral monument is the floating
mountain of ice, which increases night and
day. The seals slumber upon the icy blocks,
and the birds of the tempest whirl about it.



I knew an old maid,- said the Moon,
she wore every winter yellow satin trim-
med with fur; it wa's always new; it was
always her unvarying fashion; she wore
every summer the same straw bonnet, and, I
fancy, the very same blue-grey gown. She
never went anywhere but to one old female
friend of hers who lived on the other side the
street;--during the last year, however, she
did not even go there-because her old friend
was dead. All solitarily sate my old maid
.working at her window, in which, through
the whole summer, there stood beautiful
flowers, and in the winter lovely cresses,
grown on a little hillock of felt. During the
last month, however, she no longer sate


at her window; but I knew that she was
still alive, because I had not seen her set
out on that long journey of which she and
her friend had so often talked. "Yes," she
had said, "when I shall die, I shall have to
take a longer journey than I ever took
through my whole life; the family burial-
place lies above twenty miles from here;
thither must I be borne, and there shall I
sleep with the rest of my kin."
Last night a carriage drew up at her
door; they carried out a .offin, and by that I
knew that she was lead; they laid straw
around the coffin and drove away. There
slept the quiet old maid) who for the last
year had never been out of her house; and
the carriage rattled along the streets and out
of the city, as if it had been on a journey of
pleasure. Upon the high road it went on yet
faster; the fellow who drove looked over his
shoulder several times; I fancy that he was
afraid of seeing her sitting in her yellow satin
upon the coffin behind him; he therefore
urged on the horses thoughtlessly, holding
them in so tightly that they foamed at the
mouth: they were young and fill of mettle:


a hare ran across the road, and off they set
at full speed. The quiet old maid, who
from one year's end to another had moved
only slowly in a narrow circle, now that she
was dead, drove over stock and stone along
the open high-road. The coffin, which was
wrapped in matting, was shook off, and now
lay upon the road, whilst horses, driver, and
carriage, sped onward in a wild career.
The lark which flew upward singing
from the meadow, warbled its morning song
above the coffin; it- then descended and
alighted upon it, pecked at the matting with
its beak, as if it were rending to pieces some
strange insect.
The lark rose upward again, singing in
the clear ether, and I withdrew behind the
rosy clouds of morning.


I will give thee a picture of Pompeii,-
said. the Moon. L have been in the
suburbs, the Street of Tombs, as it is called,
where once the rejoicing'youths, with roses
around their brows, danced with the lovely
sisters of Lais. Now the silence of death
reigns here; German soldiers in the pay of
Naples keep guard here, and play at cards
and dice. A crowd of foreigners, from- the
other side of the mountains, wandered into
the city, accompanied by the guard. They
wished to see this city, arisen from the grave,
by the full clear light of the Moon; and I
AOowed to them the tracks of the chariot-
wheels in the streets paved with broad labs
of lava; I showed to them the names up


the doors and the signs which still remain
suspended from the shop-fronts; they looked
into the basin of the fountains ornamented
with shells and conches; but no stream of
water leaped upwards; no song resounded
from the richly painted chambers, where
dogs of bronze guarded the doors. It was
the city of the dead; Vesuvius alone still
thundered his eternal hymn.
We went to the temple of Venus, which
is built of dazzling white marble, with broad
steps ascending to its high altar, and a ver-
dant weeping-willow growing between its
columns. The air was exquisitely transpa-
rent and blue; and in the back-ground
towered Vesuvius, black as night: fires
ascended from the crater of the mountain
like the stem of a pine-tree; the illumined
cloud of smoke hung suspended in the still-
ness of night, like the pine-tree's crown, but
red as blood. Among the strangers there,
was a singer, a true and noble being, to whom
I had seen homage paid in the greatest cities
of Europe. When the party arrived at the
amphitheatre, they all seated themselves upon
the marble steps, and again, as in former


centuries, human beings occupied a portion
of that space. The scene was now the same
as in those former times; the walls of the
theatre, and the two arches in the back-
ground, through which might be seen the
same decoration as then-Nature itself-
the mountains between Sorento and Amalfi.
The singer, for fun, threw herself back into
those ancient times, and sung; the scene
inspired her; she reminded the listener of the
wild horse of Arabia, when it snorts and
careers away, with its mane lifted by the
wind; there was the same ease, the same
security; she brought to mind the agonized
mother at the cross of Golgotha; there was
the same heartfelt, deep sorrow. Once more
resounded around her, as had resounded
thousands of years before, the plaudits and
acclamations of delight. "Happy! heavenly
gifted one .exclaimed they all. Three
minutes after and the scene was changed;
every one had departed; no tone was heard
any longer; the whole party was gone; but
the ruins still stood unchanged, as they will
stand for centuries, and no one knows of the


applause of the moment-of the beautiful
singer-of her tones and her smile. All is
past and forgotten; even to me is this
hour a perished memory.



I peeped in at a critic's window,--said the
Moon,-in a city of Germany. The room
was filled with excellent furniture, books, and
a chaos of papers; several young men were
sitting there; the critic himself stood at his
desk; two small books, both by young
authors, were about to be reviewed. "One
of these," said he, has been sent to me; I
have not read it though-but it is beautifully
got up; what say you of its contents?"
O," said one of the young men, who was
himself a poet, there is a deal that is good
in it; very little to expunge; but, he is a
young man, and the verses might be better!
There is a healthy tone in the thoughts-
but they are, after all, such thoughts as every-


body has !-but as to that, where does one
find anything new? You may very well
praise him, but I never believe that he will
turn out anything of a poet. He has read a
deal, however; is an extraordinary orientalist,
and has sound judgment. He it was who
wrote that beautiful critique of my Fan-
cies of Domestic Life. One ought to be
gentle towards a young man."
"But he is a thorough ass !' said another
gentleman in the room; "nothing worse in
poetry than mediocrity, and he does not get
above that !"
Poor fellow," said a third, and his aunt
makes herself so happy about him. She it
was, Mr. Critic, who obtained so many sub-
scribers' names to your last translation."
"The good woman! yes, I have given a
short notice of the book. Unmistakeable ta-
lent! a welcome gift! a flower out of the
garden of poesy; beautifully got out, and so
on. But the other book-he shall catch it! I
had to buy it.-I hear it is praised; he has
genius, don't you think?"
"That is the general opinion," said the
poet, but there is something wild about it."


It will do him good to find fault and cut
him up a little, else he will be getting too good
an opinion of himself !"
But that is unreasonable," interrupted a
fourth; "don't let us dwell too much on tri-
fling faults, but rejoice in the good-and there
is much here-though he thrusts in good and
bad altogether."
"Unmistakeable talent!" wrote down the
critic; "the usual examples of carelessness.
That he also can write unlucky verse, may
be seen .at page five-and-twenty, where two
hiatuses occur: the study of the ancients to
be recommended, and so on."
I went away, said the Moon,-and peep-
ed through the window into the aunt's house
where sate our honored poet, the tame one, the
worshipped of all the guests, and was happy.
"I sought out the other poet, the wild one,
who also was in a great party of one of his
patrons, where they talked about the other
poet's book. "I shall also read yours "P said
Mecinas, "but, honestly speaking, you know
I never say to you what I do not mean; I do
not expect great things from it. You are too
wild for me! too fantastic-but I acknow-


ledge that as a man you are highly respecta-
ble !"
A young girl who sat in a corner read in
a book:-
To the dust goes the poet's glory,
And common-place to fame!--
That is the trite old story,
And 'twill ever be the same!



The Moon told me as follows:-There
lie two peasants' cottages by the road through
the wood. The doors are low, and the win-
dows are irregular, but all around them grow
buckthorn and barberries; the roof is mossy
and grown over with yellow-flowered stone-
crop and houseleek; nothing but cabbages
and potatoes grow in the little garden, but
there grows in the hedge an elder-tree, and
under this sate a little girl; and there she
sate with her brown eyes riveted upon an old
oak tree between the houses. This tree has
a tall and decayed hole, the top of it is sawn
off, and there the stork has built his nest;
there he stood and clattered with his beak.


A little boy came out of the cottage and
placed himself by the little girl's side; they
were brother and sister.
What are you looking at ?" cried he.
"I am looking at the stork," she replied;
"the neighbor told me that this evening the
stork will bring us either a little brother or
sister; and so now I will stand and watch
when they come."
The storks do not bring anything," said
the boy. "The neighbor's wife told me the
same thing; but she laughed while she said
it, and so I asked her if she durst say as sure
as heaven, to it, but she dared not, and there-
fore I know that the story about the stork is
only what they tell us children."
"Oh, really!" said the little girl.
"And I'll tell thee what," said the boy;
"It is our Lord himself that brings little ba-
bies; he has them under his coat; but no-
body can see our Lord now, and therefore we
do not see him when he comes."
At that same moment the twigs of the
elder-tree were moved; the children folded
their hands and looked one at the other, for
they thought that it was our Lord passing


along with the little ones. They stood side
by side, and took hold of each other's hand.
The house-door opened, and out came the
Come in now," said she; "and see what
the stork has brought; he has brought a lit-
tle brother !"
The children nodded their heads; they
knew very well that the little brother was



I passed over Luneburg Heath,-said the
Moon,-a solitary house stood by the road-
side; some leafless trees grew beside it, and
among these sung a nightingale which had
lost its way. In the severity of the night it
must perish; that was its song of death
which I heard. With the early twilight
there came along the road a company of em-
igrant peasants, who were on their way to
Bremen or Hamburgh, to take ship for Amer-
ica, where happiness-the so much dreamed-
of happiness-they expected should spring
up for them. The women carried their
youngest children upon their backs, the older
ones sprang along by their side; a poor mis-
erable horse dragged a car, on which were a


few articles of household furniture. The cold
wind blew; the little girl clung closer to her
mother, who looked up to my round waning
face and thought upon her bitter want.
Her thoughts were those of the whole
company, and therefore the red glimmering
of daylight was like the evangile of the sun
of prosperity which should again rise. They
heard the song of the dying nightingale; it
was to them no false prophet, but a foreteller
of happiness. The wind whistled, but they
understood not the song; "Sail securely
across the sea thou hast paid for the long
voyage with all that thou art possessed of;
poor ai. helpless shalt thou set foot on
thy land of Canaan. Thou mayst sell thy-
self, thy wife, and thy child, yet you shall
none of you suffer long. Behind the broad
fragrant leaf sits the goddess of death; her
kiss of welcome breathes consuming fever in-
to thy blood, far away, far away, over the
swelling waters P'
The emigrant company listened joyfully
to the song of the nightingale, which they
thought announced to them happiness. Day
beamed from behind light clouds, and the


peasant people went over the heath to the
church; the darkly-apparelled women, with
their milk-white linen around their heads,
looked like figures which had stepped forth
from the old church paintings; all around
them was nothing but the vast and death-
like landscape, the withered brown heath-
dark, leafless plains, in the midst of white
sand-banks. The women carried their hymn-
books in their hands, and advanced towards
the church. Oh, pray! pray for them who
wander onward to their graves on the other
side of the heaving water!



I know a theatrical Clown,-said the
Moon,-the public applauds when it sees
him; every one of his movements is comic,
and throws the house into convulsions of
laughter, and yet he is not moved thereby:
that is his peculiarity. When he was yet a
child, and played with other boys, he was
already a punchinello. Nature had made
him one; had given him one lump upon his
back, and another upon his breast. The
inner man, however-the spiritual-that was
really well-formed. No human being had
deeper feeling, or greater elasticity of mind
than he. The theatre was his ideal-world.
Had he been slender and well proportioned,
then he might have become a first-rate tragic


actor, for the great, the heroic, filled his soul;
but he was obliged to be the Clown. His
sufferings, even, and his melancholy increased
the comic expression of his strongly-marked
countenance, and excited the laughter of the
crowded public who applauded their favorite.
The pretty little Columbine was friendly and
kind to him, and yet she preferred marrying
Harlequin. It would have been too comic in
reality to have married the Clown; like the
union of Beauty and the Beast." When the
Clown was most out of humor, she was the only
one who could make him smile-nay, even
burst into peals of laughter. First of all she
would be melancholy with him, then rather
cheerful, and at last full of fun.
"I know what it is thou art in want of!"
said she-" yes, it is this love !" and so he was
obliged to laugh.
"Me and love !" exclaimed he. "That
would be a merry thing! How the public
would applaud."
"It is love !" continued she; and added,
with comic pathos-" It is me that you love !"
"Yes! and yet there are people who say
there is no such thing as love !" The poor


Clown sprung up into the air, he was so
diverted: his melancholy was now gone.
And yet she had spoken the truth: he did
love her-loved her like the sublime and great
in art.
On her wedding-day he was more amusing
than ever. At night he wept: had the public
seen his distressed countenance then, they
would have applauded him!
A few days ago Columbine died. On the
day of her funeral Harlequin's appearance
was excused on the stage, for he really was a
mourning husband. The manager, however,
was obliged to give something more merry
than common, in order that the public should
not miss too much the lovely Columbine and
the light-bodied Harlequin, and for this reason
it behoved the Clown to be doubly entertain-
ing. He danced and sprung aloft with de-
spair at his heart, and the public clapped their
hands and shouted-" Bravo, bravissimo "
The clown was called for when the perform-
ance was over. Oh, he was invaluable!
This evening, after the play, the poor
little man walked out from the city to the
solitary churchyard. The garland of flowers


was withered on Columbine's grave; he sate
down. It was something worth painting,
His hands under his chin, his eyes fixed upon
the moon; it was like a monumental figure.
A clown upon a grave! very peculiar and
very comic I Had the public seen their favorite
then, how they would have shouted-" Bravo,
Clown I bravo, bravissimol"



Listen to what the Moon said.-I have
seen the cadet, become an officer, dress him-
self for the first time in his splendid uniform;
I have seen the young girl in her beautiful
ball-dress; the young princely bride happy in
her festival attire; but the felicity of none of
these could equal that which this evening I
saw in a child, a little girl of four years.
They had just put.her on a new blue frock
and a new pink bonnet. The beautiful things
were scarcely on when they called for candles,
because the moqp-light through the window
was too faint; they must have other light.
There stood the little girl as stiff as a doll,
her arms stretched out from her frock, her
fingers spread out wide from each other--and

oh! how her eyes, her whole being, beamed
with delight!
"To-morrow you shall go out into the
street," said the mother; and the little one
looked up towards her bonnet and down to-
wards her frock, and smiled joyfully.
"Mother," said she, what will the dogs
think, when they see me so beautifully dress-



I have,-said the Moon,-told thee about
Pompeii, that corpse of a city amongst living
cities. 1 know another, one still more
strange; not the corpse, but the ghost of a
city. On all sides where the fountain splashes
into a marble basin, I seem to hear stories of
the floating city. Yes, the fountain-streams
can tell them! The billows on the shore
sing of them. Over the surface of the sea
there often floats a mist, that is the widow's
weeds. The sea's bridegroom is dead; his
palace and city are now a mausoleum. Dost
thou know this city? The rolling of the
chariot-wheels, or the sound of the horse's
hoof, were never heard in its streets. The
fish swims, and like a spectre glides the black
gondola over the green water.


I will,---continued the Moon,-show thee
the forum of the city, the city's great square,
and then thou wilt think it to be a city for
adventures. Grass grows between the broad
flag-stones, and thousands of tame pigeons
fy circling in the twilight around the lofty
tower. On three sides thou art surrounded
by colonnades. The Turk, with his long
pipe, sits silently beneath them; the hand-
some Greek-lad leans against a pillar, and
looks up to the elevated trophies, the tall
masts, the memorial of the ancient power.
The flag hangs drooping like mourning
crape; a girl stands there to rest herself, she
has set down the heavy buckets of water,
whilst the yoke on which she sustained them
rests upon her shoulders, and she supports
herself on the column of victory. That is
not a fairy palace but a church which thou
seest before thee! the gilded dome, the gilded
balls around it, shine in my beams; the
magnificent bronze horses upon it have
traveled about like bronze horses in a fairy
tale; they have traveled thither, away from
their place, and then again back! Seest
thou the beautiful painting on walls and win-


dow panes ? It is as if some genius had done
the will of a child and thus decorated this ex-
traordinary temple. Dost thou see the winged
lion upon the pillar? Gold yet shines upon
it, but the wings are bound, the lion is dead
because the king of the sea is dead; the vast
halls are empty, and where once hung costly
pictures the naked walls are now seen.
Lazzaroni sleep under the arches, where at
one time only the high noble dared to tread.
Either from the deep well or from the chamber
of the leaden roof near to the Bridge of
Sighs, sounds forth a groan, whilst tamborines
are heard from the painted gondola as the
bridal-ring is cast from the glittering Bucen-
taur to Adria, the queen of the sea. Adhia,
wrap thyself in mist! let the widow's veil
cover the breast, and cast it over thy bride-
groom's mausoleum ;-the marble-builder, the
spectre-like, Venice."



I looked down upon a great theatre,-said
the Moon,-the whole house was full of spec-
tators, because a new actor made his debut;
my beams fell upon a little window in the
wall; a painted face pressed its forehead
against the glass; it was the hero of the
night. The chivalric beard curled upon his
chin; but there were tears in the man's eyes,
because he had been hissed-hissed with
reason. Poor fellow! but the realm of art
will not endure the feeble. He deeply felt
and passionately loved art, but she did not
love him.
The prompter's bell rung;-according to
the piece, the hero stepped forth with a bold
and determined air-thus had he to appear


before a public which burst into peals of
laughter.-The piece. was ended; I saw a
man wrapped in a cloak steal away down the
steps; it was he, the spirit-crushed cavalier;
the servants of the theatre whispered to each
other as he passed. I followed the poor
wretch home to his chamber. Hanging is
such an ignominious death, and people have
not always poison at hand. I know that he
thought of both. He looked at his pale face
in the glass; half closed his eyes to see
whether he would look handsome as a corpse.
It is possible for people to be unfortunate in
the highest degree, and yet in the highest
degree vain at the same time. He thought
upon death, upon self-murder; I believe he
wept in pity of himself-he wept bitterly,
and when people have had a good fit of cry-
ing they do not kill themselves.
A year has passed since then. A comedy
was acted, but this time in a little theatre, by
a poor vagrant company. I saw again the
well-known face, the painted cheeks, the
curled beard. He again looked up to me
and smiled-and yet for all that he had been
hissed-hissed scarcely a minute before in

that miserable theatre, hissed by that miser-
able audience !
This very evening a poor hearse has
driven out of the gate of the town; not a
single being accompanied it. There lay upon
it a suicide, our painted and derided hero.
The driver was the only attendant; no one
followed, no one except the Moon. In an
angle of the churchyard wall is the self-
murdered laid; nettles will soon spring up
thereon; there will grave-diggers cast thorns
and weeds from other graves.



I come from Rome,-said the Moon,-
there, in the middle of the city, upon one of
the seven hills, lie the ruins of the palace of
the Caesars; a wild fig-tree grows in a chink
of the wall, and covers its nakedness with its
broad, gray-green leaves; the ass wanders
over the heaps of rubbish among the laurel
hedges, and feasts on the golden thistle.
From this spot, whence the Roman eagle
once flew forth, went, and saw, and conquer-
ed, the entrance is now through a small, mis-
erable house, smeared with clay, betweeti
two broken pillars; tendrils of the vine hang
down, like a mourning garland, over the nar-
row window. An old woman, with her little
grand-daughter lived there; they ruled now


in the palace of the Caesars, and showed to
strangers the buried treasures. There remains
of the rich throne-room nothing but a naked
wall; the shadow of the black cypress points
to the place where the throne stood. The
earth lies to the depth of some feet above the
broken floor; the little girl, now the daugh-
ter of the palace of the Cesars, often sits
there upon her little stool, when the evening
bell rings. The keyhole in the door, close
beside her, she calls her balcony, and through
it she sees over half of Rome, as far as the
mighty dome of St. Peter's.
It was silent as ever, this evening, and
the little girl came homeward in my full,
bright light. She carried upon her head an
antiquely-formed earthen jug filled with wa-
ter; her feet were bare; the black petticoat
and the little chemise sleeves were in tatters ;
I kissed the child's beautiful round shoulder,
her black eyes, and her dark shining hair.
She mounted up the steps of the house, which
were steep, and were formed of broken pieces
of wall and a shattered capital. The bright-
colored lizard glided timidly past her feet,
but she was not frightened; she raised her


hand to ring at the door; there hung a hare's
foot in the packthread, which is now the bell-
pull at the palace of the Caesars. She stood
stock-still for a moment; what was she think-
ing about-? Perhaps of the beautiful Jesus-
child clothed in gold and silver, in the chapel
Delow, where the silver lamp was burning,
and where her little-girl friends were singing
in chorus as she knew; I cannot tell if it was
of this she thought! but again she made a
movement, and stumbled; the earthen jug
fell from her head and was shivered in pieces
upon the broken marble pavement. She
burst into tears; the beautiful daughter of
the palace of the Caesars wept over the poor,
broken, earthen jug; she stood with her bare
feet and wept, and dared not to pull at the
pack-thread string, the bell-pull at the palace
of the Cesars.

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