No More Learning

"Well, I would gladly be killed," he reasoned; "for then I shall
die, and go to heaven:" and so he went home, almost hoping for death.

The door was locked, and he could not reach the knocker. No one
was in the street; so he took up a stone, and with it made a
tremendous noise at the door.

"Who is there? " asked somebody from within.

"It is I," said he. "Bellissima is gone. Open the door, and then
kill me. "

Then indeed there was a great panic. Madame was so very fond of
Bellissima. She immediately looked at the wall where the dog's dress
usually hung; and there was the little lambskin.

"Bellissima in the watch-house! " she cried. "You bad boy! how
did you entice her out? Poor little delicate thing, with those rough
policemen! and she'll be frozen with cold. "

Giuseppe went off at once, while his wife lamented, and the boy
wept. Several of the neighbors came in, and amongst them the
painter. He took the boy between his knees, and questioned him; and,
in broken sentences, he soon heard the whole story, and also about the
Metal Pig, and the wonderful ride to the picture-gallery, which was
certainly rather incomprehensible. The painter, however, consoled
the little fellow, and tried to soften the lady's anger; but she would
not be pacified till her husband returned with Bellissima, who had
been with the police. Then there was great rejoicing, and the
painter caressed the boy, and gave him a number of pictures. Oh,
what beautiful pictures these were! --figures with funny heads; and,
above all, the Metal Pig was there too. Oh, nothing could be more
delightful. By means of a few strokes, it was made to appear on the
paper; and even the house that stood behind it had been sketched in.
Oh, if he could only draw and paint! He who could do this could
conjure all the world before him. The first leisure moment during
the next day, the boy got a pencil, and on the back of one of the
other drawings he attempted to copy the drawing of the Metal Pig,
and he succeeded. Certainly it was rather crooked, rather up and down,
one leg thick, and another thin; still it was like the copy, and he
was overjoyed at what he had done. The pencil would not go quite as it
ought,--he had found that out; but the next day he tried again. A
second pig was drawn by the side of the first, and this looked a
hundred times better; and the third attempt was so good, that
everybody might know what it was meant to represent.

And now the glovemaking went on but slowly. The orders given by
the shops in the town were not finished quickly; for the Metal Pig had
taught the boy that all objects may be drawn upon paper; and
Florence is a picture-book in itself for any one who chooses to turn
over its pages. On the Piazza dell Trinita stands a slender pillar,
and upon it is the goddess of Justice, blindfolded, with her scales in
her hand. She was soon represented on paper, and it was the
glovemaker's boy who placed her there. His collection of pictures
increased; but as yet they were only copies of lifeless objects,
when one day Bellissima came gambolling before him: "Stand still,"
cried he, "and I will draw you beautifully, to put amongst my
collection. "

But Bellissima would not stand still, so she must be bound fast in
one position. He tied her head and tail; but she barked and jumped,
and so pulled and tightened the string, that she was nearly strangled;
and just then her mistress walked in.

"You wicked boy! the poor little creature! " was all she could
utter.

She pushed the boy from her, thrust him away with her foot, called
him a most ungrateful, good-for-nothing, wicked boy, and forbade him
to enter the house again. Then she wept, and kissed her little
half-strangled Bellissima. At this moment the painter entered the
room.

* * * * *

In the year 1834 there was an exhibition in the Academy of Arts at
Florence. Two pictures, placed side by side, attracted a large
number of spectators. The smaller of the two represented a little
boy sitting at a table, drawing; before him was a little white poodle,
curiously shaven; but as the animal would not stand still, it had been
fastened with a string to its head and tail, to keep it in one
position. The truthfulness and life in this picture interested every
one. The painter was said to be a young Florentine, who had been found
in the streets, when a child, by an old glovemaker, who had brought
him up. The boy had taught himself to draw: it was also said that a
young artist, now famous, had discovered talent in the child just as
he was about to be sent away for having tied up madame's favorite
little dog, and using it as a model. The glovemaker's boy had also
become a great painter, as the picture proved; but the larger
picture by its side was a still greater proof of his talent. It
represented a handsome boy, clothed in rags, lying asleep, and leaning
against the Metal Pig in the street of the Porta Rosa. All the
spectators knew the spot well. The child's arms were round the neck of
the Pig, and he was in a deep sleep. The lamp before the picture of
the Madonna threw a strong, effective light on the pale, delicate face
of the child. It was a beautiful picture. A large gilt frame
surrounded it, and on one corner of the frame a laurel wreath had been
hung; but a black band, twined unseen among the green leaves, and a
streamer of crape, hung down from it; for within the last few days the
young artist had--died.




THE MONEY-BOX

In a nursery where a number of toys lay scattered about, a
money-box stood on the top of a very high wardrobe. It was made of
clay in the shape of a pig, and had been bought of the potter. In
the back of the pig was a slit, and this slit had been enlarged with a
knife, so that dollars, or crown pieces, might slip through; and,
indeed there were two in the box, besides a number of pence. The
money-pig was stuffed so full that it could no longer rattle, which is
the highest state of perfection to which a money-pig can attain. There
he stood upon the cupboard, high and lofty, looking down upon
everything else in the room. He knew very well that he had enough
inside him to buy up all the other toys, and this gave him a very good
opinion of his own value. The rest thought of this fact also, although
they did not express it, for there were so many other things to talk
about. A large doll, still handsome, though rather old, for her neck
had been mended, lay inside one of the drawers which was partly
open. She called out to the others, "Let us have a game at being men
and women, that is something worth playing at. "

Upon this there was a great uproar; even the engravings, which
hung in frames on the wall, turned round in their excitement, and
showed that they had a wrong side to them, although they had not the
least intention to expose themselves in this way, or to object to
the game. It was late at night, but as the moon shone through the
windows, they had light at a cheap rate. And as the game was now to
begin, all were invited to take part in it, even the children's wagon,
which certainly belonged to the coarser playthings. "Each has its
own value," said the wagon; "we cannot all be noblemen; there must
be some to do the work. "

The money-pig was the only one who received a written
invitation. He stood so high that they were afraid he would not accept
a verbal message. But in his reply, he said, if he had to take a part,
he must enjoy the sport from his own home; they were to arrange for
him to do so; and so they did. The little toy theatre was therefore
put up in such a way that the money-pig could look directly into it.
Some wanted to begin with a comedy, and afterwards to have a tea party
and a discussion for mental improvement, but they commenced with the
latter first. The rocking-horse spoke of training and races; the wagon
of railways and steam power, for these subjects belonged to each of
their professions, and it was right they should talk of them. The
clock talked politics--"tick, tick;" he professed to know what was the
time of day, but there was a whisper that he did not go correctly. The
bamboo cane stood by, looking stiff and proud: he was vain of his
brass ferrule and silver top, and on the sofa lay two worked cushions,
pretty but stupid. When the play at the little theatre began, the rest
sat and looked on; they were requested to applaud and stamp, or crack,
when they felt gratified with what they saw. But the riding-whip
said he never cracked for old people, only for the young who were
not yet married. "I crack for everybody," said the cracker.

"Yes, and a fine noise you make," thought the audience, as the
play went on.

It was not worth much, but it was very well played, and all the
characters turned their painted sides to the audience, for they were
made only to be seen on one side. The acting was wonderful,
excepting that sometimes they came out beyond the lamps, because the
wires were a little too long. The doll, whose neck had been darned,
was so excited that the place in her neck burst, and the money-pig
declared he must do something for one of the players, as they had
all pleased him so much. So he made up his mind to remember one of
them in his will, as the one to be buried with him in the family
vault, whenever that event should happen. They all enjoyed the
comedy so much, that they gave up all thoughts of the tea party, and
only carried out their idea of intellectual amusement, which they
called playing at men and women; and there was nothing wrong about it,
for it was only play. All the while, each one thought most of himself,
or of what the money-pig could be thinking. His thoughts were on, as
he supposed, a very distant time--of making his will, and of his
burial, and of when it might all come to pass. Certainly sooner than
he expected--for all at once down he came from the top of the press,
fell on the ground, and was broken to pieces. Then the pennies
hopped and danced about in the most amusing manner. The little ones
twirled round like tops, and the large ones rolled away as far as they
could, especially the one great silver crown piece who had often to go
out into the world, and now he had his wish as well as all the rest of
the money. The pieces of the money-pig were thrown into the
dust-bin, and the next day there stood a new money-pig on the
cupboard, but it had not a farthing in its inside yet, and
therefore, like the old one, it could not rattle. This was the
beginning with him, and we will make it the end of our story.




WHAT THE MOON SAW

INTRODUCTION

It is a strange thing, when I feel most fervently and most deeply,
my hands and my tongue seem alike tied, so that I cannot rightly
describe or accurately portray the thoughts that are rising within me;
and yet I am a painter; my eye tells me as much as that, and all my
friends who have seen my sketches and fancies say the same.

I am a poor lad, and live in one of the narrowest of lanes; but
I do not want for light, as my room is high up in the house, with an
extensive prospect over the neighbouring roofs. During the first few
days I went to live in the town, I felt low-spirited and solitary
enough. Instead of the forest and the green hills of former days, I
had here only a forest of chimney-pots to look out upon. And then I
had not a single friend; not one familiar face greeted me.

So one evening I sat at the window, in a desponding mood; and
presently I opened the casement and looked out. Oh, how my heart
leaped up with joy! Here was a well-known face at last--a round,
friendly countenance, the face of a good friend I had known at home.
In, fact, it was the MOON that looked in upon me. He was quite
unchanged, the dear old Moon, and had the same face exactly that he
used to show when he peered down upon me through the willow trees on
the moor. I kissed my hand to him over and over again, as he shone far
into my little room; and he, for his part, promised me that every
evening, when he came abroad, he would look in upon me for a few
moments. This promise he has faithfully kept. It is a pity that he can
only stay such a short time when he comes. Whenever he appears, he
tells me of one thing or another that he has seen on the previous
night, or on that same evening. "Just paint the scenes I describe to
you"--this is what he said to me--"and you will have a very pretty
picture-book. " I have followed his injunction for many evenings. I
could make up a new "Thousand and One Nights," in my own way, out of
these pictures, but the number might be too great, after all. The
pictures I have here given have not been chosen at random, but
follow in their proper order, just as they were described to me.
Some great gifted painter, or some poet or musician, may make
something more of them if he likes; what I have given here are only
hasty sketches, hurriedly put upon the paper, with some of my own
thoughts, interspersed; for the Moon did not come to me every
evening--a cloud sometimes hid his face from me.


FIRST EVENING

"Last night"--I am quoting the Moon's own words--"last night I was
gliding through the cloudless Indian sky. My face was mirrored in
the waters of the Ganges, and my beams strove to pierce through the
thick intertwining boughs of the bananas, arching beneath me like
the tortoise's shell. Forth from the thicket tripped a Hindoo maid,
light as a gazelle, beautiful as Eve. Airy and etherial as a vision,
and yet sharply defined amid the surrounding shadows, stood this
daughter of Hindostan: I could read on her delicate brow the thought
that had brought her hither. The thorny creeping plants tore her
sandals, but for all that she came rapidly forward. The deer that
had come down to the river to quench her thirst, sprang by with a
startled bound, for in her hand the maiden bore a lighted lamp. I
could see the blood in her delicate finger tips, as she spread them
for a screen before the dancing flame. She came down to the stream,
and set the lamp upon the water, and let it float away. The flame
flickered to and fro, and seemed ready to expire; but still the lamp
burned on, and the girl's black sparkling eyes, half veiled behind
their long silken lashes, followed it with a gaze of earnest
intensity. She knew that if the lamp continued to burn so long as
she could keep it in sight, her betrothed was still alive; but if
the lamp was suddenly extinguished, he was dead. And the lamp burned
bravely on, and she fell on her knees, and prayed. Near her in the
grass lay a speckled snake, but she heeded it not--she thought only of
Bramah and of her betrothed. 'He lives! ' she shouted joyfully, 'he
lives! ' And from the mountains the echo came back upon her, 'he
lives! "


SECOND EVENING

"Yesterday," said the Moon to me, "I looked down upon a small
courtyard surrounded on all sides by houses. In the courtyard sat a
clucking hen with eleven chickens; and a pretty little girl was
running and jumping around them. The hen was frightened, and screamed,
and spread out her wings over the little brood. Then the girl's father
came out and scolded her; and I glided away and thought no more of the
matter.

"But this evening, only a few minutes ago, I looked down into
the same courtyard. Everything was quiet. But presently the little
girl came forth again, crept quietly to the hen-house, pushed back the
bolt, and slipped into the apartment of the hen and chickens. They
cried out loudly, and came fluttering down from their perches, and ran
about in dismay, and the little girl ran after them. I saw it quite
plainly, for I looked through a hole in the hen-house wall. I was
angry with the willful child, and felt glad when her father came out
and scolded her more violently than yesterday, holding her roughly
by the arm; she held down her head, and her blue eyes were full of
large tears. 'What are you about here? ' he asked. She wept and said,
'I wanted to kiss the hen and beg her pardon for frightening her
yesterday; but I was afraid to tell you. '

"And the father kissed the innocent child's forehead, and I kissed
her on the mouth and eyes. "


THIRD EVENING

"In the narrow street round the corner yonder--it is so narrow
that my beams can only glide for a minute along the walls of the
house, but in that minute I see enough to learn what the world is made
of--in that narrow street I saw a woman. Sixteen years ago that
woman was a child, playing in the garden of the old parsonage, in
the country. The hedges of rose-bush were old, and the flowers were
faded. They straggled wild over the paths, and the ragged branches
grew up among the boughs of the apple trees; here and there were a few
roses still in bloom--not so fair as the queen of flowers generally
appears, but still they had colour and scent too. The clergyman's
little daughter appeared to me a far lovelier rose, as she sat on
her stool under the straggling hedge, hugging and caressing her doll
with the battered pasteboard cheeks.

"Ten years afterwards I saw her again. I beheld her in a
splendid ballroom: she was the beautiful bride of a rich merchant. I
rejoiced at her happiness, and sought her on calm quiet evenings--ah,
nobody thinks of my clear eye and my silent glance! Alas! my
rose ran wild, like the rose bushes in the garden of the parsonage.
There are tragedies in every-day life, and tonight I saw the last
act of one.

"She was lying in bed in a house in that narrow street: she was
sick unto death, and the cruel landlord came up, and tore away the
thin coverlet, her only protection against the cold. 'Get up! ' said
he; 'your face is enough to frighten one. Get up and dress yourself,
give me money, or I'll turn you out into the street! Quick--get up! '
She answered, 'Alas! death is gnawing at my heart. Let me rest. ' But
he forced her to get up and bathe her face, and put a wreath of
roses in her hair; and he placed her in a chair at the window, with
a candle burning beside her, and went away.

"I looked at her, and she was sitting motionless, with her hands
in her lap. The wind caught the open window and shut it with a
crash, so that a pane came clattering down in fragments; but still she
never moved. The curtain caught fire, and the flames played about
her face; and I saw that she was dead. There at the open window sat
the dead woman, preaching a sermon against sin--my poor faded rose out
of the parsonage garden! "


FOURTH EVENING

"This evening I saw a German play acted," said the Moon. "It was
in a little town. A stable had been turned into a theatre; that is
to say, the stable had been left standing, and had been turned into
private boxes, and all the timber work had been covered with
coloured paper. A little iron chandelier hung beneath the ceiling, and
that it might be made to disappear into the ceiling, as it does in
great theatres, when the ting-ting of the prompter's bell is heard,
a great inverted tub has been placed just above it.

"'Ting-ting! ' and the little iron chandelier suddenly rose at
least half a yard and disappeared in the tub; and that was the sign
that the play was going to begin. A young nobleman and his lady, who
happened to be passing through the little town, were present at the
performance, and consequently the house was crowded. But under the
chandelier was a vacant space like a little crater: not a single
soul sat there, for the tallow was dropping, drip, drip! I saw
everything, for it was so warm in there that every loophole had been
opened. The male and female servants stood outside, peeping through
the chinks, although a real policeman was inside, threatening them
with a stick. Close by the orchestra could be seen the noble young
couple in two old arm-chairs, which were usually occupied by his
worship the mayor and his lady; but these latter were to-day obliged
to content themselves with wooden forms, just as if they had been
ordinary citizens; and the lady observed quietly to herself, 'One
sees, now, that there is rank above rank;' and this incident gave an
air of extra festivity to the whole proceedings. The chandelier gave
little leaps, the crowd got their knuckles rapped, and I, the Moon,
was present at the performance from beginning to end. "


FIFTH EVENING

"Yesterday," began the Moon, "I looked down upon the turmoil of
Paris. My eye penetrated into an apartment of the Louvre. An old
grandmother, poorly clad--she belonged to the working class--was
following one of the under-servants into the great empty
throne-room, for this was the apartment she wanted to see--that she
was resolved to see; it had cost her many a little sacrifice, and many
a coaxing word, to penetrate thus far. She folded her thin hands,
and looked round with an air of reverence, as if she had been in a
church.

"'Here it was! ' she said, 'here! ' and she approached the throne,
from which hung the rich velvet fringed with gold lace. 'There,' she
exclaimed, 'there! ' and she knelt and kissed the purple carpet. I
think she was actually weeping.

"'But it was not this very velvet! ' observed the footman, and a
smile played about his mouth. 'True, but it was this very place,'
replied the woman, 'and it must have looked just like this. 'It looked
so, and yet it did not,' observed the man: 'the windows were beaten
in, and the doors were off their hinges, and there was blood upon
the floor. ' 'But for all that you can say, my grandson died upon the
throne of France. Died! ' mournfully repeated the old woman. I do not
think another word was spoken, and they soon quitted the hall. The
evening twilight faded and my light shone doubly vivid upon the rich
velvet that covered the throne of France.

"Now who do you think this poor woman was? Listen, I will tell you
a story.
"It happened, in the Revolution of July, on the evening of the
most brilliantly victorious day, when every house was a fortress,
every window a breastwork. The people stormed the Tuileries. Even
women and children were to be found among the combatants. They
penetrated into the apartments and halls of the palace. A poor
half-grown boy in a ragged blouse fought among the older insurgents.
Mortally wounded with several bayonet thrusts, he sank down. This
happened in the throne-room. They laid the bleeding youth upon the
throne of France, wrapped the velvet around his wounds, and his
blood streamed forth upon the imperial purple. There was a picture!
The splendid hall, the fighting groups! A torn flag upon the ground,
the tricolor was waving above the bayonets, and on the throne lay
the poor lad with the pale glorified countenance, his eyes turned
towards the sky, his limbs writhing in the death agony, his breast
bare, and his poor tattered clothing half hidden by the rich velvet
embroidered with silver lilies. At the boy's cradle a prophecy had
been spoken: 'He will die on the throne of France! ' The mother's heart
dreamt of a second Napoleon.

"My beams have kissed the wreath of immortelles on his grave,
and this night they kissed the forehead of the old grandame, while
in a dream the picture floated before her which thou mayest draw--the
poor boy on the throne of France. "


SIXTH EVENING

"I've been in Upsala," said the Moon: "I looked down upon the
great plain covered with coarse grass, and upon the barren fields. I
mirrored my face in the Tyris river, while the steamboat drove the
fish into the rushes. Beneath me floated the waves, throwing long
shadows on the so-called graves of Odin, Thor, and Friga. In the
scanty turf that covers the hill-side names have been cut. There is no
monument here, no memorial on which the traveller can have his name
carved, no rocky wall on whose surface he can get it painted; so
visitors have the turf cut away for that purpose. The naked earth
peers through in the form of great letters and names; these form a
network over the whole hill. Here is an immortality, which lasts
till the fresh turf grows!

"Up on the hill stood a man, a poet. He emptied the mead horn with
the broad silver rim, and murmured a name. He begged the winds not
to betray him, but I heard the name. I knew it. A count's coronet
sparkles above it, and therefore he did not speak it out. I smiled,
for I knew that a poet's crown adorns his own name. The nobility of
Eleanora d'Este is attached to the name of Tasso. And I also know
where the Rose of Beauty blooms! "

Thus spake the Moon, and a cloud came between us. May no cloud
separate the poet from the rose!


SEVENTH EVENING

"Along the margin of the shore stretches a forest of firs and
beeches, and fresh and fragrant is this wood; hundreds of nightingales
visit it every spring. Close beside it is the sea, the ever-changing
sea, and between the two is placed the broad high-road. One carriage
after another rolls over it; but I did not follow them, for my eye
loves best to rest upon one point. A Hun's Grave lies there, and the
sloe and blackthorn grow luxuriantly among the stones. Here is true
poetry in nature.

"And how do you think men appreciate this poetry? I will tell
you what I heard there last evening and during the night.

"First, two rich landed proprietors came driving by. 'Those are
glorious trees! ' said the first. 'Certainly; there are ten loads of
firewood in each,' observed the other: 'it will be a hard winter,
and last year we got fourteen dollars a load'--and they were gone.
'The road here is wretched,' observed another man who drove past.
'That's the fault of those horrible trees,' replied his neighbour;
'there is no free current of air; the wind can only come from the
sea'--and they were gone. The stage coach went rattling past. All
the passengers were asleep at this beautiful spot. The postillion blew
his horn, but he only thought, 'I can play capitally. It sounds well
here. I wonder if those in there like it? '--and the stage coach
vanished. Then two young fellows came gallopping up on horseback.
There's youth and spirit in the blood here! thought I; and, indeed,
they looked with a smile at the moss-grown hill and thick forest. 'I
should not dislike a walk here with the miller's Christine,' said
one--and they flew past.

"The flowers scented the air; every breath of air was hushed; it
seemed as if the sea were a part of the sky that stretched above the
deep valley. A carriage rolled by. Six people were sitting in it. Four
of them were asleep; the fifth was thinking of his new summer coat,
which would suit him admirably; the sixth turned to the coachman and
asked him if there were anything remarkable connected with yonder heap
of stones. 'No,' replied the coachman, 'it's only a heap of stones;
but the trees are remarkable. ' 'How so? ' 'Why I'll tell you how they
are very remarkable. You see, in winter, when the snow lies very deep,
and has hidden the whole road so that nothing is to be seen, those
trees serve me for a landmark. I steer by them, so as not to drive
into the sea; and you see that is why the trees are remarkable. '

"Now came a painter. He spoke not a word, but his eyes sparkled.
He began to whistle. At this the nightingales sang louder than ever.
'Hold your tongues! ' he cried testily; and he made accurate notes of
all the colours and transitions--blue, and lilac, and dark brown.
'That will make a beautiful picture,' he said. He took it in just as a
mirror takes in a view; and as he worked he whistled a march of
Rossini. And last of all came a poor girl. She laid aside the burden
she carried, and sat down to rest upon the Hun's Grave. Her pale
handsome face was bent in a listening attitude towards the forest. Her
eyes brightened, she gazed earnestly at the sea and the sky, her hands
were folded, and I think she prayed, 'Our Father. ' She herself could
not understand the feeling that swept through her, but I know that
this minute, and the beautiful natural scene, will live within her
memory for years, far more vividly and more truly than the painter
could portray it with his colours on paper. My rays followed her
till the morning dawn kissed her brow. "


EIGHTH EVENING

Heavy clouds obscured the sky, and the Moon did not make his
appearance at all. I stood in my little room, more lonely than ever,
and looked up at the sky where he ought to have shown himself. My
thoughts flew far away, up to my great friend, who every evening
told me such pretty tales, and showed me pictures. Yes, he has had
an experience indeed. He glided over the waters of the Deluge, and
smiled on Noah's ark just as he lately glanced down upon me, and
brought comfort and promise of a new world that was to spring forth
from the old. When the Children of Israel sat weeping by the waters of
Babylon, he glanced mournfully upon the willows where hung the
silent harps. When Romeo climbed the balcony, and the promise of
true love fluttered like a cherub toward heaven, the round Moon
hung, half hidden among the dark cypresses, in the lucid air. He saw
the captive giant at St. Helena, looking from the lonely rock across
the wide ocean, while great thoughts swept through his soul. Ah!
what tales the Moon can tell. Human life is like a story to him.
To-night I shall not see thee again, old friend. Tonight I can draw no
picture of the memories of thy visit. And, as I looked dreamily
towards the clouds, the sky became bright. There was a glancing light,
and a beam from the Moon fell upon me. It vanished again, and dark
clouds flew past: but still it was a greeting, a friendly good-night
offered to me by the Moon.


NINTH EVENING

The air was clear again. Several evenings had passed, and the Moon
was in the first quarter. Again he gave me an outline for a sketch.
Listen to what he told me.

"I have followed the polar bird and the swimming whale to the
eastern coast of Greenland. Gaunt ice-covered rocks and dark clouds
hung over a valley, where dwarf willows and barberry bushes stood
clothed in green. The blooming lychnis exhaled sweet odours. My
light was faint, my face pale as the water lily that, torn from its
stem, has been drifting for weeks with the tide. The crown-shaped
Northern Light burned fiercely in the sky. Its ring was broad, and
from its circumference the rays shot like whirling shafts of fire
across the whole sky, flashing in changing radiance from green to red.
The inhabitants of that icy region were assembling for dance and
festivity; but, accustomed to this glorious spectacle, they scarcely
deigned to glance at it. 'Let us leave the soul of the dead to their
ball-play with the heads of the walruses,' they thought in their
superstition, and they turned their whole attention to the song and
dance. In the midst of the circle, and divested of his furry cloak,
stood a Greenlander, with a small pipe, and he played and sang a
song about catching the seal, and the chorus around chimed in with,
'Eia, Eia, Ah. ' And in their white furs they danced about in the
circle, till you might fancy it was a polar bear's ball.

"And now a Court of Judgment was opened. Those Greenlanders who
had quarrelled stepped forward, and the offended person chanted
forth the faults of his adversary in an extempore song, turning them
sharply into ridicule, to the sound of the pipe and the measure of the
dance. The defendant replied with satire as keen, while the audience
laughed, and gave their verdict. The rocks heaved, the glaciers
melted, and great masses of ice and snow came crashing down, shivering
to fragments as they fall; it was a glorious Greenland summer night. A
hundred paces away, under the open tent of hides, lay a sick man. Life
still flowed through his warm blood, but still he was to die--he
himself felt it, and all who stood round him knew it also; therefore
his wife was already sewing round him the shroud of furs, that she
might not afterwards be obliged to touch the dead body. And she asked,
'Wilt thou be buried on the rock, in the firm snow? I will deck the
spot with thy kayak, and thy arrows, and the angekokk shall dance over
it. Or wouldst thou rather be buried in the sea? ' 'In the sea,' he
whispered, and nodded with a mournful smile. 'Yes, it is a pleasant
summer tent, the sea,' observed the wife. 'Thousands of seals sport
there, the walrus shall lie at thy feet, and the hunt will be safe and
merry! ' And the yelling children tore the outspread hide from the
window-hole, that the dead man might be carried to the ocean, the
billowy ocean, that had given him food in life, and that now, in
death, was to afford him a place of rest. For his monument, he had the
floating, ever-changing icebergs, whereon the seal sleeps, while the
storm bird flies round their gleaming summits! "


TENTH EVENING

"I knew an old maid," said the Moon. "Every winter she wore a
wrapper of yellow satin, and it always remained new, and was the
only fashion she followed. In summer she always wore the same straw
hat, and I verily believe the very same gray-blue dress.

"She never went out, except across the street to an old female
friend; and in later years she did not even take this walk, for the
old friend was dead. In her solitude my old maid was always busy at
the window, which was adorned in summer with pretty flowers, and in
winter with cress, grown upon felt. During the last months I saw her
no more at the window, but she was still alive. I knew that, for I had
not yet seen her begin the 'long journey,' of which she often spoke
with her friend. 'Yes, yes,' she was in the habit of saying, when I
come to die I shall take a longer journey than I have made my whole
life long. Our family vault is six miles from here. I shall be carried
there, and shall sleep there among my family and relatives. ' Last
night a van stopped at the house. A coffin was carried out, and then I
knew that she was dead. They placed straw round the coffin, and the
van drove away. There slept the quiet old lady, who had not gone out
of her house once for the last year. The van rolled out through the
town-gate as briskly as if it were going for a pleasant excursion.
On the high-road the pace was quicker yet. The coachman looked
nervously round every now and then--I fancy he half expected to see
her sitting on the coffin, in her yellow satin wrapper. And because he
was startled, he foolishly lashed his horses, while he held the
reins so tightly that the poor beasts were in a foam: they were
young and fiery. A hare jumped across the road and startled them,
and they fairly ran away. The old sober maiden, who had for years
and years moved quietly round and round in a dull circle, was now,
in death, rattled over stock and stone on the public highway. The
coffin in its covering of straw tumbled out of the van, and was left
on the high-road, while horses, coachman, and carriage flew past in
wild career. The lark rose up carolling from the field, twittering her
morning lay over the coffin, and presently perched upon it, picking
with her beak at the straw covering, as though she would tear it up.
The lark rose up again, singing gaily, and I withdrew behind the red
morning clouds. "


ELEVENTH EVENING

"I will give you a picture of Pompeii," said the Moon. "I was in
the suburb in the Street of Tombs, as they call it, where the fair
monuments stand, in the spot where, ages ago, the merry youths,
their temples bound with rosy wreaths, danced with the fair sisters of
Lais. Now, the stillness of death reigned around. German
mercenaries, in the Neapolitan service, kept guard, played cards,
and diced; and a troop of strangers from beyond the mountains came
into the town, accompanied by a sentry. They wanted to see the city
that had risen from the grave illumined by my beams; and I showed them
the wheel-ruts in the streets paved with broad lava slabs; I showed
them the names on the doors, and the signs that hung there yet: they
saw in the little courtyard the basins of the fountains, ornamented
with shells; but no jet of water gushed upwards, no songs sounded
forth from the richly-painted chambers, where the bronze dog kept
the door.

"It was the City of the Dead; only Vesuvius thundered forth his
everlasting hymn, each separate verse of which is called by men an
eruption. We went to the temple of Venus, built of snow-white
marble, with its high altar in front of the broad steps, and the
weeping willows sprouting freshly forth among the pillars. The air was
transparent and blue, and black Vesuvius formed the background, with
fire ever shooting forth from it, like the stem of the pine tree.
Above it stretched the smoky cloud in the silence of the night, like
the crown of the pine, but in a blood-red illumination. Among the
company was a lady singer, a real and great singer. I have witnessed
the homage paid to her in the greatest cities of Europe. When they
came to the tragic theatre, they all sat down on the amphitheatre
steps, and thus a small part of the house was occupied by an audience,
as it had been many centuries ago. The stage still stood unchanged,
with its walled side-scenes, and the two arches in the background,
through which the beholders saw the same scene that had been exhibited
in the old times--a scene painted by nature herself, namely, the
mountains between Sorento and Amalfi. The singer gaily mounted the
ancient stage, and sang. The place inspired her, and she reminded me
of a wild Arab horse, that rushes headlong on with snorting nostrils
and flying mane--her song was so light and yet so firm. Anon I thought
of the mourning mother beneath the cross at Golgotha, so deep was
the expression of pain. And, just as it had done thousands of years
ago, the sound of applause and delight now filled the theatre. 'Happy,
gifted creature! ' all the hearers exclaimed. Five minutes more, and
the stage was empty, the company had vanished, and not a sound more
was heard--all were gone. But the ruins stood unchanged, as they
will stand when centuries shall have gone by, and when none shall know
of the momentary applause and of the triumph of the fair songstress;
when all will be forgotten and gone, and even for me this hour will be
but a dream of the past. "


TWELFTH EVENING

"I looked through the windows of an editor's house," said the
Moon. "It was somewhere in Germany. I saw handsome furniture, many
books, and a chaos of newspapers. Several young men were present:
the editor himself stood at his desk, and two little books, both by
young authors, were to be noticed. 'This one has been sent to me,'
said he. 'I have not read it yet; what think you of the contents? '
'Oh,' said the person addressed--he was a poet himself--'it is good
enough; a little broad, certainly; but, you see, the author is still
young. The verses might be better, to be sure; the thoughts are sound,
though there is certainly a good deal of common-place among them.
But what will you have? You can't be always getting something new.
That he'll turn out anything great I don't believe, but you may safely
praise him. He is well read, a remarkable Oriental scholar, and has
a good judgment. It was he who wrote that nice review of my
'Reflections on Domestic Life. ' We must be lenient towards the young
man. "

"'But he is a complete hack! ' objected another of the gentlemen.
'Nothing worse in poetry than mediocrity, and he certainly does not go
beyond this. '

"'Poor fellow,' observed a third, 'and his aunt is so happy
about him. It was she, Mr. Editor, who got together so many
subscribers for your last translation. '

"'Ah, the good woman! Well, I have noticed the book briefly.
Undoubted talent--a welcome offering--a flower in the garden of
poetry--prettily brought out--and so on. But this other book--I
suppose the author expects me to purchase it? I hear it is praised. He
has genius, certainly: don't you think so? '

"'Yes, all the world declares as much,' replied the poet, 'but
it has turned out rather wildly. The punctuation of the book, in
particular, is very eccentric. '

"'It will be good for him if we pull him to pieces, and anger
him a little, otherwise he will get too good an opinion of himself. '

"'But that would be unfair,' objected the fourth. 'Let us not carp
at little faults, but rejoice over the real and abundant good that
we find here: he surpasses all the rest. '

"'Not so. If he is a true genius, he can bear the sharp voice of
censure. There are people enough to praise him. Don't let us quite
turn his head.