introduction
it is a strange thing，that when i feel most ferventlyand most deeply，my hands and my tongue seem aliketied，so that i cannot ringhtly describe or accurately portraythe thoughts that are rising within me；and yet i am apainter：my eye tells me as much as that，and all myfriends who have seen my sketches and fancies say thesame．
i am a poor lad，and live in one of the narrowest oflanes；but i do not want for light，as my room is high upin the house，with an extensive prospect over the neigh－bouring roofs．during the first few days i went to live inthe town，i felt low-spirited and solitary enough．insteadof the forest and the green hills，i had here only the greychimneys to look out upon．and i had not then a singlefriend；not one familiar face greeted me．
so one evening i stood at the window，in a despond－ing mood；and presently i opened the casement and looked out．oh，how my heart leaped up with joy！herewas a well－known face at last—a round，friendly counte－nance，the of a good friend i had known at home．infact，it was the moon that looked in upon me．he wasquite unchanged，the dear old moon，and had the sameface exactly that he used to show when he peered downupon me through the willow trees on the moor．i kissedmy hand to him over and over again，as he shone straightinto my little room；and he，for his part，promised me that every evening，when he came abroad，he would lookin upon me for a few moments．this promise he has faith－fully kept．it is a pity that he can only stay such a shorttime when he comes．whenever he appears，he tells meof one thing or another that he has seen on the previousnight or on that same evening．
"just paint the scenes i describe to you！"this iswhat he said to me—"and you will have a very pretty pic－ture－book．"
i have followed his injunction for many evenings．icould make up a new "thousand and one nights"，in myown way，out of these pictures，but the number might betoo great，after all．the pictures i have here given have notbeen selected，but follow each other，just as they were de-scribed to me．some great gifted painter，or some poet ormusician，may make something more of them if he likes；what i have given here are only hasty sketches，hurriedlyput upon the paper，with some of my own thoughts inter-spersed；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 ownwords—"last night i was gliding through the cloudless in－dian sky．my face was mirrored in the waters of theganges，and my beams strove to pierce through the thickintertwining boughs of the plane trees，arching beneath melike the tortoise's shell．forth from the thicket tripped ahindoo maid，light was a gazelle，beautiful as eve．therewas something so airy and ethrereal，and yet so full andfirm in this daughter of hindostan：i could read herthoughts through her delicate skin．the thorny creepingplants tore her sandals，but for all that she came rapidlyforward．the deer which came from the river where it hadquenched its thirst，sprang by with a startled bound，for inher hand the maiden bore a lighted lamp．i could see the blood in her delicate finger－tips，as she spread them for ascreen before the flame．she came down to the stream，andset the lamp upon the water，and let it float away．theflame flickered to and fro，and seemed ready to expire；butstill the lamp burned on，and the girl's black sparklingeyes，half－veiled behind their long silken lashes，followedit with a gaze of earnest intensity．she well knew that ifthe lamp continued to burn so long as she could keep it insight，her betrothed still alive；but if the lamp wassuddenly extinguished，he was dead．and the lampburned and quivered，and her heart burned and trembled；she fell on her knees，and prayed．near her in the grasslay a speckled snake，but she heeded it not—she thoughtonly of brahma and of her betrothed．' he lives！'sheshouted joyfully，' he lives！'and from the mountains theecho came back upon her，'he lives！'"
second evening
"yesterday，" said the moon to me，"i looked downupon a small courtyard surrounded on all sides by houses．in the courtyard sat a hen with eleven cinckens；and apretty little girl was running and jumping around them．the hen was frightened，and screamed，and spread outher wings over the little brood．then the girl's fathercame out and scolded her；and i glided away and thoughtno more of the matter．
"but this evening，only a few minutes ago，ilooked down into the same courtyard．everything wasquiet．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 hens and chick－ens．they cried out loudly，and came fluttering downfrom their perches，and ran about in dismay，and thelittle girl ran after them．i saw it quite plainly，for ilooked through a hole in the hen－house wall．i was an-gry with the wilful child，and felt glad when her fathercame out and scolded her more violently than yesterday，holding her roughly by the arm：she held down herhead，and her blue eyes were full of large tears．'whatare you about here？'he asked．she wept and said，' iwanted to kiss the hen and beg her pardon for frighten－ing her yesterday；but i was afraid to tell you．'
"and the father kissed the innocent child's foreheadand i kissed her on the mouth and eyes．
third evening
"in the narrow street round the corner yonder—it isso narrow that my beams can only glide for minute alongthe walls of the house，but in that minute i see enough tolearn what the world is made of—in that narrow street isaw a woman．sixteen years ago that woman was a child，playing in the garden of the old parsonage in the country．the hedges rose bushes were old，and the flowers werefaded．they straggled wild over the paths，and the raggedbranches grew up among the boughs of the apple-trees；here and there were a few roses still in bloom—not so fairas the queen of flowers generally appears，but still they hadcolour and too．the clergyman's little daughter ap-peared to me a far lovelier rose，as she sat on her stool un－der the straggling hedge，hugging and caressing her dollwith the battered pasteboard cheeks．
"ten years afterwards i saw her again．i beheld herin a splendid ball－room：she was the beautiful bride of arich merchant．i rejoiced at her happiness，and sought heron calm quiet evenings—ah，nobody thinks of my cleareye and my sure glance！alas！my rose ran wild，like therose bushes in the garden of the parsonage．there aretragedies in everyday life，and tonight i saw the last act ofone．
"she was lying in bed in a house in that narrowstreet；she was sick unto death，and the cruel landlordcame up，and tore away the thin coverlet，her only protec－tion against the cold．' get up！'said he；' your face isenough to frighten one．get up dress yourself．give memoney，or i'll turn you out into the street！quick—getup！'she answered，' alas！death is gnawing at my heart．let me rest．'but he forced her to get up and bathe herface，and put a wreath of roses in her hair；and he placedher in a chair at the window，with a candle burning besideher，and went away．
"i looked at her，and she was sitting motionless，withher hands in her lap．the wind caught the open windowand shut it with a crash，so that a pane came clatteringdown in fragments；but still she never moved．the cur-tain fluttered like a flame about her；she was dead．there at the window sat the dead woman，preacthing asermon against sin—my poor faded rose out of the par－sonage garden！"
fourth evening
"last evening i saw a german play acted，"said themoon．
"it was in a little town．a stable had been turnedinto a theatre；that is to say，the stalls had been leftstanding，and had been turned into private boxes，and allthe timber－work had been covered with coloured paper．alittle iron chandelier hung beneath the ceiling，and that itmight be made to disappear into the ceiling，as it does ingreat theatres，when the ting—ting of the prompter'sbell is heard，a great inverted tub had been placed justabove it．
"' ting－ting！'and the little iron chandelier sud-denly rose at least half a yard and disappeared in the tub；and that was the sign that the play was going to begin．ayoung nobleman and his lady，who happened to be pass－ing through the little town，were present at the perfor－mance，and consequently the house was crowded．but un-der 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 everythiing，for it was so warm in therethat every loophole had been opened．the male and fe-male servants stood outside，peeping through the chinks，although the policeman was inside，threatening them witha stick．close by the orchestra could be seen the nobleyoung couple in two old arm-chairs，which were usuallyoccupied by his worship the mayor and his lady；but theselatter were today obliged to content themselves with wood－en forms，just as if they had been ordinary citizens；andthe lady observed quietly to herself，'one sees，now，that there is rank above rank；'and this incident gave anair of extra festivity to the whole proceedings．the chan－delier gave little leaps，the crowd got their knucklesrapped，and i，the moon，was present at the performancefrom beginning to end．"
hifth evening
"yesterday，"began the moon，"i looked down uponthe turmoil of paris．my eye penetrated into an apartmentof the louvre．an old grandmother，poorly clad—she be－longed to the working class—was following one of the un－der－servants into the great empty throne－room，for this wasthe apartment she wanted to see—that she was resolved tosee；it had cost her many a little sacrifice and many acoaxing word to penetrate thus far．she folded her thinhands，and looked round with an air of reverence，as if shehad been in a church．
"' here it was ！'she said，' here！'and she ap-proached the throne，from which hung the rich velvetfringed with gold lace．' there ，'she exclaimed，' there！'and she knelt and kissed the purple carpet．i think she wasactually weeping．
'but it was not this very velvet！'observed the foot-man，'and a smile played about his mouth．
"'true，but it was this very place，'replied the wom－an，and it must have looked just like this．'
"'it looked so，and yet it did not，'observed theman：'the windows were beaten in，and the doors were offtheir hinges，and there was blood upon the floor．'
"'but for all that you can say，my grandson died up－on the throne of france．''died！'mournfully repeated theold woman．
"i do not think another word was spoken，and theysoon quitted the hall．the evening twilight faded，and mylight shone doubly vivid upon the rich velvet that coveredthe throne of france．
"now，who do you think this poor woman was？lis－ten，i will tell you a story．
"it happened in the revolution of july，on the
evening of the most brilliantly victorious day，when everyhouse was a fortress，every window a breastwork．thepeople stormed the tuileries．even women and childrenwere to be found among the combatants．they penetratedinto the apartments and halls of the palace．a poor half-grown boy in a ragged blouse fought among the older in－surgents．mortally wounded with several bayonet thrusts，he sank down．this happened in the throne－room．theylaid the bleeding youth upon the throne of france，wrapped the velvet round his wounds，and his bloodstreamed forth upon the impenrial purple．there was pic－ture！the splendid hall，the fighting groups！a torn flaglay upon the ground，the tricolour was waving above thebayonets，and on the throne lay the poor lad with the paleglorified 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 vel－vet embroidered with silver lilies．at the boy's cradle aprophecy had been spoken：'he will die on the throne of france！'the mother's heart had fondly imagined asecond napoleon．
my beams have kissed the wreath of immortelles onhis grave，and this night they kissed the forehead of theold grandame，while in a dream the picture floated beforeher which thou mayest draw—the poor boy on the throneof france．"
sixth evening
"i've been in upsala，"said the moon："i lookeddown upon the great plain covered with coarse grass，andupon the barren fields．i mirrored my face in the fyrisriver，while the steamboat scared the fish into the rushes．beneath me floated the clouds，throwing long shadows onthe so－called graves of odin，thor，and frey．in thescanty turf that covers the grave－mounds，names havebeen cut．there is no monument here，no memorial onwhich the traveller can have his name carved，no rockywall on whose surface he can get painted；so visitorshave the turf cut away for that purpose．the naked earthpeers through in the form of great letters and names；these form a network over the whole hill．here is an im－mortality，which lasts till the fresh turf grows！
"up on the hill stood a man，a poet．he emptiedthe mead horn with the broad silver rim，and murmured aname．he begged the winds not to betray him，but i
heard the name．i knew it．a count's coronet sparklesabove it，and therefore he did not speak it out．i smiled，for i knew that a poet's crown adorned his own name．the nobility of eleanora d'este is attached to the name oftasso．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 offirs and beeches，and fresh and fragrant is this wood；hun－dreds of nightingales visit it every spring．close beside it isthe sea，the ever－changing sea，and between the two isplaced the broad high road．one carriage after another rollsover it；but i did not follow them，for my eye loves best torest upon one point．a grave－mound stands there，and thesloe and blackberry grow luxuriantly among the stones．here is true poetry in nature．
"and how do you think men appreciate this poetry？iwill tell you what i heard there last evening and during thenight．
"first，two rich landed proprietors came driving by．'those are glorious！'said the first．'certainly thereare ten loads of firewood in each，'observed the other：'it will be a hard winter，and last year we got fourteendollars a load'—and they were gone．'the road here iswretched，'observed another man who drove past．'that'sthe fault of those horrible trees，'replied his neighbour；'there is no free current of air；the wind can only comefrom the sea'—and they were gone．the stage coachwent rattling past．all the passengers were asleep at thisbeautiful spot．the postilion blew his horn，but he onlythought，'i can play capitally．it sounds well here．iwonder if those in there like it？'—and the stage coachvanished．then two young fellows came gallopping up onhorseback．there's youth and spirit in the blood here！thought i；and，indeed，they looked with a smile at themoss－grown hill and thick forest．'i should not dislike awalk here with the miller's christine，'said one—andthey flew past．
"the flowers scented the air；every breath of air washushed：it seemed as if the sea were a part of the sky thatstretched above the the deep valley．a carriage rolled by．sixpeople were sitting in it．four of them were asleep；thefifth was thinking of his new summer coat，which wouldsuit him admirably；the sixth turned to the coachman and asked him if there were anything remarkable connectedwith yonder heap of stones．'no，'replied the coachman，'it's only a heap of stones；but the trees are remark-able．'' how so？'' why，i'll tell you how they are veryremarkable．you see，in winter，when the snow lies verydeep，and has hidden the whole road so that nothing is tobe seen，those trees serve for a landmark．i steer bythem，so as not to drive into the sea；and you see that iswhy the trees are remarkable．'
"now came a painter．he spoke not a word，but hiseyes sparkled．he began to whistle．at this the nightin－gales sang louder than ever．'hold your tongues！'hecried，testily；and he made accurate notes of all thecolours and transition—blue，and lilac，and dark brown．'that will make a beautiful picture，'he said．he took itin just as a mirror takes in a view；and as he workedhe whistled a march of rossini's．and last of all came apoor girl．she laid aside the burden she carried and satdown to rest by the grave－mound．her pale handsomeface was bent in a listening attitude towards the forest．her eyes brightened，she gazed earnestly at the sea andthe sky，her hands were folded，and i think she prayed，'our father．'she herself could not understand thefeeiling that swept through her，but i know that thisminute and the beautiful natural scene will live within hermemory for year，far more vividly and more truly thanthe painter could portray it with his colours on paper．myrays followed her till the morning dawn kissed her brow．"
eighth evening
heavy clouds obscured the sky，and the moon didnot make his appearance at all．i stood in my little room，more lonely than ever，and looked up at the sky where heought to have shown himself．my thoughts flew far away，up to my great friend，who every evening told me suchpretty tales，and showed me pictures．yes，he has had anexperience indeed．he glided over waters of the del-uge，and smiled on noah's ark just as he lately glanceddowm upon me，and brought comfort and promise of a newworld that was to spring forth from the old．when the chil－dren of israel sat weeping by the waters of babylon，heglanced mournfully between the willows where hung thesilent harps．when romeo climbed the balcony，and thepromise of true love fluttered like a cherub toward heaven，the round moon hung，half－hidden among the dark cy－presses，in the lucid air．he saw the captive giant atst．helena，looking from the lonely rock across the wideocean，while great thoughts swept through his soul．ah！what tales the moon can tell．human life is like a storyto him．
tonight i shall not see thee again，old friend．tonight i can draw no picture of the memories of thyvisit．and，as i looked dreamily towards the clouds，thesky became bright．there was a glancing light，and abeam from the moon fell upon me．it vanished again，and dark clouds flew past；but still it was a greeting，afriendly good－night offered to me by the moon．
ninth evening
the air was clear again．several evenings hadpassed，and the moon was in the first quarter．again hegave me an outline for a sketch．listen to what he toldme．
"i have followed polar bird and the swimmingwhale to the eastern coast of greenland．gaunt ice-cov-ered rocks and dark clouds hung over a valley，wheredwarf willows and bilberry bushes stood clothed in green．the blooming iychnis exhaled sweet odours．my light wasfaint，my face pale as the water－lily that，torn from itsstem，has been drifting for weeks with the tide．thecrown－shaped northern lights burned in the sky．its ringwas broad，and from its circumference the rays shot likewhirling shafts of fire across the whole sky，changing fromgreen to red．the inhabitants of that icy region were as－sembling for dance and festivity；but accustomed to thisglorious spectacle，they scarcely deigned to glance at it．'let us leave the souls of the dead to their ball－play withthe heads of the walruses，'they thought in their supersti－tion，and they turned their whole attention to the song anddance．in the midst of the circle，and divested of his furrycloak，stood a greenlander，with his small drum，and heplayed and sang a song about catching the seal，and thechorus around chimed in with' eia，eia，ah．'and intheir white furs they danced about in the circle，till youmight fancy it was polar bears'ball．
"and now a court of judgement was opened．thosegreenlanders who bad quarrelled stepped fortward，and theoffended person chanted forth the faults of his adversary inan extempore song，turning them sharply into ridicule，tothe sound of the drum and the measure of the dance．thedefendant replied with satire as keen，while the audiencelaughed and gave their verdict．
the rocks heaved，the glaciers melted，and greatmasses of ice and snow came crashing down，shivering tofragments as they fell：it was a glorious greenland summernight．a hundred paces away，under the open tent ofhides，lay a sick man．life still flowed through his warm blood，but still he was to die；he himself felt it，and allwho stood round him knew it also；therefore his wife wasalready sewing round him the shroud of furs，that she mightnot afterwards obliged to touch the dead body．and sheasked，'wilt thou be buried on the rock，in the firm snow？i will deck the spot with thy．kayak，and thy arrows，andthe angekokk shall dance over it．or wouldst thou rather beburied in the sea？''in the sea，'he whispered，and nod－ded with a mournful smile．' yes，it is a pleasant summertent，the sea，'observed the wife．'thousands of sealssport there，the walrus shall lie at thy feet，and the huntwill be safe and merry！'and the yelling children tore theoutspread hide from the window－hole，that the dead manmight be carried to the ocean，the billowy ocean，that hadgiven him food in life，and that now，in death，was to af-ford him a place of rest．for his monument，he had thefloating，ever－changing icebergs，whereon the seal sleeps，while the storm bird flies round their summits．"
tenth evening
"i knew an old maid，" said the moon．"every win－ter she wore a wrapper of yellow satin，and it always re－mained new，and was the only fashion she followed．insummer she always wore the same straw hat，and i verilybelieve the very same grey－blue dress．
"she never went out，except across the street to anold female friend；and in later years she did not even takethis walk，for the old friend was dead．in her solitude myold maid was always busy at the window，which wasadorned in summer with pretty flowers，and in winter withcress，grown upon felt．during the last months i saw herno more at the window，but she was still alive．i knewthat，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，ishall take a longer journey than i have made my whole lifelong．our family vault is six miles from here．i shall becarried there，and shall sleep there among my family andrelatives．'last night a hearse stopped at the house．acoffin was carried out，and then i knew that she wasdead．they placed straw round the coffin，and the hearsedrove away．there slept the quiet old lady，who had notgone out of her house once for the last year．the hearserolled out through the town gate as briskly as if it weregoing for a pleasant excursion．on the high road the pacewas quicker yet．the coachman looked nervously roundevery now and then—i fancy he half expected to see hersitting on the coffin，in her yellow satin wrapper．andbecause he was startled，he foolishly lashed his horses，while he held the reins so tightly that the poor beasts werein a foam！they were young and fiery．a hare jumped across the road and startled them，and they fairly ranaway．"the sober old maid，who had for years and yearsmoved quietly round and round in a dull circle，wasnow，in death，rattled over stock and stone on the pub－lic highway．the coffin in its covering of straw tumbledout of the hearse，and was left on the high road，whilehorses，coachman，and hearse flew off in wild career．the lark rose up carolling from the field，twittering hermorning lay over the coffin，and presently perched uponit，picking with her beak at the straw covering，as thoughshe would tear it up．the lark rose up again，singing gai－ly，and i withdrew behind the red morning clouds．"
eleventh evening
"it was a wedding festival，"said the moon．"songswere sung，toasts were drunk，everything was rich andgrand．the guests departed；it was past midnight．themothers kissed the bride and bridegroom，and i saw thesetwo alone by themselves，though the curtains were drawnalmost quite close．the lamp lit up the cosy chamber．'iam so glad they are all gone now，'he said，and kissedher hands and lips，while she smiled and wept，leaningon his breast as the lotus flower rests on the rushing wa－ters，and they spoke soft and happy words．'sleep sweet－ly，'he said，and she drew the window curtains to oneside．'how beautifully the moon shines，'she said；'look how still and clear it is．'then she put out thelamp，and there was darkness in the room，but my raysbeamed even as his eyes did．womanliness，kiss thou thepoet's harp，when he sings of life's mysteries．"
twelfth evening
"i will give you a picture of pompeii，"said themoon．"i was in the suburb in the street of tombs，as theycall it，where the fair monuments stand，in the spot where，ages ago，the merry youths，their temples bound with rosywreaths，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 dice；and a troop of strangers from beyond the mountains came into the town，accompanied by a sentry．they want- ed 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 foun- tains，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 thun－ dered forth his everlasting hymn，each separate verse of which is called by men an eruption．we went to the tem－ ple 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 cen- turies ago．the stage still stood unchanged，and 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 na- ture herself，namely，the mountains between sorrento 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 van－ ished，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 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．"
thirteenth 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 newspa－ pers．sevral young men were present：the editor himself stood at his desk，and two little books，both by young au－ thors，were to be noticed．'this one has been sent to me，'
said he．'i have not read it yet，but it is nicely got up；
what think you of the contents？''oh，'said the person addressed—he was a poet himself—'it is good enough；a little drawn out；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 alawys 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 judgement．it was he who wrote that nice review of my re- flections on domestic life．we must be lenient towards the young man．'
"'but he is a complete ass！'objected another of the gentlemen．'nothing is in poetry than mediocrity，and he certaily does not go beyond that．'
"' poor fellow！'observed a third，' and his aunt is so happy about him．it was she，mr．editor，who got to－ gether 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 tink so？'
"' yes，all the world declares as much，'replied the poet，' but it has turned out rather wildly．the punctua－ tion of the book，in particular，is very eccentrics．'
"' it will be good for him if we pull him to pieces， and anger him a little，otherwise he will get too good an opinon 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 be 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．'
"'decided talent，'wrote the editor，'with the usual carelessness．that he can write incorrect verses may be seen in page 25，where there are two false quantities．we recommend him to study the ancients，＆c．'
"i went away，"continued the moon，"and looked through the windows in the aunt's house．there sat the be－praised poet，the tame one；all the guests paid homage to him，and he was happy．
"i sought out the other poet，the wild one；him also i found in a great assembly at his patron's，where the tame poet's book was being discussed．
"'i shall read yours also，'said maecenas；'but to speak honestly—you know i never hide my opinion from you—i don't expect much from it，for you are much too wild，too fantastic．but it must be allowed that，as a man，you are highly respectable．'
"a young girl sat in a corner；and she read in a book these words：
'in the dust lies genius and glory but ev'rv－day talent will pay．
it's only the old，old story but the piece is repeated each day．'"
fourteenth evening
the moon said，"beside the woodland path there are two small farm－houses．the doom are low，and some of the windows are quite high，and others close to the ground；and white－thorn and barberry bushes grow around them．the roof of each house is overgrown with moss and with yellow flowers and house-leek．cabbage and potatoes are the only plants in the gardens，but out of the hedge there grows an elder tree，and under this tree sat a little girl，and she sat with her eyes fixed upon the old oak tree between the two huts．
"it was an old withered stem．it had been sawn off at the top，and a stork had built his nest upon it；and he stood in this nest clapping with his beak．a little boy came and stood by the girl's side：they were brother and sister．
"'what are you looking at？'he asked．
"'i'm watching the stork，'she replied：'our neigh- bour told me that he would bring us a little brother or sister today；let us watch to see it come！'
"'the stork brings no such things，'the boy de－ clared，'you may be sure of that．our neighbour told me the same thing，but she laughed when she said it，and so i asked her if she could say．' on my honour'，and she could not；and i know by that that the story about the storks is not true，and that they only tell it to us children for fun．'
"'but where do the babies come from，then？'asked the girl．
"'why，an angel from heaven brings them under his cloak，but no man can see him；and that's why we never know when he brings them．'
"at that moment there was a rustling in the branches of the elder tree，and the children folded their hands and looked at one another：it was certainly the angel coming with the baby．they took each other's hand，and at that moment the door of one of the houses opened，and the neighbour appeared．
"'come in，you two，'she said．'see what the stork has brought．it is a little brother．'
"and the children nodded，for they had felt quite sure already that the baby was come．"
fiftenth evening
"i was gliding over the lüneborg heath，"the moon said．"a lonely hut stood by the wayside，a few scanty bushes grew near it，and a nightingale who had lost his way sang sweetly．he died in the coldness of the night：it was his farewell song that i heard．
"the dawn came glimmering red．i saw a caravan of emigrant peasant families who were bound to bremen or hamburg，there to take ship for america，where fancied prosperity would bloom for them．the mothers carried their little children at their backs，the elder ones skipped by their sides，and a poor starved horse tugged at a cart that bore their scanty effects．the cold wind whistled，and therefore the little girl nestled closer to the mother，who， looking up at my decreasing disk，thought of the bitter want at home，and spoke of the heavy taxes they had not been able to raise．the whole caravan thought of the same thing；
therefore the rising dawn seemed to them a message from the sun，of fortune that was to gleam brightly upon them．
they heard the dying nightingale sing：it was no false prophet，but a harbinger of fortune．the wind whistled， therefore they did not understand that the nightingale sang， 'far away over the sea！thou hast paid the long passage with all that was thine，and poor and helpless shalt thou enter canaan．thou must sell thyself，thy wife，and thy children．but your griefs shall not last long．behind the broad fragrant leaves lurks the goddess of death，and her welcome kiss shall breathe fever into thy blood．fare away， fare away，over the heaving billows．'and the caravan lis- tened well pleased to the song of the nightingale，which seemed to promise good fortune．day broke through the light clouds；country people went across the heath to church：the black－gowned women with their white head- dresses looked like ghosts that had stepped forth from the church pictures．all around lay a wide dead plain，covered with faded brown heath，and black charred spaces between the white sand－hills．the women carried hymn books，and walked into the church．oh，pray，pray for those who are wandering to find graves beyond the foaming billows．"
sixteenth evening
"i know a punchinello，"the moon told me．"the pubic applaud vociferously directly they see him．every one of his movements is comic，and is sure to throw the house into convulsions off laughter；and yet there is no art in it all—it is complete nature．when he was yet a little boy，playing about with other boys，he was already punch．nature had intended him for it，and had provided him with a hump on his back，and another on his breast；but his in－ ward man，his mind，on the contrary，was richly fur－ nished．no one could surpass him in depth of feeling or in readiness of intellect．the theatre was his ideal world．if he had possessed a slender well－shapea figure，he might have been the first tragedian on any stage；the heroic，the great，filled his soul；and yet he had to become a punchinello．his very sorrow and melancholy did but in－ crease the comic dryness of his sharply－cut features，and increased the laugher of the audience，who showered plau－ dits on their favourite．the lovely columbine was indeed kind and cordial to him；but she preferred to marry the harlequin．it would have been too ridiculous if beauty and the beast had in reality paired together．
"when punchinello was in very bad spirits，she was the only one who could force a smile or even a hearty burst of laughter from him：first she would be melancholy with him，then quieter，and at last quite cheerful and hap－ py．'i know very well what is the matter with you，'she said；'yes，you're in love！'and he could not help laughing．'i in love！'he cried，'that would have an absurd look．how the public would shout！''certainly， you are in love，'she continued；and added with a com- ic pathos，'and i am the person you are in love with．'
you see，such a thing may be said when it is quite out of the question—and indeed，punchinello burst out laughing，and gave a leap into the air，and his melan－ choly was forgotten．
"and yet she had only spoken the truth．he did love her，love her adoringly，as he loved what was great and lofty in art．at her wedding he was the merriest among the guests，but in the stillness of night he wept：
if the public had seen his distorted face then，they would have applauded rapturously．
"and a few days ago，columbine died．on the day of the funeral，harlequin was not required to show him－ self on the boards，for he was a disconsolate widower．the director had to give a very merry piece，that the public might not too painfully miss the pretty columbine and the agile harlequin．therefore punchinello had to be more boisterous and extravagant than ever；and he danced and capered，with despair in his heart；and the audience yelled，and shouted，'bravo！bravissimo！'punchinello was called before the curtain．he was pro－ nounced inimitable．
"but last night the hideous little fellow went out of the town，quite alone，to the deserted churchyard．the wreath of flowers on columbine's grave was already fad－ ed，and he sat down there．it was a study for a painter．as he sat with his chin on his hands，his eyes turned up towards me，he looked like a grotesque monument—a punch on a grave—peculiar and whimsical！if the people could have seen their favourite，they would have cried as usual，'bravo，punchinello！bravo， bravissimo！'"
seventeenth evening
hear what the moon told me．"i have seen the cadet who had just been made an officer put on his handsome uniform for the first time；i have seen the young girl in her ball－dress，and the prince's young wife happy in her gorgeous robes；but never have i seen a felicity equal to that of a little girl of four years old，whom i watched this evening．she had received a new blue dress and a new pink hat；the splendid attire had just been put on，and all were calling for a candle，for my rays，shining in through the windows of the room，were not bright enough for the occasion，and further illumination was required．
there stood the little maid，stiff and upright as a doll， her arms stretched painfully straight out away from the dress，and her fingers apart；and，oh，what happiness beamed from her eyes and from her whole countenance！
'tomorrow you shall go out in your new clothes，'said her mother；and the little one looked up at her hat and down at her frock，and smiled brightly．'mother，'she cried，'what will the little dogs think when they see me in these splendid new things？'"
eighteenth evening
"i have spoken to you of pompeii，"said the moon；
"that corpse of a city，exposed in the view of living towns：
i know another sight still more strange，and this is not the corpse，but the spectre of a city．whenever the jetty foun－ tains splash into the marble basins，they seem to me to be telling the story of the floating city．yes，the spouting wa－ ter may tell of her，the waves of the sea may sing of her fame！on the surface of the ocean a mist often rests，and that is her widow's veil．the bridegroom of the sea is dead，his palace and his city are his mausoleum！dost thou know this city？she has never heard the rolling of wheels or the hoof－tread of horses in her streets，through which the fish swim，while the black gondola glides spectrally over the green water．i will show you the place，"continued the moon，"the largest square in it，and you will fancy yourself transported into the city of a fairy tale．the grass grows rank among the broad flagstones，and in the morning twilight thousands of tame pigeons flutter around the solitary lofty tower．on three sides you find yourself surrounded by cloistered walks．in these the silent turk sits smoking his long pipe；the handsome greek leans against the pillar，and gazes at the upraised trophies and lofty masts，memorials of power that is gone．the flags hang down like mourning scarves．a girl rests there：she has put down her heavy pails filled with water，the yoke with which she has carried them rests on one of her shoulders，and she leans against the mast of victory．
"that is not a fairy palace you see before you yon－ der，but a church：the gilded domes and shining orbs flash back my beams；the glorious bronze horses up yon－ der have made journeys，like the bronze horse in the fairy tale：they have come hither，and gone hence，and have returned again．
"do you notice the variegated splendour of the walls and windows？it looks as if genius had followed the caprices of a child，in the adornment of these singu－ lar temples．do you see the winged lion on the pillar？
the gold glitters still，but his wings are tired—the lion is dead，for the king of the sea is dead；the great halls stand desolate，and where gorgeous paintings hung of yore，the naked wall now peers through．
"the beggar sleeps under the arcade，whose pave- ment in old times was trodden only by the feet of the high nobility．from the deep wells，and perhaps from the prisons by the bridge of sighs，rise the accents of woe，as at the time when the tambourine was heard in the gay gondolas，and the golden ring was cast from the bucentaur to adria，the queen of the seas．adria！
shroud thyself in mists；let the veil of thy widowhood shroud thy form，and clothe in the weeds of woe the mausoleum of thy bridegroom—the marble，spectral venice！"
nineteenth evening
"i looked down upon a great theatre，"said the moon．"the house was crowded，for a new actor was to make his first appearance that night．my rays glided over a little window in the wall，and i saw a painted face with the forehead pressed against the panes．it was the hero of the evening．the knightly curled crisply about the chin；but there were tears in the man's eyes，for he had been hissed off，and indeed with reason．the poor inca- pable！but incapables cannot be admitted into the empire of art．he had deep feeling，and loved his art enthusias－ tically，but the art loved not him．the prompter's bell sounded；' the hero enters with a determined air，'so ran the stage direction in his part，and he had to appear be－ fore an audience who turned him into ridicule．when the piece was over，i saw a form wrapped in a mantle creep－ ing down the steps：it was the vanquished knight of the evening．the scene—shifters whispered to one another， and i followed the poor fellow home to his room．to hang oneself is to die a mean death，and poison is not always at hand，i know；but he thought of both．i saw how he looked at his face in the glass，with eyes half
closed，to see if he should look well as a corpse．a man may be very unhappy，and yet exceedingly affected．he thought of death，of suicide；i believe he pitied himself， for he wept bitterly；and when a man has had his cry out he doesn't kill himself．
"since that time a year had rolled by．again a play was to be acted，but in a little theatre，and by a poor strolling company．again i saw the well-remembered face， with the painted cheeks and the crisp beard．he looked up at me and smiled and yet he had been hissed off only a minute before—hissed off from a wretched theatre by a miserable audience．and tonight a shabby hearse rolled out of the town gate．it was a suicide—our paint- ed，despised hero．the driver of the hearse was the only person present，for no one followed except my beams．
in a corner of the churchyard the corpse of the suicide was shovelled into the earth，and nettles will soon be rankly growing over his grave，and the sexton will throw thorns and weeds from the other graves upon it．"
twentieth evening
"i come rome，"said the moon．"in the midst of the city，upon one of the seven hills，lie the ruins of the imperial palace．the wild fig-tree grows in the clefts of the wall，and covers the nakedness thereof with its broad grey-green leaves；trampling among heaps of rubbish，the ass treads upon green laurels，and re- joices over the rank thistles．from this spot，whence the eagles of rome once flew abroad，whence they'came， saw，and conquered，'a door leads into a little mean house，built of clay between two broken marble pillars；
the wild vine hangs like a mourning garland over the crooked window．an old woman and her little grand- daughter live there：they rule now in the palace of the caesars，and show to strangers the remains of its past glories．of the splendid throne-room only a naked wall yet stands，and a black cypress throws its dark shadow on the spot where the throne once stood．the earth lies several feet deep on the broken pavement；and the little maiden，now the daughter of the imperial palace，often sits there on her stool when the evening bells ring．the keyhole of the door close by she calls her turret window；
through this she can see half rome，as far as the mighty cupola of st．peter's．
"on this evening，as usual，stillness reigned around；
and in the full beam of my light came the little grand- daughter．on her head she carried an earthen pitcher of antique shape filled with water．her feet were bare，her short frock and her white sleeves were torn．i kissed her pretty round shoulders，her dark eyes，and black shining hair．she mounted the stairs；they were steep，having been made up of rough blocks of broken marble and the capital of a fallen pillar．the coloured lizards slipped away，star- tled，from before her feet，but she was not frightened at them．already she lifted her hand to pull the doorbell—a hare's foot fastened to a string formed the bell-handle of the imperial palace．she paused for a moment—of what might she be thinking？perhaps of the beautiful christ- child，dressed in gold and silver，which was down below in the chapel，where the silver candlesticks gleamed so bright，and where her little friends sang the hymns in which she also could join？i know not．presently she moved again—she stumbled；the earthen vessel fell from her head，and broke on the marble steps．she burst into tears．
the beautiful daughter of the imperial palace wept over the worthless broken pitcher；with her bare feet she stood there weeping，and dared not pull the string，the bell-rope of the imperial palace！"
twenty-first eventing
it was more than a fortnight since the moon had shone．now he stood once more，round and bright，above the clouds，moving slowly onward．hear what the moon told me．
"from a town in fezzan i followed a caravan．on the margin of the sandy desert，in a salt plain，that shone like a frozen lake，and was only covered in spots with light drifting sand，a halt was made．the eldest of the compa- ny—the water-gourd hung at his girdle，and by his head lay—a little bag of unleavened bread—drew a square in the 1336 sand with his staff，and wrote in it a few words out of the koran，and then the whole caravan passed over the conse- crated spot．a young merchant，a child of the east，as i could tell by his eye and his figure，rode pensively for- ward on his white snorting steed．was he thinking，per- chance，of his fair young wife？it was only two days ago that the camel，adorned with furs and with costly shawls， had carried her，the beauteous bride，round the walls of the city，while drums and cymbals had sounded，the women sang，and festive shots，of which the bridegroom fired the greatest number，resounded round the camel；
and now he was journeying with the caravan across the desert．
"for many nights i followed the train．i saw them rest by the well-side among the stunted palms；they thrust the knife into the breast of the camel that had fallen，and roasted its flesh by the fire．my beams cooled the glowing sands，and showed them the black rocks，dead islands in the immense ocean of sand．no hostile tribes met them in their pathless route，no storms arose，no columns of sand whirled destruction over the journeying caravan．at home the beautiful wife prayed for her husband and her father．
'are they dead？'she asked of my golden crescent；'are they dead？'she cried to my full disk．now the desert lies behind them．this evening they sit beneath the lofty palm-trees，where the crane flutters round them with its long wings，and the pelican watches them from the branches of the mimosa．the luxuriant herbage is tram- pled down，crushed by the feet of elephants．a troop of negroes are returning from a market in the interior of the land；the women，with copper buttons in their black hair， and decked out in clothes dyed with indigo，drive the heavily-laden oxen，on whose backs slumber the naked black children．a negro leads by a string a young lion which he has bought．they approach the caravan；the young merchant sits pensive and motionless，thinking of his beautiful wife，dreaming，in the land of the blacks，of his white fragrant lily beyond the desert．he raises his head，and—"
but at this moment a cloud passed before the moon， and then another．i heard nothing more from him that evening．
twenty-second evening
"i saw a little girl weeping，"said the moon："she was weeping over the depravity of the world．she had re- ceived a most beautiful doll as a present．oh，that was a glorious doll，so fair and delicate！she did not seem creat- ed for the sorrows of this world．but the brothers of the lit- tle girl，those great naughty boys，had set the doll high up in the branches of a tree，and had run away．
"the little girl could not reach up to the doll，and could not help her down，and that is why she was crying．
the doll must certainly have been crying too，for she stretched out her arms among the green branches，and looked quite mournful．yes，these are the troubles of life of which the little girl had often heard tell．alas，poor doll！it began to grow dark already；and night would soon come on！was she to be left sitting there alone on the bough all night long？no，the little maid could not make up her mind to that．'i'll stay with you，'she said，al- though she felt anything but happy in her mind．she could almost fancy distinctly saw little gnomes，with their high-crowned hats，sitting in the bushes；and farther back in the long walk，tall spectres appeared to be dancing．
they came nearer and nearer，and stretched out their hands towards the tree on which the doll sat；they laughed scorn- fully，and pointed at her with their fingers．oh，how frightened the little maid was！'but if one has not done anything wrong，'she thought，'nothing evil can harm one．
i wonder if i have done anything wrong？'and she consid- ered．'oh，yes！i laughed at the poor duck with the red rag on her leg；she limped along so funnily，i could not help laughing；but it's a sin to laugh at animal．'and she looked up at the doll．'did you laugh at animals？'she asked；and it seemed as if the doll shook her head．"
twenty-third evening
"i looked down on tyrol，"said the moon，"and my 1338 beams caused the dark pines to throw long shadows upon
the rocks．i looked at the pictures of st．christopher carrying the infant jesus that are painted there upon the walls of the houses，colossal figures reaching from the ground to the roof．st．florian was represented pouring water on the burning house，and the lord hung bleeding on the great cross by the wayside．to the present gener- ation these are old pictures，but i saw when they were put up，and marked how one followed the other．on the brow of the mountain yonder is perched，like a swallow 's nest，a lonely convent of nuns．two of the sisters stood up in the tower tolling the bell；they were both young， and the therefore their glances flew over the mountain out into the world．a travelling coach passed by below，the
postilion wound his horn，and the poor nuns looked after the carriage for a moment with a mournful glance，and a tear gleamed in the eyes of the younger one．and the horn sounded faintly and more faint，and the convent bell drowned its expiring echoes．"
twenty-fourth evening
hear what the moon told me．"some years ago，here in copenhagen，i looked through the window of a mean little room．the father and mother slept，but the little son was awake．i saw the flowered cotton curtains of the bed move，and the child peep forth．at first i thought he was looking at the great clock，which was gaily painted in red and green．at the top sat a cuckoo，below hung the heavy leaden weights，and the pendulum with the polished disk of metal went to and fro，and said，'tick，tick．'but no，he was not looking at the clock，but at his mother's spinning－wheel，that stood just underneath it．
that was the boy's favourite piece of furniture，but he dared not touch it，for if he meddled with it he got a rap on the knuckles．for hours together，when his mother was spinning，he would sit quietly by her side，watching the whirring spindle and the revolving wheel，and as he sat he thought of many things．oh，if he might only turn， the wheel himself！father and mother were asleep：he looked at them，and looked at the spinning－wheel，and presently a little naked foot peeped out of the bed，and then a second foot，and then two little white legs．there he stood．he looked round once more，to see if father and mother were still asleep，—yes，they slept；and now he crept softly，softly，in his short little nightgown，to the spinning－wheel，and began to spin．the thread flew from the wheel，and the wheel whirled faster and faster．i kissed his fair hair and his blue eyes，it was such a pretty picture．
"at that moment the mother awoke．the curtain shook；she looked forth，and fancied she saw a gnome or some other kind of little spectre．'in heaven's name！'
she cried，and aroused her husband in a frightened way．
he opened his eyes，rubbed them with his hands，and looked at the brisk little lad．' why，that is bertel，'said he．and my eye quitted the poor room，for i have so much to see．at the same moment i looked at the halls of the vatican，where the marble gods are enthroned．i shone upon the group of the laocoon；the stone seemed to sigh．i pressed a silent kiss on the lips of the muses，and they seemed to stir and move．but my rays lingered longest about the nile group with the colossal god．lean- ing against the sphinx，he lies there thoughtful and medi－ tative，as if he were thinking on the rolling centuries；
and little love－gods sport with him and with the crocodiles．in the horn of plenty sits with folded arms a little tiny love－god contemplating the great solemn river- god，a true picture of the boy at the spinning-wheel—the features were exactly the same．charming and lifelike stood the little marble form，and yet the wheel of the year has turned more than a thousand times since the time when it sprang forth from the stone．just as often as the boy in the little room turned the spinning－wheel had the great wheel murmured，before the age could again call forth marble gods equal to those he afterwards formed．
"years have passed since all this happened，"the moon went on to say．"yesterday i looked upon a bay on the eastern coast of denmark．glorious woods are there， and high banks，an old knightly castle with red walls， swans floating in the ponds，and in the background ap－ pears，among orchards，a little town with a church．many boats，the crews all furnished with torches，glided over the silent expanse—but these fires had not been kindled for catching fish，for everything had a festive look．music sounded，a song was sung，and in one of the boats a man stood erect，to whom homage was paid by the rest，a tall sturdy man，wrapped in a cloak．he had blue eyes and long white hair．i knew him，and thought of the vatican， and of the group of the nile，and the old marble gods．i thought of the simple little room where little bertel sat in his nightshirt by the spinning－wheel．the wheel of time has turned，and new gods have come forth from the stone．
from the boats there arose a shout：'hurrah！hurrah for bertel thorwaldsen！'"
twenty-fifth evening
"i will now give you a picture from frankfort，"
said the moon．"i especially noticed one building there．
it was not the house in which goethe was born，nor the old council house，through whose greated windows peered the horns of the oxen that were roasted and given to the people when the emperors were crowned．no，it was a pri－ vate house，plain in appearance，and paited green．it stood at the corner of the narrow jews'street．it was roth－ schild's house．
"i looked through the open door．the staircase was brilliantly lighted：servants carrying wax candles in massive silver candlesticks stood there，and bowed low before an aged woman，who was being brought downstairs in a litter．
the proprietor of the house stood bareheaded，and respect－ fully imprinted a kiss on the hand of the old woman．she was his mother．she nodded in a friendly manner to him and to the servants，and they carried her into the dark nar－ row street，into a little house that was her dwelling．here her children had been born，from hence the fortune of the family had arisen．if she deserted the despised street and the little house，fortune would perhaps desert her children．
that was her firm belief．"
the moon told me no more；his visit this evening was far too short．but i thought of the old woman in the narrow despised street．it would have cost her but a word，and a brilliant house would have arisen for her on the banks of the thames—a word，and a villa would have been pre- pared in the bay of naples．
"if i deserted the lowly house，where the fortunes of my sons first began to bloom，fortune would desert them！"
it was a superstition，but a superstition of such a class， that he who knows the story and has seen this picture， need have only two words placed under the picture to make him understand it；and these two words are："a mother．"
twenty-sixth evening
"it was yesterday，in the morning twilight"—these are the words the moon told me—"in the great city no chimney was yet smoking—and it was just at the chimneys that i was looking．suddenly a little head emerged from one of them，and then half a body，the arms resting on the rim of the chimney－pot．'hurrah！'cried a voice．i was the little chimney－sweeper，who had for the first time in his life crept through a chimney and stuck out his head at the top．'hurrah！'yes，certainly that was a very dif－ ferent thing from creeping about in the dark narrow chim- neys！the air blew so fresh，and he could look over the whole city toward the green wood．the sun was just ris- ing．it shone round and great，just in his face，that beamed with with triumph，though it was very prettily blacked with soot．
"' the whole town can see me now，'he exclaimed， 'and the moon can see me now，and the sun too．hur－ rah！'and he flourished his broom in triumph．"
twenty－seventh evening
"last night i looked down upon a town in china，"
said the moon．"my beams irradiated
