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And tales of old, though poor as poor could be;
But all she asked for was this poesy.
Then was I rich, but not in gold, poor me!
As Thou dost know, who all men's hearts canst see.

"Oh, were I rich! Oft asked I for this boon.
The child grew up to womanhood full soon.
She is so pretty, clever, and so kind
Oh, did she know what's hidden in my mind--
A tale of old. Would she to me were kind!
But I'm condemned to silence! oh, poor me!
As Thou dost know, who all men's hearts canst see.

"Oh, were I rich in calm and peace of mind,
My grief you then would not here written find!
O thou, to whom I do my heart devote,
Oh read this page of glad days now remote,
A dark, dark tale, which I tonight devote!
Dark is the future now. Alas, poor me!
Have pity Thou, who all men's pains dost see."

Such verses as these people write when they are in love! But no man in his
senses ever thinks of printing them. Here one of the sorrows of life, in which
there is real poetry, gave itself vent; not that barren grief which the poet
may only hint at, but never depict in its detail--misery and want: that animal
necessity, in short, to snatch at least at a fallen leaf of the bread-fruit
tree, if not at the fruit itself. The higher the position in which one finds
oneself transplanted, the greater is the suffering. Everyday necessity is the
stagnant pool of life--no lovely picture reflects itself therein. Lieutenant,
love, and lack of money--that is a symbolic triangle, or much the same as the
half of the shattered die of Fortune. This the lieutenant felt most
poignantly, and this was the reason he leant his head against the window, and
sighed so deeply.

"The poor watchman out there in the street is far happier than I. He knows not
what I term privation. He has a home, a wife, and children, who weep with him
over his sorrows, who rejoice with him when he is glad. Oh, far happier were
I, could I exchange with him my being--with his desires and with his hopes
perform the weary pilgrimage of life! Oh, he is a hundred times happier than
I!"

In the same moment the watchman was again watchman. It was the shoes that
caused the metamorphosis by means of which, unknown to himself, he took upon
him the thoughts and feelings of the officer; but, as we have just seen, he
felt himself in his new situation much less contented, and now preferred the
very thing which but some minutes before he had rejected. So then the watchman
was again watchman.

"That was an unpleasant dream," said he; "but 'twas droll enough altogether. I
fancied that I was the lieutenant over there: and yet the thing was not very
much to my taste after all. I missed my good old mother and the dear little
ones; who almost tear me to pieces for sheer love."

He seated himself once more and nodded: the dream continued to haunt him, for
he still had the shoes on his feet. A falling star shone in the dark
firmament.

"There falls another star," said he: "but what does it matter; there are

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