hor has some peculiarity in his descriptions or in his style
of writing. Those who do not like him, magnify it, shrug up their
shoulders, and exclaim--there he is again! I, for my part, know very
well how I can bring about this movement and this exclamation. It would
happen immediately if I were to begin here, as I intended to do, with:
"Rome has its Corso, Naples its Toledo"--"Ah! that Andersen; there he is
again!" they would cry; yet I must, to please my fancy, continue quite
quietly, and add: "But Copenhagen has its East Street."

Here, then, we will stay for the present. In one of the houses not far
from the new market a party was invited--a very large party, in order,
as is often the case, to get a return invitation from the others. One
half of the company was already seated at the card-table, the other half
awaited the result of the stereotype preliminary observation of the lady
of the house:

"Now let us see what we can do to amuse ourselves."

They had got just so far, and the conversation began to crystallise,
as it could but do with the scanty stream which the commonplace world
supplied. Amongst other things they spoke of the middle ages: some
praised that period as far more interesting, far more poetical than our
own too sober present; indeed Councillor Knap defended this opinion
so warmly, that the hostess declared immediately on his side, and both
exerted themselves with unwearied eloquence. The Councillor boldly
declared the time of King Hans to be the noblest and the most happy
period.*

* A.D. 1482-1513

While the conversation turned on this subject, and was only for a moment
interrupted by the arrival of a journal that contained nothing worth
reading, we will just step out into the antechamber, where cloaks,
mackintoshes, sticks, umbrellas, and shoes, were deposited. Here sat two
female figures, a young and an old one. One might have thought at first
they were servants come to accompany their mistresses home; but on
looking nearer, one soon saw they could scarcely be mere servants; their
forms were too noble for that, their skin too fine, the cut of their
dress too striking. Two fairies were they; the younger, it is true,
was not Dame Fortune herself, but one of the waiting-maids of her
handmaidens who carry about the lesser good things that she distributes;
the other looked extremely gloomy--it was Care. She always attends to
her own serious business herself, as then she is sure of having it don