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!