its church buried among apple trees. A procession of boats with blazing torches glided over the smooth waters; these torches were not lighted for spearing eels. No, it was a great festivity; there were sounds of music and singing, and in one of the boats stood the object of all the homage. He was a tall powerful man wrapped in a cloak; he had blue eyes and long white hair. I knew him and thought of the Vatican and the Nile group among all the sculptured gods. Then I thought of the poor little room; I believe it was in 'Grönné-gade' where little Bertel sat spinning in his little shirt. The wheel of time had been turning and new gods have arisen from the marble since then. From the boats came 'Hurrah, hurrah, for Bertel Thorwaldsen!'"
TWENTY-FIFTH EVENING
"I will give you a picture from Frankfort," said the moon. "I looked at one building in particular. It was not Goethe's birthplace, nor the old Townhall, where through the grated windows may still be seen the horns of the oxen which were roasted and given to the people at the coronation of the Emperor. No, it was a burgher's house I looked at; it was painted green and was quite plain; it stood at the corner of the narrow Jew's street. It was Rothschild's house. I looked in through the open door; the staircase was brightly lighted; footmen stood there holding burning lights in massive silver candlesticks, bending low before the old woman who was being carried down in a carrying-chair. The owner of the house stood with bared head and pressed a respectful kiss upon her hand. She was his mother; she nodded kindly to him and the footmen, and they carried her into a little house in the dark narrow street. Here she lived, here she had borne her children, from here their fortune had blossomed forth. If she now left the little house in the mean street perhaps their luck would leave them. This was her belief."
