“It is a GREat and pleasant thought to know that a shooting star falls upon our graves. On mine certainly none will fall—no sunbeam brings thanks to me， for here there is nothing worthy of thanks. I shall not get the patent lacquer，” said Ole， “for my fate on earth is only grease， after all.”Second Visit

　　IT was New Year's day， and I went up on the tower. Ole spoke of the toasts that were drunk on the transition from the Old Year into the New—from one grave into the other， as he said. And he told me a story about the glasses， and this story had a very deep meaning. It was this：

　　“When on the New Year's night the clock strikes twelve， the people at the table rise up with full glasses in their hands， and drain these glasses， and drink success to the New Year. They begin the year with the glass in their hands； that is a good beginning for drunkards. They begin the New Year by going to bed， and that's a good beginning for drones. Sleep is sure to play a GREat part in the New Year， and the glass likewise. Do you know what dwells in the glass？” asked Ole. “I will tell you. There dwell in the glass， first， health， and then pleasure， then the most complete sensual delight； and misfortune and the bitterest woe dwell in the glass also. Now， suppose we count the glasses—of course I count the different degrees in the glasses for different people.

　　“You see， the first glass， that's the glass of health， and in that the herb of health is found growing. Put it up on the beam in the ceiling， and at the end of the year you may be sitting in the arbor of health.

　　“If you take the second glass—from this a little bird soars upward， twittering in guileless cheerfulness， so that a man may listen to his song， and perhaps join in 'Fair is life！ no downcast looks！ Take courage， and march onward！'

　　“Out of the third glass rises a little winged urchin， who cannot certainly be called an angel child， for there is goblin blood in his veins， and he has the spirit of a goblin—not wishing to hurt or harm you， indeed， but very ready to play off tricks upon you. He'll sit at your ear and whisper merry thoughts to you； he'll creep into your heart and warm you， so that you grow very merry， and become a wit， so far as the wits of the others can judge.

　　“In the fourth glass is neither herb， bird， nor urchin. In that glass is the pause drawn by reason， and one may never go beyond that sign.

　　“Take the fifth glass， and you will weep at yourself， you will feel such a deep emotion； or it will affect you in a different way. Out of the glass there will spring with a bang Prince Carnival， nine times and extravagantly merry. He'll draw you away with him； you'll forget your dignity， if you have any， and you'll forget more than you should or ought to forget. All is dance， song and sound： the masks will carry you away with them， and the daughters of vanity， clad in silk and satin， will come with loose hair and alluring charms； but tear yourself away if you can！

　　“the sixth glass！ Yes， in that glass sits a demon， in the form of a little， well dressed， attractive and very fascinating man， who thoroughly understands you， aGREes with you in everything， and becomes quite a second self to you. He has a lantern with him， to give you light as he accompanies you home. There is an old legend about a saint who was allowed to choose one of the seven deadly sins， and who accordingly chose drunkenness， which appeared to him the least， but which led him to commit all the other six. The man's blood is mingled with that of the demon. It is the sixth glass， and with that the germ of all evil shoots up within us； and each one grows up with a strength like that of the grains of mustard-seed， and shoots up into a tree， and spreads over the whole world： and most people have no choice but to go into the oven， to be re-cast in a new form.

　　“That's the history of the glasses，” said the tower-keeper Ole， “and it can be told with lacquer or only with GREase； but I give it you with both！”Third Visit1

　　ON this occasion I chose the general “moving-day” for my visit to Ole， for on that day it is anything but aGREeable down in the streets in the town； for they are full of sweepings， shreds， and remnants of all sorts， to say nothing of the cast-off rubbish in which one has to wade about. But this time I happened to see two children playing in this wilderness of sweepings. They were playing at “going to bed，” for the occasion seemed especially favorable for this sport. They crept under the straw， and drew an old bit of ragged curtain over themselves by way of coverlet. “It was splendid！” they said； but it was a little too strong for me， and besides， I was obliged to mount up on my visit to Ole.

　　“It's moving-day to day，” he said； “streets and houses are like a dust-bin—a large dust-bin； but I'm content with a cartload. I may get something good out of that， and I really did get something good out of it once. Shortly after Christmas I was going up the street； it was rough weather， wet and dirty—the right kind of weather to catch cold in. The dustman was there with his cart， which was full， and looked like a sample of streets on moving-day. At the back of the cart stood a fir tree， quite GREen still， and with tinsel on its twigs； it had been used on Christmas eve， and now it was thrown out into the street， and the dustman had stood it up at the back of his cart. It was droll to look at， or you may say it was mournful—all depends on what you think of when you see it； and I thought about it， and thought this and that of many things that were in the cart： or I might have done so， and that comes to the same thing. There was an old lady's glove， too： I wonder what that was thinking of？ Shall I tell you？ The glove was lying there， pointing with its little finger at the tree. 'I'm sorry for the tree，' it thought； 'and I was also at the feast， where the chandeliers glittered. My life was， so to speak， a ball night—a pressure of the hand， and I burst！ My memory keeps dwelling upon that， and I have really nothing else to live for！' This is what the glove thought， or what it might have thought. 'That's a stupid affair with yonder fir tree，' said the potsherds. You see， potsherds think everything is stupid. 'When one is in the dust-cart，' they said， 'one ought not to give one's self airs and wear tinsel. I know that I have been useful in the world—far more useful than such a green stick.' This was a view that might be taken， and I don't think it quite a peculiar one； but for all that， the fir tree looked very well： it was like a little poetry in the dust-heap； and truly there is dust enough in the streets on moving-day. The way is difficult and troublesome then， and I feel obliged to run away out of the confusion； or， if I am on the tower， I stay there and look down， and it is amusing enough.

　　“there are the good people below， playing at 'changing houses.' They toil and tug away with their goods and chattels， and the household goblin sits in an old tub and moves with them. All the little griefs of the lodging and the family， and the real cares and sorrows， move with them out of the old dwelling into the new； and what gain is there for them or for us in the whole affair？ Yes， there was written long ago the good old maxim： 'Think on the GREat moving-day of death！' That is a serious thought. I hope it is not disagreeable to you that I should have touched upon it？ Death is the most certain messenger， after all， in spite of his various occupations. Yes， Death is the omnibus conductor， and he is the passport writer， and he countersigns our service-book， and he is director of the savings bank of life. Do you understand me？ All the deeds of our life， the great and the little alike， we put into this savings bank； and when Death calls with his omnibus， and we have to step in， and drive with him into the land of eternity， then on the frontier he gives us our service-book as a pass. As a provision for the journey， he takes this or that good deed we have done， and lets it accompany us； and this may be very pleasant or very terrific. Nobody has ever escaped the omnibus journey. There is certainly a talk about one who was not allowed to go—they call him the Wandering Jew： he has to ride behind the omnibus. If he had been allowed to get in， he would have escaped the clutches of the poets.

　　“Just cast your mind's eye into that GREat omnibus. the society is mixed， for king and beggar， genius and idiot， sit side by side. They must go without their property and money； they have only the service-book and the gift out of the savings bank with them. But which of our deeds is selected and given to us？ Perhaps quite a little one， one that we have forgotten， but which has been recorded—small as a pea， but the pea can send out a blooming shoot. The poor bumpkin who sat on a low stool in the corner， and was jeered at and flouted， will perhaps have his worn-out stool given him as a provision； and the stool may become a litter in the land of eternity， and rise up then as a throne， gleaming like gold and blooming as an arbor. He who always lounged about， and drank the spiced draught of pleasure， that he might forget the wild things he had done here， will have his barrel given to him on the journey， and will have to drink from it as they go on； and the drink is bright and clear， so that the thoughts remain pure， and all good and noble feelings are awakened， and he sees and feels what in life he could not or would not see； and then he has within him the punishment， the gnawing worm， which will not die through time incalculable. If on the glasses there stood written 'oblivion，' on the barrel 'remembrance' is inscribed.

　　“When I read a good book， an historical work， I always think at last of the poetry of what I am reading， and of the omnibus of death， and wonder， which of the hero's deeds Death took out of the savings bank for him， and what provisions he got on the journey into eternity. There was once a French king—I have forgotten his name， for the names of good people are sometimes forgotten， even by me， but it will come back some day；—there was a king who， during a famine， became the benefactor of his people； and the people raised up to his memory a monument of snow， with the inscription， 'Quicker than this melts didst thou bring help！' I fancy that Death， looking back upon the monument， gave him a single snow-flake as provision， a snow-flake that never melts， and this flake floated over his royal head， like a white butterfly， into the land of eternity. Thus， too， there was Louis XI. I have remembered his name， for one remembers what is bad—a trait of him often comes into my thoughts， and I wish one could say the story is not true. He had his lord high constable executed， and he could execute him， right or wrong； but he had the innocent children of the constable， one seven and the other eight years old， placed under the scaffold so that the warm blood of their father spurted over them， and then he had them sent to the Bastille， and shut up in iron cages， where not even a coverlet was given them to protect them from the cold. And King Louis sent the executioner to them every week， and had a tooth pulled out of the head of each， that they might not be too comfortable； and the elder of the boys said， 'My mother would die of grief if she knew that my younger brother had to suffer so cruelly； therefore pull out two of my teeth， and spare him.' The tears came into the hangman's eyes， but the king's will was stronger than the tears； and every week two little teeth were brought to him on a silver plate； he had demanded them， and he had them. I fancy that Death took these two teeth out of the savings bank of life， and gave them to Louis XI， to carry with him on the GREat journey into the land of immortality； they fly before him like two flames of fire； they shine and burn， and they bite him， the innocent children's teeth.

　　“Yes， that's a serious journey， the omnibus ride on the GREat moving-day！ And when is it to be undertaken？ That's just the serious part of it. Any day， any hour， any minute， the omnibus may draw up. Which of our deeds will Death take out of the savings bank， and give to us as provision？ Let us think of the moving-day that is not marked in the calendar.”