certainly not an obvious change, for it is a foolish fancy to imagine a poet different from other people, for among the latter there may be natures more poetical than those of many an acknowledged poet. The difference is only that the poet has a better spiritual memory: he can hold fast the feeling and the idea until they are embodied clearly and firmly in words; and the others cannot do that. But the transition from an every-day nature to that of a poet is always a transition, and as such it must be noticed in the copying clerk.
'What glorious fragrance!' he cried. 'How it reminds me of the violets at Aunt Laura's! Yes, that was when I was a little boy. I have not thought of that for a long time. The good old lady! She lived over there behind the Exchange. She always had a twig or a couple of green shoots in water, let the winter be as severe as it might. The violets bloomed, while I had to put warm farthings against the frozen window-panes to make peepholes. That was a pretty view. Out in the canal the ships were frozen in, and deserted by the whole crew; a screaming crow was the only living creature left. Then, when the spring breezes blew, it all became lively: the ice was sawn asunder amid shouting and cheers, the ships were tarred and rigged, and then they sailed away to strange lands. I remained here, and must always remain, and sit at the police office, and let others take passports for abroad. That's my fate. Oh, yes!' and he sighed deeply. Suddenly he paused. 'Good heaven! what is come to me? I never thought or felt as I do now. It must be the spring air: it is both charming and agreeable!' He felt in his pockets for his papers. 'These will give me something else to think of,' said he, and let his eyes wander over the first leaf. There he read: 'Dame Sigbrith; an original tragedy in five acts. What is that? And it is my own hand. Have I written this tragedy? The Intrigue on the Promenade; or, the Day of Penance.—Vaudeville. But where did I get that from? It must have been put into my pocket. Here is a letter. Yes, it was from the manager of the theatre; the pieces were rejected, and the letter is not at all politely worded. H'm! H'm!' said the copying clerk, and he sat down upon a bench: his
