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“Good gracious！” he exclaimed； “what in the world has happened to the bishop？ what can he be thinking about？” Then he shook his head and said， “It cannot possibly be the bishop himself.”
While musing on this strange affair， and without looking to the right or left， he walked on through East Street and over Highbridge Place. The bridge， which he supposed led to Palace Square， was nowhere to be found； but instead， he saw a bank and some shallow water， and two people， who sat in a boat.
“Does the gentleman wish to be ferried over the Holm？” asked one.
“To the Holm！” exclaimed the counsellor， not knowing in what age he was now existing； “I want to go to Christian's Haven， in Little Turf Street.” The men stared at him. “Pray tell me where the bridge is！” said he. “It is shameful that the lamps are not lighted here， and it is as muddy as if one were walking in a marsh.” But the more he talked with the boatmen the less they could understand each other.
“I don't understand your outlandish talk，” he cried at last， angrily turning his back upon them. He could not， however， find the bridge nor any railings.
“What a scandalous condition this place is in，” said he； never， certainly， had he found his own times so miserable as on this evening. “I think it will be better for me to take a coach； but where are they？” There was not one to be seen！ “I shall be obliged to go back to the king's new market，” said he， “where there are plenty of carriages standing， or I shall never reach Christian's Haven.” Then he went towards East Street， and had nearly passed through it， when the moon burst forth from a cloud.
“Dear me， what have they been erecting here？” he cried， as he caught sight of the East gate， which in olden times used to stand at the end of East Street. However， he found an opening through which he passed， and came out upon where he expected to find the new market. Nothing was to be seen but an open meadow， surrounded by a few bushes， through which ran a broad canal or stream. A few miserable-looking wooden booths， for the accommodation of Dutch watermen， stood on the opposite shore.
“Either I behold a fata morgana， or I must be tipsy，” groaned the counsellor. “What can it be？ What is the matter with me？” He turned back in the full conviction that he must be ill. In walking through the street this time， he examined the houses more closely； he found that most of them were built of lath and plaster， and many had only a thatched roof.
“I am certainly all wrong，” said he， with a sigh； “and yet I only drank one glass of punch. But I cannot bear even that， and it was very foolish to give us punch and hot salmon； I shall speak about it to our hostess， the agent's lady. Suppose I were to go back now and say how ill I feel， I fear it would look so ridiculous， and it is not very likely that I should find any one up.” Then he looked for the house， but it was not in existence.
“This is really frightful； I cannot even recognize East Street. Not a shop to be seen； nothing but old， wretched， tumble-down houses， just as if I were at Roeskilde or Ringstedt. Oh， I really must be ill！ It is no use to stand upon ceremony. But where in the world is the agent's house. There is a house， but it is not his； and people still up in it， I can hear. Oh dear！ I certainly am very queer.” As he reached the half-open door， he saw a light and went in. It was a tavern of the olden times， and seemed a kind of beershop. The room had the appearance of a Dutch interior. A number of people， consisting of seamen， Copenhagen citizens， and a few scholars， sat in deep conversation over their mugs， and took very little notice of the new comer.
“Pardon me，” said the counsellor， addressing the landlady， “I do not feel quite well， and I should be much obliged if you will send for a fly to take me to Christian's Haven.” The woman stared at him and shook her head. Then she spoke to him in German. The counsellor supposed from this that she did not understand Danish； he therefore repeated his request in German. This， as well as his singular dress， convinced the woman that he was a foreigner. She soon understood， however， that he did not find himself quite well， and therefore brought him a mug of water. It had something of the taste of seawater， certainly， although it had been drawn from the well outside. Then the counsellor leaned his head on his hand， drew a deep breath， and pondered over all the strange things that had happened to him.
“Is that to-day's number of the Day？”2 he asked， quite mechanically， as he saw the woman putting by a large piece of paper. She did not understand what he meant， but she handed him the sheet； it was a woodcut， representing a meteor， which had appeared in the town of Cologne.
“That is very old，” said the counsellor， becoming quite cheerful at the sight of this antique drawing. “Where did you get this singular sheet？ It is very interesting， although the whole affair is a fable. Meteors are easily explained in these days； they are northern lights， which are often seen， and are no doubt caused by electricity.”
Those who sat near him， and heard what he said， looked at him in GREat astonishment， and one of them rose， took off his hat respectfully， and said in a very serious manner， “You must certainly be a very learned man， monsieur.”
“Oh no，” replied the counsellor； “I can only discourse on topics which every one should understand.”
“Modestia is a beautiful virtue，” said the man. “Moreover， I must add to your speech mihi secus videtur； yet in this case I would suspend my judicium”。
“May I ask to whom I have the pleasure of speaking？”
