Some years since, there lived in Portland a worthy shoemaker named Peter
Plunkett. Unpoetical as his name may appear, Peter possessed a vivid
imagination, which, had it been properly cultivated, might have made
him, perchance, a poet or a novelist. As it was, he chiefly employed it
in building air-castles of more than royal magnificence, wherein dwelt
fairies and genii. If there was any book that approached the Bible, in
Peter’s estimation, it was the “Arabian Nights’ Entertainments.” He had a
devout belief in all the marvellous stories which it contains, and often
sighed in secret that it had not been his fortune to live in the days of
that potent monarch,—the Caliph Haroun Al Raschid.
Peter Plunkett’s peculiarity was well known. Indeed, his mind was most
of the time far back in the golden age of fairies, so that he would
sometimes be guilty of amusing mistakes. On one occasion, he addressed
his housekeeper as “Most charming princess!” whereupon the good woman was
led to entertain serious doubts as to his sanity, which, indeed, were not
wholly unreasonable, since, though an excellent cook, she certainly did
not look much like a princess.
Not far from Peter’s shop lived Squire Eveleth, who, being mirthfully
inclined, resolved to take advantage of the worthy shoemaker’s fancies,
and play upon him a practical joke.
Happening into Peter’s shop, he led the conversation to the subject of
genii. “I have sometimes thought,” said he, gravely, “that the fairies
and genii have not yet abandoned the earth, but still continue, invisibly
to us, to exercise an influence over our destinies.”
“So have I,” said Peter, eagerly. “Many a time I have fancied, as I
sat here at work, that I could hear the rushing of their wings as they
circled about me; and I have sometimes invoked them to appear in visible
form; but they never have.”
“Perhaps they will some time,” said the squire, encouragingly. “I wish
you would come and take tea with me to-morrow,” he continued, after a
pause. “I should like to confer with you about these things.”
Consent was readily accorded; and the next afternoon found Peter Plunkett
a guest of the squire. The latter, unperceived, mingled a potion with
Peter’s tea; and the result was that in half an hour he was in a sound
sleep. In this condition, the squire had him conveyed in a carriage to
the depot; and, in a few minutes, they were travelling towards Boston.
They reached the city in the evening; and Peter, still sleeping, was
conveyed to the Revere House, carried to a bed-chamber, and deposited in
bed. Squire Eveleth then retired, and, after leaving a note on the table,
left the house; and, after passing the night at another hotel, returned,
in the morning train, to Portland.
The sun was already high in the heavens when Peter Plunkett awoke. He
gazed, bewildered, at the unwonted appearance of the room, and, jumping
out of bed, walked mechanically to the window.
“Surely this can’t be Portland,” he said to himself, as the towers and
steeples of Boston met his view. “Where am I? What can have happened to
me?”
Turning from the window, his eye rested upon a letter lying upon the
table, addressed to himself.