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“However desirous you might be of undertaking anything, a couple of quick beats of your silly heart would make you tremble; and as for injured reputation, for misfortune, why should a sensible fellow trouble himself with such matters? Did you feel the insult in your head when recently you were called a cheat and swindler? Did your stomach pain you when the sheriff came to turn you out of house and home? Tell me, where were you conscious of pain?”

“In my heart,” answered Peter, laying his hand on his breast; for it seemed to him as though his heart was swinging to and fro unsteadily.

“You have–don’t take it amiss–you have thrown away many hundred guldens on idle beggars and other low fellows; how did that benefit you? They blessed you, and wished you a long life; do you therefore expect to live the longer? For the half of that wasted money you could have employed physicians in your illness. Blessings?–Yes, it’s a fine blessing to have your property seized and yourself put out of doors! And what was it that induced you to put your hand in your pocket whenever a beggar held out his tattered hat?–your heart, once more your heart; and neither your eyes nor your tongue, your arms nor your legs, but your heart. You took it–as the saying is–too much to heart.”

“But how can one train himself so that it would not be so any more? I am exerting myself now to control my heart, and still it beats and torments me.”

“Yes, no doubt you find that the case,” replied the giant, with a laugh. “You, poor fellow, can not manage it at all; but give me the little beating thing, and then you will see how much better off you will be.”

“Give you my heart?” shrieked Peter in terror. “I should certainly die on the spot! No, never!”

“Yes, if one of your learned surgeons was to perform the operation of removing the heart from your body, you would certainly die; but with me it would be quite another thing. Still, come this way, and satisfy yourself.” So saying, he got up, opened a chamber door, and took Peter inside. The young man’s heart contracted spasmodically as he stepped over the sill, but he paid no attention to it, for the sight that met his eyes was strange and surprising. On a row of shelves stood glasses filled with a transparent fluid, and in each of these glasses was a human heart; the glasses were also labeled with names, written on paper slips, and Peter read them with great curiosity. Here was the heart of the magistrate at F., of the Stout Ezekiel, of the King of the Ball, of the head gamekeeper; there were the hearts of six corn factors, of eight recruiting officers, of three scriveners–in short, it was a collection of the most respectable hearts within a circumference of sixty miles.

“Look!” said Dutch Michel. “All these have thrown away the cares and sorrows of life. Not one of these hearts beats anxiously any longer, and their former possessors are glad to be well rid of their troublesome guests.”

“But what do they carry in the breast in place of them?” asked Peter, whose head began to swim at what he had seen.

“This,” answered the giant, handing him, from a drawer, a stone heart.

“What!” exclaimed Peter, as a chill crept over him. “A heart of marble? But look you, Dutch Michel, that must be very cold in the breast.”

“Certainly; but it is an agreeable coolness. Why should a heart be warm? In winter the warmth of it is of no account; good cherry rum you would find a better protection against the cold than a warm heart, and in summer, when you are sweltering in the heat, you can not imagine how such a heart will cool you. And, as I said before, there will be no further anxiety or terror, neither any more silly pity, nor any sorrow, with such a heart in your breast.”