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.