but sure enough, I never drive any travellers to the Golden Ox but a few Bohemian merchants at fair-time, when I am driving the post-waggon, I believe every body would stare at me for a fool, and one who does not know his business, were I to drive a gentleman like you to the Golden Ox. The whole concern is a ruckle of old walls, and but for a dozen of old fellows who meet there every evening to drink their bottle and have a hand at cards, the landlord of the Ox would have been in prison for debt long ago. But the Blue Angel is quite a different thing. Counts and princes go there, and every thing is to be got at it which money can purchase. Old Weinlich knows how to manage an inn; and then he has got a daughter,—but what a girl! I knew her when she was not the height of my jack-boot, but now she is tall and slim, and straight as a taper,—and there’s not a nicer girl in Klarenburg. Why, upon my honour, I have known travellers go half-a-dozen miles out of their way to see old Weinlich’s daughter, and will you, a fine-looking young gentleman like you, go to the Golden Ox?”
“Well then drive to the Blue Angel!” exclaimed I, quite indignant at being thus made the ball of two rogues, each of whom I firmly believed had some selfish interest in so strenuously advocating the merits of the two rival establishments.
When we turned into the street in which my postillion’s favourite inn was situated, I immediately beheld the Blue Angel, standing between two large lamps, and bearing his own name upon a scroll in his hand; but on stepping from the carriage, a real and living angel stood waiting to receive me with a silver candlestick in her hand, between two other waiters each of whom also bore a light. She however had no need of a scroll with her name on it, for one glance at her mild blue eyes and fresh youthful form was sufficient to inform me that the picture of beauty and innocence which now stood before me could be no other than the fair Florentine whose praises had been spread abroad by so many travellers.
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