The Decameron of the West/The Spectre Barber

by Johann Karl August Musäus

For other English-language translations of this work, see The Spectre-Barber.

NIGHT THIRD.—TALE THIRD.

 

THE YOUNG STUDENT’S TALE.

 

The Spectre Barber.^[1]

PARTIALLY TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF MUSÄUS.

 

Hans von Melchior was the richest merchant in Bremen. When his clergyman chose as the subject of his discourse the character of the rich man in the gospel, Melchior sneeringly stroked his beard, saying inwardly, “In comparison with me he was but a mere retail-dealer.” The largest hall in his house was paved with old silver dollars, which the wily merchant thought was a sure guarantee of his opulence, so that the old dollars served as a species of mercantile speculation, and thereby the owner desired that his wealth should be considered greater than it really was. But the hand of death rudely snatched him from the enjoyment of all his possessions. After a fit of intoxication at a city banquet, a stroke of apoplexy suddenly terminated his career. His only child, by name Francis, now nearly of age, became the sole heir of all that belonged to his deceased parent. This young man was endowed by nature with the most amiable dispositions and excellent talents, but, from too great a simplicity of mind, and a want of suspicion of the motives of others, he soon became a prey to the flattering troop of parasites, who allured him to habits of dissipation, that they themselves might share in the spoils of his extravagance. Though at his father’s death his exchequer was full to the brim, yet his expenditure being such, as that nothing could withstand the constant drain which it underwent, his money and credit, alas! rapidly decreased. Nay, it was now surmised in his native city, that the pavement of old dollars had been erased from their foundation, and that one of variegated marble had been substituted in its stead. No sooner did this rumour become current than all the creditors of Francis rushed eagerly to his house, to ascertain the truth of it. This was speedily done; the quondam silver floor was gone for ever, and it was no consolation to those who were in danger of losing their money, that the master of the mansion had shown better taste than his father, in preferring a pavement of marble-mosaic to one of ancient silver coins. The profuse and thoughtless mode of life in which Francis indulged had completely ruined his fortunes, and all that he could save out of the wreck of former affluence was a few family jewels. He now found himself reduced to the necessity of exchanging his splendid apartments for an obscure lodging in a narrow lane, and to become the boarder of a poor but honest man. The frugal kitchen of his host supplied the mere wants of hunger, yet what could divert the toilsome ennui that pressed now so heavily on his soul! Two hundred years ago, there was none of that cheap periodical literature which now fertilizes the minds of the poorer classes of society, and whose ample stores of knowledge are calculated to enlighten the most cultivated ranks of mankind. He tuned his lute, and endeavoured to draw forth sounds which might haply cheer his solitude, but being no proficient in music, that employment soon wearied him. He next, from his elevated situation in the garret, commenced making observations on the still more elevated sky, and thence drawing conclusions regarding the future state of the weather. However, a more interesting object of attraction suddenly engaged his attention, in the person of a very beautiful young female.

The landlord of Francis informed him that Meta (for such was the girl’s name) earned a subsistence by spinning, her mother also living by the same humble occupation. Neither of the fair spinners was born to indigence. The father of Meta was a wealthy citizen, who traded annually to Antwerp; but, alas! on one of these occasions, the merchant himself, and all the crew on board his vessel, perished, (man and mouse;) his own fortune, as well as money borrowed from others, was expended on a speculation of goods; now for ever sunk in the fathomless ocean. His widow yielded every thing, without reserve, to her late husband’s creditors, and with true independence of spirit, she positively refused all succour from rich relatives; her daughter and she both preferring to maintain themselves by laudable industry. Nevertheless, Mother Brigitta fondly anticipated the day when the sun of prosperity should again arise upon her, and all her hopes of future greatness were founded upon the thought, that the surpassing beauty and amiable virtues of her beloved child would attract the notice of a wealthy suitor, who would forthwith become her son-in-law, and be the means of reinstating her in her former affluence. The lovely Meta, from the first moment that she was seen by Francis, made an impression on his heart never afterwards effaced, and, affected by what he heard of her patient resignation in adversity, and strict purity of conduct, accompanied by the most laborious industry, he now more bitterly than ever grieved for his ruined fortunes, which altogether unfitted him to offer Meta his hand. The fair maiden, on the other hand, was struck by the very handsome exterior of neighbour Francis, who lived directly opposite to her mother’s house. She listened with apparent delight to the notes of his lute, which he observing, cultivated music so sedulously, that in less than a month, Love, out of a mere bungler in the science, had made a second Amphion. But the course of true love never ran straight, and no sooner had Mother Brigitta perceived the rise of this attachment entertained on the part of neighbour Francis for her daughter, than she endeavoured to check its progress, by prohibiting Meta to appear at the window. When the unfortunate lover discovered this, his powers of invention devised a remedy. He sold a diamond ring, and with its proceeds purchased a large mirror; he placed the mirror at his window, and, taking due care to conceal himself, in a few days the lady of his love came as usual to water her flowers, and Francis saw the beloved form of Meta reflected at full length in his enchanting mirror. He also walked near her while she was going to church, but this Mother Brigitta perceiving, ceased altogether to be an inmate of the narrow lane, and the love-lorn swain, in bitter dismay, saw reflected in his mirror only the blocked up windows of an empty house, instead of the features of his mistress. These young persons had only exchanged looks, and not a word had been spoken on either side, yet they were both conscious of entertaining for each other the most deeply cherished affection. In the new neighbourhood towards which Mother Brigitta had dragged her reluctant daughter dwelt a smart widower, the richest brewer in Bremen, known by the name of the “King of Hops.” He was now in quest of a second helpmate, and soon made choice of our heroine. He made proposals to her mother at a time when Meta was absent. His overtures were joyfully accepted, and the worthy dame awaited anxiously her daughter’s arrival to declare her brilliant prospects. In these days the most implicit obedience to the will of their parents was observed on the part of young women in matrimonial unions. Poor Meta’s sorrow at this intelligence if possible exceeded her mother’s joy, and she sunk insensible on the floor of the apartment. Extreme mental suffering produced bodily disease, which threatened to cut short her existence, and her anxious mother now endeavoured to soothe her mind, and restore her to health. Meta recovered her health, so did the “King of Hops” his equanimity, saying, “Why should a saucy, portionless girl cause him any uneasiness, when there were hundreds of lovely maidens in Bremen, who would receive his addresses most favourably?”

The report of the brewer’s rejection spread rapidly through the whole town, and reached the ears of the musician in the narrow lane, who felt extreme delight, and gaily he struck the chords of his lute to a merry allegro.

As for Mother Brigitta, no sooner was her daughter restored to health than she became peevish, restless, miserable, and sunk into a state of great dejection and low spirits. All hope of rising again to her former state of affluence was now, she thought, for ever lost, and, guessing neighbour Francis to be the cause of her misfortunes, she railed most bitterly against him, compared him to the prodigal son, and asked what Meta could expect from a love-match but salt and bread. “Yet my beloved mother,” said Meta, “salt and bread, where there is contentment and affection, are better than all the delicacies that load the table of the ‘King of Hops’ without them.”

It was now the earnest desire of our hero to place himself in a situation which might entitle him to make audible his hitherto mute love. Accordingly, he searched diligently his late father’s books of trade, and found, on investigation, that many sums of money were due to him by persons residing in Antwerp. He immediately set out on a journey thither, for the recovery of these debts. But who so unwelcome as one who demands money? Father Melchior had been some time dead, and no one in Antwerp would acknowledge the validity of his son’s claims. Instead of receiving debts due to his parent, the unfortunate young man was soon thrown into prison, by those whose debtor he was forced to become, on account of his maintenance while in Antwerp. In prison and disconsolate, he longed for death. At last he was liberated, and, in a melancholy mood, he returned to his native city. He made inquiry regarding the lovely Meta, but determined not to see her unless brighter prospects crowned his efforts to advance himself in the world. Having ascertained that his mistress was in good health, he left Bremen once more.

Francis now intended travelling towards one of the sea-port towns in the Netherlands, in order to sail for the New World, in hopes of there redeeming his fortunes. Accordingly, on his route thither he crossed the deserts of Westphalia, and at last, wearied with his toilsome journey, while not far from the boundary of the Low Countries, he desired to rest himself at an inn, in the village of Rummelsberg, near Rhineberg. The landlord thinking that his worn-out garments boded ill for the good-luck of the house, refused him quarters, on the plea that there was no room for him to lodge in. Our hero muttered heavy imprecations between his teeth, while he confronted mine host with a wrathful grin. Mine host was provoked, and being rather a waggish rogue, wished slyly to have his revenge. “Stay, young man,” said he calling him to return, “I can tell you where there is room enough, and comfortable lodgings to boot, over in that old castle there, but I shall forewarn you that a ghost is said to haunt it.”

“Oh, as for that,” said Francis, “give me plenty of candles, a chopin of good Rhenish wine, and shelter for the night, as it is now sunset, and I am fatigued, and then, as for the ghost, I shall willingly encounter him.”

“Bravo,” said the landlord; “and if you are greatly terrified, call from the window, and help will arrive to you from the inn.”

Francis entered the chamber allotted to him in the old castle, placed his large wax candles, (which mine host assured him were consecrated,) with his potations on the table before him; he carefully bolted the door in the inside, then crept below both mattrass and blankets, and endeavoured, though with some trepidation, to compose himself to sleep. After slumbering for about an hour, at midnight he was aroused by the sound of feet near the door of his chamber. He listened in great fear, and there seemed the tread of a man, who held in his hand a bunch of keys, which Francis thought he tried one after another, in order to find the one that suited the stranger’s apartment.

I question if even Zimmerman himself, who has discoursed so eloquently on the charms of solitude, would not have transferred his eulogy to the pleasures of society, had he now been situated as our hero was, in the lonely castle of Rummelsberg near Rhineberg. Francis, trembling violently with terror, and shrouded amongst the bed-clothes, so that one eye only was visible, beheld the door broken open, and the ghost enter in the person of a lean, haggard-looking old man, covered with a long scarlet mantle, and on his head he wore a pointed cap. Silently, and with a heavy tread, he thrice paraded the chamber, then snuffed the candles, which burned more clearly. The next operation of this mysterious nightly visitor was to doff his mantle. From his girdle were suspended a razor and other implements of a barber’s profession. He poured water into a silver basin, put a piece of soap into the same, with a brush frothed up the soap to a white foam, next placed a low stool at the bedside; and the conclusion of these strange manœuvres was a wave of the hand, and a look of earnest entreaty that Francis might seat himself on the stool, whither the ghost pointed with his finger. Astonishing to conceive! the young man, who lay paralyzed with fear, started from his couch as if by an electric shock, and was instantly seated on the stool. Poor Francis submitted his cranium to the touch of the Spectre Barber as readily as we would, in our enlightened times, suffer the hands of Messrs Gall and Spurzheim to discover our tangible developments of brain. Having at first removed from the chin all superfluous hair, he then spared not his whiskers; and, last of all, the beautiful closely curled brown locks fell a sacrifice to the ruthless shears of this inhabitant of the other world. He now made his obeisance, and prepared to depart. When at the door, however, he looked very sad, and touched his beard while regarding Francis. In a moment it flashed across the mind of the other, that haply the ghost desired the same office to be done towards himself, (his grey beard was indeed of extreme length.) Accordingly, he beckoned to the barber to place himself on the aforesaid stool; this the latter instantly did; and by whose directions, all given in the way of signs, Francis completed the task, and made of the ghost a bald-head similar to himself. This finished, the intercourse between these two beings, which had hitherto been mere pantomime, now became dramatic.

“Young man,” said the ghost, “I owe you incalculable obligations. You have now liberated my spirit, which has long frequented this spot, anxiously desiring its place of rest; and, oh! how little can mortals conceive of the longing wish which a departed spirit feels to reach its future destination! Listen, young man, to my story. Three hundred years ago, Count Hartmann was the owner of this castle, and I was the family barber. The Count was neither the friend of clergyman nor layman. He played his mischievous tricks upon all indiscriminately, and I was his wicked coadjutor. On one occasion, a holy pilgrim arrived at the castle; over his shoulder he bore a heavy cross, probably as a penance; and feelings of devotion seemed to have dictated the imprinting the marks of five nails on his hands, feet, and side. These nails had lacerated his flesh. He appeared to have come from afar, and begged a little water to wash his feet, and a morsel of bread. At first he was hospitably received by my master, as was his wont. He then ordered me to prepare a warm bath for the stranger; and, when his senses were somewhat overpowered after remaining long in the bath, he told me to perform my usual operations of shaving face and head completely. This I did, and, on being dismissed from the house blackguard boys scoffed at him, calling him Baldhead, as their fellows did the prophet of old. Count Hartmann sat at the window, that he might enjoy this cruel sport.

“The holy man, on crossing the threshold, pronounced this curse upon me: ‘Profane wretch,’ said he, ‘thus to insult a pilgrim of the cross; know that thy own spirit shall never rest until another stranger, unsolicited, shall do the same action for you that you have just finished doing for me, undesired.’

“Soon after this doom was announced to me, I pined away, and died. Many is the adventurous traveller whose courage permitted him to stay a night in this castle, that I have vainly endeavoured to induce to compassionate me. To you alone the merit belongs of comprehending my signal. I cannot reward you by pointing out a treasure hid in this old building, for there is neither gold nor silver contained within its walls; yet, be assured, you shall not fail of your reward. Return to your father’s city; tarry till midsummer, and, on the first of June, at eight in the morning, on the Weser Bridge, you will meet a friend, who will direct you how to rise again in the world. Farewell!”

Mine host of the adjacent inn was more a roguish than a wicked person; and, when the morning advanced, he was most anxious to learn the fate of the courageous traveller, and suddenly broke into his apartment. He no sooner beheld the bald pate of Francis than he exclaimed: “It is indeed no idle tale of this house being haunted! Red Mantle has certainly been here, and busy at his old trade! Oh! what like was he, and what did he say?”

“Why, as to his appearance,” replied Francis, “it was that of an old man, with a scarlet mantle wrapped round him, and what he said was to the following purport: ‘The landlord who sent you here is a malicious fellow. I now intend for ever to abandon this castle, and to take up my nightly quarters in the bedroom of this rascal, and, moreover, to torment him more than a night-mare would do, by pinching his ears till the blood spring, unless he furnish you with food and wine, free of all charges, till such time as your hair is grown.’”

A cold sweat instantly bedewed the forehead of mine host, and, in trembling accents he muttered that the keys both of his cellar and pantry, as well as the best chamber in the inn, were at the disposal of Francis, as long as he chose to continue his guest. The latter accepted of his offer, though he often slept at the old castle, which the Spectre Barber never again revisited. The owner of the mansion felt so grateful to the young stranger who had exorcised the noisy ghost, and thus rendered the dwelling again habitable, that he made him a present of a stately charger, richly caparisoned, also a liberal allowance for travelling expenses; and now, in merry mood he hied him homewards to his native town.

The mind of our hero was no doubt much engrossed, thinking who the friend might be that was to meet him on the Weser Bridge, and what sort of communication he would make to him regarding the improvement of his fortunes; also whether the road to wealth would be easy or toilsome. He longed for the first of June, which at length arrived. He slept none the preceding night; and when the day dawned he rose, dressed himself, and long ere the appointed hour he stood on the Weser Bridge. The first person whom he observed near him, about eight o’clock, was an old soldier, who, for the loss of a leg in the service of his country, was now rewarded with a very small pension, and the privilege of begging conferred on him. He asked an alms of Francis, who immediately gave him a large piece of silver money. Poor Wooden Block looked and spoke a thousand thanks, for he was unused to receive so great a sum at once. Our hero now looked anxiously for the arrival of his unknown friend, and he searched the face of every passenger, who no doubt wondered at his inquisitive staring in their faces. But, alas! noon arrived, and no one hailed him as the person he was in quest of. Sunset beheld him still quite unnoticed by any body, save the old pensioner, to whom he had been so kind in the morning. This poor creature appeared sorry to observe grief and disappointment most sensibly depicted in the visage of the young man. Francis, seeing the shades of evening close around him, and no friend appearing to him, became quite deserted by hope, and determined, as the last resource of the miserable, to leap from the bridge into the Weser; yet the desire to behold once more the lovely Meta withheld him from his immediate purpose. Poor Wooden Block limped up to the miserable young man, and said to him, “I fear you are unhappy.”

“And how does my unhappiness concern you?” said Francis, rather sharply.

“Young man,” said the other, “I cannot forget your goodness to me in the morning; and I was grieved to observe the change in your countenance, for, as the day advanced, you became more and more sad.”

“Oh!” replied our hero, softened by the kindness of the old man, “I expected a friend who promised to meet me here, and who yet has never come according to appointment.”

“Your friend is a rogue, and deserves to be whipped,” said Wooden Block, “for suffering you to walk here from morn to night, to no purpose.”

“Oh! but,” said Francis, “it was only in a dream that he promised me a meeting on the Weser Bridge,” (for he felt ashamed to tell the story of the Barber.)

“Oh! it was only a dream!” said Wooden Block, ironically; “and how foolish you were to be guided by a dream!”

“But the dream was so like a reality, that I could not fail to act according to it,” rejoined our hero.

“Oh, as for that,” added Wooden Block, “no one more than myself has dreamt things that resembled realities. I once in my sleep was visited by my guardian angel, who counselled me to go out of the city, and told me that beyond the suburbs of Mattenburg, on the right of the monastery of St John’s, I would find a garden situated in a retired spot. He directed me to look for a high apple-tree on the left hand, under which was a low bush; he told me to dig about ten feet deep under this bush, and said that I would thus possess treasures of gold, silver, and jewels, that would make all the rest of my life a season of perfect ease and enjoyment.”

“And did you obey the directions of your guardian angel?” said Francis, with breathless impatience.

“Not I, truly,” replied the soldier; “it was but an idle dream. If my guardian angel had had any good communication to make, he might have found me awake during many long nights before that time.”

Our hero had listened with the deepest interest to this recital, for the garden described had belonged to his deceased parent, and it was a spot Father Melchior often visited, and seemed to delight in.

Francis now traced the connection between the promise of the Spectre Barber and the discovery that Wooden Block had just made; and he perceived that this was the friend who was to meet him on the Weser Bridge. With great joy he pulled out the last remaining piece of money he possessed, and, giving it to the old pensioner, addressed him thus: “You have quite diverted my melancholy with an account of your dream; expect to see me again in this very place. And, farewell!”

Francis prepared a spade and pick-axe, and, by moonlight, dug deep in the spot alluded to, and lifted the treasure, without meeting with any adventure whatever, such as the terrifying howl of a black dog, or the lurid glare of a blue flame.

Our young Crœsus now found that the possession of wealth brought cares along with it, and that he would have considerable difficulty in conveying his glittering stores from the garden to his home in the narrow lane. At last, by patient industry during the twilight and moonlight hours, he attained his object, by getting it safely deposited in his own quarters. It cannot be supposed that Father Melchior, who tenderly loved his only son, intended to conceal from him his subterranean possessions, yet his death, being instantaneous, deprived him of the power to disclose the secret of what lay hidden in the garden. But, assuredly, to Francis the mode in which he now obtained his inheritance was infinitely better than if, at his parent’s decease, while in his profligate mood, he had received the treasure, and had thoughtlessly expended it like the rest of his substance. He now desired earnestly to behold the lovely Meta; and, while she was returning from church on one of the holidays, he gazed with rapture on those features, the recollection of which was sufficient to deter him from leaping over the Weser Bridge. No one present who had observed the looks of extreme joy and affection which these young persons exchanged, after their long separation, could have doubted of a mutual attachment, of no ordinary fervour, subsisting between them, though as yet their love was as mute as before.

Our hero now commenced the profession of a merchant in his native town, speculated in various modes of trade, and his success in all his plans, as well as his restoration to his former rank in society, formed the frequent subject of gossip from one end of Bremen to the other. Mother Briggitta, when she heard of it, entertained, from the circumstance, no hopes regarding herself or her daughter. When this worthy dame beheld the splendid bridal pageant, at the second marriage of the King of Hops, she sighed in bitterness of spirit, and lamented that her own Meta was not the bride upon the occasion. She thought that since her daughter had once refused an excellent match, as a punishment for her folly, no such offer would ever be made to her again. And as to Neighbour Francis, Mother Briggitta thought that if he were constant in his love, why not now reveal it? The lovely Meta herself likewise painfully felt, that his passion, were it real, ought certainly to be disclosed in words, and she was grieved to observe that he came now much less frequently to those places where he used to meet with her. She pined in melancholy meditation, on account of the apparent coldness of her lover, and in the following soliloquy she bemoaned her hapless fate: “He loved thee, and was faithful, while he had only salt and bread, and was thy equal; but now he must unite himself with one in his own station. Who knows but those ladies who neglected him in poverty, at present endeavour to attract his favour? I think I hear a friend saying to him, ‘The whole garden of beauty lies before you in your father’s city; all the mothers are watching you, each severally desiring you as a match for her daughter. But be not hasty in your choice, let not the eye alone fix it, but let beauty be accompanied with high birth and large possessions, and thus you will not fail to attain the honour of being a Lord of the Council.’”

Poor Meta’s woes were, alas! consummated, when she heard the report that Francis was employed in procuring the most splendid furniture that was to be had for his house, in order to prepare it for the reception of a rich bride, who was expected daily from Antwerp. All hope in the constancy of her lover now forsook the breast of Meta, and she grieved not only on her own, but on her beloved mother’s account. Whether the poor girl was really so indifferent in her choice of viands, as to have made her satisfied with salt and bread, as the wife of Francis, is a little problematical, but for her worthy parent’s sake, she anticipated with fond delight that day, when both taste and smell would be regaled with six dishes at least on the table. On one occasion, while musing in melancholy sadness on the faithlessness of man, Meta turning towards the door suddenly let fall both spindle and distaff, for she beheld her lover enter.

Mother Briggitta now regarded Neighbour Francis in a different light than she used to do when he lived opposite in the narrow lane. He now formally made proposals of marriage, and requested the hand of Meta from her parent; and these overtures were joyfully accepted on the part of the old lady. Francis told his mistress, that the pressure of mercantile affairs, as well as preparing his house to receive her as his beloved bride, had till now withheld him from expressing his sentiments in words; never, he said, had a thought of inconstancy towards her entered his mind. When the impassioned lover heard the decisive and precious monosyllable, that foretold his future happiness, from the beautiful lips of Meta herself, he could not resist intercepting it with a tender salute. Most delightful was the interview between this happy pair, and when the hour arrived which constrained our hero to take leave, he was as much grieved as when he first left his native city, and set out to Antwerp, on the crusade against his father’s debtors.

On departing from his mistress, Francis proceeded instantly to the Weser Bridge, to meet poor Wooden Block. The old warrior hailed with delight his generous young friend. “Come away with me, my good fellow,” said Francis; “you have a long walk before you, and you must make haste; but you will not lose your labour in the end.”

“That I will,” said the other. “My wooden leg has this good property that it never wearies; nay,” said he, holding it up in triumph, “I can walk as well with it as the lame dwarf^[2] crept, who earned for this town all the fields that surround it. But,” added the old man, “I must first wait till sunset, on account of a visit from little Grey Coat.”

“Who is little Grey Coat?” inquired Francis.

“Why,” said Wooden Block, “he is a fellow that comes here morning and evening, and never fails to give me a large piece of silver money. Between you and I,” added he in a whisper, “I think that little Grey Coat is the devil, and that he wishes to buy my soul; but never mind, he sha’nt have it, for I have never yet consented to the bargain.”

“I dare say,” said our hero laughing, “that little Grey Coat is a great rascal; but come along, and you shall not want the silver money.” Francis conducted Wooden Block to the door of a neat, comfortable-looking house, the interior of which was respectably furnished; the door was opened by a servant, who seemed the sole resident in this newly-built mansion. They had no sooner seated themselves, than Francis thus addressed his old friend: “You made me very happy one evening of my life, and I consider it my duty to make you so during the remaining evening of yours. This house, and the garden surrounding it, as well as the servant whom you now see, are all to be made use of for your convenience, and be assured, that the silver piece shall not be wanting to you; it will be found every day under your plate when you sit down to dinner. Besides, I must inform you, that little Grey Coat is my servant, and was sent with the money for you every day by me.”

The old grey-headed warrior was overwhelmed with astonishment and admiration, and thought it incomprehensible that the rich should feel such compassion for the poor. Tears of joy and gratitude flowed fast down his weather-beaten cheeks. Our hero having now acted the part of a guardian angel to Wooden Block, took a sudden departure, as angels are wont to do, without waiting to receive in words the thanks of the old man.

On the following morning the dwelling of the lovely bride was like an annual fair. The bridegroom sent thither a whole band of trades-people,—jewellers, dressmakers, venders of lace, shoemakers, &c., both to offer their wares and their services to Meta. Her lover caused to be brought to her during the whole of that day silks, varieties of lace, and other articles of wedding paraphernalia, so that her elegant foot, finely formed arm, and slender waist, were as often and as carefully measured, as if an ingenious sculptor had designed to take her figure as the model of a Venus which he was about to execute. All things were now arranged preparatory to the nuptials, and Mother Briggitta might be seen weaving the bridal garland for her beloved daughter, while the utmost joy and innocent maternal pride beamed in her countenance. This worthy dame was well rewarded in the latter part of her life, for the patient industry which had characterized her former career. And, as the ne plus ultra of Mother Briggitta’s enjoyments, she beheld with no small delight, that the bridal pomp and magnificence exhibited at the celebration of the nuptials of Neighbour Francis and the lovely Meta, far outshone in splendour all that had been witnessed on a similar occasion, viz. that of the second marriage of the King of Hops.

1. In the original the tale is entitled “Stumme Liebe,” (Mute Love.)
2. This little cripple solicited an alms of a Countess, who resided in the neighbourhood of Bremen. “Oh,” said her ladyship in jest, “I will give to the citizens of this place as much land as you will creep round.” The dwarf crept so alertly, and embraced so wide a circuit in the course of his evolutions, that on his account, the Countess found herself obliged to give all the extensive pasture grounds which the inhabitants of Bremen now possess.