The German Novelists/Volume 3/Musæus/The Dumb Lover

by Johann Karl August Musäus

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

THE DUMB LOVER.

There was once a wealthy merchant called Melchior of Bremen, who always laughed and stroked his chin very complacently when the preacher read the parable of the rich man in the Gospel, whom, in comparison with himself, he considered but a poor pedlar. Such, indeed, was his wealth, that he had the floor of his banqueting-room paved with dollars; for luxury, though of a more substantial kind, was prevalent in those rude times, as well as now: and while his friends and fellow-citizens were not much pleased at such a proof of his ostentation, yet it was, in fact, intended more as a mercantile speculation than for idle display. He was sagacious enough to see that reports would go abroad of his excessive wealth, which would greatly add to his credit even among those who censured his vanity. This was exactly the case; his idle capital of old dollars so prudently, as well as ostentatiously employed, brought large returns of interest: it was a visible bond of payment, which gave vigour to all the wily merchant’s undertakings. Yet, in the end, it proved the rock upon which the stability of his house was wrecked: for Melchior one day partaking rather too freely of a rich liquor at a city feast, died suddenly, without having time even to make his will. His son, however, having just attained the age of manhood, succeeded to the whole of the property.

Frank was a noble-spirited youth, endowed with some excellent qualities. He was well made, strong, and very good-humoured, as if the old French wine and hung beef, of which he had partaken largely, had produced such happy results upon his constitution. Health glowed upon his cheek, while content and animation shone in his dark hazel eyes. He grew like a vigorous plant, which only requires water and a hardier soil to bear noble fruit, but which shoots to waste in too luxuriant ground. The father’s prosperity, as it often happens, was the son’s ruin; for no sooner did he find himself possessed of so princely a fortune, than he contrived how he could best get rid of it: and instead of smiling in scorn at the parable of the rich man, he imitated his example to a hair, and clothed and fared most sumptuously every day.

The feasts of the court bishops were far exceeded in superfluity and splendour by these he gave; nor will the good city of Bremen ever behold such substantial and magnificent proofs of hospitality, as long as it is a city, again: for each citizen was presented with a fine joint of roast beef, with a flask of Spanish wine:—the people drank to the health and long life of old Melchier’s son,^[1] and young Mr. Francis became the hero of the day.

In this round of continual pleasure, no wonder he never thought of balancing his accounts—then the favourite “Pocket Companion,” the vade mecum of our old merchants, but since unfortunately gone too much out of fashion. Hence the evident tendency of the modern scale of calculations towards utter bankruptcy and heavy losses, as if drawn by magnetic influence. Still the old merchant’s coffers had been so well stocked, as to give his son no sort of uneasiness; hitherto his difficulty was rather how to dispose of his annual income. Open house, well furnished tables, and throngs of parasites, loungers, gamblers, and id genus omnes, left our hero small time for reflection; one kind of pleasure followed another; his friends took care to provide a succession of extravagancies lest he should pause, and think, and snatch the luscious prey from their grasp.

Suddenly the source of such prosperity ceased to flow; Francis found he had drained his father’s money-bags of their inexhaustible stores. He ordered his steward one day to pay a large sum;—he was not, however, in a condition, and returned the bill. This was a severe reflection upon the young spendthrift; but he flew into a violent passion with his cashier, instead of blaming himself. He gave himself no kind of trouble to enquire into the cause; like other dissipated characters he swore some dozen oaths, and shrugging up his shoulders, ordered his cashier in a very laconic style “to provide money!”

This was good tidings for the old usurers and Jews of the city. They furnished Francis with means to continue his mad career, though on very exorbitant terms. In the eye of a creditor, a room well paved with dollars was then better security than bills upon an American house, or even upon the United Provinces. It served as a good palliative for a period; but it shortly got wind that the silver pavement had disappeared, and was replaced with one of stone. Judicial enquiry on the part of the creditors followed, and it was ascertained to be the fact. No one could deny that a floor of variegated marble, like mosaic, was more elegant for a banqueting hall, than one of old worn-out dollars; but the creditors disliking this proof of his improved taste, unanimously demanded their money. This not being paid, a commission of bankruptcy was issued against him; and forthwith an inventory was made of all that the family mansion, the magazines, grounds, gardens, furniture, &c. contained. All was then put up to auction; and spite of the law under which Francis tried to shelter himself, the law deprived him of all he possessed. The mischief was now done: it was done too late to ponder and philosophize; and he never once dreamed of terminating his perplexities by the summary method so prevalent in the present civilized age. He might have made a dignified exit by hanging, shooting, or drowning, or have turned his back upon his native city in high dudgeon for ever, as he could no longer cut a noble and fashionable figure in it. But no such thing: the light careless young fellow never once troubled himself with that formidable reflection for which we are indebted to French frivolity and fashion, of “what will the world say?” a saying meant to bridle some, and to spur on other follies quite as absurd. Luckily Frank’s feelings were not suifficiently fine to make him ashamed of the result of his dissipation: he was like a man awakening out of a state of intoxication, almost unconscious of what had passed; and he lived on, heedless alike of sorrow and of shame, as most unlucky prodigals are known to do. He had saved a few of his mother’s jewels from the general wreck, and with the help of these he contrived to prolong existence for a period, though not in a very enviable manner.

He took up his abode in a retired quarter of the city where the sunbeams seldom shone, except towards the longest day, when they occasionally glanced over the high-built roofs. Here he found all he looked for in his present altered circumstances. He dined at his host’s frugal board; his fire-side was a protection against the cold; and he had a roof to shelter him from the effects of rain and wind. There was one enemy, however, he could not so well deal with—a killing ennui; here neither stone walls, nor the fire-side, nor the moderate enjoyment of the table, were of much service to him. He had lost a whole host of parasites, who used to do their best to entertain him, and, along with them, his former friends. Reading was then too rare an amusement to kill much time; nor did the honest folks understand the art of weaving love-sick fancies, and other modern innovations, which are usually the product of the shallowest brains. Alas! he had neither sentimental, pedagogical, nor comic romances, to resort to; no popular, moral, and fashionable tales; family and monastic legends were rare; while novels, both new and old, had not then commenced their havoc upon good white paper, and converted the unfortunate race of poor printers into mere slaves of the grocers and tobacconists: for, as yet, noble knights continued to break their lances at the tournaments—such as Dietreck of Berne, Hildibrand, and Liegfried the Horny; and with Rembold the Strong, rambled in search of dragons and other fiery monsters, and encountered dwarfs and giants, each equal to more than a dozen men, cast in the modern mould. The old venerable Theuerdunk was in those times the great model of German art and sagacity; his work was the earliest production of our national intellect, though it was only calculated for beaux esprits, poets, and philosophers, of his own age. Francis belonged to none of these classes; and had, therefore, no occupation but to play upon the flute, to look out of the window, and take observations of the weather. But this led to no better conclusions than the rest of the theories of the soaring meteorologists of the day. It was lucky, then, that he met with a more engaging object of attention, which served to fill up the daily increasing vacuum both of his head and his heart.

Opposite his own window, in the same narrow street, dwelt a respectable widow, who gained a scanty living, not, however, without the hope of better times. She had a very beautiful daughter, who assisted her at the spinning-wheel; and between them, indeed, they produced as much yarn as would have encircled the whole city, walls and suburbs included, of Bremen. Yet they seemed born for a better fate than a spinning-wheel; they were of a good family, and at one period had lived in great respectability. For the Lady Brigitta’s husband, and the fair Mela’s father, was the owner of a merchant vessel, which he freighted on his own account, and every year made a voyage to the city of Antwerp. He had, however, the misfortune to be lost in a storm—ship, cargo, and crew, were all swallowed up in the waves.

His wife, a well-principled, prudent woman, bore the loss with exemplary fortitude; and the more so for her daughter’s sake. Yet she nobly rejected all offers of assistance from the hand of charitable friends and relatives; declaring that it was dishonourable to receive alms so long as she was enabled to support herself by the work of her hands. She gave up her grand establishment in favour of the creditors, who had the meanness to take every thing, while she had sought refuge in daily toil, under her present humble roof. At first, to be sure, such occupation proved irksome to her; often she moistened the flax with her tears. Industry, however, went hand in hand with independence; she submitted to no uneasy obligations, and habituated her daughter to the same sentiments and the same mode of life. They lived so frugally, as soon to save a small sum, which being laid out in the purchase of lint, they began to carry on business in a small way.

Still this excellent lady had no idea of spending the whole of her remaining days in this state. She anticipated better times, if not restoration to her former prosperity, so as to enjoy in the autumn of her days a portion of the sunshine which had enlivened the spring. Nor was it only an idle dream: it was founded on reasonable calculation; on the growing evidence of her daughter’s charms, now fast ripening into womanhood, like a full blown rose, but not quite so soon to fade. She joined modesty and virtue to her beauty, with so many other excellent qualities, that her mother already derived consolation and pleasure from her society. With the view of conferring upon such a daughter every accomplishment, she almost deprived herself of the necessaries of life, being convinced that if a young woman could only be brought to answer the description given by Solomon, that royal friend of women, of a good wife, the costly jewel would be sure to be sought for, as the cheapest ornament a wise man could ever possess.

For in those good times, virtue added to beauty was in as much request among young men, as grand connexions and a vast fortune in the present age. There were far more rivals too for such a lovely girl’s regard, a helpmate being then considered as a chief requisite, and not, as in the present false hair-brained theory of economy, an incumbrance to a household.

The sweet Mela, to be sure, was blooming more like some rare exotic, than a hardy plant in the open air. She lived in seclusion under maternal sway; she visited neither public walks nor rooms, and was seldom seen above once a year beyond the precincts of her native city. This was in direct opposition to the present matrimonial and manœuvring system. The existing race of matrons are better informed; they consider their daughters’ charms as available capital, to be brought into circulation; and not like the poor maidens of other days, to be kept under durance and duennas, though good matrimonial speculators knew well enough where the treasure was to be found. The lady Brigitta sighed for the period when she should thus be liberated from her servile Babylonish captivity in the narrow street—when she and her fair daughter were to be transported back into the land of milk and honey.

The charming Mela was justly considered by her mother, as worthy of the highest station; and she spared no pains in developing her natural fine qualities by every advantage of education.

Standing one day studying the weather at his window, Frank caught a glimpse of the lovely Mela as she returned from church, where she never omitted going with her mother to hear mass. Hitherto he had paid no serious attention to the other sex: during his prosperous days, all his finer feelings had been blunted, his senses bewildered in a perpetual round of dissipation, encouraged by his boon companions. But now the wildness and effervescence of his youth was over; the chords of his feelings were finely strung, and the least breeze was enough to ruffle the surface of his soul. Enchanted at the lovely sight, he instantly threw up his dry studies of meteorology, and entered on a more favourite pursuit. He began by questioning his landlord respecting his pretty neighbour and her mother, from whom he heard the chief part of what has been already related.

For the first time he began to accuse himself of his former wilful and extravagant conduct: he could not now offer a handsome fortune, as he might have done, to the beautiful Mela; yet his wretched abode was dearer to him than a palace, and he felt that he would scorn to exchange it for the finest house in Bremen. His beloved dwelt opposite to him, and he passed whole hours together at the window. When she appeared, he felt greater delight, perhaps, than the astronomer Horocks himself, when he first beheld Venus passing over the Sun’s disk at Liverpool. But her mother was as vigilant in her observations as her lover, and soon understood the meaning of his constant station at the window. Being no: favourite with her, on account of his former conduct, she became so angry at his repeated watching and staring, that she drew close all the blinds, and then entreated Mela never to venture near the windows. She looked out also one of the thickest veils to wear in going to church; and hastened round the corner as fast as possible, to screen her from the unhallowed gaze of her new admirer.

Young Frank was not remarkable for his penetration; but love is known to sharpen the faculties. He fancied that his intrusive looks had given some offence; and he retreated from his post at the window, vowing that he would look out at it no more, though the sacred host itself were to pass by. He began to contrive how he might best continue his observations unseen—a plan in which he easily succeeded. He procured a large mirror, and hung it so ingeniously in his room, as to reflect every thing which passed in the opposite sitting-room of the ladies. During several days he refrained from showing himself;—the blinds were gradually withdrawn, and the looking-glass sometimes reflected, to his infinite delight, the form of his beloved. His passion was striking deeper root, and he longed to declare it to Mela, being infinitely anxious to learn how she felt disposed towards him.

But in truth it was far more difficult in those good times to get an introduction to the young ladies of a family, than it now is; and the poor youth’s destitute situation added to this not a little. No morning visits were then in vogue; a tête-à-tête might have ruined a young lady’s reputation; and the whole list of balls, masquerades, routes, suppers, walks, rides, &c. with a thousand other modern inventions to facilitate the intercourse of the sexes, were then unknown. The nuptial chamber was the sole place permitted to young lovers for a more confidential explanation of their feelings. Yet in spite of such restraint, things were carried on much in their usual manner. Weddings, christenings, and burials followed each other, particularly in a city like Bremen, as they do now, and were the only licensed occasions for entering into new compacts of the kind, so as to illustrate the old proverb, which says that “no marriage is consummated, but some other is sure to be planned.” The underplot of appealing to the lady’s maid, or other subordinate persons, was here beyond Frank’s ingenuity,—the mother retained none in her service; she carried on her own little trade of spinning yarn, and might have served her daughter instead of her shadow. It was next to impossible, so circumstanced, for the lover to find an occasion of declaring himself; though he shortly invented a language, meant only to serve as an idiom of lovers, which precluded the necessity either of speaking or writing. Not that our hero could boast of the discovery: it was known to many of those sentimental Celadons both of Italy and Spain, who chanted it under the balconies of their favourite ladies. More impressive than the finest eloquence of Tully or Demosthenes, its pathos seldom failed to reach the hearts of its fair audience, to inspire tender and delicious feelings, and express all the emotions of the lover. But in that illiterate age, poor Frank had neither heard nor read of it; and he had all the merit of original discovery in employing music, as an explanation of his passion.

In doleful hour, therefore, he seized his lute, and calling forth strains that far surpassed his usual powers, in about a month he made such rapid progress, that he might very well have been admitted to play an accompaniment to Amphion. To be sure his sweetest melodies were at first little noticed, but ere long they attracted the admiration of the whole neighbourhood; for, the moment he touched his lute, mothers succeeded in quieting their children, the riotous little urchins ran away from the doors, and at length he had the delight to behold a white hand open the window opposite, when he began to prelude an air. Having so far gained her ear, he played several happy and triumphant strains as if to express his joy:—but when her mother’s presence or other occupations deprived him of her sight, his sorrow broke forth in mournful tones, expressive of all the agony of disappointed affection.

Mela proved an apt pupil, and soon acquired a knowledge of the new language. Indeed she often made an experiment, to learn whether she interpreted it correctly, and invariably found that she could influence the invisible musician’s tones according to her own feelings. Mild and modest young maidens are more correct in observation, and possess quicker perceptions than those wild careless creatures, sporting from object to object, like a simple butterfly, without fixing long upon any. Fair Mela’s vanity was much flattered at finding she could bring just such strains as she liked best, whether mournful or merry, from her young neighbour’s lute.

Occupied with trade, her mother paid no kind of attention to the music; and her daughter did not think it necessary to impart her late observations. She rather wished, either from inclination, or as a proof of her sagacity, to show that she understood, and also knew how to reply to the symbolical language, in some other that would discover equal skill. With this view, she requested her mother to permit her to place a few flower-pots in the window, and the good lady no longer observing the prying young neighbour, and dreaming of no possibility of any harm, easily gave her permission. Now to attend to all these flowers, to water, to bind them up to the sticks, and to watch their progress in leafing and budding and flowering, brought their young mistress very often to the window. It was now the happy lover’s turn to explain these hieroglyphics, and he never failed to send his joyous greetings across the way, to the attentive ear of his sweet young gardener, through the medium of his lute. This at length began to make a powerful impression on her young virgin heart; and she felt vexed at her mother for calling him an idle spendthrift, a very worthless fellow, which she took great pleasure in repeating during their conversations after dinner: sometimes even comparing him to the prodigal son. Poor Mela, though with great caution, would venture to take his part, ascribing his follies to youthful indiscretion, and the seductions of bad companions; only blaming him for not having attended in time to the good proverb, which bids us “Spare to-day, as it may rain to-morrow.”

Meanwhile this young spendthrift, whom the old lady was so busily reviling at home, was indulging only the kindest feelings towards her, reflecting in what way, as far as his situation would permit, he could best improve her circumstances. His motive, to be sure, was rather to assist the young, than the old lady, by his gifts. He had just obtained secret information that her mother had refused his Mela a new dress, which she longed to have, under pretence of bad times. Apprehensive lest the present of a gown from an unknown would be refused, and that all his hopes might be blasted were he to name the donor, it was only by chance that he was relieved from this awkward dilemma, and the affair succeeded according to his wishes. He heard that Mela’s mother had been complaining to a neighbour that the crop of flax having proved so small, it had cost her more than her customers would pay her again, and that this branch of the trade was become wholly unprofitable. Frank directly hastened to a goldsmith’s, sold a pair of his mother’s gold ear-rings, and purchasing a quantity of lint, sent it by a woman to offer it to his neighbour at a more moderate price.

The bargain was concluded, and on such good terms, that on next All Saints’ Day the lovely Mela was seen in an elegant new dress.

On her appearance on this occasion, such was the passion with which it inspired our hero, that had he been allowed to select one from among the eleven thousand virgins, that one would have been Mela. Yet, at the moment he was congratulating himself on the success of his stratagem, it was unluckily discovered. For mother Brigitta, desirous of doing a kindness to the good woman who had served her in the sale of the lint, invited her to a treat, very common in those days, before tea and coffee were known, of rice milk, made very savoury with sugar, richly spiced, and a bottle of Spanish wine. Such a repast not only set the old lady’s lips in motion, as she sipped and sipped, but likewise loosened her tongue. She declared she would provide more lint at the same price, granting her merchant would prove agreeable; which, for the best of reasons, she could not doubt. The lady and her daughter very naturally inquired farther, until their female curiosity was gratified at the expence of the old woman’s discretion, and she revealed the whole secret. Mela changed colour, not a little alarmed at the discovery; though she would have been delighted had her mother not been present. Aware of her strict notions of propriety, she began to tremble for her new gown. The good lady was, indeed, both shocked and displeased at so unexpected a piece of intelligence; and wished as much as her daughter that she alone had been made acquainted with it; lest their young neighbour’s liberality, by making an impression on the girl’s heart, might eventually thwart all her plans. She forthwith determined to adopt such measures as should eradicate every seed of budding affection, which might be lurking in Mela’s virgin heart. Spite of the tears and entreaties of its possessor, the gown was next day sold, and the proceeds, together with the profits of her late bargain, returned under the pretence of an old debt, by the hand of the Hamburgh trading messenger to young Mr. Frank Melchior. He received the packet as a very especial blessing on the part of Providence, and offered up a prayer that all the debtors of his father’s house might be induced to discharge their debts with as much punctuality as the honest unknown. The truth never glanced across his mind; for the gossiping old body was careful not to betray her own treachery; merely informing him that Madam Brigitta had wholly discontinued the lint trade. His more faithful mirror, however, shortly told him that a great change had occurred in the opposite dwelling, in the course of a single night. The flower-pots had vanished, and the blinds were drawn down even closer than before. His Mela was rarely to be seen, and when she did appear, like the lovely moon, gleaming through a mass of dark clouds on the benighted traveller, her eyes were downcast, she looked as if she had been weeping, and he fancied he saw her wipe a tear away. The sight of her filled his heart with sorrow: he took his lute, and in soft Lydian measures expressed the language of his grief. Then he tried to discover the source of her anxiety, but here he was quite at a loss. Not many days afterwards he remarked that his looking-glass was useless: it no longer reflected the form of his beloved. On examining more minutely into the cause, he found that the curtains had been removed; that the rooms were not inhabited; his neighbours had left the place in perfect silence, only the evening before.

Now, alas! he might approach the window, inhale the fresh air, and gaze as much as he pleased. But what was all this to him—to him, who had just lost sight of the dearest object on the face of the earth! On first recovering from the trying shock, he was led to make many sage reflections; and, among others, the painful one that he had been the cause of their flight. The sum of money he had received, the cessation of the lint trade, and the departure,—each seemed to throw light upon the other. It occurred to him, that Madam Brigitta must have discovered his secret; that he was no favourite with her, and that this was no kind of encouragement. Yet the symbolic language he had held with the fair maiden herself,—the flowers and the music, seemed to revive his spirit. No, he was sure she did not hate him;—her melancholy, and the tears he had seen her shed, not long before she left, served to restore his confidence and courage. Of course, his first effort was to find out the ladies’ new residence, in order to renew, by some means or other, his delightful intercourse with the lovely Mela. This he soon accomplished; but he was grown too prudent to follow them; contenting himself with frequenting the same church, whither they went to hear mass, and never omitting to meet them, sometimes in one place, and sometimes in another, on their return. He would then find opportunities of greeting Mela kindly, which was about as gratifying as a billet-doux.

Now, had Mela had more liberty, instead of being thus immured like a nun, and had her good mother not played the duenna, and guarded her as the miser does his treasure, her lover’s dumb wooing would not have made half the impression it did upon her heart. She was just, however, at that critical period of a girl’s life, when nature and a cautious mother are in the habit of teaching a different lesson. For the former gives birth to a succession of warm and novel feelings, which she instructs her to view in the light of the sweetest panacea of existence; while the latter carefully prepares her against the surprises of a passion, which she describes as more dangerous and destructive than a fatal disease. The former inspires her heart with a soft genial glow, peculiar to life’s sweet season of the spring; while the latter would often have her remain ever cold and cheerless, as wintry snow. Two such opposite systems of two equally kindly-disposed mothers, both acting at a time upon the flexible feelings of the poor girl, made her obedient to neither, so that she was induced to take a sort of middle course, appointed her by neither. For Mela highly valued the virtue and propriety inculcated by her education, though her heart was open to the most gentle impressions, Francis was the first who had appealed to her affections; and she felt a secret inclination for him. Yet, of this she was hardly conscious, though a more experienced girl would have known it was love. Leaving her dwelling, therefore, was a cruel blow; her lovely eyes were filled with tears; but now she softly returned her lover’s salutation with charming blushes, whenever he met her and her mother on their return from church. Yet both were mute: neither had exchanged a single word, though they as perfectly comprehended each other, as any language could have made them do. Both vowed in their inmost hearts to preserve the strictest secrecy and fidelity, and never even dream of forgetting one another.

In the neighbourhood of the place where the ladies had now settled, there were certain persons who made it their occupation to discover the abode of the most lovely young women, and the charms of the sweet young Mela did not long escape their attention. Almost opposite their humble dwelling, lived a thriving brewer, known among the wags of that period, by the title of the King of Hops, from his superior influence and wealth. He was a brisk young widower, whose days of mourning were drawing fast to a close, and who might now with strict propriety be again upon the look-out for a trusty helpmate. On the decease of his late wife, he had offered up a secret vow to his patron, St. Christopher, that he would present his church with a wax candle as long as a hop-pole, if he might only be fortunate enough to possess in his second wife a little more happiness than he had done with his first. Scarcely had he set eyes upon the beauteous Mela, before he dreamed that he saw St. Christopher looking through his bed-room window on the second floor, to remind him of his promise. To the tasty young brewer this appeared an auspicious sign of his future happiness, and he resolved forthwith to try his fortune once more.

Next morning he ordered a quantity of well bleached wax, and then arraying himself in his Sunday attire, he sallied forth upon his new marriage speculation. Possessing no ear for music, he was of course unacquainted with the language of secret symbols and silent love, so familiar to his rival; but he had an extensive brewery, had immense capital, all of which was out at interest, a fine ship in the Weser, and a productive farm near town. Availing himself of these for an introduction, he might reasonably count upon success, even without the patronage of St. Christopher; in particular with a young woman who could boast no marriage portion. So, agreeably to the ancient forms, he first waited upon Madame Brigitta, and like a good neighbour, declared the kind and filial intentions he was indulging respecting her, and her very pleasing and virtuous daughter. The visit of a patron saint or an angel, accompanied with such a revelation, could not have afforded the good old lady more pleasure than the brewer’s. She was now about to reap the fruits of her long and persevering efforts;—her hopes would at length be gratified. She fancied she saw her daughter placed beyond the reach of poverty, surrounded with opulence, and happy. She thought how lucky it was that they had changed their place of residence; and considering poor Frank as in some measure the cause, she felt kindly disposed even towards him. Though she had conceived some dislike for him, she still promised after what he had done in her behalf, to give him, in some way or other, a share in their approaching prosperity.

She already fancied the marriage articles were as good as copied, only she felt herself bound in propriety to take a short time to deliberate. So she returned thanks to the honourable brewer for his kind intentions, said she would acquaint her daughter, and trusted she should be able to give him a favourable answer in the course of a week. With this promise, the King of Hops took his departure, very well pleased at the progress of the negociation.

Scarcely had he cleared the vicinity, before reels, spinning-wheels, &c. were all thrown aside, in spite of their long services, as articles fit only for the lumber-room. On returning from church, Mela was surprized to see the alteration that had taken place in their parlour, where every thing was so elegantly arranged, as would have done justice to any church festival. She was still more surprized to find her industrious mother sitting idle on a week day, and smiling very complacently, so as to show that nothing unpleasant had occurred. Before she had time to inquire into the reason, the latter eagerly began to give a joyous explanation of the change. What a stream of eloquence flowed from her lips; her imagination was all in a glow, and in brilliant colours she described with female minuteness the approaching happiness in store for them. She looked into her dear girl’s face for the mantling blush of virgin modesty—the earnest of future love, and full obedience to all her maternal wishes. Daughters in those ages were exactly in the same situation as modern princesses: their inclinations were the last thing to be consulted, and they were spared every kind of trouble in regard to the period of wooing,—they had merely to signify their consent at the altar.

How surprized, then, was Madam Brigitta to find herself mistaken: for, instead of blushing rosy red at these unexpected tidings, she grew white as a sheet, and had like to have fainted in her mother’s arms. On being recalled to life by the speedy sprinkling of cold water, her eyes were drowned in tears, as if she had just met with some great misfortune. Her more experienced mother was soon convinced that the rich brewer’s proposal was not received with the least pleasure, at which she expressed her astonishment. She then spared neither prayers nor entreaties, with much good advice, to remove Mela’s unaccountable objections to so desirable an offer;—for where would she find a wealthier husband? Still the latter could not be persuaded that she should be happy in a match to which her heart was so much averse, though the arguments on both sides were continued with little intermission for the space of many days. Early and late, before meals and after meals, until the period for returning an answer approached, was the spirit of their debate kept alive. The brewer was on the tip-toe of expectation; the grand, gigantic candle intended for an offering to St. Christopher,—a candle which might have delighted the heart of a king of Basan, to have been burning at his wedding, was now in readiness. It was beautifully ornamented with variegated flowers, yet with all this, the ungrateful saint had neglected to propitiate the heart and feelings of the fair Mela, to accept the jolly brewer’s suit.

Meanwhile her mother’s persuasions and appeals affected her so much, that she became almost blind with weeping, and began to fade away like a blighted flower. Sorrow was busy at her heart—for three whole days she refused to eat, or to moisten her feverish lips with a drop of water. No slumber visited her eyes: in short, she fell very sick, and alarmed her mother by requesting to see a priest, in order to make her last confession, and receive the sacrament. Her fond mother thus beheld the last prop of all her hopes about to be snatched away; she became apprehensive lest she should lose her only daughter, and began to think that it would perhaps be more prudent to sacrifice the most flattering prospect, in preference to following her dear girl to an untimely grave. She wisely therefore resigned her own views to gratify those of her daughter. Yet it was not without many a severe pang that she did this; and submitted, as a good mother ought, to the superior authority of her pretty child, without even reproaching her. When the willing widower made his appearance on the appointed day, trusting that his heavenly mediator St. Christopher had been during the past week busily engaged in his favour, he was quite astounded on meeting with a refusal, though delivered with so much reluctance and politeness, that to the King of the Hops it tasted very like wormwood sweetened with sugar. Soon, however, he became more resigned to his fate, though for some time after he was as much affected as if a good bargain for malt had been broken off. Yet he had no reason to despair; his native place abounded in amiable girls, many of whom exemplified King Solomon’s description, being well qualified to make unexceptionable wives. So, spite of this disappointment, he still relied firmly on the assistance of his patron saint, who requited his faith so well, that ere the end of the month he had placed his promised gift with much ceremony on St. Christopher’s altar.

But as to poor lady Brigitta she was once more compelled to restore her spinning-wheel to its place, and proceed with business. Affairs flowed back into their old channel; Mela recovered her cheerfulness, and her bloom;—she set to work with alacrity, and never omitted going to church. Her mother, however, could not disguise her grief at the failure of all her plans, her fond and favourite hope;—and she grew peevish and melancholy. But on the day appointed for the marriage of the King of Hops, she became quite unwell, and suffered extreme pain and uneasiness. Her sighs and groans, as she beheld the procession, attended by all the trumpeters, and fiddlers, and pipers in the city, proceeding towards church, were truly pitiable. They were the same she had uttered when she first heard tidings that her husband and all his fortune had been buried in the waves. Mela, however, gazed on the festive train with much complacency; not even the fine jewels and precious stones sparkling in the bridal crown, and nine rows of large pearls round the bride’s neck, ruffled her composure. This was truly surprizing, when we consider that a new Parisian bonnet, or any other fashionable trifle, is often enough to disturb the peace of a whole family. Her kind mother’s grief was the sole drawback upon her happiness, and it indeed made her very uneasy. She would often beg by a thousand little winning caresses to bring her into better humour; and she so far succeeded, that the good lady became once more communicative.

Towards evening, when the dancing began, she exclaimed—“Oh, my poor daughter! at this very moment you might have been the queen of the day! What happiness would have been mine, so to be rewarded for years of care and anxiety. But you turned away from Fortune’s sweetest smiles, and I shall never live to see you led to the altar!”

“Put your confidence in heaven, dearest mother,” answered Mela, “as I do: if it be ordained there that I should go to the altar, yes, you will live to adorn me in my bridal dress; for when the right suitor comes, my heart will not long refuse its assent.”

“Child, child!” exclaimed the more experienced mother, “portionless young women are not much in request: they ought to accept those who will have them. The young men of our days are somewhat selfish: they only marry when it suits them; and never think about other persons’ diffidence. The heavens are not in your favour:—planets have been consulted, and they are not auspicious to such as are born, like you, in April. Only look what the Almanack says: ‘Maids born this month will have kind, good-natured countenances, be of slender form, and changeable in their inclinations, much like the weather, and must keep an eye upon their virgin mood. Should a smiling wooer come, let them not reject his offer!’ See how well that suits you! The suitor has been, and none will come after him, for you have rejected his offer.”

“Mother, mother! heed not what the planet says! my heart whispers me that I ought to love and honour the man whom I wed; and if I find no such man, or am sought by none, let me remain single all my life. I can maintain myself by my own hands. I will learn to be both content and happy; and nurse you in your old age, as a good daughter ought. Yet, if the man of my heart should come, mother, oh, then bless us both; and inquire not whether he be great, honoured, and wealthy, but only whether he loves, and is beloved.”

“Love, my poor daughter, keeps but a scanty table; it is not enough to live upon.”

“But where love is, mother, there peace and content will abide; yes, and convert the simplest fare into luxuries too.”—So inexhaustible a topic kept the ladies awake as long as the fiddles continued to play, nor could Madame Brigitta help suspecting that Mela’s magnanimity, which, in the bloom of youth and beauty made her hold riches in such slight estimation, must be owing to some secret attachment previously formed. She, moreover, suspected its object, though she had never before entertained the idea that the lint merchant in the narrow street occupied a place in her daughter’s heart. She had considered him merely in the light of an extravagant youth, who made a point of gallanting every young creature that came in his way. The prospect before her gave her very little pleasure, but she held her peace. Agreeably to her strict notions of propriety, she believed that a young maid who allowed love to enter her heart previous to marriage, was no better than cankered fruit, very well to look at, but with a maggot within. She thought it might do very well to decorate a chimney-piece, though it had lost its intrinsic flavour, and was of no kind of use. Henceforth, then, the poor old lady despaired of ever resuming her lost station in her native city; resigned herself, like a good christian, to her fate, being resolved to say nothing to her daughter on the subject—least said, the soonest mended. Tidings of Mela’s refusal of the wealthy brewer having speedily gone abroad, shortly came to the ears of Frank, who felt quite overjoyed. He was no longer tortured with the suspicion lest some rich rival should supplant him in Mela’s heart. He felt that he had ground for hope, and knew how to solve the problem which puzzled so many wise inhabitants of the city of Bremen. Love had metamorphosed a profligate youth into an excellent musician, but unfortunately that character was not a very strong recommendation for a lover in those times; for it derived neither as much honour nor emolument as now. The fine arts were not then the means of riches and prosperity, but rather consigned their votaries to penury and neglect. No other wandering artists were then known, besides Bohemian students, whose loud shrill symphonies clamoured for alms at the doors of the more opulent. Frank could afford but a simple serenade, and his beloved had made too mighty a sacrifice of the king of hops, for his sake, to be rewarded by this alone. The idea of his former conduct now pierced his bosom like a sharp thorn, and in many a bitter monologue he execrated his previous infatuation and folly. “My dear, dear Mela,” he cried, “would that I had known you sooner, you would have become my guardian angel; you would have saved me from utter ruin!

“Ah, could I recall the years that are sped! could I be again what I was, when I began my mad career, the world would look like a paradise, and I would make it a paradise for you! Noble girl! you are sacrificing yourself for a wretch and a beggar—one who has lost all, but a heart torn with love and agony;—he cannot offer you a destiny worthy of your virtue.” He then smote his forehead, in a fit of passion, reproaching himself as a thoughtless, wilful being, whose repentance had come too late.

Despondency, however, was not the sole result of his reflections. The powers of his mind were put into action; he became ambitious of altering his present condition, and he was resolved to try what exertion and activity would effect. Among other plans that occurred to him, the most rational and promising appeared to be, to examine into his father’s accounts, in order to see what debts were still due to the house. With such remnants of a princely fortune, should he be lucky enough to recover them, he trusted he might be some time enabled to lay the ground-work of another, if not as large as that he had lost, yet enough for the happiness and support of life. He resolved to employ the money he recovered in some business, which he hoped would increase by degrees, until, as he flattered himself, his ships would visit all parts of the world. But he found that many of the debts were due from persons residing at a distance, and that he would have a better chance of succeeding, were he to wait upon the parties in person, and claim his own. Accordingly, to effect this, he sold his father’s gold watch, the last remains of his inheritance, in order to purchase a horse which was to carry him before his debtors, under the title of a Bremen merchant.

All that he regretted, was his departure from his beloved Mela. “What will she say to my sudden disappearance? I shall no longer meet her coming home from church; she will perhaps think me faithless, and banish me from her heart for ever!” Such ideas made him very uneasy, and, for some time, he could discover no means to inform her of his real intentions. Ingenious love at length supplied him with the happy notion of having prayers put up for the success of his journey in the church, which Mela and her mother generally frequented, when they would no longer remain ignorant of his object. With this view he gave the priest a small sum, begging that a daily prayer might be offered for a young man compelled to go abroad upon business, as well as for the success of his undertaking. The same prayer was to be continued until his return, when it was his intention to purchase a thanksgiving.

On meeting Mela for the last time, he was in his travelling dress. He passed quite close to her; saluted her in a more marked manner than usual, which brought the eloquent blood into the lovely girl’s cheeks. Her mother scolded, made many unpleasant remarks, and expressed her dislike of him in no very guarded terms. She declared that such impertinence would injure her daughter’s reputation, and spite of her vow to keep silence, she never dropped the subject during the whole of that day. Young Mr. Frank, however, had taken his leave of the good city of Bremen, and the most lovely eyes might now wander in search of him in vain.

Mela went to church, and heard her lover’s prayer repeated very often; and, in truth, it was intended rather for her ears than to mount to Heaven. Yet she paid little attention to it, such was her grief for the disappearance of her lover. The very words that would have explained it, escaped her ear, and she was at a loss what to think of it. In the course of a month or two, when her sorrow was a little abated, and his absence grew less trying, she had been listening to the sermon, and, for the first time, paying attention to the prayer, and comparing it with other circumstances, she suddenly guessed its meaning, wondering at her own stupidity in not sooner discovering it, and at the same time praising her lover’s ingenious notion. True it is, that such prayers bear no great reputation for their efficacy, and are poor support for those who put their faith in them. In general, the warmth of piety is exhausted before the end of the sermon, but in Mela’s case it only just began, the prayers at the end giving fresh ardour to her devotion; and she invariably joined in them, never failing to recommend the young traveller both to his and her own patron saint.

Protected by these invisible patrons, and attended by the warm good wishes of the lovely Mela, Frank, meanwhile, pursued his way towards Antwerp, where his father’s debtors chiefly resided, and where he hoped to recover some considerable sums. Such a journey from Bremen to Antwerp was, in those days, more formidable than one from Bremen to Kamschatka in the present. The peace just proclaimed by the Emperor Maximilian was so little observed, that the public roads were in all parts infested with nobles and knights, who invariably despoiled the poor travellers who refused to purchase a safe pass from them, and frequently subjected them, in subterraneous dungeons, to a cruel and lingering death. Our hero nevertheless succeeded, in spite of these obstacles, in reaching his destination, having encountered only one solitary adventure.

As he was crossing over the sandy and deserted plains of Westphalia he was overtaken by night, before he could reach any place of sojourn. The day had been uncommonly sultry, and darkness came on with a terrific thunderstorm, and heavy showers, which drenched him to the skin. This was extremely trying and novel to one of Fortune’s spoiled children, as he had been. He had never been accustomed to the changes of the weather, and yet he might perhaps be compelled to pass the whole night in this horrid spot. The thought filled him with horror—when suddenly he saw a light, to his infinite relief, only at a short distance. On spurring towards it, he found a miserable little hut, which promised him small comfort. It was more like a shed for cattle than a human habitation; yet the inhospitable boor refused him admittance, declaring he had only straw enough for his oxen, and was too sleepy to get up and light his fire again for the sake of a stranger. At first poor Frank complained bitterly, but as it served no purpose, he laid his malediction on all Westphalian deserts and their unnatural inhabitants, while the boor proceeded to put out his lamp with the utmost indifference, without troubling himself about violating the laws of hospitality. Our incensed hero at length threatened and thundered at the door in such a way as effectually to prevent the brute’s repose, who, better understanding such an appeal, soon found his tongue:—“Do you think, man, you will find a good supper and a soft couch here? If you do, you will be disappointed, friend; so please to be quiet. Can’t you ride through the little wood on your left, and knock at the Castle-gate of Sir Egbert of Bronckhost, instead of battering at my poor door? He welcomes a stranger like a knight-hospitaller does the pilgrim from the Holy Land. Heed thou not, though he be seized with a fit of madness, as he sometimes is; yet then he only wishes to give his guests a hearty drubbing before he takes leave of them. In all other respects, if you like to venture, you will find good entertainment.”

Frank was some time at a loss how to act; yet he had rather run the risk of a sound drubbing, than stand drenched in his wet clothes the whole of the night. There was not much choice; he argued, suppose he were to get into the hut, between passing the night upon a wooden bench without supper, and a little flogging in the morning after enjoying a good supper and a bed. “Besides,” he added, “such an application may, perhaps, drive away the fever which I am sure to take if I stay longer here, and that would be a sad thing.” So he remounted, spurred away, and in a few minutes stopped before the gates of a gothic castle, at which he knocked pretty smartly. He was answered as loudly, “Who is there?” from the other side. Our hero begged somewhat impatiently for admission, and he would explain afterwards; but he was compelled to wait the pleasure of Sir Egbert, until the butler had ascertained whether he chose to give a night’s lodging, for the satisfaction he would have in beating his guest in the morning.

This Sir Egbert had early in life entered the army of the Emperor; had served under the celebrated George of Frondsberg, and subsequently commanded a company against the Venetians. Afterwards, on retiring from service, and settling at his castle, he began to repent of his sins:—he held open castle for the destitute, or the hungry and houseless traveller; and when he had fared sumptuously, he was, on taking leave, flogged out of the Castle for a rogue and vagabond. Sir Egbert was a rude soldier, and retained the manner of a camp, though he had been living some years in retirement. In a few minutes the bars of the gate were withdrawn, with a melancholy sound, as if giving warning of the approaching flogging, and Frank had a fit of cold shivers as he walked across the court-yard. He was hospitably received, and a number of lacqueys ran to help him to dismount: one took his baggage, another his steed, while a third ushered him into the presence of the Knight. He was seated in a splendid hall, but rose to meet his guest, and shook him by the hand so heartily that Frank almost cried out with pain, and was struck with fear and awe. He could not conceal his terror, and trembled from head to foot at the warlike appearance of the Knight, full of fire and strength, and apparently in the vigour of life. “What is the matter, young man?” he inquired, in a voice of thunder; “what makes you look so pale and feeble, as if you were just going to give up the ghost?”

Frank, too late aware that it was impossible to retreat, though convinced that he was likely to pay dearly for his fare, mustered up his courage, and tried to look impudent, to conceal his fears.

“Sir Knight,” he boldly answered, “I am as completely drenched with rain, as if I had just swum through the Weser. I should like to change my clothes, and swallow a good warm posset, to check these shivering fits, which are as bad as the beginning of an ague; but a warm draught, I trust, will soon cure me.”

“Well then,” said the Knight; “make yourself at home, and ask for any thing you wish.”

So Frank made the lacqueys run about, as if he had been Grand Turk; for having laid his account that he should have some hard knocks, he rather wished to deserve them. With this view, he contrived to torment the servants in the most unconscionable manner; commanding and countermanding in great style, in spite of their murmurs and curses behind his back.

“How!” he exclaimed, “this doublet was made for a grand swag-bellied Abbot; how dare you bring it to me? Bring me one that will fit me. I’ll none of it! Zounds! these slippers hurt my corns; let me have an easier, bigger pair! A plague on this collar! it is harder than a deal-board. I say, it will throttle me; bring me another, softer and easier, if you can.”

The noble host, far from expressing the least displeasure at these liberties, spurred on the servants to fulfil his commands, calling them a set of jolter-heads, who did not know how to attend upon such a guest. When the beverage was prepared, both master and guest partook largely of it. Soon after, the former said: “Would you like to take some supper, young man?” “Let them bring up what the cook has got at hand, that I may see whether the larder be well furnished.” Orders were sent down; and soon afterwards the servants brought up an excellent repast, worthy of a prince. Frank directly sat down, and without waiting for an invitation, he began to do justice to such a feast. When he had eaten enormously, he looked round, and observed: “If your cellars be as well supplied as your larder, I think I may venture to commend your good housekeeping.”

The Knight forthwith made sign to his butler to fill a goblet of common table-wine, and the host emptied it in a good health to his guest. The latter did not forget to pledge him; when the knight, observing that he had emptied his glass, inquired “What think you of this wine?”

“It’s poor stuff,” answered Frank; “surely it is not your best. It is tolerable, perhaps, for table drink.” “You are a connoisseur, I see,” replied Sir Egbert, and ordered the butler to bring some of the best. Frank tasted it. “Come, this is noble! pray let us keep to this!” This they both did: they filled bumpers, and drank healths to each other, until they grew very merry and complimentary. The Knight gave his guest an account of his campaigns; how he had fought against the Venetians, cut his way through their encampment, and slaughtered them like a flock of sheep. The subject appeared to revive the old soldier’s enthusiasm; he began to break the bottles, brandished his huge carving-knife for a broad sword, approaching so near his companion, as to put his nose and ears into great jeopardy.

The Knight continued talking of his campaigns; and though it grew late, he was so much in his element, that he appeared to entertain no idea of going to rest. His narrative grew more animated at every bumper, and his guest began to be uneasy, lest this might prove the prologue to the principal plot, in which he was destined to perform a conspicuous, but not very pleasing part. He called, therefore, for a parting cup, and wished to know where he was to pass the night; expecting that he should still be pressed to drink; which, if he refused, he should be dismissed with hard knocks, agreeably to the habit of the house. He was surprised, however, to find his request directly complied with; the Knight observing, as he broke off his story, “There is a time for every thing; you shall hear more to-morrow.”

“Excuse me, noble Knight,” replied Frank, “but to-morrow I shall be on my road. I have a long journey before me, as far as Brabant, and must set out early. Let me take my leave, then,—now; I should not wish to disturb your morning rest.”

“As you please,” said the Knight, “only you must not leave my house until I am up; and see that you take a good breakfast. I will then accompany you to the gates, and take leave of you according to the custom of my castle.”

Poor Frank stood in need of no explanation of these words. He would gladly have waived these last ceremonies, upon which the Knight seemed to pique himself so much. He ordered his guest to be shown to his chamber, and Frank soon reposed his weary limbs upon a fine bed of down. Indeed he was inclined to confess before dropping asleep, that such princely entertainment would hardly be too dearly purchased by a trifling drubbing; and viewing only the pleasant side of his subject, only pleasant dreams haunted his rest. He beheld his beloved walking in a garden of roses with her mother, gathering the most beautiful flowers. He thought he concealed himself behind some shrubs, so that the old lady could not get a view of him. Then he found himself at his old lodgings, where he still saw the delicate white hand of the maiden, busily arranging the flowers. He went and sat down beside her among the grass: he wished to confess how much he loved, but felt so bashful, he could find no words. Doubtless he would have gone on dreaming, on such a subject, until noon, had not the loud voice and step of the Knight, ready booted and spurred, roused him from it, about day-break. Frank heard him giving orders to the cook and butler to send up a good breakfast, and the rest of the servants to attend, to wait and help to dress him.

The dreaming lover parted very reluctantly with his dream and his hospitable bed: but his host’s voice was too loud to think of sleeping any more. He knew he should have to get up, and, summoning all his fortitude, he did so. More than a dozen hands were busied with his toilet; and when dressed, the Knight himself conducted him into a hall, where he was seated at a small but well furnished table. As time elapsed, however, our hero’s appetite began to fail. His host encouraged him to eat, in order to keep the cold from his stomach in the morning air. “Sir Knight,” replied Frank, “your supper was too excellent to permit me to take breakfast; but, if you please, I will supply my pockets, and eat when I am hungry.” So saying, he proceeded to fill his pockets with the choicest viands upon the table. His horse, well cleaned, fed, and accoutred, being now brought to the door, he filled a glass of rich cordial to his host’s health, imagining he was thus giving the signal for being set upon, and soundly beaten. To his no small surprize, the Knight only shook him by the hand, wished him a good journey, and sent his servant to open the gates. So he mounted, and spurred away at speed; and in a few minutes found himself beyond the castle-gate, none the worse by a single hair.

He felt greatly relieved, to find himself at perfect freedom, without any aching bones. He could not imagine how his noble host had come to spare him, contrary to the rules of the castle; and now first began to feel grateful for his kindness. He was curious to learn whether there were really any foundation for the report; and at length he turned his horse’s head and rode back to inquire. The Knight was standing at the gate, passing his opinion on the points of poor Frank’s steed, breeding horses happening to be rather one of his hobbies. Supposing his guest had forgotten some of his baggage, he cast a reproachful look upon his servants: “What have you missed, young man?” he shouted to our hero, as he drew nigh.—“Why don’t you pursue your journey?”

“I wish to say one word, Sir Knight:—you will excuse me:—but a malicious report has gone abroad, severely aspersing your hospitable fame. It is no less than that, although you regale your guests well, you make a practice of cuffing them well before you permit them to depart. On the faith of this, I confess I did all in my power to merit the custom, yet you have let me go away in peace, without paying the usual hard reckoning. How is this! can there be any truth in such a report, or may I henceforth give the vile libellers the lie?”

“No!” replied the Knight, “Fame in this case has only spoken truth:—no sayings among the people are ever quite destitute of foundation. But I will explain the affair to you, if you will alight!” “Thank you,” replied Frank, “but, as I am mounted, I will listen where I am.”—“Do so,” said the Knight, with a smile; “I will not detain you long. Every stranger who approaches my gates, shares my table and my wine; but I am a simple German of the old school, I speak as I think, and I wish my guests to be as open and cheerful as myself; enjoy all I give them, and speak out, and ask for every thing they want. Some of my guests, however, are always tormenting and making a fool of me, by bowing and scraping perpetually, concealing what they think, and talking without any meaning. In fact, they try to flatter one with smooth words, and they conduct themselves like silly women. When I say, Come, eat! they help themselves with great reluctance to a mere bone, that I should be ashamed to offer to my dog: and if I tell them to drink, they just moisten their lips, as if they held good wine in contempt, and cared not for the bounty of Heaven, not they. Truly, they carried their follies to such a length, that I no longer knew what to do, until I fell into a passion, seized some of them by the collar, gave them a sound cudgelling, and turned them out of doors. This is now my plan, and whenever I meet with a sorry fellow of the kind, I make bold to chastise his folly: I keep a rod for the fool’s back; but such a guest as you will always be welcome; you spoke your mind freely and boldly, as the good citizens of Bremen always do. Let me entertain you, then, on your return, fear nothing; and now, fare you well!”

After this explanation, Frank rode on with fresh courage and alacrity towards Antwerp, wishing in his heart that he might every where find so good a reception as at the castle of the Knight of Bronckhost. On first entering the foremost among the cities of Brabant, his expectations rose to a high pitch. Traces of wealth and luxury were every where visible; no penury, no wretchedness of any kind, were to be seen. “This is the seat of industry,” cried Frank; “my father’s debtors are doubtless in very good plight. They must have improved in their circumstances, and, I dare say, will be ready to pay me when I produce my vouchers for the justness of my demands.” But first, on refreshing himself after the fatigues of his journey, he resolved to inquire into their actual situation and credit. “How does Peter Martens go on?” he inquired of some persons at table. “Is he still alive, and thriving?”—“Peter is a rich man,” replied one of the company; “he is in good credit.”

“What are Fabian of Pleers’ circumstances, think you?”—“Why, he hardly knows how to employ his money—that is the fact. He belongs to the council, and his woollen-trade makes him ample returns.”

“Is Jonathan Prishkur in a good line of business?”—“He would just be worth a plum, had not the Emperor Maximilian suffered the French to run away with his bride.^[2] Jonathan had an order to provide lace for her bridal dresses, but the Emperor would not keep his bargain with his merchant, any more than the bride with him. If you happen to have any young lady, to whom you wish to send a present of fine lace, I dare say he would sell you the royal bridal garment at only half-price.”—“Has the house of Butekant failed, or does it still carry on business?”

“It was in a dangerous way some years ago, before the Spanish Caravelles^[3] helped to give it a lift, so that it is now in a promising way.”

On inquiring into the credit of several others, Frank found that most of those which had been bankrupts in his father’s lifetime, were now in a thriving condition; which led him to conclude, that a timely bankruptcy was a good foundation for future prosperity. These were good tidings; Frank cheered up, and began to arrange his accounts, presenting the old bills at their proper places.

In the people of Antwerp, however, our hero met with much the same usage as his perambulating fellow-citizens of this age experience from shopkeepers in the provincial towns of Germany. Every one treats them well until they call to get in their money. Many would hear nothing of their old debts, declaring that they had all been settled at the time of the bankruptcy; and it was the creditor’s fault if he had not accepted payment. Others said they did not even remember the name; their books gave no account of any Melchior. A few submitted a large balance against Frank’s father; and in the course of three days he found himself safely lodged in prison, to answer for them to the very last farthing.

This was an unpleasant prospect for a man who had so far confided in the honest people of Antwerp, as to consider them as the authors of his future fortunes. The bubble had vanished in a moment; and he began to feel all the tortures of purgatory—thrown into prison—his vessel wrecked just as he was making the harbour, where he hoped he should be safe from the storms of life. The thought of Mela was a dagger to his heart: there was no longer even a shadow of probability that he could ever emerge from this abyss of ruin into respectability and credit. Besides, were he able even to raise his head above water, his beloved was, on her side, perfectly unable to lend him the least assistance.

Cruel despair now took possession of him; he felt no wish but to die, and to end all his torments. In fact, he did make an attempt to starve himself; but, as such a process, especially with an excellent stomach, is not in every one’s power, after two long days’ abstinence, he was seized with such a griping fit of hunger, that he could resist it no longer. He yielded, and obeyed its dictates, though the temptation was nothing greater than a crust of bread.

It was not exactly the meaning of the hard-hearted citizens of Antwerp to make him pay money, so much as to compel him to renounce all claims upon them. So that either the prayers he had ordered from the church at Bremen, or the citizens’ reluctance to pay any more for his prison-board, at length brought him a release. At the end of three months Frank left his prison, upon condition of quitting the city within four-and-twenty hours, and never returning to it. He then received a small sum of money to defray his expenses home; for the law had already seized upon his horse and baggage, to pay the proceedings against him, and for his board. With no other companion than a walking-stick, and with heavy heart, Frank humbly took his leave of the proud city, whose walls he had shortly before entered with such grand expectations. Reckless and dispirited he wandered on, without marking the road which he had taken. He asked no questions, saluted no one, and took notice of nothing, until excess of hunger and fatigue compelled him to seek out some place where he might relieve his wants. Many days he thus wandered on without any aim in view, and even ignorant that he had, instinctively, as it were, taken the right direction homewards. Suddenly he seemed to awake out of a disagreeable dream, and recognized the road he was going.

He now stopped to reflect whether he had better go on, or retrace his steps. He was overwhelmed with shame and trouble, at the idea of living a beggar in his native city, and soliciting the benevolence of those whom he had formerly surpassed in credit and opulence. How could he appear in the presence of Mela under such circumstances? She would die with shame to behold him! It was certain he would now lose her; and he turned away from the melancholy picture, as if he had already beheld the rabble gathering round and greeting his return, with scorn and mockery, to Bremen.

No! he determined he would rather make for one of the Dutch sea-ports, and enter on board some Spanish ship as a sailor. He would sail for the new world, try his fortune in Peru, where wealth abounded; and never return to his native land, until he succeeded in recovering that property which he had so heedlessly lavished. His beloved Mela appeared now only like some distant shadow that he should catch at in vain; though he felt a beam of pleasure warm his heart at the bare idea of her becoming connected with his future destiny; and he hastened rapidly forwards, as if he were about to reach the spot where she dwelt. He had returned as far as the frontiers of the Netherlands, when one night, about sunset, he approached a small place called Rummelsburgh, which was subsequently destroyed in the thirty years’ war. There were a number of carriers in the tavern, and he could find no room. The landlord bade him hasten to the next village, as he, in fact, mistook him for the spy of some gang of thieves, on watch, perhaps, for the carrier’s goods. So, in spite of his increasing weariness, Frank found he must again take his bundle on his shoulder, and prepare for a farther journey that night.

As he went, however, he made some cutting reflections upon the landlord’s inhumanity; insomuch, that, as if repenting of his own harsh proposal, he began to pity the poor traveller, and called out, “One word yet, young man: if you particularly wish to pass the night here, I think I can contrive it. There are plenty of apartments in the castle hard by; I have got the keys, if you should not think it too solitary for you.” Frank willingly closed with the offer, requiring only supper and shelter, whether in a palace or in a hut. But mine host was somewhat of a wag, and, intending to revenge himself upon poor Frank for his abuse of him, he proposed a night’s residence in the haunted old castle, where there had been no inhabitant for many years, owing to the cruel pranks of a spirit which had frightened them all in succession away.

This castle was erected on a steep cliff, on the outskirts of the town, and directly opposite to the inn, being merely separated by the public road and a small brook. It was kept in good repair, on account of its delightful situation; and was very well built and furnished, though it served its present possessor only for a hunting-seat. Occasionally he gave a splendid feast there, but was sure to leave it along with all his followers on the approach of evening, having already been terrified by the spirit, which made a hideous noise, and raged through the castle, though he never appeared during the day. However disagreeable to the lord of the castle, as a spectre, it had the good effect of protecting his property from robbers, the boldest of whom refused to venture near the spot.

It was now quite dark. Frank carried a lantern, accompanied by the host, and a little basket of provisions. He was soon at the castle gates, where the host had provided a good supper, and a bottle of wine, which he did not intend to appear in the bill; likewise a pair of wax candles, as there were none in the castle, nobody remaining there after twilight. As they were walking, Frank observed the basket and candles, and though they would be quite useless to him, thought he might still have to account for them in the bill.

“The piece of candle in the lantern is enough for me,” said our hero, “until I go to bed. I hope I shall not open my eyes before it be broad day; for I feel very sleepy and want a deal of rest.”

“Then I ought not to conceal from you,” replied the host, “what report says. The castle is haunted by a plaguy ghost, who walks about all night. But we shall be so near, that you need not be the least afraid. Should anything occur, you have only to call out pretty loudly, and we shall be ready to assist you. People with us are stirring all night, and somebody or other will be at hand. Why, I have lived here these thirty years, and, for my own part, I have never seen anything, that is, anything invisible. The noise that is sometimes heard, proceeds, I take it, from cats, or other animals that harbour in the garrets.”

Mine host spoke truth when he declared he had never seen anything invisible—not even the spectre; he took care never to be near enough the castle at night. Even now the varlet did not venture to proceed across the threshold; but opening the door, he handed Frank the basket, directed him which way to proceed, and bade him a good night. Our traveller entered the great hall without feeling the least awe; despising the story as mere gossip, or some old tradition of a real event adorned with a little of the supernatural. He called to mind the report of Sir Egbert, whose heavy hand he had so much dreaded, and yet who had treated him with so much kindness. In fact, he made a point of believing just the contrary of what he had heard, quite forgetting, as the knight himself stated, that all such reports were founded in truth.

According to the host’s direction, he now ascended a winding staircase, which brought him to a door, the key of which the landlord had given him. He entered a long dark passage, where his steps echoed along the walls; thence he passed into a grand saloon, which led into a row of smaller rooms, well supplied with all that was necessary, both for ornament and use. He fixed on the most comfortable one he could find, with the windows looking towards the tavern-yard, whence he could gather every word that was spoken. This was reviving, and the room had a soft bed on which to repose his weary head. He now lighted his candles, sat down to his supper, of which he partook with as hearty a relish as if he had been eating at his old lodgings in the good city of Bremen. A large round-bellied bottle soon removed his thirst, and while his appetite lasted he had no time to think of the spectre. When he heard some noise at a distance, and fear whispered: “Listen! there comes the ghost!” his courage only answered, “Nonsense! the cats are fighting.” After supper he listened rather more attentively, as it drew near midnight, and Fear uttered three anxious ideas, before Frank’s courage could find a single answer.

To protect himself against sudden surprize, he first locked and bolted the door, seated himself on a stone bench at the window, then opened it and looked out, to divert his mind with a view of the heavens, and the silvery queen of night. Gradually the street below grew quite silent, contrary to mine host’s assurance, that his people were always stirring. Frank heard one door closed after another, the lights were extinguished, and the whole inn was buried in profound repose. The watch going his round, told the hour and the state of the weather; besides beginning, to Frank’s great consolation, to sing an evening hymn directly under his window. Had he not feared that the man would be terrified away, if he heard himself spoken to from the haunted castle, he would gladly have entered into conversation with him.

Perhaps, in a noisy populous town, where a man meets with numbers of silly people, he may feel happy in retiring to some secluded spot, and think of the pleasures of solitude. He fancies it would be extremely soothing to the mind, dwells upon all its advantages, and sighs for its enjoyment. This is a different kind of solitude to that met with in the island of Juan Fernandez where once a shipwrecked sailor passed many years; or that of being quite alone, in a deep forest at midnight, or in some old deserted castle, where damp walls and vast unexplored vaults awaken only anxiety and horror; where there is no sign of living thing, save the melancholy ruin-haunting owl; there solitude is hateful, intolerable; and companions are pleasant, particularly if the lonely being should, like Frank, be momentarily in expectation of seeing a terrific spectre. So situated, a conversation from the window with a watchman, might be thought more entertaining than the most pleasing book in the world; even than a treatise upon solitude itself. Had Zimmerman been put in Frank’s place, in the old castle of Rummelsburgh, on the frontiers of Westphalia, he might then have projected as interesting a treatise on the pleasures of society, as its more tiresome members induced him to write upon solitude.

Midnight has been immemorially held sacred to the spiritual world; a period when the more vulgar animal kingdom lies buried in repose. Then spirits begin to live and act; and, for this reason, Frank very much wished to fall asleep before the exact hour arrived. So he closed the window, examined every corner of the chamber, and then threw his weary limbs upon the soft couch. Yet sleep did not soon visit his eyes; he had a strong palpitation, which he attributed to the strong wine; and he repeated his prayers solemnly, more fervently, indeed, than he had done for years. Soon after this, he fell asleep; but shortly awoke with a sudden start. Just as he was trying to recollect where he was, he heard the clock strike twelve, which the watchman in a few moments confirmed. Luckily, he could hear no other noise; though Frank listened attentively.

Just, however, as he was turning on his side, half relapsing into sleep, he plainly heard a door open at some distance; and then it closed again with a pretty smart noise.

“Heaven have mercy on us!” whispered Fear, “Here comes the Spectre!” “No, it is the wind,” replied Courage, “nothing more:” yet the sound came near and more near. It was the heavy step of a man, rattling his chains, as he moved along, or of the chamberlain of some decayed castle, surveying his rooms, and changing his bunch of keys. This could not surely be the wind; Courage was vanquished, and Fear drove Frank’s blood to his heart, till it beat as if it would burst its confines.

The affair grew more serious as the noise drew near; and Frank could not muster courage to get up, and call at the window for assistance. He only drew the bed-clothes closer over him, as the ostrich is said to hide his head in the bushes, if he can no longer avoid his enemy. Other doors opened and shut with hideous noise; till, at length, an attempt was made on that in which our hero slept. A number of keys were tried, and the right one was at last found. Still the bars held it fast: when a loud crack, like thunder, was heard, and the door flew open. A tall spare man entered, with a very dark beard. He was dressed in a very old fashioned style; had a sorrowful expression of countenance, with large bushy brows, that gave him a look of deep thought. A scarlet mantle hung over his left shoulder, and his hat was high and peaked. He stepped silently through the room, with the same slow, heavy step, as before; looked at the consecrated candles, and snuffed them. He next threw aside his mantle, opened a small bag he held under his arm, took out a shaving apparatus, and began sharpening a razor on a broad leather strap, which hung at his belt. Frank now actually perspired with fear; he commended his case to the Holy Virgin, and looked with much anxiety for the close of the last proceeding with the razor; not certain whether it was meant for his beard or his throat. He was glad, however, to observe the spectre pour water out of a silver ewer, into a small basin of the same metal; then with his long hand he mixed the soap into fine foaming suds, placing a chair, and with a singular look and air, anxiously beckoned the affrighted Frank to take his seat. He felt that it was as impossible to resist this appeal, as it is for a vizier to resist a mute who brings orders from the Grand Turk, to return with the said vizier’s head. It is best, in the like case, to make a virtue of necessity, and quietly permit oneself to be strangled. Frank obeyed; threw off the bed-clothes, rose, put on his dressing-gown, and took his seat.

The spectral barber tied the napkin round his trembling customer’s neck, took his scissars, and slashed off Frank’s hair and beard. He next lathered his chin, and even his head with the suds; which being done, he began to shave him, so smooth and carefully, that he shortly could not boast a single hair above his shoulders. The operation completed, the spectre washed and dried his customer very clean and nice; then bowed, packed up his shaving materials, took up his scarlet cloak, and turned towards the door. The candles burnt quite bright during the whole scene; and in a mirror opposite to him, he saw that the barber had made him look like a complete Chinese pagod. He was rather vexed at parting with his fine auburn curls, but he breathed more freely, flattering himself that he should escape unhurt, the spectre appearing to have no farther power over him.

The spectre barber walked away in silence, as he had come, to all appearance quite the reverse of all his glib-tongued brethren. Before he reached the door, he stood still, looking round him with a mournful air, particularly at his well-trimmed customer, while he touched his own black beard. This he repeated three times; and the third time, while his other hand was upon the door. It struck Frank that the barber’s ghost wished him to render him some service;—perhaps, thought he, the same which I have just received from him. In spite of his sad looks, the ghost appeared as much inclined to jest as to be in earnest, and as he had only passed a sort of trick upon, not injured him, our hero felt no longer afraid. So he beckoned, in his turn, for the spectre to take his seat, which he did with evident pleasure and alacrity. He once more threw aside his red cloak, put his bag upon the table, and sat down, with the air of a person who expects to be shaved. Frank took care to follow the manner which the spectre had observed; first cutting off the beard and hair with the scissars, and then soaping his whole head, his new customer sitting the whole time as still as a statue. Frank was rather awkward, having never handled a razor, and, in fact, shaved the poor patient ghost so much against the grain, that he made him pull the queerest faces in the world. Sensible how much he bungled, Frank began to be afraid, recollecting the prudent precept, “Not to meddle with another man’s business,” though he still proceeded, trying to do his best, until at last he succeeded in making the ghost as clean and bald-headed as himself. The moment he ceased, the spectre barber found his tongue: “Friend! I thank thee for the great and humane service thou hast rendered me. Thou hast thus released me from long captivity:—three hundred years bondage within these walls! Here, when my spirit departed, I have been condemned to remain, until some mortal should be found to retaliate upon me, and inflict what I had inflicted upon so many others during my lifetime.

“In times of yore, there once lived a sad infidel within these walls, who alike mocked both priest and layman. Count Hartman was no one’s friend: he observed neither divine nor human laws; violating even the sacred ties of hospitality. No stranger ever arrived here, no mendicant solicited alms, but he was sure to be seized and tormented. I was his barber, said every thing to flatter his foibles, and led the sort of life I chose. Often the pious pilgrim was invited, as he passed the gates, into the castle: a bath was prepared, and, when he expected to refresh himself, I seized him by my master’s orders, shaved him quite bald, and then turned him from the castle with bitter gibes and mockery. The Count used to look out, and enjoy the sport from the castle window, more particularly when a crowd of mischievous boys got round and ridiculed and insulted the poor pilgrim; running and crying out after him, like the malicious little urchins in Scripture:—‘Old baldhead, baldhead!’

“Well, Sir, once a holy pilgrim, just returned from abroad, bearing a heavy cross upon his shoulders, like a true penitent, with the mark of two nails in his hands, two in his feet, and one in his side, his hair all entangled like a crown of thorns, approached the castle. He entered; asked for water to wash his feet, and a piece of bread. Agreeably to our custom I prepared him a bath, and then, without the least veneration for his sanctity, I took and shaved him quite clean and close. But, alas! the pious man uttered a heavy curse, which he laid upon me in the following words: ‘Oh! thou reprobate—after death both heaven and hell—yea, the iron gates of purifying purgatory, shall alike be closed against thy soul! It shall remain a perpetual spectre within these very walls, until a traveller of his own accord, shall retaliate on thee this thy evil deed!’

“I felt myself grow sick, as he concluded the curse—the marrow wasted in my bones; I fell into a lingering decay, till I became a very shadow, and my soul soon separated from its mortal tabernacle. It remained, however, in these walls, as the pious man commanded; and in vain I looked for deliverance from the chains that bound me to the spot. I was denied the repose for which the soul pines on leaving the body; and every year which I have spent here, has appeared an age of torment. As a greater punishment I was compelled, also, to continue the occupation which I practised during my life-time. But how was this to be done? my very appearance, alas! banished its inhabitants in succession from the castle; pilgrims rarely came to pass the night here, and, though I shaved all who did come, not one of them would understand my wish, and render me a service that would have freed my soul from captivity. This you have done: I shall no longer haunt this castle, but hasten to my long, long sighed-for rest. Accept my thanks, then, once more, young stranger; if I had any secret treasure at my command, you should have it; but wealth I never had, and there is none any where concealed in this castle. Yet listen to my advice! sojourn here until your head and chin are again covered; then go back to your native place; and stop on the bridge over the river Weser, in the autumnal equinox, for a friend; who will be sure to meet you there, and inform you what to do, in order to thrive on earth. Surrounded with affluence and ease, pray do not forget me—but order three masses for the repose of my soul on each anniversary of this day. Farewell, I am departing hence, never more to return!”

Saying this the spectral barber vanished; after having clearly proved by his communicativeness his right of assuming the character of the castle barber. He left his deliverer filled with astonishment at his strange adventure. For some time he doubted its reality, and thought he must have been dreaming, until happening to put his hand to his head, he found that it was all but too true; he felt very cold, and he had no wig to protect it. After reflecting a little while, he retired to rest, and it was near noon next day before he awoke.

The wicked landlord had watched from early dawn for the arrival of the castle guest. Anticipating a bald head, he was prepared to receive him with well affected surprize, but secret ridicule, at his night’s adventure. As mid-day came, and no guest appeared, he grew uneasy lest the spectre had treated him too roughly—perhaps strangled, or frightened him to death. Not wishing to have carried the joke so far, he hastened with his servants in some anxiety towards the castle; and sought out the room where he had seen the light the preceding evening. He found a strange key in the door, but it was bolted, a measure Frank adopted on the ghost’s departure. He knocked with such violence that Frank leaped up at the noise, thinking, at first, that the spectre was coming on another visit. But hearing it was mine host’s voice intreating him to give some sign, Frank rose and opened the door.

“Great God, and all his saints!” cried the landlord, lifting up his hands with apparent terror, “then old Red Mantle has been here;” (the spectre being known to the villagers by that name,) “and the tradition is true enough. How did he look? what said he? and more than all, what did he do?”

Frank, aware of mine host’s roguery, replied, “How should he look! as a man in a red mantle does; what he did is evident to any one; and I shall always take care to remember his words. ‘Kind stranger,’ he said, ‘trust not the landlord who dwells opposite, he knew too well what would happen to you. But leave him to me, I will reward him. I am going to leave the castle, and will take up my quarters at his inn—I will pinch and plague him to the end of his life; unless, indeed, he consent to receive you in his house, and treat you handsomely, until your hair and beard be again full grown.’”

Our poor host trembled sadly at hearing this threat; he crossed himself, and swore by the Holy Virgin that he would be glad to give Frank the run of his house as long as he pleased. He forthwith conducted his guest to the inn, and waited upon him, with the utmost obsequiousness, himself.

Our hero obtained great reputation as an exorcist, for the spectre was no longer to be heard at the Castle. He often went to sleep there, and a young fellow, who had courage to accompany him, returned without a shaven head. The owner of the Castle, hearing that the spectre had disappeared, sent orders, with great alacrity, to have the stranger most hospitably treated, who had delivered his property from such a disagreeable house-steward as he proved.

By the approach of autumn, Frank’s brown locks began to cover his temples again; and he grew anxious to proceed home. His thoughts were busied with conjectures about the friend whom he was to meet upon the bridge over the Weser—the author of his future fortunes. Being prepared for his departure, the landlord presented him with a fine horse, and a well-filled purse, sent by the owner of the Castle as some token of his gratitude for the service he had received. Thus Frank was enabled to re-enter his native city on horseback, quite in as good circumstances as those in which he had left it the year before. He sought out his old quarters in the narrow street, where he continued to live very retired, and contented himself with making inquiries after his beloved Mela, who, he learnt, was still single, and enjoying very good health. At present this was sufficient for him; as he would not presume to appear in her presence until his fate was ascertained; so that he did not even inform her of his arrival in the place.

He looked forward very anxiously for the period of the equinox; his impatience made each day appear as long as a year. The long wished-for time at last arrived; and the night previous he could not close his eyes, on account of his eager anticipations: his heart beat strong, and he felt as if the blood was about to burst from his veins, just as it was in the Castle of Rummelsberg before the spectre’s appearance. He rose at daybreak, in order not to let his unknown friend wait, and hastened to the bridge, which he found quite deserted. He then paced to and fro, anticipating the highest earthly enjoyment, in dwelling upon his future prosperity: for the mere belief that our wishes will be indulged, includes, perhaps, the fullest measure of human happiness. Our hero amused himself with planning a variety of modes of appearing before his beloved, when he had realized his grand hopes; not being able to decide whether it would be better to present himself in all his splendour, or to communicate the happy change of affairs by degrees. Then he was very inquisitive to learn who this secret friend of his might be. “One of my own old acquaintances, I wonder:—but they seem one and all to have abandoned me since my reverses. Then how will it be in his power to serve me so astonishingly? Will the affair be hard or easy to accomplish?” None of these questions did he know how to answer satisfactorily, in spite of all his earnest meditations. The bridge now began to be thronged with people, coaches, waggons, horse and foot passengers, hastening to and fro; besides a number of mendicants of every description, one after another coming to take their usual stations in a place so favourable to their calling. They soon began to work upon the compassion of passengers; and the first of this ragged regiment, who implored Frank’s charity, was an old veteran, bearing his military honour of a wooden leg, having left the other behind him for his country’s service. As the reward of his valour, he was permitted to beg wherever he chose; and as he was a good physiognomist, versed in a knowledge of the human heart expressed in the lines of the face, he applied it with such success, that he seldom solicited alms in vain. He was not deceived with Frank on this occasion; for the latter, in the joy of his heart, flung him a silver piece, as much as sixpence, into his hat.

For some time Frank did not expect to see much company, besides the lower classes, passing over the bridge; the more rich and indolent still enjoying their morning slumbers. He imagined that his benefactor must, of course, belong to the wealthier class, and took no notice of the rest of the passengers, until, the courts of justice being opened, the lawyers and magistrates should proceed in their full dress to the Council, and the rich merchants to the Exchange. Then he began to grow very anxious, and peered into the faces of all the most respectably-dressed people who passed by. But hour after hour elapsed, until the morning was gone. Dinner came, and business seemed to cease; yet no friend caught our hero’s eye. He paced to and fro along the bridge, where there remained only himself and the mendicants; who now opened their scrips, and dined on cold meat, still keeping their respective stations. Frank wished to follow their example; but, having no provisions with him, he purchased some fruit, which he ate as he walked along. The members of the club, as they sat at dinner, remarked how long he had been haunting the same spot, without speaking to any one, or, like themselves, transacting business. They set him down for an idle youth, though most of them had experienced his benevolence; and he did not escape their facetious observations. At length, they gave him the title of the bridge-surveyor; with the exception of the old soldier, who noticed that his face no longer betokened the same cheerfulness; that he seemed to have some serious business upon his mind; his hat slouched over his eyes, his step slow and cautious: while he was engaged in eating the remnant of an apple, as if hardly conscious of what he was doing.

The old physiognomist wished to apply his observations to some profit; he set his natural and artificial leg both in motion, passed to the other side of the bridge, and prepared to ask our musing hero for more alms, as if he had been a fresh comer. He succeeded—the thoughtful visionary only thrust his hand into his pocket, and threw a piece of money without even looking at him.

After dinner, numbers of new faces appeared; but not a single person spoke to poor Frank, who began to grow impatient. His attention was still fixed upon every respectable passenger; strange, he thought, that no one addressed him—that all should pass him without the least notice; very few even deigning to return his salutation.

Towards evening, the bridge became once more deserted, the beggars one after another returning homewards, leaving our hero to his own melancholy thoughts, with hopes deceived; and the happy prospect, that had shone upon him in the morning, vanished with the parting day. He felt a great inclination to throw himself into the river, and it was only the idea of Mela, and a desire of seeing her before he committed the fatal deed, which prevented him. He determined, then, to be on the watch for her on the ensuing day, as she went to mass, to gaze on her beauty with rapture, and then bury his passion for ever in the waves of the Weser.

As he was leaving the bridge, he met the old soldier, who had been, meanwhile, busily guessing at the motive of the poor young fellow, in watching on the bridge the whole day. He waited longer than usual, to see whether he would take his departure, until his patience being quite exhausted, he could not resist his curiosity to inquire into the reason of his turning the bridge into a dwelling-place. “Pray, Sir,” he began, “may I be permitted to ask——?”

Frank, by no means in a communicative humour, and finding the long expected address come from the lips of an old mendicant, answered rather sharply—“What do you want, old grey-beard? speak out.”

“Sir,” said the old man, “you and I were the first who took our stations on the bridge to-day, and you see we are the last to leave it. As for me and my companions, it is our business; but you do not belong to our fraternity, and yet you have passed all the day here. May I be informed, if it be no secret, what can have been your reason, and what weighs so much upon your mind, that you want to get clear of here?”

“What boots it for thee to know, my old fellow, what ails me, and what lies so heavy upon my heart? it can avail thee nothing.”

“But, Sir, I feel an interest in you; you have given me alms twice this blessed day, for which God reward you, say I. Yet your face is not half so happy as it was this morning, and I am sorry for it.”

This simple honest expression of sympathy won Frank’s heart; and losing all his misanthropy, he gave the old soldier a kind answer. “Learn, then, that I have waited here so patiently the whole of this day to see a friend who promised to meet me; but who has made me wait long enough in vain.”

“No offence, Sir,” said the old man; “but such a friend, whosoever he be, is no better than a scoundrel, to think of making a fool of you. I would make him feel the weight of my crutch, had he ventured to treat me so. Why not send you word, if something prevented him from coming, instead of treating you like a school lad?”

“Yet,” said Frank, “I ought not to condemn him: he did not exactly promise; it was in a dream that he told me to wait for him.” For Frank thought that it would be too tedious to relate the ghost’s story, so he turned it into a dream.”

“That is quite another thing,” cried the old man: “I don’t wonder you should be served thus, if you believe in dreams. Many mad ones have I had in my life, but I never was so mad as to give any credit to them. If I had now all the money which has been promised me in dreams, I think I might buy the whole city of Bremen; but I never stirred a hand to inquire into the truth of them, for I knew that it must be all labour lost. Forgive me, but I could almost laugh in your face;—to think of spending a good summer’s day here for the sake of a dream, while you might have been passing your time merrily with your friends.”

“It would seem, from all we know, old friend, that thou art right; yet I dreamed the thing so exactly to the minutest circumstance, more than three months ago, that I was to meet him on this very spot, and hear tidings of the greatest importance to me; that I could not refrain from trying whether there was any truth in it.”—“Truth, indeed!” replied the soldier; “why no one dreams more truly, as you may say, than I do: I had one dream I shall never forget. I can’t say how long back it was; but my good angel certainly appeared in the shape of a fine youth, with yellow curly hair, two wings upon his back, and took his place at my bed-side. “Listen, old Berthold,’ he said, ‘and lose not a word, if thou dost wish to be happy. Thou art fated to find a large treasure, and enjoy thyself for the rest of thy life. So go to-morrow, after sunset, with thy spade in thy hand; cross the river to thy right hand, pass all the houses, and the monastery of St. John, until thou reach a garden with four steps leading to it from the road. Wait there quietly, till the moon shines bright; then push with all thy might against the door, and it will open. Walk into the garden without the least fear; turn up a walk on thy left hand, overshaded with vines, and behind them thou wilt see a large apple tree. Well, step up to the stem of it, with thy face towards the moon. About two yards distant, thou wilt find two rose bushes; begin to dig close to them, till thou hittest against a stone plate, under which there lies an iron chest full of gold and other precious articles. Be it heavy and unwieldy as it will, heed it not, but lift it out of the hole, for thou wilt be rewarded for thy pains, when the key is found below.”

Our hero stood mute with astonishment, as he listened to the old man’s dream. He would not have been able to hide his agitation, if the darkness had not prevented his companion from seeing his face. He plainly recognized in the old man’s description, a favourite garden that had belonged to his father, and which he had since sold. For the old gentleman had laid out the garden in a very stiff and formal taste, which Frank did not approve; but, for some secret reason, he had deposited there a portion of his wealth.

The cripple now became a very interesting object to Frank; for in him he had met with the very friend whom the spectre had promised. He would gladly have embraced him: he would have called him by the name of father, and of friend, had not prudence suggested another course. He merely said, “Yours was truly a clear dream: but what did you do next morning? Did you follow your good angel’s advice?” “Not I, forsooth!” replied the old man: “you know it was only a dream; and have I not laid awake night after night, when my good angel might have found me often enough, and told me to my face; yet he never troubled himself about me. Do you think, if he did, that I should now, in old age, be going a begging.” Frank here bestowed the last piece of silver upon his lame friend, saying, “Go, old father! go, and drink my health in a pint of good rhenish: thy conversation has put me into a good humour. Come here again, every day. I hope we shall meet at the bridge again.” It was long since the old cripple had reaped such a day’s harvest: he blessed his kind benefactor from his soul; limped into a tavern, and enjoyed himself most gloriously; while Frank, flushed with fresh hope, hastened home to his narrow street.

The next day, he prepared his delving materials, though not the same as are generally employed by treasure-seekers. He had no forms of conjuration, no osier twig, enchanted girdle, nor hieroglyphics of any kind. Neither were they requisite, while the three chief implements,—a pick-axe, a spade, and the subterraneous treasure itself, were close at hand. Thus armed, Frank set out towards sunset, and concealed his implements near the spot, under a hedge. He had too much reliance on his ghost-barber’s honour, to doubt the existence of the treasure; and he waited for the moonshine with no little impatience. No sooner did he mark her silvery horns through the bushes, than Frank began his labours, paying attention to every thing the old man had said; by which means, he shortly laid hands upon the treasure, without incurring any opposition or difficulty, either from a fierce mastiff, or a scowling wolf, and without even having the light of a blue flame, to guide his steps.

He seized some of the gold coins deposited in the chest, with feelings of unspeakable joy; which being somewhat subsided, he began to think how he might best convey his treasure secretly to his lodgings. It was far too weighty to carry without assistance, and he soon began to experience some of the anxiety so inseparable from the possession of wealth. The new Crœsus could hit upon no other plan but that of placing his riches in a hollow tree, which he found in a meadow near the garden. Then putting the chest back in its place, he covered it over with earth, and made it as smooth as he could. In the course of three days he succeeded in transporting the whole of his wealth safely into his lodgings, from the hollow tree. Believing that he was at length authorized to throw off all concealment, he forthwith arrayed himself in a rich dress, ordered the prayers at church to be discontinued, and in its place, a thanksgiving to be put up for a traveller on his safe return to his native city, after having brought his affairs to a successful issue. Then he concealed himself in a corner of the church, where, unseen by his beloved, though his eyes were fixed upon hers, he might indulge that ecstasy, the idea of which had only a few days before prevented him from putting a desperate end to his existence. As the thanksgiving was repeating, her cheeks glowed, her eyes were suffused with joy, and she had such difficulty to conceal her raptures, that no one could misinterpret their subsequent meeting in the church, which was so truly expressive.

Henceforward Frank showed himself upon change, and entered into business. His transactions were equally fortunate; his growing affluence excited the envy of his fellow-citizens, who declared that he must have been more lucky than wise, to become rich by collecting old debts. He engaged a noble mansion opposite Sir Roland’s statue in the great square; he hired clerks and domestics, and applied with great assiduity to trade. The despicable race of parasites again flocked around him, expecting to be again admitted to a share in his prosperity; but wiser by experience and adversity, he only made them civil speeches in return, allowing them to go empty-handed away. This he found to be a sovereign remedy for freeing himself from their company; he never asked them to dinner, and they returned no more.

Frank now became the topic of the day in the good city of Bremen. Every body talked of the great fortune which he had so unaccountably made abroad; it was equally the subject of conversation at feasts and funerals, in courts of law, and upon ’change. In proportion as his opulence increased, and became more known, Mela’s happiness seemed to diminish. She thought her mute lover was at last in a condition to declare himself; still he remained silent, except occasionally meeting her in the street, and even here he became daily less attentive. Such a demeanour showed but a cold lover; and that harpy, jealousy, soon began to torment her, whispering the most unpleasant suspicions possible: “Let me banish the fond hope of fixing so variable a being, thus changing like a weathercock blown about by the least breeze. True, he loved, and was faithful to thee as long as he was thine equal in rank; but with this revolution in his affairs, being raised so high above thee, he looks down upon the purest affection, because of thy poverty. Surrounded with wealth and splendour, he perhaps adores some haughtier beauty who abandoned him in his misfortune, but now with her syren voice calls him back. Yes, and the voice of adulation hath changed his heart. His new companions tell him to choose from among the richest and loftiest of his native place; that no fathers would refuse their daughters, no maidens reject him as a lover. They will make him fond of power and importance; he will connect himself with some mighty family, and forget his poor Mela.”

Thoughts like these, inspired by jealousy, tormented her incessantly. The first time she had heard of his prosperity, she hailed it with delight; not because she was ambitious to share so large a fortune, but to gratify her mother, who had never enjoyed a moment’s happiness since she resigned the wealthy brewer. Mela now wished that all the prayers which had been offered up for his success had not been heard, and that the traveller’s business had not succeeded, as he would then, perhaps, have been faithful.

Her mother was at no loss to discover the cause of her daughter’s melancholy. The report of the late lint merchant’s improved circumstances had reached her; she was aware of Mela’s attachment; and as he was now a busy reputable merchant, and the very model of good order, she could no longer see any reason for his delaying his offer of marriage, if he really wished to possess her. She never mentioned the subject to Mela, in order not to wound her feelings; but the latter, no longer able to conceal her grief, at length confided the source of it to her mother. The old lady, however, only heard what she knew well enough before; though it gave occasion for her to offer her opinion on the subject. Above all, she avoided saying a single word of reproach, being resolved to make the best of every thing that could not be helped. In fact, she tried every means of consoling her unhappy daughter she could, teaching her to bear up against her blighted prospects with piety and firmness.

“Dearest child,” she would say, “as you have brewed, you know, so you must bake; you threw away Fortune when she solicited, and you must learn to bear her loss. Experience has shown me that the hope we most count upon is often delusive. Follow my example; listen to it no longer, and endless disappointments will no longer destroy your peace. Look for no favourable change in your fate, and you will soon be contented. It is better to honour our spinning-wheel, which procures us the means of living, than to dream of greatness and wealth, since we have learnt to do without them.”

Such philosophical remarks came from the good old lady’s heart, since the failure of her last dear hope connected with the worthy brewer. She had simplified her mode of life, so that it was hard for fate to interfere with it farther. Mela had not acquired the same philosophical resignation, and her mother’s advice had a different effect from that she contemplated. Her daughter’s conscience smote her as the destroyer of her mother’s fondest hopes, and she severely reproached herself. Though they had never agreed in opinion regarding marriage, and Mela thought bread and salt, seasoned by love, enough for mortal happiness; yet she was not deaf to the report of her lover’s prosperity, she had even indulged in some pleasing domestic arrangements, was delighted at the idea of realizing her mother’s luxurious dreams, and of restoring her to her former opulence, without doing violence to her own inclinations.

The pleasing illusion vanished with the gradual lapse of time, while Frank still refused to make his appearance. Next came a report that he was preparing an establishment for the reception of his bride, a rich lady of Antwerp, who was on the point of arriving. This was, indeed, a death-blow to her hopes, and was too much even for her feelings of resignation. She vowed to tear the image of the faithless wretch for ever from her heart, and to dry her tears,—while at the same time they flowed afresh.

In an hour,—and there were many such, when she quite forgot her vow, and was recurring with sweet and bitter fancies to the one loved idea, however she esteemed it unworthy her,—she was roused by a low tap at the door. Her mother opened it;—it was Frank; their old neighbour Frank, from the narrow street. He wore a rich dress, and his fine brown curls clustered round his forehead, and seemed to perfume the room. So splendid an appearance betokened some more important object than selling lint. The old lady started—she attempted to speak; but the words faltered on her lips. Mela rose suddenly from her seat;—she blushed and grew pale by turns, but remained silent, as well as her mother. Frank, however, was perfectly at his ease: he now adapted words to the soft melody which he had often played on his lute; and in bold open terms he at length declared his long silent love. Then turning to the happy mother, he solemnly entreated her consent to his union with her daughter. Next he gave explanations of all suspicious and unpleasant circumstances, concluding by declaring that the bride for whom preparations had been making was only the fair Mela herself.

On recovering from her surprize, the ceremonious old lady determined, as a matter of propriety, to take one week’s consideration, though tears of joy were in her eyes, and eloquently spoke the consent she could not. Frank, however, became so pressing, that she was compelled to steer a middle course between old custom and propriety, and the wishes of the new lover; and she delegated her daughter to give an answer agreeable to herself. A strange revolution had been at work in Mela’s virgin heart since his entrance into the room. No stronger proof of his innocence could be imagined, than such a visit; his apparent indifference was all explained. He had been so very assiduous and active in his business, and to prepare also for their marriage, that he had not sooner had time; but there was now no reason why she should refuse her consent. So, she was fain to pronounce the decisive word, confirming the hopes of love, which she did with so much sweetness of manner, that the delighted Frank could not help catching it in a glowing kiss.

The happy lovers had now, for the first time, leisure to translate into its proper language, the hieroglyphics of their secret correspondence, which they soon discovered they had already understood, and done justice to each other’s sentiments. This supplied them with a pleasant subject of conversation, and it was long before Frank took leave of his charming bride. But he had business to transact on ’change, for Frank was now a man of business.

He now wished to meet with his old friend the soldier, whom he had always remembered, though he had apparently neglected him. On his side, the cripple had examined the faces of all the passengers who had appeared on the bridge, without recognizing his generous young friend, as he had been led to expect: but the moment he saw him approach, he limped as fast as his crutch could carry him, to bid him welcome; and Frank, kindly hailing the old man, said, “Do you think, friend, you could go with me to the new town, on business? you shall be well paid for your trouble.”

“Why not?” returned the old veteran, “I have a wooden leg that is never tired; and I can walk at a pretty smart pace when it suits me. Only wait a little, till the little grey man comes; he never fails to cross the bridge towards evening.”

“There is no need to wait for the little grey man,” said Frank: “what can you have to do with him?”

“What!” repeated the soldier, “why, the grey man brings me a silver groat every night of his life, from whom I neither know nor care. Sometimes I begin to suspect, that it must be the evil one, who wants me to barter my soul for money. Be that as it may, I know nothing of it, so it is nothing to me. I have closed no such bargain, and I shall not keep it.”

“I fancy not,” said our hero, smiling; “but if you will now follow me, you shall have the silver groat.” So the cripple followed him through a number of streets, into a remote part of the town near the rampart. There he stopped before a small house, just newly built, and knocked at the door. On its being opened, Frank walked in, and said to the old man, “My friend, thou hast once bestowed upon me a very pleasant evening, and it is right that I should cheer up the evening of thy life. Behold this house and all its contents! they are thine, with the little garden beyond. There will be a person to take care of you, and you will find the silver groat every day upon your dining-table. Fear not the evil one on the score of thy silver groat, old fellow, for he in the grey jacket was no other than an agent of mine. He appeared only to bring you the money, until this thy new dwelling was provided. For as your good angel did not please you, I have undertaken to fill his place.”

Frank then showed the old soldier his abode: the table stood ready covered, and there was every thing necessary for his comfort and convenience. Old Cripple was so astonished at his good luck, that he doubted its reality; he imagined it could be no other than a dream, that a rich man should thus pay such attention to the poor. Frank soon convinced him, and the tears of gratitude started into his eyes. His benefactor was more than rewarded at the sight; and, to preserve his adopted character of a good angel, he suddenly vanished, leaving him to explain the affair as he could.

Next morning, the abode of the fair betrothed most resembled a fair; such was the throng of milliners, jewellers, lace-merchants, tailors, shoemakers, and sempstresses, all vieing with each other in laying their treasures at her feet. Mela spent the whole of that day in selecting from the fashionable stores whatever articles were most becoming and most pleasing to the eye, such as constituted a grand bridal dress in those times. She then gave further orders to the milliner and haberdasher. Meanwhile, the bridegroom went to see the banns published; as in those good times rich and great people were not afraid of informing the whole world that they meant to contract the serious engagement of marriage. Before the close of the month, Frank led his long-loved Mela to the altar; and such was the grand solemnity and splendour of the whole ceremony, that it far outshone even the wedding of the rich brewer.

What a day of triumph for the bride’s mother, old Madame Brigitta! She saw her daughter united to a wealthy and excellent young gentleman, and enjoyed, during the evening of her life, that ease and affluence which she had so long sighed for. And Madame Brigitta, as she was henceforward called, likewise deserved her good fortune, at least at Frank’s hands, as she turned out, luckily for him, one of the least troublesome mothers-in-law that was ever known.

1. Hence, according to the tradition, a merry health was used to be drunk, which is still continued in a number of places—“Come! long live the good old fellow’s son!”
2. Ann of Bretagne.
3. The Spanish ships, which traded in those times to America, were known by that name.