The Royal Lady's Magazine/Series 1/Volume 2/July 1831/German Prolusions/The Grateful Ghost

by Johann Karl August Musäus

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

THE GRATEFUL GHOST.

(By Musus.)

There lived formerly, in the town of Bremen, a very rich man, whose name was Melchior. His wealth was so great, that his large dining-hall was actually paved with hard dollars. Still his money went on increasing every year; and he looked forward to a long enjoyment of it. But he died suddenly one day, of apoplexy, in the midst of a sumptuous feast which he had given to celebrate the safe arrival of one of his most richly laden ships.

Melchior’s son Francis was the sole heir of his father’s immense fortune, and being of age, came into the uncontrolled possession of it. In the full vigour of health, with a handsome person, and an excellent heart, he was esteemed as one of the most amiable young men in his native place; while his vast wealth enabled him to indulge to its utmost, his noble desire of doing good. But, on the other hand, inexperience, and youthful passions, exposed him to all the dangers of seduction, and the more so, because his father, whose whole soul had been wrapped up in the accumulation of money, had bestowed very little care upon the judicious instruction of his son.

Francis was soon surrounded by a circle of flatterers and parasites, who called themselves his best friends, and endeavoured to keep him in one continued turmoil of pleasure. His house became the resort of all the roystering spirits of Bremen, who passed their days in riotous eating and drinking at his expense. No banquets given at the bishop’s palace, equalled the splendour and profusion of his; and so long as the town stands, it will never again witness such oxen feasts as he used to give yearly: when every citizen received from him a noble piece of roast-beef, and a small pitcher of Spanish wine. Business was left to the management of clerks and agents, with whom he interfered as little as he could help, the cashier being the only person he cared to see, because it was his province to find the money for his prodigality. The credit of his father had been too deeply fixed to admit of being easily destroyed; Francis, therefore, was enabled to go on for some years in this extravagant and thoughtless career; but when, in order to obtain ready money, he found himself compelled to remove, secretly, the silver flooring of the dining-hall, and replace it with one of stone, he began to think a little seriously of his situation. His numerous creditors, too, became suddenly clamorous, and as he was unable to satisfy their demands, a complete bankruptcy ensued. The paternal mansion, warehouses, gardens, lands, costly furniture, all were sold by the candle; and Francis hardly saved enough out of the wreck of his inheritance, to secure him from utter destitution for half a year.

And now, for the first time, his eyes were opened. He meditated seriously upon his past life, and his present situation: but alas! repentance came too late! His good friends, his revelling companions, all disappeared; while he had wholly neglected to cultivate the friendship of honourable and upright men. He was left consequently quite alone; abandoned to himself: with no one to consult or advise with, in his melancholy condition. It was insupportable to his proud feelings, to remain among those, who had known him on the pinnacle of wealth and greatness, in the character of a worthless spendthrift. He resolved, therefore, to quit his native town, and endeavour to gain, once more, fortune and respectability in some foreign country.

While he was meditating upon this resolve, and before he had definitively settled any plan in his own mind, it happened that his father’s account-books fell into his hands. Heretofore, he had never troubled himself very much with them; it had always been an irksome task, even to look into them; but now they became of importance. He turned over the leaves, and found large arrears of bad debts: his resolution was immediately taken. He determined to set forth and seek the persons who owed these debts; he hoped, by a touching description of his own misfortunes, so far to work upon their feelings, that they would at least pay some portion of them; and then he would again be able to carry on business in a small way. This cheering prospect, animated him; he made immediate preparations; bought a saddle-horse; packed his saddle-bags; ordered a prayer to be put up in the cathedral for a young traveller, beseeching an auspicious issue to his journey; and rode away.

The principal debtors were merchants, who resided at Antwerp; and thither he directed his steps. A journey from Bremen to Antwerp in those days, when the roads were beset with robbers, and every knight considered himself at liberty to plunder, and incarcerate in the dungeons of his castle, any traveller not duly provided with a safety-pass, was a more dangerous undertaking than it would be now to go from Bremen to Kamschatka. Francis, nevertheless, journeyed safely till he reached the middle of Westphalia. Here one sultry day, he rode till sunset through a wild desolate tract of country, without seeing a habitation of any kind. Suddenly, a dreadful thunder-storm came on, accompanied with a deluge of rain, which soon drenched him to the skin. Far and near he cast his eyes around; but he could discover no friendly roof. Night came on; and the dark clouds rolled so thickly over the heavens, that he could not discern an object at the distance of two paces.

The delicate Francis, who from his infancy had been accustomed to every effeminate indulgence, was ill calculated to encounter hardships like these, and he began to ruminate, with many bitter forebodings, upon the manner in which he should probably have to pass the night. In the midst of these gloomy reflections, to his infinite consolation, he perceived a distant light; it served him as a guide in making immediately for it; and he found that it issued from a miserable hovel.

He knocked at the door, entreating to be admitted. But the man who lived there was a surly fellow, who, without opening the door, answered from within—“There is no room here for travellers—I have hardly room enough for myself, much less for strangers.”—Francis renewed his entreaties most imploringly. He represented what a dreadful night it was; said, he only wished for a safe shelter, and assured him he would gladly reward him. But the brute made no further answer; extinguished his light; and laid himself down upon his straw.

Francis, however, did not cease his importunities outside, and as the man could get no sleep, he endeavoured to ged rid of his visitor. “Hark’ee, countryman,” said he, “if you would have snug quarters, ride on about a quarter of a mile further to the left, through the wood; you will come to the castle of the bold knight Bronkhorst; he is always ready to give shelter to travellers; only sometimes he is fond of indulging in a foolish whim, that of soundly thrashing them, when they take their leave. If this dislike you not, you will find yourself comfortable enough there.”

Francis bethought himself a moment, for the said leave-taking was not exactly to his fancy. But what was to be done? He must either pass the night, stormy as it was, in the open air, or run the risk, for once, of that same thrashing. The latter seemed preferable. Besides, it was not certain the knight would indulge in his joke. He sprung forward therefore, and soon found himself before the massy gates of the castle. As he knocked, the warder, in a hoarse loud voice, called out, “Who is there?”

“A traveller who has lost his way, and wishes for shelter from the inclemency of the weather,” answered Francis.

“If you are willing to comply with the custom of the place, the door shall be opened to you,” replied the warder in the same growling tone.

Francis promised, and immediately the enormous gate rolled back. Servants came forth to help him to alight, to take charge of his saddle-bags, to lead his horse into the stable, and to conduct himself to the knight, who was seated in a brilliantly illuminated chamber.

He was a tall powerful man, who in his younger days, had performed valiant deeds as a warrior; but he had now retired to his castle, to repose from the severe duties of the field. His frank and hearty manner, and his hospitality, might have inspired confidence; but his haughty, warlike air, his harsh voice, and his impetuous gestures, created alarm at first, to those who did not know him intimately.

He advanced towards Francis, shook him by the hand with so cordial a gripe that he could hardly refrain from crying out, and thundered in his ears such a rattling oath, in the way of welcome, as would have made a deaf man hear. Francis was astounded; and betrayed in his appearance the alarm he felt.

“What is the matter with you, youngster?” said the knight, “your whole body trembles like an aspen-leaf.”

“I am wet through, and cold,” replied Francis. “If I could have some dry clothes and a warm posset—”

“Very well—you shall have them. Is there any thing else you wish? command freely, as if you were in your own house.”

Francis considered for a moment. It would all come to the same end, he thought. He could not escape the awkward leave-taking; so, as he was fairly in for it, he resolved to make himself comfortable meanwhile.

When the servants brought him dry clothes, and assisted him in undressing and dressing, he began scolding them without any ceremony, complaining that this was wrong, and the other, and finding fault with every thing. The knight manifested no displeasure at this freedom; on the contrary, he set to, and scolded them himself, for not knowing how to wait properly on a stranger, and ordered them to be quick. The table was next spread, and a splendid banquet brought in. Francis was desired to sit opposite his host, who apprized him, once for all, that it was not his custom to press his guests to eat. Francis took the hint; helped himself quickly to whatever he fancied; and ordered whatever he wanted without the least diffidence. After a while, the knight beckoned to the servants, that they should bring in the wine, and pour it out. “How do you like that wine?” inquired the knight, when Francis had put his first glass to his lips. “If it be the worst in your cellar,” replied Francis, “then it is very good of its kind; but if it be your best, it is very bad.”

“Well said,” answered the knight, and immediately ordered another flask to be brought.

“This is better than the first,” said Francis; “but I have drunk much stronger wine of this quality.”

The knight ordered a third flask to be brought, and scarcely had Francis tasted of it, when he exclaimed, “That’s capital! we’ll stick to this, if you please.”

“You are a nice judge of wine,” answered the knight.

And now they began, after the good old custom of their country in those days, to tipple away, while the knight entertained Francis with accounts of his own heroical deeds in the Turkish wars; in the recital of which he became so warmed that he sabred down bottles and glasses with the great carving-knife, till Francis often started back in terror, lest his own nose should be sliced off. Towards midnight, however, he interrupted his loquacious host.

“Excuse me, sir knight,” said he, “but I have a long journey to perform, and must proceed onwards with the first dawn of the morning; I should be glad, therefore, to have an hour or two of sleep.”

The knight gave over his stories immediately, and replied, “Your bed is ready for you: but I cannot allow you to set out so early, and fasting. You must breakfast with me first; and then I will accompany you according to the custom of my castle.”

Francis understood these words without any further explanation. However, he once more tried to convince his host that he could manage his departure so quietly, as not to disturb any one; but it was all in vain.

“An old soldier is accustomed to be always ready,” said the knight, “and you shall see I shall be awake before you are.”

He then bade Francis good night, and they both retired to rest.

Weary from his long journey, and moreover somewhat oppressed with wine, Francis slept soundly on his soft bed until it was broad daylight, and was first awakened by the voice of the knight, who stood by his side inviting him to breakfast, which was ready. Francis sprung out of bed, dressed himself, and descended (since he found he could not help himself) into the room where the knight was waiting to take breakfast with him. On the table were spread delicious Westphalia hams, smoked tongues, white bread, and pumpernickel, (a sort of coarse black bread) fine old Rhenish wines, and others of a more generous quality. Without waiting for much pressing, he fell to, and made an excellent breakfast.

When he had eaten his fill, he had his nag saddled and led out. And now he expected, every moment, the threatened leave-taking. In order to have as much as he could, by way of compensation for his anticipated thrashing, he said to the knight, “Will you allow me to take from what remains of our repast, something to refresh me on my journey?” “With great pleasure,” replied the knight, and immediately began himself to help Francis, in cramming his pockets as full as they could hold.

He was now ready to set off, and shaking the knight cordially by the hand, thanked him warmly for the hospitable reception he had experienced, and descended into the court-yard. The knight, wishing him a pleasant journey, accompanied him thither; and the servants were all in waiting, eager to perform what little remaining services he might require. Francis mounted his horse, and rode slowly through the castle gates, wondering greatly that he was allowed to take his leave thus, without submitting to the customary ordeal. The knight stood with his servants at the gate, looked after Francis, and made some observations upon his horse; for he was a great lover of horses, and an excellent judge of them. Still fearful, however, that perhaps they might bring him back, and make him pay his reckoning on his well-belaboured shoulders, he looked frequently behind with trembling. But when he had got a considerable istance, he turned his horse’s head (for he could no longer restrain his curiosity), and riding back thus addressed the knight:

“With your permission, sir knight, I would fain ask you a question. The man who directed me here, and who praised your hospitality, told me in addition, that you were accustomed, when your guests took their departure, to thrash them till they were black and blue; and yet you have allowed me to depart freely. Has then the fellow told me a falsehood? If so, I will go and punish him. Or, if you have made an exception in my favour, may I ask wherefore?”

“You were told no falsehood,” answered the knight. “In the same way that I received and entertained you, so do I receive and entertain every stranger who visits me. But there are now and then fools, who with their intended compliments and over politeness sicken me almost to death: affected idiots, who would have you believe, forsooth, they feel neither hunger nor thirst, when they are absolutely tormented with both, and who must be entreated and persuaded, every mouthful they eat, and every drop they drink. Such men make me so enraged at last, that I take my staff and cudgel them out of my house. But a man of your sort is always a welcome guest. You spoke plainly and roundly your mind, as the Bremen folks always do. Call here again without fear, if your road should lie this way, on your return, and so God speed you!”

Francis now pursued his journey to Antwerp, with a cheerful mind, and he reached that city without meeting with any particular adventures by the way. At the inn where he alighted, he inquired of the landlord respecting the merchants who were his father’s debtors, asking whether they were yet living, and in what circumstances they were?—“Oh,” said mine host, “they are rich men now, and count among the principal persons of the city.” This intelligence delighted Francis, who began to congratulate himself upon the certain success of his plans. On the following morning he set forth early, and called upon the debtor against whom he had the largest claim. He stated his case, urged his own misfortunes as pathetically as he could, and finished by entreating that he would at least pay some portion of what was owing, on account.

The man elevated his eyes, pursed his forehead into wrinkles, and with an angry air demanded “how he dared to talk of a debt, after every thing had been duly settled with his father, who was satisfied with the composition which had been offered, and which was confirmed by the proper authorities. What right therefore had he, Francis, to make a fresh claim?”

Francis endeavoured to remonstrate respectfully, but he could not obtain a hearing. The man overwhelmed him with abuse, and finally showed him to the door. He fared no better with the second and third, who equally assailed him with reproaches, and peremptorily refused to acknowledge that they owed any debt. He returned to his inn dejected and sorrowful, and considered with himself whether he would go to the remainder, or what would be the best thing to do. Meanwhile, the knavish debtors assembled together and debated how they should get rid of their unwelcome creditor. They lodged a complaint against him, utterly without foundation; and corrupting the judges with bribes, poor Francis was arrested. He remained in prison three months; but during the whole of that time underwent no judicial examination. At the expiration of the three months they offered him his liberty, upon condition that he quitted the city in four-and-twenty hours, and engaged in heavy penalties never again to enter it; and as he saw it was impossible to get out of prison by any other means, he consented.

He was now free, indeed; but in order to defray his fees they sold his horse, and so managed what was due to themselves as to make out an account which left a balance of five florins only for Francis. With this pittance was he forced to leave the city on foot and wander where he might. All the hopes with which, three months before, he had entered it, all the bright prospects which had cheered him on his journey, were now at an end. Indifferent whither his path might lead him, he kept along the main road with downcast eyes, and was a little shocked, after several days travelling, to find he was in the direct way for his native town. “Impossible!” he exclaimed to himself. “Can I be seen there again in this miserable garb? I will rather roam through the wide world at all hazards.” With these words he turned upon his steps, and directed his course towards Holland, where he resolved to take ship at Amsterdam, either for the East Indies or America.

It was not far from the frontiers of the Netherlands that he arrived late one evening at an inn which was full of strangers. He inquired of the landlord whether he could have a lodging for the night: but mine host, who either perceived from the first glance that there was not much to be gained from his guest, or else took him for a suspicious character, refused him bluntly.

“My rooms are all occupied,” said he, “you must therefore trudge on to the next village.”

Francis, who was annoyed at this reception (because he saw plainly the landlord considered him a vagabond or some thief perhaps), turned away, muttering some abusive words which the former overheard. He immediately called him back. “Hark’ee,” said he, “I can provide you with a good night’s lodging. In yonder castle, there, on the hill, there are plenty of rooms, and the keys are in my custody. It is never inhabited, because there is an old tradition that spirits and goblins haunt it: but for my part I don’t believe there is a word of truth in the story. Ever since I have lived here, I have never been able to discover any thing of the kind.”

Francis, who was foot-sore and thoroughly fatigued, seeing he could not better himself, and moreover thinking it might be a mere rumour, like that of the hospitable knight, Bronkhorst, accepted the offer without further parley. But the host, who was a wag, had done this to be revenged upon the stranger for his abuse of him.

The castle stood upon a height exactly opposite the inn, and about a stone’s throw from it. It was used by the owner as a hunting-seat merely. In the day-time he and his friends often caroused there; it was kept in good repair, therefore, and richly furnished with every convenience, but they never ventured to pass a night within the walls.

Mine host now conducted himself very kindly towards Francis. He filled a small basket with provisions, took a flask of wine, and two great wax candles, and gave Francis a lantern to carry. Thus they proceeded in company to the castle. Mine host unlocked the gates; then handed to Francis the basket, the wine, and the lights, and thus addressed him: “You can select whichever room you like best to sleep in: should any thing happen to disturb you, you have only to call for help from one of the windows; there are always some persons or other up in my house during the whole night.”

Francis ascended the steps, entered the castle, walked through a long suite of rooms, and at length chose one the window of which was nearest the inn. He lighted his candles, unpacked his supper, and ate, and drank with a keen relish. He then shut and securely bolted the door, walked to the window, opened one-half of the casement, and looked down upon the inn, where he heard plenty of noise and revelry going on. After ten o’clock, however, every thing became more and more quiet—the lights disappeared one by one—and only a small night-lamp remained, which was burning in the bedchamber of the landlord. Francis now began to feel a little frightened in spite of himself; but fear was overpowered by fatigue; so, without taking off his clothes, he threw himself upon a couch and soon fell asleep.

About midnight, just as the clock struck twelve, he awoke, and fancied he heard, at a distance, the rattling of keys, and a creaking like that of doors turning upon rusty hinges. He listened. To his horror he found he was not deceived. The noise came nearer. In an agony of terror he drew the clothes over his head. Then he heard, most distinctly, some one trying different keys to unlock the door of the room in which he was. At length the right one was found and the lock gave way. But the bolts still held the door fast on the inside. A tremendous crash followed, as if a thunder-bolt had descended—the door flew open—and a tall haggard figure, with a black beard, entered. His dress was quite ancient in its fashion; a small pointed hat was on his head, and a scarlet mantle hung from his shoulders. He paced silently up and down the room several times, then stood before the table, snuffed the candles, took off his mantle, produced a shaving-case which was concealed under it, and drew forth all the necessary apparatus for shaving. He next sharpened a polished razor upon a strop which was suspended from his girdle.

Francis, peeping from under the clothes, saw all this preparation, and the sweat burst from him in agony, for he could not tell whether his neck or his beard was to be operated upon. He breathed a little more freely, however, when the spectre poured some water out of a silver pot into a silver basin, and with his withered bony hand began to beat up a lather. He then placed a chair, and, by his gestures, signified to Francis that he should leave his hiding-place and come to him. What could poor Francis do? He plucked up courage—sprang out of bed at the first summons, and seated himself in the chair. The spectre fastened a napkin under his chin, took a comb and a pair of scissors—cut off his hair and beard—then soaped him all over, even to his eyebrows, and shaved him so clean that he was as bald as a death’s head. Afterwards, he washed him with cold water, dried him nicely, made a bow, packed up his shaving tackle, put on his mantle, and prepared to retire.

Francis was right glad to think that nothing worse had befallen him. The spectre, however, still remained standing at the door, looked towards him, sighed, and with his hand stroked his face and beard several times. Francis believed he comprehended these signs. He started up, and invited the ghost to sit in his place. He was right: he had hit it. The ghost came back in a very friendly manner, replaced his shaving utensils on the table, and seated himself. Francis soon served the ghost as the ghost had served him, only he was not quite so expert at the business as might be wished, and the ghost frequently winced under his unpractised hand. However, he managed to get through; for in about a quarter of an hour there was not a hair left on the head, beard, and eyebrows of the ghost.

Hitherto not a word had been uttered by either, but now the spectre spoke:—

“Thanks, stranger, for the service you have done me! Through thee I am released from a ban which has confined me to this castle for the last three hundred years. Here once lived Count Hartmann, a cruel monster, who delighted in decoying unsuspecting strangers and wanderers into his power, by pretended acts of friendship, and then, after maltreating and otherwise insulting them, drove them away. I was his castle-barber, and sought to obtain his favour by assisting him in those malicious tricks. More particularly I was wont, in the way you now understand, to disfigure the heads of the unfortunate persons who suffered themselves to be allured hither, and who were afterwards turned out to be the mock and jeer of every fool who saw them. One day there came a pious man in monkish weeds, whom I thus served. It was he who pronounced the anathema which has ever since clung to me. ‘Accursed,’ said he, know that thou shalt wander within these walls until unasked, unbidden, a stranger shall retaliate upon thee what thou hast done to me.’

“From that moment I wasted slowly away, and died a mere shadow. My spirit departed from my withered carcass; but it remained here under the curse that had been breathed upon it. In vain I looked for my release, for I longed to be at rest. My sprite soon drove away all the inhabitants of the castle, and it remained desolate, for rarely would any one venture to pass the night here; and although I served every one who did venture, as I have served thee, I could never make them understand me, so as to induce them to serve me the same. Now, however, I shall go to my wished for repose, and shall be seen here no more!

“Were I the guardian of any concealed treasures, they should be yours. But listen to my advice. Remain here till your hair has grown again: then return to your native place, and tarry on the great bridge of the Weser at the time when day and night are equal, for a friend who will instruct you what you must do to retrieve your fortunes. Now adieu!”

With these words the ghost vanished.

Francis stood for a moment and was inclined to think he had been dreaming, but his bald head convinced him of the truth of all that had happened, and of the wonderful story he had heard. As, however, he had nothing more to fear, and was very tired still, he once more bolted his door, laid himself quietly down, and slept soundly till it was almost noon.

In the morning the roguish landlord waited impatiently for the arrival of the bald-headed traveller, that he might have a good laugh at him; but at last he became terribly alarmed, thinking the ghost had perhaps murdered instead of only shaving him. He called all his people together, therefore, went with them into the castle, and knocked loudly at the fastened door of the room in which Francis was still sleeping. The noise awoke him. He arose, and opened the door. As mine host perceived his smooth glossy head, he started back a few steps, clasped his hands, and exclaimed with well-feigned astonishment, “So, then! It is no fable what has been told of the spectre! Tell me, I pray, exactly how it happened.”

“Well, then,” answered Francis, “the ghost came and shaved my head in the way you see; and at his departure he gave me this bit of advice—never to trust a rascally innkeeper again. That fellow, said he, knew very well what would happen to you. Command him, however, in my name, to keep you in whatever you want, without any charge, till your hair has grown again. If he dare refuse I will haunt him every night, and play up such devilries in his house that in a very short time not a soul shall come near it. But to this castle I never mean to return.”

Mine host, who was horrified at this menace, promised every thing, took Francis back with him, and regaled him daily with the best he could furnish. When the owner of the castle, too, heard of this adventure, and learned that the ghost did not intend disturbing it in future, he was overjoyed, and ordered the landlord to pay every attention to the stranger.

Towards autumn Francis’s hair was grown again, and he made preparations to set out upon his journey homewards, for he longed to speak with his friend on the great bridge of the Weser. When he took leave of mine host, the latter presented him with a valuable horse, suitably caparisoned, and a good travelling purse, in the name of the nobleman whose castle he had delivered from the spectre. Thus provided, he had a pleasant journey enough, and arrived safely at Bremen a short time before the equinox. In order to remain secret at first, he took up his abode in an obscure part of the city, and went out only in the evening.

At length the much wished for period arrived. Before the morning dawned, he arose and hastened to the Weser bridge, where as yet there was not a person in sight. He walked up and down, full of conjectures about who the friend would be that was to tell him how to retrieve his fortunes. By degrees the bridge became covered with people, passing to and fro. Many lame and blind beggars, among the rest, made their appearance to solicit charity from the passengers. Among them was an old disbanded soldier with a wooden leg, who was the first that asked alms of Francis. In the fulness of his heart, as he was expecting that day some good luck for himself, he gave him a Bremen flinderken. The veteran, unused to such a sum, thanked him warmly.

As the morning advanced, the crowd of coaches, horsemen, foot-passengers, and stage-waggons, became more and more dense. Francis looked eagerly at every one, in hopes somebody would speak to him. But not a creature troubled himself about him, or at most he received only a cold and distant salutation. It was noon, and the throng began to diminish. The beggars took their bread from their pockets and ate. They gossiped with each other, and made observations upon the singular pedestrian who had been walking on the bridge since daybreak, and whom they christened, in jest, the bridge-beadle.

Francis, however, determined not to leave the bridge for a single moment. He bought, therefore, some fruit, and made it serve for his dinner. But by degrees he grew thoughtful and irritable. He drew his hat upon his brow, and with folded arms paced the bridge slowly from one end to the other. The shrewd old soldier, with the wooden leg, took advantage of this circumstance to beg of him again, and was successful. He hobbled after Francis and spoke to him. The former, without once looking up, or thinking what he was about, threw a six-groat piece into his hat.

In the afternoon the bridge again became a scene of busy life, and the hopes of Francis revived. But still no friend accosted him, in spite of all his efforts to make himself noticed by those who were passing backwards and forwards. Towards evening it was once more still and deserted, and the beggars, one by one, began to disappear. Francis now sunk into despair. He had placed all his hopes upon this day, and no one had spoken to him. Yet what could he think but that the ghost had meant kindly towards him?

He was half tempted to throw himself over the bridge in his despair, and put an end at once to his anxieties, when the old soldier approached once more and spoke to him. The conduct of Francis attracted his notice; moreover his two liberal donations created a sort of interest in his mind; so he felt more concern for his situation than the other beggars. He remained on the bridge when the rest were gone; watched the young man attentively, and puzzled himself to make out what might be his intentions. At length he addressed him:—

“Excuse me, sir,” said he, “if I disturb your thoughts——”

“What is it you want?” interrupted Francis, peevishly.

“We were the first on the bridge, this morning, and now we are the last. I and my companions came here to beg: but what brings you?”

“Ah! you can be of no use to me!” exclaimed Francis.

“I at least wish you well, and should be glad if I could serve you,” replied the soldier, “for you have twice to-day given me rich alms, for which may God reward you. But you do not look so cheerful as you did in the morning, and I am sorry for it.”

This sympathy touched Francis; he became communicative; and answered, “I expected to meet a friend here, from whom I was to receive important intelligence.”

“Your friend is a bad man to keep you waiting so long, and were I in your place——”

“Yes,” interrupted Francis, “but I only dreamt it was to be so;” for he did not like to tell the whole story about the ghost.

“Oh, a dream! who would trust to a dream? Dreams are shadows. I have had enough of them, and never believed in one. If I were possessed of all the riches that have been promised me in dreams, I might buy the whole city of Bremen.”

“Oh! but my dream was so like reality, that it could hardly have been more so had I been awake, and seen and heard all with my eyes and ears.”

“Oh!” rejoined wooden-leg, “as to that no one can dream more like reality than myself; and I don’t think I ever forgot a dream in my life. I once dreamt—I cannot remember how many years ago—my guardian angel stood at my bed-side, in the shape of a youth, with golden locks, and two silver wings at his shoulders. He spoke to me:—‘Berthold,’ said he, treasure up the words I utter, that not one of them may be forgotten. A great treasure is destined to become yours, which you must dig up, and which shall make you comfortable all the rest of your life. Tomorrow evening, when the sun is descending, take a spade on your shoulder, cross the river, keep on the right-hand till you pass the cloister of St. John, then take your way through the court of the cathedral, and you will come to a garden that has this remarkable token, four stone steps leading from the street to its entrance. Stay there till the moon rises, then press with all your strength against the slightly-fastened door, and it will give way: enter boldly, and walk on to the vine. Behind it, on the left, a tall apple-tree rises above the low bushes beneath. Go to the root of this apple-tree, with your face turned towards the moon, and you will perceive, about three yards from you, two rose-bushes. There dig, three spans deep, till you come to a stone plate: beneath it the treasure lies buried in an iron chest. You will find it heavy and unwieldy, but do not despair of getting it up, for it will reward all your labour, if you find the key which is hidden under the chest.”

Francis stared with astonishment. He knew from this minute description that the garden was one which formerly belonged to himself.

“And did you not go there and dig?” asked he, while he strove to appear quite unconcerned.

“Pooh!” exclaimed the old soldier—“Why should I give myself unnecessary trouble? It was nothing but a dream. The night is no man’s friend. I have no fancy for having any thing to do with ghosts and treasure-digging.”

“Very true,” replied Francis, and drew out his only remaining piece of silver coin. “There, old man,” he continued, “take this, and drink my health with it. Do not fail to be upon this bridge every day: we shall meet again, I hope.”

The gray-headed cripple, who had not received such alms for many a month, invoked a thousand blessings upon the head of his benefactor, and limped away to a public-house where he made merry; while Francis, animated with new-born hopes, hurried back to his lodgings.

On the following day he got every thing in readiness that was necessary for his treasure-digging, and conveyed it to the proper place shortly before sunset. With an impatient longing he then waited for the rising of the moon. As soon as she shone with sufficient brightness to distinguish objects, he began his labour cheerily. All at once his spade struck against something hard, and in about a quarter of an hour a large chest became visible. With indescribable joy he continued to labour away till he got it out of the earth—opened it with the key which he found beneath it—and who shall describe his raptures as he perceived bag after bag standing together, not one of which contained less than a thousand gold pieces?

His father, to guard against unforeseen reverses of fortune, had buried a portion of his wealth in this garden, where, in the latter part of his life, he passed much of his time. Probably it was his intention before his death to have apprized Francis of it, but he was called away so suddenly that he carried his secret with him to his grave.

Francis now began to consider how he might best convey this wealth to his lodging without being perceived. It was too much to carry all at once. He hid the greater part of it, therefore, in the hollow of an old tree, that stood upon a common. As much as he could take with him he did, and at the end of three days he had managed to remove the whole of it. He then hired a better house, clothed himself in suitable apparel, and ordered a thanksgiving to be offered up in the cathedral for a traveller returned to his native city after a prosperous arrangement of all his affairs.

He appeared again upon the exchange, and began a traffic, which in a few weeks so enlarged itself that he took spacious premises in the market-place, employed book-keepers and numerous agents, and attended unweariedly to business. His former flatterers and parasites began to gather round him; but he had grown wise by experience—not one of them could get footing in his house.

He remembered with heartfelt gratitude the old soldier, to whom he was solely indebted for his good fortune; and after some months went to the Weser bridge to find him. He too had not forgotten the generous stranger, and often were his eyes keenly directed in search of his benefactor among the passengers. At length he one day saw a richly-dressed man at a distance, who appeared to resemble the stranger; he approached him hesitatingly, but greeted him with a friendly welcome when he found he was not mistaken.

Francis returned the old man’s greetings, and said, “Friend, can you walk with me as far as the new town, upon a business that concerns yourself? Your trouble shall not go unrewarded.”

“Why not?” answered the soldier. “Though I have a wooden leg, I can get on with it as fast as the lame dwarf who has charge of the city cattle. But wait a moment till that man in the gray coat has passed; every day about this time he gives me a six-groat piece.”

“Follow me now,” said Francis, “you shall not miss the six-groat piece.”

The old man obeyed, and hobbled after Francis, across the little Weser bridge, and over the dyke into Sortillen-street, where the latter stopped opposite a newly-built house, and knocked at the door. It was opened. Francis conducted the soldier in.

“Friend,” said he, “you formerly procured me a delightful evening by means of what you related to me; it is but just I should make the evening of your life serene. This house, with all it contains, and the garden in which it stands, are yours. The kitchen and cellar are well stored; a servant is ready to wait upon you; and, moreover, you will find a six-groat piece every day, at noon, under your plate. The man in the gray coat was my servant, through whom I daily sent you that sum, until this place was ready for you.”

The old man was so surprised with his good fortune that he could not comprehend it. A flood of grateful tears flowed down his cheeks: but he was unable to find words to thank and bless his benefactor.

Francis now made a better use of his wealth than before. He lived frugally, and carried on his affairs with equal industry and integrity. Thus he obliterated among his fellow-citizens all memory of the dishonour which his former prodigality had drawn upon him, and died, honoured and beloved, at a good old age.

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