’Tis made of fir-tree, said he, I smell the turpentine.—

There’s a pimple on it, said she.

’Tis a dead nose, replied the inn-keeper.

’Tis a live nose, and if I am alive myself, said the inn-keeper’s, wife, I will touch it.

I have made a vow to saint Nicolas this day, said the stranger, that my nose shall not be touched till—Here the stranger suspending his voice, looked up.—Till when? said she hastily.

It never shall be touched, said he, clasping his hands and bringing them close to his breast, till that hour—What hour? cried the inn keeper’s wife.—Never!—never! said the stranger, never till I am got—For Heaven’s sake, into what place? said she—The stranger rode away without saying a word.

The stranger had not got half a league on his way towards Frankfort before all the city of Strasburg was in an uproar about his nose. The Compline bells were just ringing to call the Strasburgers to their devotions, and shut up the duties of the day in prayer:—no soul in all Strasburg heard ’em—the city was like a swarm of bees—men, women, and children, (the Compline bells tinkling all the time) flying here and there—in at one door, out at another—this way and that way—long ways and cross ways—up one street, down another street—in at this alley, out of that—did you see it? did you see it? did you see it? O! did you see it?—who saw it? who did see it? for mercy’s sake, who saw it?

Alack o’day! I was at vespers!—I was washing, I was starching, I was scouring, I was quilting—God help me! I never saw it—I never touch’d it!—would I had been a centinel, a bandy-legg’d drummer, a trumpeter, a trumpeter’s wife, was the general cry and lamentation in every street and corner of Strasburg.

Whilst all this confusion and disorder triumphed throughout the great city of Strasburg, was the courteous stranger going on as gently upon his mule in his way to Frankfort, as if he had no concern at all in the affair— talking all the way he rode in broken sentences, sometimes to his mule— sometimes to himself—sometimes to his Julia.

O Julia, my lovely Julia!—nay I cannot stop to let thee bite that thistle- -that ever the suspected tongue of a rival should have robbed me of enjoyment when I was upon the point of tasting it.—

—Pugh!—’tis nothing but a thistle—never mind it—thou shalt have a better supper at night.

—Banish’d from my country—my friends—from thee.—

Poor devil, thou’rt sadly tired with thy journey!—come—get on a little faster—there’s nothing in my cloak- bag but two shirts—a crimson-sattin pair of breeches, and a fringed—Dear Julia!

—But why to Frankfort?—is it that there is a hand unfelt, which secretly is conducting me through these meanders and unsuspected tracts?

—Stumbling! by saint Nicolas! every step—why at this rate we shall be all night in getting in—

—To happiness—or am I to be the sport of fortune and slander—destined to be driven forth unconvicted—unheard—untouch’d—if so, why did I not stay at Strasburg, where justice—but I had sworn! Come, thou shalt drink—to St. Nicolas—O Julia!—What dost thou prick up thy ears at?—’tis nothing but a man, &c.

The stranger rode on communing in this manner with his mule and Julia—till he arrived at his inn, where, as soon as he arrived, he alighted—saw his mule, as he had promised it, taken good care of—took off his cloak-bag, with his crimson-sattin breeches, &c. in it—called for an omelet to his supper, went to his bed about twelve o’clock, and in five minutes fell fast asleep.