Happily for his hearers, it was here, at length, that the merciless Brandomann terminated his long-winded history. Sleipner had for some time been his only auditor—Ildegarda had been nodding repeatedly—Heidruna fidgetily trotting backwards and forwards to the portal, watching the clouds—Serimnor had given two or three most portentous yawns—while the two ravens who did every thing in concert, had tucked their heads under their wings, and gone fairly to sleep:—but they all started up when the hum of his voice had ceased, and thanked the good Brandomann as sincerely as if they had been excessively delighted, for they were grateful that he had finished at last, and were besides too well bred not to be charmed with what had been done entirely for their amusement.
On the following day, during their usual rambles about the island, the princess looked so unusually depressed, and said so little in reply to the observations of her companion, that his attention, ever on the watch, was aroused by her sadness; tenderly he inquired the cause. “I will tell you,” replied Ildegarda: “when absent from you, and believing your life in danger, my only anxiety was to return; now, when that difficulty has passed away, I confess I am wretched respecting my father’s feelings and conduct, when he shall discover that I have quitted him for ever; neither is my heart without a pang when I reflect that I shall see him no more. Oh that I knew what is to come!—that I could look into the future, and behold my destiny and his!” “I know not that it is in my power altogether to fulfil your wishes,” answered Brandomann; “but I can give you a glance into the future, so as to discover its general complexion, but not to enable you to read exactly the very page of destiny. That which I can, to gratify your curiosity, I will do,—I will arrest for a few minutes the flight of the triune deity Time, and, by her appearance, we shall be able to judge of what is to come.—Urda, Werandi, Skulda!” continued Brandomann, raising his powerful voice to its utmost pitch, “obey the command of the lord of the Maelstrom, the mighty delegate of Odin—pause in your flight for a moment, and stand visibly before him!” Scarcely was the peremptory order uttered, ere a light cloud was seen advancing towards them from the sea, and when it became stationary Ildegarda beheld a female form slowly and gracefully emerging from its centre; her features were indistinctly visible, and upon the floating misty robe that enveloped her figure, many changing objects were, some faintly, some powerfully, represented. “It is Urda the Past,” said Brandomann to Ildegarda; “the events written upon her breast and brow are partially concealed in her garment of oblivion and doubt; and when this is penetrated by mortal sight, they are still seen through the mists of passion and prejudice, by which she is ever surrounded: look now upon her breast and brow—what objects do they represent to you?” “I see a criminal,” said the princess, “about to suffer the sentence of justice—the executioner is preparing to strike.” “To my view the representation is different,” replied Brandomann; “I see a crowned king falling beneath the murderous swords of his rebellious subjects.” “I observe a dying parent,” continued Ildegarda, “who consigns his child to a noble warrior who weeps by his couch, but presses the babe to his heart.” “I also see the dying father,” said Brandomann, “but he resigns his infant to a demon in form, and worse than a demon in heart, for he instantly plunges a dagger in its throat: what else do you remark?” “Many other objects,” continued the princess, “but nothing clearly; the goddess herself is retiring slowly from my gaze, and to whom does she give place?” “To Werandi the Present,” answered Brandomann, “in snow-white robe, with her unveiled face and open brow and eye—how clear she looks upon us!—and her garments will shew us our actions of this moment:—but she retires, and Skulda the Future supplies her place; clad in a robe of darkness, she exhibits nothing to our eyes, and the veil which covers her person conceals also her face from our observation: she shall withdraw it, and her smile or frown will shadow forth your destiny.” The goddess gently withdrew her veil, and the soft enchanting smile which she beamed upon the princess banished anxiety from her bosom, and graced the departure of the triune spirit with the sweet attribute of benevolence.
A few days after the prophetic smile of the deity of Time had given such hope to the heart of Ildegarda, they were wandering about the gardens of the palace, astonished by the roaring of thunders which announced a distant storm: they were surprised by the sudden change from daylight to darkness, and were puzzling each other respecting its cause, when the storm died rapidly away, the clouds fell down in a gentle shower, and the rainbow bridge stood out in faint splendour from the heavens. “Look, dearest,” said Brandomann; “the spirit of the bow has lowered his beautiful bridge—some of the lesser warriors are ascending to Valhalla—I will address the guardian of it, and bid him render the road and its passengers visible to your sight.—All hail Heimdaller of the coloured crown!” continued Brandomann, “the friend of Odin speaks to thee; beautiful spirit of the rushing wings and eyes of tender glory, let us look upon thy face, and the road which leads to thy dwelling!” The silvery voice of the spirit answered him, giving an immediate assent to his desire, and in a moment the road and its travellers became visible to Ildegarda. Slowly, and with feeble steps, the wounded warriors dragged themselves on till they reached the summit of the bridge, when the gates of light flew open, and the spirit, in giving them his hand bestowed upon them strength and beauty, and thus prepared them for the presence of Odin and the glories of the Valhalla.
While Ildegarda with intense interest was watching the solemn procession of the dead, her eyes were suddenly dazzled by a brilliant light thrown upon the bridge, which now shone out in tenfold splendour, colouring the mountains of the island with tints of its beautiful hues. She looked up, and beheld the spirit of the bow descending, glorious in his youthful beauty; his diadem of many-coloured gems was on his lofty brow, and, in the ineffable loveliness of his sunny smile, there was a sweetness that made Ildegarda weep. “He goes to welcome one of the greatest of mortal heroes,” said Brandomann—“one of the favourites of Odin; his presence throws this glory round him, and at this moment the beings of earth, who gaze upon the bridge, behold its colours at the brightest: but see—at the foot of the arch there is one ascending to meet the spirit!—his wounds are terrible—his bosom is fearfully gored—and his steps are feeble and slow—but he has the brow and the port of a hero; as yet I know him not.” “But I do!” shrieked the hapless Ildegarda—“O Brandomann, I know him well!” The lord of the Maelstrom looked up again, and painfully recognised the shadow—it was indeed her father;—the pale inhabitant of another world, whom she saw ascending slowly to meet the welcome smile of the angel of light, was once the noble Haquin, the last friend of Harold and his sons. Brandomann gazed in grief and terror, and the sorrow he felt for the death of the warrior was scarcely mitigated by the change wrought in his wearied frame by the touch of the radiant Heimdaller. “Ildegarda!” he cried in a voice of tenderness and pity; “Ildegarda, think not that thou art alone in the world, or that all that loved thee have left it; look up, my dear one!—look on the happiness of thy noble father, and cease to regret his fate; what could thy love offer him in exchange for this?” Ildegarda mournfully assented as she saw his glory, and her grief became more resigned and gentle. She returned to the palace with Brandomann, who, far from attempting to console, wept with her the loss she had sustained. In the evening her friends did not as usual visit the island, but they explained the cause of their absence on the next. It was in honour of Haquin they had been detained at Valhalla, as Odin had commanded the feast earlier, in order to compliment this noble warrior,—“who now,” continued Sleipner, “sits highest in the hall, and nearest to Odin’s self.”
Time reconciled the princess to her father’s death, and to her hopeless imprisonment in Moskoe. The generous Brandomann, now that she had lost in the world all that was dear to her, and was most entirely in his power, never spoke to her of the love which it was but too plain he bore her. She saw and rewarded his virtue.
“Brandomann!” she said to him one day as they wandered through the gardens of the desolate isle; “Brandomann, friend of my heart, in the world, where my father walks no longer, I have no interest, and can never wish to return; yet I feel that I could love and render some deserving being more happy than a lonely destiny could make him; thou alone art worthy of this heart, and of the duty which I will pay thee; I cannot love thee as I once loved Haldane—as I fear I should love him still—that feeling it is not in thy power to inspire; but I honour thy virtue, and am grateful for its exercise. Wilt thou accept this hand—this heart? If so, take me, Brandomann, for I am thine!”
She threw herself as she spoke, into the arms which opened transportedly to receive her, and bowed her head upon his breast. She could not distinguish his reply, for a sudden peal of thunder rolled above their heads, and the earth was shaken to its foundation—a frightful darkness covered the island, and shrieks and howlings rung in their ears, mingled with shouts of triumph and the cheering blasts of the trumpet. Ildegarda clung closer to her lover for protection, when a gentle, well-known voice reassured her spirits and relieved her terrors. “Look on me, my beloved,” it said; “look on me, and receive the reward of thy virtue, and the approbation of Heaven on thy choice.” The princess raised her eyes to the face of her lover, and beheld—not Brandomann, but Haldane—the one, the only beloved, the first choice of her innocent heart; it was on his bosom she leaned—it was his arm that supported her slender form: she trembled with painful emotion. “But Brandomann?” she demanded—“Is at thy feet, my beloved,” replied the graceful warrior: “beneath that hideous form, Lok, in revenge for an ancient scorn, had condemned me to wear out my life, unless I could inspire a royal virgin with sufficient love to become my wife. Odin, in compassion to my sufferings, confined me to this island, and endowed me with sufficient power to fulfil the condition, and deceive and baffle the evil spirits themselves, by the means of their wretched agent, the detestable Frotho. Around thee stand the gallant chiefs and the Norwegian captives, who were sent against the monster of the Maelstrom, and who seemed to be destroyed by my vengeance; they are now my friends, and wait to conduct us to Denmark, where Haldane will lay his crown at thy feet.” The chiefs paid their homage to the princess, and immediately after, there arrived, to offer their sincere congratulations, her tender friends of many moons, the eight-legged, four-legged, and two-legged animals of Valhalla. Ildegarda, even on the bosom of Haldane, wept at the parting; for she knew she should behold them no more. They attended her to the shore, and beheld her embark in the gallant ship which Niord, at the command of Odin, had preserved for them in one of the ocean caves. Soon they were wafted to Denmark, and Haldane burst upon the usurper so suddenly, that he had no time even to arm his household guards for his defence. He was presiding at a festival when Haldane entered his presence; some of his nobles humbly acknowledged their prince, and the others, not caring to attack him, made the best of their way out of the palace, leaving the miserable Frotho in the power of his nephew, who, without giving him time to make his will, threw him headlong into the cistern of mead before which he was sitting.
Whether Haldane, in his natural shape, was as amiable and complaisant as he had been under his assumed one, is a question which the historian of his life cannot answer—nor whether Ildegarda, on her throne in Denmark, found as true friends and faithful servants as she had in the gulf of the Maelstrom: certain it is, she lived to a great age with her glorious husband, (who was the greatest prince of the race of Dan that ever swayed the sceptre of the north,) and that once or twice during their lives they had together visited the desolate isle; and the princess, to the great scandal of the ladies and gentlemen of the court, and surprise of her husband, wept bitterly on finding that the marble palace and its beautiful gardens had disappeared, the Moskoe isle had resumed its ancient appearance, and nothing remained to mark it out as the scene of such wonders as had passed in it. It has much the same character at this hour; and it would be very difficult to persuade its inhabitants, or the stranger who may visit its shores, that it once was a paradise only second to the bowers of Valasciolf’s own. You, gentle reader, know better; and complimenting you on the patience by which you have acquired this knowledge, I bid you, for the present, farewell.
Olave the Second—one of the early kings of Denmark, of the race of Dan. These princes believed themselves descended from Odin. Olave was a worthless, profligate prince, who left two sons, who succeeded him; the elder, Frotho the Fifth, murdered his brother Harold, and afterwards the assassin who, by his own order, had stabbed him. He endeavoured to secure the persons of the princes his nephews; but a nobleman, friend to their father, conveyed them out of his reach, and concealed them in a cave till they were of an age to revenge these injuries.
Asgard—the country of the gods; the Olympus of the north.
Valasciolf—its chief city, in which the principal divinities and more illustrious dead resided in magnificent palaces.
Valhalla—the chief palace of Valasciolf, the regal residence of Odin.
Niftheim—Hell. A territory of devouring flames typifying eternal remorse; the abode of the evil principle and his attendant spirits.
Feggo—the brother of Harwendil, king of Jutland, and uncle to Hamlet. The latter prince feigned madness after the murder of his father, but killed Feggo at a festival. He succeeded to the crown, which he wore with honour till killed in battle by Viglet, king of Denmark.
Lok—the evil principle. He gave birth to Midgard (sin), the snake whose folds encircle the earth—Hela (death)—and the wolf Fenris, the guardian of the gate of hell; these were the evil progeny of Lok, begotten for the destruction of the human race.
Surter—the evil divinity of fire—the next in rank to Lok. The Scythians represented him as a beautiful youth; the Saxons as an old man, to whose honour they dedicated the seventh day of the week.
Balder—son of Odin, god of eloquence and poetry, and ruler of the sun—the Scandinavian Apollo. He was represented as a youth with a burning wheel upon his breast; his face resembled the sun.
Nastronde—According to the Scandinavian mythology, at the end of the world, during a night which was to last a year, a tremendous battle was to be fought between the good and evil spirits, in which the former were to conquer and reign in Gimle, a more glorious heaven than Asgard; while the wicked were to be banished to Nastronde, a new hell, made purposely for them.
Maelstrom, Malestrom, or Moskoestrom—a tremendous whirlpool on the Norwegian coast, very dangerous, and often fatal to navigators venturing too near it. Moskoe is an island situated in the gulf: there are also several others.
Sleipner—the warrior horse of Odin. He had four black legs and four white ones: he generally travelled through the air.
Rinda—daughter of Balder, and mother of Vile, by Odin. The favourite goddess of the Scandinavian women.
Hydrasil—the tree of heaven, standing in the garden of Odin. It was the abode of the disposer of man’s destiny.
Heidruna—the immortal goat, whose milk was the hydromel served up nightly at the festivals of Valhalla.
Serimnor—the wild boar, whose flesh served them for food.
Hugo and Mumin—the raven messengers of Odin.
Thor—the warrior god—the eldest son of Odin, who, in his journey over the world, defeated Midgard, and loosened his folds from the earth; he is typical of divine justice and vengeance. In the beautiful fables of the Scalds, he is represented as a stern warrior, armed with an enormous mallet, and wearing a crown of twelve stars. He lived in a palace of Valasciolf, of five hundred and forty halls, and was the ruler and wielder of the thunderbolt.
Forsete—divinity of controversy. I believe this deity is peculiar to the Scandinavians. He lived in a palace called Glitner.
Blind horror—Hoder—whose name was never pronounced by the Scythians without fear and immediate expiation—son of Odin, and born blind—the deity of strength. He was abhorred in heaven, because, from envy, he attacked Balder, threw him from his throne, and put out the sun. Odin interfered, and punished Hoder by the arrows of Vile (lightning), and afterwards restored the sun. It was thus, in their beautiful and fanciful mythology, like the Greeks, and I think no less elegantly, that the Scalds described natural, but not understood events. This story describes an eclipse of the sun, the strong and blind Hoder signifying darkness.
Lofna—goddess of reconciliation. I believe this deity is also peculiar to the Scythians; they have deified her with great propriety. Her post could not have been a sinecure in a paradise where happiness consisted in drinking and fighting.
Hiarn—his story is strictly historical. It was Eric the Third who was so maddened by music as to commit murder for no other cause.
Geysers—boiling spouting springs in Iceland: they are near to Skalholt and Hecla; they spout water to a tremendous and incredible height.
Dofrefeld—a mighty range of Norwegian mountains, intersected by rivers and cataracts.
Dolsteen—a wonderful cavern beneath the Dofrefeld mountains.
Niord—the Scandinavian Neptune.
Uffon—this story is also historical. Shakspeare, who read Danish history, borrowed the circumstance of Vermund’s death for that of Gloster in King Lear.
Lidscialf—the throne of Odin.
Heimdaller—guardian of the bridge Bifrost, or the rainbow, by which the happy dead ascended into Asgard. He received the souls who were selected by the Valkyries, and conducted them to Odin.
Vile—god of archery; son of Odin and Rinda.
Brage—god of music and song.
Hovamaal—bible of Odin.
Odin—a wise and virtuous warrior, whose beneficence procured him among the early Scythians, deification. As a divinity, the father of gods and men, he is the husband of Frea (the earth), and from the union of divine love and the earth, spring light, heat, the elements, the seasons, strength, and genius, typified by Balder, Thor, Frey, Hoder, and Balder again, as orator and poet. Odin, mounted upon his horse Sleipner, represents active benevolence.
Sir Ryence of North Gales greeteth well thee,
And bids thy beard anon to him send,
Or else from thy jaws he will it off rend.—Percy.
There formerly lived at Bremen, a wealthy merchant named Melchior, of whom it was remarked that he invariably stroked his chin with complacency whenever the subject of the sermon was the rich man in the Gospel; who, by-the-bye, in comparison with him, was only a petty retail dealer. This said Melchior possessed such great riches, that he had caused the floor of his dining-room to be paved with crown-pieces, which ridiculous luxury gave great offence to his fellow-citizens and relations. They attributed it to vanity and ostentation, but did not guess its true motive; however, it perfectly answered the end Melchior designed by it; for, by their constantly expressing their disapprobation of this ostentatious species of vanity, they spread abroad the report of their neighbour’s immense riches, and thereby augmented his credit in a most astonishing degree.
At length Melchior died suddenly, while at a corporation dinner, and consequently had not time to make a disposition of his property by will; so that his only son Francis, who was just of age, came into possession of the whole. This young man was particularly favoured by fortune, both with respect to his personal advantages and his goodness of heart; but his immense inheritance caused his ruin. He had no sooner got into the possession of so considerable a fortune, than he squandered it, as if it had been a burthen to him; ran into every possible extravagance, and neglected his concerns. Two or three years passed over without his perceiving that, owing to his dissipations, his funds were considerably reduced; but at length his coffers were emptied: and one day, when Francis had drawn a draft to a very considerable amount on his banker, who had no funds to meet it, it was returned to him protested. This disappointment greatly vexed our prodigal, but only as it caused a temporary check to his wishes; for he did not even then give himself the trouble to inquire into the reason of it. After swearing and blustering for some time, he gave his steward a positive but laconic order to get money.
All the brokers, money-changers, and usurers, were put in requisition, and the empty coffers were soon filled; for the dining-room floor was in the eyes of the lenders a sufficient security.
This paliative had its effect for a time; but all at once a report was spread abroad in the city that the celebrated silver floor had been taken up: the consequence of which was, that the lenders insisted on examining into and proving the fact, and then became urgent for payment; but as Francis had not the means to meet their demands, they seized on all his goods and chattels; every thing was sold by auction, and he had nothing left excepting a few jewels, which had formed part of his heritage, and which might for a short time keep him from starving.
He now took up his abode in a small street in one of the most remote quarters of the city, where he lived on his straitened means. He, however, accommodated himself to his situation; but the only resource that he found against the ennui which overpowered him was to play on the lute; and when fatigued by this exercise, he used to stand at his window and make observations on the weather; and his intelligent mind was not long in discovering an object which soon entirely engrossed all his thoughts.
Opposite his window there lived a respectable woman, who was at her spinning wheel from morning till night, and by her industry earned a subsistence for herself and her daughter. Meta was a young girl of great beauty and attraction: she had known happier times: for her father had been the proprietor of a vessel freighted by himself, in which he annually made trading voyages to Antwerp; but he, as well as the ship and all its cargo, was lost in a violent storm. His widow sustained this double loss with resignation and firmness, and resolved to support herself and her daughter by her own industry. She made over the house and furniture to the creditors of her husband, and took up her abode in the little bye street where Francis lodged, where, by her assiduity she acquired a subsistence without laying herself under an obligation to any one. She brought up her daughter to spinning and other works, and lived with so much economy, that by her savings she was enabled to set up a little trade in linen.
Mother Bridget (which was the appellation given to our widow,) did not, however, calculate on terminating her existence in this penurious situation; and the hope of better prospects sustained her courage. The beauty and excellent qualities of her daughter, whom she brought up with every possible care and attention, led her to think that some advantageous offer would one day present itself. Meta lived tranquilly and lonely with her mother, was never seen in any of the public walks, and indeed never went out but to mass once a day.
One day, while Francis was making his metrological observations at the window, he saw the beautiful Meta, who, under her mother’s watchful eye, was returning from church. The heart of Francis was as yet quite free: for the boisterous pleasures of his past life did not leave him leisure for a true affection; but at this time, when all his senses were calm, the appearance of one of the most enchanting female forms he had ever seen, ravished him, and he henceforth thought solely of the adorable object which his eyes had thus discovered. He questioned his landlord respecting the two females who lived in the opposite house, and from him learned the particulars we have just related.
He now regretted his want of economy, since his present miserable state prevented him from making an offer to the charming Meta. He was, however, constantly at the window, in hopes of seeing her; and in that consisted his greatest delight. The mother very soon discovered the frequent appearance of her new neighbour at his window, and attributed it to its right cause. In consequence, she rigorously enjoined her daughter not to show herself at the windows, which were now kept constantly shut.
Francis was not much versed in the arts of finesse, but love awakened all the energies of his soul. He soon discovered that if he appeared much at the window, his views would be suspected; and he resolved therefore studiously to refrain from coming near it. He determined, however, to continue his observation of what occurred in the opposite dwelling without being perceived. He accordingly purchased a large mirror, and fixed it in his chamber in such a position that it distinctly presented to his view what passed in the abode of his opposite neighbour. Francis not being seen at the window, the old lady relaxed in her rigour, and Meta’s windows were once more opened. Love, more than ever, reigned triumphant in the bosom of Francis; but how was he to make known his attachment to its object? he could neither speak nor write to her. Love, however, soon suggested a mode of communication which succeeded. Our prodigal took his lute, and drew from it tones the best adapted to express the subject of his passion: and by perseverance, in less than a month he made a wonderful progress. He soon had the gratification of seeing the fair hand of Meta open the little casement, when he began to tune his instrument. When she made her appearance, he testified his joy by an air lively and gay; but if she did not show herself, the melancholy softness of his tones discovered the disappointment he experienced.
In the course of a short time, he created a great interest in the bosom of his fair neighbour; and soon had reason to be convinced that Meta shared a mutual attachment. She now endeavoured to justify him, when her mother with acrimony spoke of his prodigality and past misconduct, by attributing his ruin to the effect of bad example. But in so doing, she cautiously avoided exciting the suspicions of the old lady; and seemed less anxious to excuse him, than to take a part in the conversation that was going on.
Circumstances, which our limits will not allow us to relate, rendered the situation of Francis more and more difficult to be supported; his funds had now nearly failed him; and an offer of marriage from a wealthy brewer, who was called in the neighbourhood the “King of Hops,” but which Meta, much to her mother’s disappointment, refused, excited still more the apprehensions of poor Francis, lest some more fortunate suitor might yet be received and blast his hopes for ever.
When he received the information that this opulent lover had been rejected for his sake, with what bitterness did he lament his past follies.
“Generous girl,” said he, “you sacrifice yourself for a miserable creature, who has nothing but a heart fondly attached to you, and which is riven with despair that its possessor cannot offer you the happiness you so truly merit.”
The King of Hops soon found another female, who listened more kindly to his vows, and whom he wedded with great splendour.
Love, however, did not leave his work incomplete; for its influence created in the mind of Francis a desire of exerting his faculties and actively employing himself, in order, if possible, to emerge from the state of nothingness into which he was at present plunged; and it inspired him also with courage to prosecute his good intention. Among various projects which he formed, the most rational appeared that of overlooking his father’s books, taking an account of the claimable debts, and from that source to get all he possibly could. The produce of this procedure would, he thought, furnish him with the means of beginning in some small way of business; and his imagination led him to extend this to the most remote corners of the earth. In order to equip himself for the prosecution of his plans, he sold all the remainder of his father’s effects, and with the money purchased a horse to begin his travels.
The idea of a separation from Meta was almost more than he could endure. “What will she think,” said he, “of this sudden disappearance, when she no longer meets me in her way to church? Will she not think me perfidious, and banish me from her heart?” Such ideas as these caused him infinite pain; and for a long while he could not devise any means of acquainting Meta with his plans; but at length the fertile genius of love furnished him with the following idea:—Francis went to the curate of the church which his mistress daily frequented, and requested him, before the sermon and during mass, to put up prayers for a happy issue to the affairs of a young traveller; and these prayers were to be continued till the moment of his return, when they were to be changed into those of thanks.
Every thing being arranged for his departure, he mounted his steed, and passed close under Meta’s window. He saluted her with a very significant air, and with much less caution than heretofore. The young girl blushed deeply; and mother Bridget took this opportunity of loudly expressing her dislike to this bold adventurer, whose impertinence and foppery induced him to form designs on her daughter.
From this period the eyes of Meta in vain searched for Francis. She constantly heard the prayer which was put up for him; but was so entirely absorbed by grief at no longer perceiving the object of her affection, that she paid no attention to the words of the priest. In no way could she account for his disappearing. Some months afterwards, her grief being somewhat ameliorated and her mind more tranquillized, when she was one day thinking of the last time she had seen Francis, the prayer arrested her attention; she reflected for an instant, and quickly divined for whom it was said; she naturally joined in it with great fervour, and strongly recommended the young traveller to the protection of her guardian angel.
Meanwhile Francis continued his journey, and had travelled the whole of a very sultry day, over one of the desert cantons of Westphalia without meeting with a single house. As night approached, a violent storm came on: the rain fell in torrents; and poor Francis was soaked to the very skin. In this miserable situation he anxiously looked around, and fortunately discovered in the distance a light, towards which he directed his horse’s steps; but as he drew near, he beheld a miserable cottage, which did not promise him much succour, for it more resembled a stable than the habitation of a human being. The unfeeling wretch who inhabited it, refused him fire or water, as if he had been a banished man—he was just about to extend himself on the straw in the midst of the cattle, and his indolence prevented his lighting a fire for the stranger. Francis vainly endeavoured to move the peasant to pity: the latter was inexorable, and blew out his candle with the greatest nonchalance possible, without bestowing a thought on Francis. However, as the traveller hindered him from sleeping, by his incessant lamentations and prayers, he was anxious to get rid of him.
“Friend,” said he to him, “if you wish to be accommodated, I promise you it will not be here; but ride through the little wood to your left hand, and you will find the castle belonging to the chevalier Eberhard Bronkhorst, who is very hospitable to travellers; but he has a singular mania, which is, to flagellate all whom he entertains: therefore decide accordingly.”
Francis, after considering for some minutes, resolved on hazarding the adventure. “In good faith,” said he, “there is no great difference between having one’s back broken by the miserable accommodation of a peasant, or by the chevalier Bronkhorst: friction disperses fever; possibly its effects may prove beneficial to me, if I am compelled to keep on my wet garments.”
Accordingly he put spurs to his horse, and very shortly found himself before a gothic castle, at the iron gate of which he loudly knocked, and was answered from within by—“Who’s there?” But ere he was allowed time to reply, the gate was opened. However, in the first court he was compelled to wait with patience, till they could learn whether it was the lord of the castle’s pleasure to flagellate a traveller, or send him out to pass the night under the canopy of heaven.
The lord of the castle had from his earliest infancy served in the Imperial army, under the command of George of Funsberg, and had himself led a company of infantry against the Venetians. At length, however, fatigued with warfare, he had retired to his own territory, where, in order to expiate the crimes he had committed during the several campaigns he had been in, he did all the good and charitable acts in his power. But his manner still retained all the roughness of his former profession. The newly-arrived guest, although disposed to submit to the usages of the house, for the sake of the good fare, could not help feeling a certain trembling of fear as he heard the bolts grating, ere the doors were opened to him; and which, by their groaning noise, seemed to presage the catastrophe which awaited him. A cold perspiration came over him as he passed the last door; but finding that he received the utmost attention, his fears a little abated. The servants assisted him in getting off his horse, and unfastened his cloak-bag; some of them led his horse to the stable, whilst others preceding him with flambeaux, conducted him to their master, who awaited his arrival in a room magnificently lighted up.
Poor Francis was seized with a universal tremor, when he beheld the martial air and athletic form of the lord of the castle, who came up to him and shook him by the hand with so much force as nearly to make him cry out, and in a thundering voice, enough to stun him, told him he was welcome. Francis trembled like an aspen leaf in every part of his body.
“What ails you, my young comrade?” cried the chevalier Bronkhorst; “what makes you thus tremble, and render you as pale as if death had actually seized you in the throat?”
Francis recovered himself; and knowing that his shoulders would pay his reckoning, his fears gave place to a species of audacity.
“My lord,” answered he with confidence, “you see that I am so soaked with rain that one might suppose I had swam through the Wezer; order me therefore some dry clothes instead of these I have on, and let us then drink a cup of hot wine, that I may, if possible, prevent the fever, which otherwise may probably seize me. It will comfort my heart.”
“Admirable!” replied the chevalier; “ask for whatever you want, and consider yourself here as at home.”
Accordingly Francis gave his orders like a baron of high degree: he sent away the wet clothes, made choice of others, and, in fine, made himself quite at his ease. The chevalier, so far from expressing any dissatisfaction at his free and easy manners, commanded his people to execute whatever he ordered with promptitude, and condemned some of them as blockheads, who did not appear to know how to wait on a stranger. As soon as the table was spread, the chevalier seated himself at it with his guest; and they drank a cup of hot wine together.
“Do you wish for any thing to eat?” demanded the lord.
Francis desired he would order up what his house afforded, that he might see whether his kitchen was good.
No sooner had he said this, than the steward made his appearance, and furnished up a most delicious repast, Francis did not wait for his being requested to partake of it: but after having made a hearty meal, he said to the lord of the castle, “Your kitchen is by no means despicable; if your cellar is correspondent, I cannot but say you treat your guests nobly.”
The chevalier made a sign to his butler, who brought up some inferior wine, and filled a large glass to his master, who drank to his guest. Francis instantly returned the compliment.
“Well, young man, what say you to my wine?” asked the chevalier.
“‘Faith,” replied Francis, “I say it is bad, if it is the best you have in your cellar; but if you have none worse, I do not condemn it.”
“You are a connoisseur;” answered the chevalier. “Butler, bring us a flask of older wine.”
His orders being instantly attended to, Francis tasted it. “This is indeed some good old wine, and we will stick to it if you please.”
The servants brought in a great pitcher of it, and the chevalier, being in high good-humour, drank freely with his guest; and then launched out into a long history of his several feats of prowess in the war against the Venetians. He became so overheated by the recital, that in his enthusiasm he overturned the bottles and glasses, and flourishing his knife as if it were a sword, passed it so near the nose and ears of Francis, that he dreaded he should lose them in the action.
Though the night wore away, the chevalier did not manifest any desire to sleep; for he was quite in his elements, whenever he got on the topic of the Venetian war. Each succeeding glass added to the heat of his imagination as he proceeded in his narration, till at length Francis began to apprehend that it was the prologue to the tragedy in which he was to play the principal part; and feeling anxious to learn whether he was to pass the night in the castle, or be turned out, he asked for a last glass of wine to enable him to sleep well. He feared that they would commence by filling him with wine, and that if he did not consent to continue drinking, a pretext would be laid hold of for driving him out of the castle with the usual chastisement.
However, contrary to his expectation, the lord of the castle broke the thread of his narration, and said to him:—“Good friend, every thing in its place; to-morrow we will resume our discourse.”
“Excuse me, sir knight,” replied Francis; “to-morrow, before sun-rise, I shall be on my road. The distance from hence to Brabant is very considerable, and I cannot tarry here longer, therefore permit me to take leave of you now, that I may not disturb you in the morning.”
“Just as you please about that; but you will not leave the castle before I am up; we will breakfast together, and I shall accompany you to the outer gate, and take leave of you according to my usual custom.”
Francis needed no comment to render these words intelligible. Most willingly would he have dispensed with the chevalier’s company to the gate; but the latter did not appear at all inclined to deviate from his established usage. He ordered his servant to assist the stranger in undressing, and to take care of him till he was in bed.
Francis found his bed an excellent one; and ere he went to sleep, he owned that so handsome a reception could not be dearly bought at the expense of a trifling beating. The most delightful dreams (in which Meta bore the sway) occupied him the whole night; and he would have gone on (thus dreaming) till mid-day, if the sonorous voice of the chevalier and the clanking of the spurs had not disturbed him.
It needed all Francis’s efforts to quit this delightful bed, in which he was so comfortable, and where he knew himself to be in safety; he turned from side to side; but the chevalier’s tremendous voice was like a death-stroke to him, and at length he resolved to get up. Several servants assisted him in dressing, and the chevalier waited for him at a small, but well-served table; but Francis, knowing the moment of trial was at hand, had no great inclination to feast. The chevalier tried to persuade him to eat, telling him it was the best thing to keep out the fog and the damp of the morning.
“Sir knight,” replied Francis, “my stomach is still loaded from your excellent supper of last evening; but my pockets are empty, and I should much like to fill them, in order to provide against future wants.”
The chevalier evinced his pleasure at his frankness by filling his pockets with as much as they could contain. As soon as they brought him his horse, which he discovered had been well groomed and fed, he drank the last glass of wine to say Adieu, expecting that at that signal the chevalier would take him by the collar and make him pay his welcome. But, to his no small surprise, the chevalier contented himself with heartily shaking him by the hand as on his arrival; and as soon as the gate was opened, Francis rode off safe and sound.
In no way could our traveller account for his host permitting him thus to depart without paying the usual score. At length he began to imagine that the peasant had simply told him the story to frighten him; and feeling a curiosity to know whether or not it had any foundation in fact, he rode back to the castle. The chevalier had not yet quitted the gate, and was conversing with the servants on the pace of Francis’s horse, who appeared to trot very roughly; and seeing the traveller return, he supposed that he had forgotten something, and by his looks seemed to accuse his servants of negligence.
“What do you want, young man?” demanded he: “Why do you, who were so much pressed for time, return?”
“Allow me, most noble sir,” replied Francis, “to ask you one question: It is said, that, after having hospitably received and entertained strangers, you make them at their departure feel the weight of your arm. And although I gave credence to this rumour, I have omitted nothing which might have entitled me to this mark of your favour. But, strange to say, you have permitted me to depart in peace, without even the slightest mark of your strength. You see my surprise; therefore do pray inform me whether there is any foundation to the report, or whether I shall chastise the impudent story-teller who related the false tale to me.”
“Young man,” replied Bronkhorst, “you have heard nothing but the truth; but it needs some explanations. I open my door hospitably to every stranger, and in Christian charity I give them a place at my table; but I am a man who hates form or disguise: I say all I think, and only wish in return that my guests would openly and undisguisedly ask for all they want. There are unfortunately, however, a tribe of people, who fatigue by their mean complaisance and ceremony, who wear me out by their dissimulation, and stun me by propositions devoid of sense, or who do not conduct themselves with decency during the feast. Gracious heavens! I lose all patience when they carry their fooleries to such excess, and I exert my right as master of the castle, by taking hold of their collars, and giving them a tolerably severe chastisement ere I turn them out of my gates.—But a man of your sort, my young friend, will ever be welcome under my roof; for you boldly and openly ask for what you require, and say what you think; and such are the persons I admire. If in your way back you pass through this canton, promise me you will pay me another visit. Good bye. Let me caution you never to place implicit confidence in any thing you hear; believe only that there may be a single grain of truth in the whole story; be always frank, and you will succeed through life.—Heaven’s blessings attend you.”
Francis continued his journey towards Anvers most gaily, wishing as he went, that he might every where meet with as good a reception as at the chevalier Bronkhorst’s.
Nothing remarkable occurred during the rest of his journey, and he entered the city full of the most sanguine hopes and expectations. In every street his fancied riches stared him in the face. “It appears to me,” said he, “that some of my father’s debtors must have succeeded in business, and that they will only require my presence, to repay their debts with honour.”
After having rested from the fatigue of his journey, he made himself acquainted with every particular relative to the debtors, and learnt that the greater part had become rich, and were doing extremely well. This intelligence re-animated his hopes; he arranged his papers, and paid a visit to each of the persons who owed him any thing. But his success was by no means equal to what he had expected; some of the debtors pretended that they had paid every thing; others that they had never heard mention of Melchior of Bremen; and the rest produced accounts precisely contradictory to those he had, and which tended to prove they were creditors instead of debtors. In fine, ere three days had elapsed, Francis found himself in the debtor’s prison, from whence he stood no chance of being released till he had paid the uttermost farthing of his father’s debts.
How pitiable was this young man’s condition! Even the horrors of the prison were augmented by the remembrance of Meta:—nay, to such a pitch of desperation was he carried, that he resolved to starve himself. Fortunately, however, at twenty-seven years of age such determinations are more easily formed, than practised.
The intention of those who put him into confinement was not merely with a view of exacting payment of his pretended debts, but to avoid paying him his due; so, whether the prayers put up for poor Francis at Bremeu were effectual, or that the pretended creditors were not disposed to maintain him during his life, I know not; but after a detention of three months, they liberated Francis from prison, with a particular injunction to quit the territories of Anvers within four-and-twenty hours, and never to set his foot within that city again:—They gave him at the same time five florins to defray his expenses on the road. As one may well imagine his horse and baggage had been sold to defray the costs incident to the proceedings.
With a heart overloaded with grief he quitted Anvers, in a very different frame of mind to what he experienced at entering it. Discouraged and irresolute, he mechanically followed the road which chance directed; he paid no attention to the various travellers, nor indeed to any object on the road, till hunger or thirst caused him to lift up his eyes to discover a steeple or some other token announcing the habitation of human beings. In this state of mind did he continue journeying on for several days incessantly; nevertheless, a secret instinct impelled him to take the road leading to his own country.
All on a sudden he roused, as if from a profound sleep, and recollected the place in which he was: he stopped an instant to consider whether he should continue the road he was then in, or return: “For,” said he, “what a shame to return to my native city a beggar!” How could he thus return to that city in which he formerly felt equal to the richest of its inhabitants? How could he as a beggar present himself before Meta, without causing her to blush for the choice she had made? He did not allow time for his imagination to complete this miserable picture, for he instantly turned back, as if already he had found himself before the gates of Bremen, followed by the shouts of the children. His mind was soon made up as to what he should do; he resolved to go to one of the ports of the Low Countries, there to engage himself as a sailor on board of a Spanish vessel, to go to the newly-discovered world; and not to return to his native country till he had amassed as much wealth as he had formerly so thoughtlessly squandered. In the whole of this project, Meta was only thought of at an immeasurable distance; but Francis contented himself with connecting her in idea with his future plans, and walked, or rather strode along, as if by hurrying his pace he should sooner gain possession of her.
Having thus attained the frontiers of the Low Countries, he arrived at sun-set in a village situated near Rheinburg; but since entirely destroyed in the thirty years’ war. A caravan of carriers from Liege filled the inn so entirely, that the landlord told Francis he could not give him a lodging; adding, that at the adjoining village he would find accommodations.—Possibly he was actuated to this refusal by Francis’s appearance, who certainly, in point of garb, might well be mistaken for a vagabond.
The landlord took him for a spy to a band of thieves, sent probably to rob carriers; so that poor Francis, in spite of his extreme lassitude, was compelled, with his wallet at his back, to proceed on his road; and having at his departure, muttered through his teeth some maledictions against the cruel and unfeeling landlord, the latter appeared touched with compassion for the stranger, and from the door of the inn called after him: “Young man—a word with you! If you resolve on passing the night here, I will procure you a lodging in that castle you now see on the hill; there you will find rooms in abundance, provided you are not afraid of being alone, for it is uninhabited. See, here are the keys belonging to it.”
Francis joyfully accepted the landlord’s proposition, and thanked him for it as if it had been an act of great charity.
“It is to me a matter of little moment where I pass the night, provided I am at my ease, and have something to eat.” But the landlord was an ill-tempered fellow, and wishing to revenge the invectives Francis had poured forth against him, he sent him to the castle, in order that he might be tormented by the spirits which were said to frequent it.
This castle was situated on a steep rock, and was only separated from the village by the high road and a little rivulet. Its delightful prospects caused it to be kept in good repair, and to be well furnished, as its owner made use of it as a hunting seat; quitting it, however, every night, in order to avoid the apparitions and ghosts which haunted it.
When it was quite dark, Francis, with a lantern in his hand, proceeded towards the castle. The landlord accompanied him, and carried a little basket of provisions, to which he added a bottle of wine (which he said would stand the test,) as well as two candles and two wax-tapers for the night. Francis, not thinking he should require so many things, and being apprehensive he should have to pay for them, asked why they were all brought.
“The light from my lantern,” said he, “will suffice me till the time of my getting into bed; and ere I shall get out of it, the sun will have risen, for I am worn out with fatigue.”
“I will not endeavour to conceal from you,” replied the landlord, “that according to the current reports, this castle is haunted by evil spirits; but do not let that frighten you; you see I live sufficiently near, that, in case any thing extraordinary should happen to you, I shall hear you call, and shall be in readiness with my people to render you any assistance. At my house there is somebody stirring all night, and there is also some one constantly on the watch. I have lived on this spot for thirty years, and cannot say that I have seen any thing to alarm me; indeed I believe that you may with safety attribute any noises you hear during the night in this castle, to cats and weasels, with which the granaries are overrun. I have only provided you with the means of keeping up a light in a case of need, for, at best, night is but a gloomy season; and, in addition, these candles are consecrated, and their light will undoubtedly keep off any evil spirits, should there be such in the castle.”
The landlord spoke only the truth, when he said he never had the courage to set his foot within its doors after dark; and though he now spoke so courageously, the rogue would not have ventured on any account to enter. After having opened the door, he gave the basket to Francis, pointed out the way he was to turn, and wished him good night; while the latter, fully satisfied that the story of ghosts must be fabulous, gaily entered. He recollected all that had been told him to the prejudice of the Chevalier Bronkhorst, but unfortunately forgot what that brave Castelian had recommended to him at parting, “always to believe there was some truth in what he might hear.”
Conformably to the landlord’s instructions, he went up stairs, and came to a door, which the key in his possession soon unlocked; it opened into a long dark gallery, where his very steps re-echoed; the gallery led to a large hall, from which issued a suite of apartments, furnished in a costly manner: he surveyed them all, and made choice of one in which to pass the night, that appeared more lively than the rest. The windows looked to the high road, and every thing that passed in front of the inn could be distinctly heard. He lighted two candles, spread the cloth, ate very heartily, and felt completely at his ease, so long as he was thus employed; for while eating, no thought or apprehension of spirits molested him; but he no sooner arose from the table, than he began to feel a sensation strongly resembling fear.
In order to render himself more secure, he locked the door, drew the bolts, and then looked out from each window. Every thing along the high road and in front of the inn was tranquil, where, contrary to the landlord’s assertions, not a single light was discernible. The sound of the horn belonging to the night-guard was the only thing that interrupted the silence which universally prevailed.
Francis closed the windows, once looked round the room, and after snuffing the candles, that they might burn the better, he threw himself on the bed, which he found good and comfortable; but although greatly fatigued, he could not get to sleep so soon as he had hoped. A slight palpitation of the heart, which he attributed to the agitation produced by the heat of his fatiguing journey, kept him awake for a considerable time, till at length sleep came to his aid. After having, as he imagined, been asleep somewhat above an hour, he awoke and started up in a state of horror, possibly not unusual to a person whose blood is over-heated; this idea in some degree allayed his apprehensions, and he listened attentively, but could hear nothing excepting the clock, which struck the hour of midnight. Again he listened for an instant, and turning on his side, he was just going off to sleep, when he thought he heard a distant door grinding on its hinges, and then shut with a heavy noise. In an instant the idea of the ghost approaching caused him no little fear; but he speedily got the better of his alarm, by fancying it was only the wind; however, he could not comfort himself long with this belief, for the sound approached nearer and nearer, and resembled the clanking of chains, or the rattling of a bunch of keys.
The terror which Francis experienced was beyond all description, and he put his head under the clothes. The doors continued to open with a frightful noise, and at last he heard some one trying different keys at the door of his room; one of them seemed perfectly to fit the lock, but the bolts kept the door fast, however, a violent shock like a clap of thunder caused them to give way, and in stalked a tall thin figure, with a black beard, whose appearance was indicative of chagrin and melancholy. He was habited in the antique style, and on his left shoulder wore a red cloak or mantle, while his head was covered with a high-crowned hat. Three times with slow and measured steps he walked round the room, examined the consecrated candles and snuffed them: he then threw off his cloak, unfolded a shaving apparatus, and took from it the razors, which he sharpened on a large leather strap hanging to the belt.
No powers are adequate to describe the agonies Francis endured: he recommended himself to the Virgin Mary, and endeavoured, as well as his fears would permit, to form an idea of the spectre’s designs on him. Whether he purposed to cut his throat, or only take off his beard, he was at a loss to determine. The poor traveller was a little more composed, when he saw the spectre take out a silver shaving pot, and in a bason of the same metal put some water; after which he made a lather, and placed a chair. But a cold perspiration came over Francis, when the spectre with a grave air, made signs for him to sit in that chair.
He knew it was useless to resist this mandate, which was but too plainly given; and thinking it most prudent to make a virtue of necessity, and to put a good face on the matter, Francis obeyed the order, jumped nimbly out of bed, and seated himself as directed.
The spirit placed the shaving-bib round his neck; then taking a comb and scissors, cut off his hair and whiskers; after which he lathered, according to rule, his beard, his eye-brows, and head, and shaved them all off completely from his chin to the nape of his neck. This operation ended, he washed his head, wiped and dried it very nicely, made him a low bow, folded up his case, put his cloak on his shoulder, and made towards the door to go away.
The consecrated candles had burnt most brilliantly during this operation; and by their clear light Francis discovered, on looking into the glass, that he had not a single hair remaining on his head. Most bitterly did he deplore the loss of his beautiful brown hair; but he regained courage on remarking, that, however great the sacrifice, all was now over, and that the spirit had no more power over him.
In effect, the ghost walked towards the door with as grave an air as he had entered; but after going a few steps, he stopped, looked at Francis, with a mournful air, and stroked his beard. He three times repeated this action; and was on the point of quitting the room, when Francis imagined he wanted something. With great quickness of thought he imagined it might be that he wished him to perform a like service for him to that which he had just been executing on himself.
As the spectre, spite of his woe-begone aspect, appeared more inclined to raillery than gravity, and as his proceedings towards Francis appeared more of a species of frolic than absolute ill-treatment, the latter no longer appeared to entertain any apprehension of him; and in consequence determined to hazard the adventure. He therefore beckoned the phantom to seat himself in the chair. It instantly returned and obeyed; taking off its cloak, and unfolding the case, placed it on the table, and seated itself in the chair, in the attitude of one about to be shaved. Francis imitated precisely all he had seen it do: he cut off its hair and whiskers, and then lathered its head. The spirit did not move an inch. Our barber’s apprentice did not handle the razor very dexterously; so that having taken hold of the ghost’s beard against the grain, the latter made a horrible grimace. Francis did not feel much assured by this action; however, he got through the job as well as he could, and rendered the ghost’s head as bald as his own.
Hitherto the scene between the two performers had passed in profound silence: but on a sudden it was interrupted by the ghost exclaiming, with a smiling countenance—“Stranger, I heartily thank you for the eminent service you have rendered me; for to you I am indebted for deliverance from my long captivity. During the space of three hundred years I have been immersed within these walls, and my soul has been condemned to submit to this chastisement as a punishment for my crimes, until some living being had the courage to exercise retaliation on me, by doing to me what I have done by others during my life.
“Count Hartmann formerly resided in this castle; he was a man who recognised no law nor superior; was of an arrogant and overbearing disposition; committed every species of wickedness, and violated the most sacred rights of hospitality; he played all sorts of malicious tricks to strangers who sought refuge under his roof, and to the poor who solicited his charity. I was his barber, and did every thing to please him. No sooner did I perceive a pious pilgrim, than in an endearing tone I urged him to come into the castle, and prepared a bath for him; and while he was enjoying the idea of being taken care of, I shaved his beard and head quite close, and then turned him out of the bye door with raillery and ridicule. All this was seen by Count Hartmann from his window with a sort of devilish pleasure, while the children would assemble round the abused stranger and pursue him with cries of derision.
“One day there came a holy man from a far distant country: he wore a plenipotentiary cross at his back, and his devotion had imprinted scars on his feet, hands, and sides; his head was shaved, excepting a circle of hair, left to resemble the crown of thorns worn by our Saviour. He asked for some water to wash his feet as he passed by, and some bread to eat. I instantly put him into the bath; but did not respect even his venerable head. Upon which the pilgrim pronounced this terrible curse on me.—‘Depraved wretch,’ said he, ‘know that at your death, the formidable gates of heaven, of hell, and of purgatory, will alike be closed against your sinful soul, which shall wander through this castle, in the form of a ghost, until some man, without being invited or constrained, shall do to you, what you have so long done to others.’
“From that moment the marrow in my bones dried up, and I became a perfect shadow; my soul quitted my emaciated body, which remained wandering within these walls, according to the prediction of the holy man. In vain did I look and hope for release from the painful ties which held me to earth; for know that no sooner is the soul separated from the body, than it aspires to the blissful regions of peace, and the ardour of its wishes causes years to appear as long as centuries, while it languishes in a strange element. As a punishment, I was compelled to continue the trade I had exercised during my life; but, alas! my nocturnal appearance soon rendered this castle deserted. Now and then a poor pilgrim entered to pass the night here: when they did, however, I treated them all as I have done you; but not one has understood me, or rendered me the only service which would deliver my soul from this sad servitude; henceforth, no spirit will haunt this castle, for I shall now enjoy that repose of which I have been so long in search. Once again let me thank you, gallant youth; and believe, that had I power over the hidden treasures of the globe, I would give them all to you, but unfortunately, during my life riches did not fall to my lot, and this castle contains no store; however, listen to the advice I am about to give you.
“Remain here till your hair is grown again; then return to your own country; and at that period of the year when the days and nights are of equal length, go on the bridge which crosses the Weser, and there remain till a friend, whom you shall there meet, shall tell you what you ought to do to get possession of terrestrial wealth. When you are rolling in riches and prosperity, remember me; and on every anniversary of the day on which you released me from the heavy maledictions which overwhelmed me, cause a mass to be said for the repose of my soul. Adieu! I must now leave you.”
Thus saying, the phantom vanished, and left his liberator perfectly astonished at the strange history he had just related. For a considerable time Francis remained immoveable, and reasoned within himself as to the reality of what he had seen; for he could not help fancying still that it was only a dream; but his closely shaved head soon convinced him that the event had actually taken place. He got into bed again, and slept soundly until mid-day.
The malicious inn-keeper had been on the watch from the dawn of day for the appearance of the traveller, in order that he might enjoy a laugh at his expense, and express his surprise at the night’s adventure. But after waiting till his patience was nearly exhausted, and finding it approached to noon, he began to apprehend that the spirit had either strangled the stranger, or that he had died of fright. He therefore called his servants together, and ran with them to the castle, passing through every room till they reached the one in which he had observed the light the over-night; there he found a strange key in the door, which was still bolted; for Francis had drawn the bolts after the ghost had vanished. The landlord, who was all anxiety, knocked loudly; and Francis on waking, at first thought that it was the phantom come to pay him another visit; but at length recognising the landlord’s voice, he got up and opened the door.
The landlord, affecting the utmost possible astonishment, clasped his hands, and exclaimed, “Great God and all the saints! then the red cloak has actually been here and shaved you completely? I now see that the story is but too well founded. But pray relate to me all the particulars; tell me what the spirit was like; how he came thus to shave you; and what he said to you?”
Francis, having sense enough to discover his roguery, answered him by saying: “The spirit resembled a man wearing a red cloak; you know full well how he performed the operation; and his conversation I perfectly remember;—listen attentively:—‘Stranger,’ said he to me, ‘do not trust to a certain inn-keeper, who has a figure of malice for his sign; the rogue well knew what would happen to you.—Adieu! I now quit this abode, as my time is come; and in future no spirit will make its appearance here. I am now to be transformed into a night-mare, and shall constantly torment and haunt this said inn-keeper, unless he does penance for his villainy, by lodging, feeding, and furnishing you with every thing needful, till your hair shall grow again, and fall in ringlets over your shoulders.”
At these words, the landlord was seized with a violent trembling: he crossed himself and vowed to the Virgin Mary, that he would take care of the young stranger, lodge him, and give him every thing he required free of cost. He then conducted him to his house, and faithfully fulfilled what he promised.
The spirit being no longer heard or seen, Francis was naturally looked on as a conjurer. He several times passed a night in the castle; and one evening a courageous villager accompanied him, and returned without having lost his hair. The lord of the castle, hearing that the formidable Red Cloak was no longer to be seen, was quite delighted; and gave orders that the stranger who had delivered him from this spirit should be well taken care of.
Early in the month of September, Francis’s hair began to form into ringlets, and he prepared to depart; for all his thoughts were directed towards the bridge over the Weser, where he hoped, according to the barber’s predictions, to find the friend who would point out to him the way to make his fortune.
When Francis took leave of the landlord, the latter presented him with a handsome horse well appointed, and loaded with a large cloak-bag on the back of the saddle, and gave him at the same time a sufficient sum of money to complete his journey. This was a present from the lord of the castle, expressive of his thanks for having his castle again rendered habitable.
Francis arrived at his native place in high spirits. He returned to his lodging in the little street, where he lived very retired, contenting himself for the present with secret information respecting Meta. All the tidings he thus gained were of a satisfactory nature; but he would neither visit her, nor make her acquainted with his return, till his fate was decided.
He waited with the utmost impatience for the equinox; till which, time seemed immeasurably long. The night preceding the eventful day, he could not close his eyes to sleep; and that he might be sure of not missing the friend with whom he was as yet unacquainted, he took his station ere sun-rise on the bridge, where no human being but himself was to be discovered. Replete with hopes of future good fortune, he formed a thousand projects in what way he should spend his money.
Already had he during the space of an hour, traversed the bridge alone, giving full scope to his imagination; when on a sudden the bridge presented a moving scene, and amongst others, many beggars took their several stations on it, to levy contributions on the passengers. The first of this tribe who asked charity of Francis was a poor vagabond with a wooden leg, who, being a pretty good physiognomist, judged from the gay and contented air of the young man, that his request would be crowned with success; and his conjecture was not erroneous, for he threw a demi-florin into his hat.
Francis, meanwhile, feeling persuaded that the friend he expected must belong to the highest class of society, felt no surprise at not seeing him at so early an hour, and waited therefore with patience. But as the hour for visiting the Exchange and Courts of Justice drew near, his eyes were in constant motion. He discovered at an immense distance every well-dressed person who came on the bridge, and his blood was in a perfect ferment as each approached him, for in some one of them did he hope to discover the author of his good fortune; but in vain he looked people in the face, no one paid attention to him. The beggars, who at noon were seated on the ground eating their dinner, remarking that the young man they had seen from the first of the morning, was the only person remaining with them on the bridge, and that he had not spoken to any one, or appeared to have any employment, took him for a lazy vagabond; and although they had received marks of his beneficence, they began to make game of him, and in derision called him the provost of the bridge. The physiognomist with the wooden leg observed, that his air was no longer so gay as in the morning, and that having drawn his hat over his face, he appeared entirely lost in thought, for he walked slowly along, nibbling an apple, with an abstracted air. The observer, resolving to benefit by what he had remarked, went to the further extremity of the bridge, and after well examining the visionary, came up to him as a stranger, asked his charity, and succeeded to his utmost wish; for Francis, without turning round his head, gave him another demi-florin.