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‘Good, my dear creature; what you say is good–very good: but let me tell you, it’s not good that I must be kept waiting in the street, and no soul in attendance to take my horse and feed him.’

‘Oh, that base villain of a hostler!’ said the landlady, immediately begging pardon, and taking hold of the bridle, whilst Mr. Schnackenberger dismounted.

‘That’s a good creature,’ said he; ‘I love you for this: and I don’t care if I take up my quarters here, which at first was not my intention. Have you room for me?’

‘Room!’ answered Mrs. Sweetbread; ‘ah! now there’s just the whole Golden Sow at your service; the more’s the pity.’

On Mr. Jeremiah’s asking the reason for this superfluity of room, she poured out a torrent of abuse against the landlord of The Double-barrelled Gun, who–not content with having at all times done justice to his sign–had latterly succeeded, with the help of vicious coachmen and unprincipled postilions, in drawing away her whole business, and had at length utterly ruined the once famous inn of The Golden Sow. And true it was that the apartment, into which she now introduced her guest, showed some vestiges of ancient splendour, in the pictures of six gigantic sows. The late landlord had been a butcher, and had christened his inn from his practice of slaughtering a pig every week; and the six swine, as large as life, and each bearing a separate name, were designed to record his eminent skill in the art of fattening.

His widow, who was still in mourning for him, must certainly have understood Mr. Schnackenberger’s words, ‘I love you for this,’ in a sense very little intended by the student. For she brought up supper herself; and, with her own hand, unarmed with spoon or other implement, dived after and secured a little insect which was floundering about in the soup. So much the greater was her surprise on observing, that, after such flattering proofs of attention, her guest left the soup untouched; and made no particular application to the other dishes–so well harmonising with the general character of the Golden Sow. At last, however, she explained his want of appetite into the excess of his passion for herself; and, on that consideration, failed not to lay before him a statement of her flourishing circumstances, and placed in a proper light the benefits of a marriage with a woman somewhat older than himself.

Mr. Schnackenberger, whose good-nature was infinite, occasionally interrupted his own conversation with Juno, the great dog, who meantime was dispatching the supper without any of her master’s scruples, to throw in a ‘Yes,’ or a ‘No,’–a, ‘Well,’ or a ‘So, so.’ But at length his patience gave way, and he started up–saying, ‘Well: Sufficit: Now–march, old witch!’ This harmless expression she took in such ill part, that, for mere peace’ sake, he was obliged to lead her to the door and shut her out: and then, undressing himself, he stepped into bed; and, in defiance of the straw which everywhere stuck out, and a quilt of a hundred-weight,[21] he sunk into a deep slumber under the agreeable serenade of those clamorous outcries which Mrs. Sweetbread still kept up on the outside of the door.

[21] The custom in North Germany is to sleep under a bed as well as upon one; consequently, when this happens to be a cheap one, it cannot be stuffed with feathers, down, etc., but with some heavier material.

CHAPTER III.

IN WHICH OUR HERO POLISHES A ROUGH-RIDER.

‘Fire and furies!’ exclaimed Mr. Schnackenberger, as Juno broke out into uproarious barking about midnight: the door was opened from the outside; and in stepped the landlady, arrayed in a night-dress that improved her charms into a rivalry with those of her sign at the street-door; accompanied by a fellow, who, by way of salutation, cracked an immense hunting-whip.

‘So it’s here that I’m to get my own again?’ cried the fellow: and forthwith Mr. Jeremiah stepped out of bed, and hauled him up to the light of the lamp which the landlady carried.