of Mela’s refusal of the wealthy brewer having speedily gone abroad, shortly came to the ears of Frank, who felt quite overjoyed. He was no longer tortured with the suspicion lest some rich rival should supplant him in Mela’s heart. He felt that he had ground for hope, and knew how to solve the problem which puzzled so many wise inhabitants of the city of Bremen. Love had metamorphosed a profligate youth into an excellent musician, but unfortunately that character was not a very strong recommendation for a lover in those times; for it derived neither as much honour nor emolument as now. The fine arts were not then the means of riches and prosperity, but rather consigned their votaries to penury and neglect. No other wandering artists were then known, besides Bohemian students, whose loud shrill symphonies clamoured for alms at the doors of the more opulent. Frank could afford but a simple serenade, and his beloved had made too mighty a sacrifice of the king of hops, for his sake, to be rewarded by this alone. The idea of his former conduct now pierced his bosom like a sharp thorn, and in many a bitter monologue he execrated his previous infatuation and folly. “My dear, dear Mela,” he cried, “would that I had known you sooner, you would have become my guardian angel; you would have saved me from utter ruin!
“Ah, could I recall the years that are sped!
