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 re-
