Bene curasti hoc jumentam? (ait) muli faciem manu demulcens--me, manticamque meam, plus sexcentis mille passibus portavit.
Longa via est! respondet hospes, nisi plurimum esset negoti.--Enimvero, ait peregrinus, a Nasorum promontorio redii, et nasum speciosissimum, egregiosissimumque quem unquam quisquam sortitus est, acquisivi?
Dum peregrinus hanc miram rationem de seipso reddit, hospes et uxor ejus, oculis intentis, peregrini nasum contemplantur--Per sanctos sanctasque omnes, ait hospitis uxor, nasis duodecim maximis in toto Argentorato major est!--estne, ait illa mariti in aurem insusurrans, nonne est nasus praegrandis?
Dolus inest, anime mi, ait hospes--nasus est falsus.
Verus est, respondit uxor--
Ex abiete factus est, ait ille, terebinthinum olet--Carbunculus inest, ait uxor.
Mortuus est nasus, respondit hospes.
Vivus est ait illa,--et si ipsa vivam tangam.
Votum feci sancto Nicolao, ait peregrinus, nasum meum intactum fore usque ad--Quodnam tempus? illico respondit illa.
Minimo tangetur, inquit ille (manibus in pectus compositis) usque ad illam horam--Quam horam? ait illa--Nullam, respondit peregrinus, donec pervenio ad--Quem locum,--obsecro? ait illa--Peregrinus nil respondens mulo conscenso discessit.
Slawkenbergius's Tale It was one cool refreshing evening, at the close of a very sultry day, in the latter end of the month of August, when a stranger, mounted upon a dark mule, with a small cloak-bag behind him, containing a few shirts, a pair of shoes, and a crimson-sattin pair of breeches, entered the town of Strasburg.
He told the centinel, who questioned him as he entered the gates, that he had been at the Promontory of Noses--was going on to Frankfort--and should be back again at Strasburg that day month, in his way to the borders of Crim Tartary.
The centinel looked up into the stranger's face--he never saw such a Nose in his life!
--I have made a very good venture of it, quoth the stranger--so slipping his wrist out of the loop of a black ribbon, to which a short scymetar was hung, he put his hand into his pocket, and with great courtesy touching the fore part of his cap with his left hand, as he extended his right--he put a florin into the centinel's hand, and passed on.
It grieves, me, said the centinel, speaking to a little dwarfish bandy-legg'd drummer, that so courteous a soul should have lost his scabbard--he cannot travel without one to his scymetar, and will not be able to get a scabbard to fit it in all Strasburg.--I never had one, replied the stranger, looking back to the centinel, and putting his hand up to his cap as he spoke--I carry it, continued he, thus--holding up his naked scymetar, his mule moving on slowly all the time--on purpose to defend my nose.
It is well worth it, gentle stranger, replied the centinel.
--'Tis not worth a single stiver, said the bandy-legg'd drummer--'tis a nose of parchment.
As I am a true catholic--except that it is six times as big--'tis a nose, said the centinel, like my own.
--I heard it crackle, said the drummer.
By dunder, said the centinel, I saw it bleed.
What a pity, cried the bandy-legg'd drummer, we did not both touch it!
At the very time that this dispute was maintaining by the centinel and the drummer--was the same point debating betwixt a trumpeter and a trumpeter's wife, who were just then coming up, and had stopped to see the stranger pass by.
Benedicity!--What a nose! 'tis as long, said the trumpeter's wife, as a trumpet.
And of the same metal said the trumpeter, as you hear by its sneezing.
'Tis as soft as a flute, said she.
--'Tis brass, said the trumpeter.
--'Tis a pudding's end, said his wife.
I tell thee again, said the trumpeter, 'tis a brazen nose, I'll know the bottom of it, said the trumpeter's wife, for I will touch it with my finger before I sleep.
The stranger's mule moved on at so slow a rate, that he heard every word of the dispute, not only betwixt the centinel and the drummer, but betwixt the trumpeter and trumpeter's wife.
No! said he, dropping his reins upon his mule's neck, and laying both his hands upon his breast, the one over the other in a saint-like position (his mule going on easily all the time) No! said he, looking up--I am not such a debtor to the world--slandered and disappointed as I have been--as to give it that conviction--no! said he, my nose shall never be touched whilst Heaven gives me strength--To do what? said a burgomaster's wife.
The stranger took no notice of the burgomaster's wife--he was making a vow to Saint Nicolas; which done, having uncrossed his arms with the same solemnity with which he crossed them, he took up the reins of his bridle with his left-hand, and putting his right hand into his bosom, with the scymetar hanging loosely to the wrist of it, he rode on, as slowly as one foot of the mule could follow another, thro' the principal streets of Strasburg, till chance brought him to the great inn in the market-place over-against the church.
The moment the stranger alighted, he ordered his mule to be led into the stable, and his cloak-bag to be brought in; then opening, and taking out of it his crimson-sattin breeches, with a silver-fringed--(appendage to them, which I dare not translate)--he put his breeches, with his fringed cod-piece on, and forth-with, with his short scymetar in his hand, walked out to the grand parade.
The stranger had just taken three turns upon the parade, when he perceived the trumpeter's wife at the opposite side of it--so turning short, in pain lest his nose should be attempted, he instantly went back to his inn--undressed himself, packed up his crimson-sattin breeches, &c. in his cloak-bag, and called for his mule.
I am going forwards, said the stranger, for Frankfort--and shall be back at Strasburg this day month.