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.

I hope, continued the stranger, stroking down the face of his mule with
his left hand as he was going to mount it, that you have been kind
to this faithful slave of mine--it has carried me and my cloak-bag,
continued he, tapping the mule's back, above six hundred leagues.

--'Tis a long journey, Sir, replied the master of the inn--unless a man
has great business.--Tut! tut! said the stranger, I have been at the
promontory of Noses; and have got me one of the goodliest, thank Heaven,
that ever fell to a single man's lot.

Whilst the stranger was giving this odd account of himself, the master
of the inn and his wife kept both their eyes fixed full upon the
stranger's nose--By saint Radagunda, said the inn-keeper's wife to
herself, there is more of it than in any dozen of the largest noses put
together in all Strasburg! is it not, said she, whispering her husband
in his ear, is it not a noble nose?

'Tis an imposture, my dear, said the master of the inn--'tis a false
nose.

'Tis a true nose, said his wife.

'Tis made of fir-tree, said he, I smell the turpentine.--

There's a pimple on it, said she.

'Tis a dead nose, replied the inn-keeper.

'Tis a live nose, and if I am alive myself, said the inn-keeper's, wife,
I will touch it.

I have made a vow to saint Nicolas this day, said the stranger, that my
nose shall not be touched till--Here the stranger suspending his voice,
looked up.--Till when? said she hastily.

It ne