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A day or two after this, I went with Lackland to
buy a dog. He informed me that he had recently
seen one of a particularly fine Danish breed, which
he wished to purchase, and had been told that there
was a litter of puppies of the same sort at a dogmerchant's
not far from the town. After passing a
village about half a mile off, we came upon a comparatively
solitary and deserted path. We proceeded
along this road for about half a mile farther,
without seeing a single habitation of any kind; but
at last descried, at a few yards' distance from the
road, a solitary house.

It was a long, low, scrambling kind of building,
filled in with brick, and covered with a dingy plaster,
with a large stork's nest placed majestically upon
the red-tiled roof.

There were no trees or plantations of any kind in
the neighborhood, and the whole household had a
careless, untidy look.

As we came to a wicker gate by which the path
leading up to the house was separated from the road,
we were saluted by the baying of innumerable dogs.
As we advanced, we discovered that there were a
series of kennels placed at about a hundred yards
from the house, and extending in a circle entirely

[figure description] Page 233.[end figure description]

around it. The yard and all the intermediate space
was filled with skeletons of horses, skulls of cows,
and a miscellaneous and grotesque collection of
thigh bones, ribs, and shin pieces.

The dogs were all carefully secured in their
kennels, which was, as Dummberg would have
expressed himself, “devilish swine for us;” for to
judge by their savage looks, and ominous growling,
we should otherwise have been made dog's meat of
with great celerity.

A rough, red-headed, scarecrow of a boy, with
half a pair of breeches, and no shirt, was seated on
the ground, amusing himself with shying pebbles at
a savage-looking dog, confined in one of the kennels.

“Where's the skinner?” demanded Lackland of
this worthy.

“Who knows?” answered the ragamuffin, with
a stupid stare.

“You know or ought to know, you black-guard,”
replied Lackland.

The boy sulked and said nothing. Lackland
gave him a four groschen-piece, and repeated his
inquiry.

“Well; the father told me to say he was gone
out; but he is in the house I know, — he is tired,
and is now refreshing himself with a game of cards
with Crooked Skamp, the undertaker.”

“Why is he tired so particularly to-day, that he
cannot receive visitors?”

“O! he has been hard at work to day,” answered
the boy.

[figure description] Page 234.[end figure description]

“Whose cow is dead?—whose donkey has been
skinned?— whose cart-horse has foundered?” asked
Lackland.

“Oh! none of such every-day work. But Teufel
and Hanswurst, were executed to day.”

“And who are Teufel and Hanswurst?”

“Why, don't you know?” The fellows who
killed the old gentlewoman in the Hartz, and stole
her fifty rix-dollars. To-day they were executed.”
And hereupon the boy began to cry bitterly.

“What are you blubbering about? Were these
gentlemen relations of yours?”

“O no,—not that,—not that.”

“What are you howling for then? Out of general
benevolence, I suppose?”

“What did your excellency observe?” asked the
urchin, evidently not comprehending the meaning
of general benevolence.

“I say, I suppose you are crying because these
criminals were your fellow-creatures? But no matter;
remember that they deserved their fate.”

“No; but the father said last year, that if I was
diligent, and practised sufficiently, I should have a
go at Hanswurst and Teufel myself. I worked as
hard as I could, and cut off the strawman's head
sometimes a dozen times in a morning, and yesterday
I was all expectation that my father would say,
`Gottlob, thou hast been a good youth, — thou shalt
be rewarded, — take my sword, go out and cut off
Hanswurst's head, and be an honour to your family.'
But instead of that, he only said, `Gottlob, you lazy

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beast, stay at home, and take the skin off Branmeier's
two oxen that died this morning.' To think
that I am sixteen years old, and have cut off nobody's
head yet.” And here the boy wept and
roared again wofully.

“Hold your tongue, you lubber, and go in and tell
your father that Mr. Lackland is here about the dog
he spoke of yesterday,” said my companion.

“In God's name, Lackland,” said I, as the boy
went into the house, “into whose respectable dwelling
have you introduced me?”

“This—why this is my particular friend, the
skinner, or executioner, or dog-merchant, which ever
suits you the best, for he combines these three interesting
professions. I had forgotten there was an
execution to-day, or I should not have intruded upon
him; but as we are here, we may as well settle our
business.”

“Why do you call him the skinner?” I asked.

“Because he is a skinner. If the cow, or the ox,
or the ass of a peasant die on his farm, he would
sooner die than flay him himself. He considers it
as great a sacrilege as if he were to skin his own
father. He sends him off at once to the executioner,
and consequently the flaying of dead cattle has
become almost as great a branch of his business, as
chopping off criminals' heads.”

“Is the disrepute of the executioner as great as it
was in the middle ages?”

“No; it has become rather a joke than any thing
else. It is seldom, however, that a peasant visits

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sociably, and sits down in the house of the executioner.
It is very seldom that he will ring glasses
with him in drinking; but this is pretty much all
that remains of the old superstition.”

“The office is still hereditary?”

“Oh, yes. The interesting young gentleman
whom you have just seen, is the first born and eldest
hope of the present executioner, and you saw yourself
how anxious he is to tread in the footsteps of
his father.”

“Here Gottlob appeared, and told us we might
walk in. We walked through the kitchen, and came
into a long low room, which seemed to be the principal
if not the only sitting apartment in the house.
It was decent enough in appearance, and less untidy
than I expected. A glazed stove covered with blue
tiles, was at one end, and an old-fashioned clock at
the other. The floor was sanded, of course, and a
long unpainted table was in the centre, upon which
were a jug of beer, and two or three long glasses of
some kind of “schnapps.” Half-a-dozen crockery
pipes, very dirty, and of the most ordinary description,
stood in one corner of the room, and a fowling-piece,
and a two-handed sword, were in another. Two
men were seated at a table, earnestly engaged at the
game of Landsknecht. One was dealing from a
particularly dirty pack of cards, while the other was
raking together, and counting a pile of small silver
coin.

“Knave and lady!—knave and lady!—knave
and lady!” cried the skinner, who was dealing.

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He was a tall stout man, with a red head, like
his son's, and a broad, jolly, good-humoured face.
He was decently dressed, in a brown hollands blouse,
fastened round his waist with a leathern girdle, and
on his legs was a pair of leather spatterdashes.

“Knave and lady—knave and lady!” continued
he, telling out the cards, one after another,—“Knave
for you—lady for me. Come, madam—come dear
little lady—lady! Psha—a cursed knave! Skamp,
you win—deal the cards,” he concluded, pushing
over his money, and skimming the cards towards
his antagonist.

“How d'ye do, Skinner?—how d'ye do, Skamp,
old fellow?” cried Lackland, advancing.

“Ah, Count Lackland,” said the excutioner, rising
politely. “This is an unexpected honour;”
and so saying, he dusted a chair for each of us, and
begged us to be seated.

“I am afraid I have intruded upon you rather
unseasonably,” said Sansterre. “I was not aware,
till Gottlob told me, that you had been engaged this
morning.”

“Oh, a trifle, your excellency—a perfect trifle.
The two subjects I had this morning the pleasure of
operating upon, gave me no manner of trouble.
They were as gentle as lambs—quiet as kittens.
They sat down, side by side in the execution chairs,
with such docility, that it was a perfect pleasure to
behold them. They conducted themselves with
such perfect propriety, that I really felt proud of them.
I am not the least fatigued. But as I always make

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a holiday on these occasions, I invited Mr. Skamp,
who was, of course, present in his official capacity,
to accompany me home, and talk over the whole
business over a pipe of good Kanaster.”

Hereupon “crooked Skamp, the coffin-maker,”
as Gottlob had denominated him, arose, and with a
bland smile, “hoped that his presence would not
interfere with our business; if so, he would immediately
withdraw.”

He was a singular-looking individual, this Mr.
Skamp, and I suspected immediately what the reader
will soon find to be the case, that his vocation had
not always been the grave and peaceable one of village
undertaker.

He was a square-shouldered, broad-chested, powerful-looking
man, with a head and bust resembling
those of the Farnese Hercules. His hair and beard
were jet-black, luxuriant and curling. His ready
smile exposed a set of teeth, as strong and white as
the tusks of a blood-hound. The great blemish, however,
to his personal appearance were his legs, which
were short and stumpy, and were, moreover, bowed
outwards to such a preposterous extent, that they
had not unjustly obtained for him the appellation of
“crooked,” which we have noted. Altogether,
however, his figure was remarkably strong and athletic,
and together with his pleasant smile, and the
merry leer of his little black eyes, consorted but oddly
with the melancholy habiliments in which, conformably
to the customs of his profession, he had arrayed
himself.

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He wore, namely, a long black fustian tunic,
reaching to his knees, and fastened round his loins
with a scarf of black crape; while black woollen
small-clothes, and black worsted stockings, set off the
peculiar beauties of his nether limbs. Shoes, with
with large black buckles, were on his feet, and a
small three-cornered hat of black beaver, with a broad
crape banner waving and weeping from one of the
ends, decorated his head. On his neck, lastly, he
made an ostentatious display of a coarse linen neckcloth,
which he evidently mistook for white.

“Never like to intrude,” continued this worthy;
“it ill becomes a man of my cloth. I have but little
concern with the secular affairs of this life. My
thoughts are always bent on grave subjects,” said
he, draining off one of the glasses of Schnapps, and
bagging the proceeds of his game by way of demonstration.

“Have you all your life been in this reverend and
cheerful line of business?” asked I, of Skamp, who,
during an earnest conversation which had commenced
between my friend and the executioner, had
very courteously seated himself near me, with an
evident intention of doing me the honours of the
house.

“Ever since I retired from the vanities of this
world, which has not been long, by the way,” replied
the coffin-maker. “My biography, however,
is rather too long and complicated a subject to begin
upon just now; but if you will allow me to bring
you next week a particularly fine haunch of

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venison, which I can supply you with at a more moderate
price than any butcher, I will relate to you some
passages in my life, which, perhaps, may prove to
you amusing and instructive. You need not be
surprised that I have conceived this sudden friendship
for you. I have long known you by reputation,
and, moreover, I have the greatest respect and
admiration for all Englishmen.”

“But pray inform me, if it is usual for undertakers
in Germany to unite the trade of butcher to their
own respectable professions?” I asked.

“Oh, no, sir. Do not suppose it is I who will
provide your venison. I have a son, sir, who is the
pride of my heart, and he is as sure, though I say it,
with his rifle, as any lad in the Electorate. He has
rendered himself such a favourite with several of the
neighbouring noblemen, by his dexterous shooting,
and his pleasant and respectful deportment, that he
is allowed the privilege of shooting over their manors
as much as he chooses.”

“Hum—allows himself,” thought I. “I have
heard of a fellow called poaching Skamp, who has
been punished half-a-dozen times for deer-stealing.
It must be the hopeful son of my friend here.—Any
time,” said I, aloud, “that you have a spare haunch
at your disposal, I shall be glad of it. I am very
glad that your son is such a favourite.”

“You have a taste in lace,” continued Skamp,
looking at my ruffles. “If you are willing to provide
yourself with as nice an article as can be had
in Germany, it is fortunately in my power to

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supply your wants;” and so saying, this extraordinary
undertaker plucked from his bosom a small roll of
the most exquisite Flemish lace.

“Your son is a lace-maker too, I suppose?” said I.

“Pardon me, your excellency. Although my second
son is serviceable in the way of peddling my
lace when it is made, yet neither Hermann nor
Adolph is employed in the manufacture. No, sir,
that lace is the fruit of the industry of my amiable
wife and three dutiful daughters,” said the coffin-maker,
sentimentally.

“It looks as beautiful as any that ever came from
Brussels,” said I, buying enough for a pair of ruffles.
“The price?”

“Ten Louis d'ors a-yard. It has, indeed, a resemblance
to the Brussels; but my wife and daughters
are careful to collect and copy from the best
Flemish models.”

“Yes: and to copy the best Flemish prices,” said
I, unwillingly forking out the money.

In the meantime Lackland and the executioner
had gone out into the yard to discuss the subject of
dogs more at their ease, and I proposed to follow
them. We were preparing to go out, when a slight
tap was heard at a door, that was almost concealed
in an obscure part of the room. Presently afterwards,
an individual, in a slouched hat and cloak,
presented himself, crying out, eagerly:—

“Skamp!—my best Skamp!—sweet Skamp!—
angel Skamp!—the jewelry is all safe and snug,
and we—Holy father Abraham! whom have we

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here?” concluded the stranger, hastily muffling himself
in his cloak, and pulling his hat over his face.

It was too late, however, for I had recognized
both the features and the accents of the Jew banker,
Potiphar, the father of Trump's Judith. I forbore,
however, of course, to manifest any signs of recognition,
and the Jew evidently flattered himself that
he had not been discovered. A moment after, Skamp
begged me, in the most confidential manner, to
withdraw for a moment, as he had particular business
with this gentleman.

“I will join you, presently, in the yard,” he
added.

As I entered the yard, the skinner came up to
me, leaving Lackland and Gottlob engaged with the
dogs.

“The horse-skull, and the two skeletons, will be
quite ready for you at the time you bespoke them
for,” said he to me.

“Horse-skull!—skeletons!” said I, in amazement;
“what upon earth do you mean, Mr. Skinner?”

“You know you wanted them for your uncle, in
Prague,” he replied.

“My uncle in Prague!—I have no uncle in
Prague.—I have but one uncle in the world, and
he is in America!”

“Why, sir, you do not mean seriously to deny
that you were here last Friday, and begged me to
select the best horse-skull, and the two best skeletons
of asses, I could find, as you wished to send them a

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present to your uncle, who, you said, was the greatest
naturalist in Bohemia.—I don't care so much
for the trouble I have been put to; but I don't care
to be made game of in this sort of way.”

But here the impending quarrel with my formidable
antagonist was averted by the appearance of a
new personage on the scene.

This stranger brought with him a solution of the
little mystery which had occupied me for the last
few days, and that in the simplest manner.

As he advanced, the skinner looked surprised,
puzzled, and then half-frightened; and I rubbed
my eyes in absolute bewilderment, not knowing
whether or no I was to believe the evidence of my
senses.

It was, however, after all, only a natural phenomenon:
a person, namely, who was the exact and
perfect counterpart of myself, in face, figure, gait,
and address. It was probably the suggestion of my
vanity, but I remember I could not help thinking,
at the time, that he was a particularly well-looking
young man; and I have half a mind to describe
him minutely, that the reader may likewise be of
my opinion. On the whole, however, I believe all
my friends must take my word for it, both with regard
to Pappenheim, (for it was he,) and myself.

Although it created much wonder, and sometimes
much merriment, it was not a very remarkable phenomenon.
When it is recollected, that the only
persons who were ever entirely deceived, were Ida
Von Poodleberg, and the executioner, it will lessen

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any extraordinary wonder that might have been
created by the occurrence.

The executioner had seen Pappenheim but once,
and was consequently not likely to note the appearance
of his guest so accurately, but that he might
have been easily deceived by a much less striking
resemblance. As for Ida, it must be borne in mind,
that she had been only deceived by my appearance at
a distance, in the street, and at dusk; and that
when we were in the house together, we were almost
in total darkness. The reader may remember, that
at Frau Von Rumplestern's conversazione, she had
merely been struck by the singular resemblance,
and with a passing comment had dismissed the subject;
and that at both our memorable interviews in
the street, it happened to be exactly that sort of incipient
twilight, which is more deceiving than any
other kind of light. Besides this, it was only our
walking-dresses that corresponded so exactly,—the
evening costume was different.

Pappenheim, as he advanced, seemed also bewildered
by my appearance. Various emotions
were visible in his countenance, as he advanced,
and at last anger seemed to predominate.

He advanced rapidly, and prepared to address me.

“Stop, sir!” said I, “there has been a mistake;
but no harm done. Let me tell you every thing in
three words, and if you are not satisfied, then, it is
for you to decide upon any other mode of satisfaction
you choose.”

I then took him aside, and told him the whole

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story from beginning to end; showed how anxious
I had been to explain to Ida her mistake, and how
I had been prevented; and assured him I had been
on the point of flying from my dangerous position,
on that adventurous evening, at the very moment
when I had encountered, and been obliged to assault
him.

He seemed convinced, at last, and after a little
hesitation, made up his mind to laugh at the whole
affair. He held out his hand:—

“It is certainly a ridiculous affair altogether,”
said he, “and the best way for me to avoid being
laughed at, is for me to keep my own secret, in
which I am sure you will assist me. The honourable
manner in which you have acted, throughout
this affair, makes me think we shall be excellent
friends, and I dare say we shall neither of us regret
our singular acquaintance.”

With this, my new acquaintance made me a polite
bow, and begged to know my address. I gave
it him, assuring him of my reciprocal and ardent desire
of doing the same thing, and he gave me in return
his own, on which was engraved, “Oscar Von
Pappenheim.” He then observed that he was somewhat
hurried at present and must beg me to excuse
him, but that he should have the pleasure of meeting
me at Baron Poodleberg's supper that evening.
With that he hastened off, and began his conference
with the executioner, touching his uncle's skeletons.

As Lackland had completed his purchase, and as

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I saw no opportunity of renewing my conversation
with the coffin-maker, we returned to town.

As we went along, I mentioned to Lackland this
singular conversation with Skamp, and particularly
the industrious and productive habits of his wife and
family.

“He is certainly an extraordinary fellow, that
Skamp,” said Lackland, “and I should like to be
acquainted with the whole of his real history. Besides
being a coffin-maker and undertaker, he is the
most desperate smuggler and poacher in all Germany;
and yet so cunning a rascal, that he is
never discovered. You have heard that he offers to
supply you with venison and lace?”

“Yes,” said I; “but his son is to shoot the one,
and his wife and daughters to work the other.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Lackland, “what a
lying rascal! He certainly is the most extraordinary
fellow. His wife! he never had a wife in his
life. Sons and daughters he may have in plenty,
I dare say, but none that he knows any thing of, or
who acknowledge, or who are acknowledged by him.
The venison he steals himself, and the lace he smuggles,
with a thousand other things, from all countries
in the world.”

“What do you think this Jew Potiphar, (for I
am sure it was he that came into the room in a cloak
and slouched hat,) was in search of?”

“Excellent! capital!” shouted Lackland. “I
am glad you saw him. We shall have sport out of
this yet. Why, Morton, I know enough of that old

[figure description] Page 247.[end figure description]

Hebrew scoundrel to hang him. But be quiet; let
us keep it to ourselves for the present. We shall
have rare sport, and by the way, I think we may
devise a plan to assist Trump Von Toggenburg,
`Count of the Holy Roman Empire,' (as he calls
himself,) in his wooing.”

“But here we are at our rooms,—au revoir. We
meet, I believe, at Poodleberg's.”