Meanwhile they had arrived at this highly lauded place, where Schnapper-Elle stood at the door cordially greeting the strangers who had come to the fair, and who, led by hunger, were now streaming in.  Behind her, sticking his head out over her shoulder, was the tall Nose Star, anxiously and inquisitively observing them.  Don Isaac with an exaggerated air of dignity approached the landlady, who returned his satirical reverence with endless curtsies.  Thereupon he drew the glove from his right hand, wrapped it, the hand, in the fold of his cloak, and grasping Schnapper-Elle’s hand, slowly drew it over his moustache, saying: 

“Senora! your eyes rival the brilliancy of the sun!  But as eggs, the longer they are boiled the harder they become, so vice versa my heart grows softer the longer it is cooked in the flaming flashes of your eyes.  From the yolk of my heart flies up the winged god Amor and seeks a confiding nest in your bosom.  And oh, Senora, wherewith shall I compare that bosom?  For in all the world there is no flower, no fruit, which is like to it!  It is the one thing of its kind!  Though the wind tears away the leaves from the tenderest rose, your bosom is still a winter rose which defies all storms.  Though the sour lemon, the older it grows the yellower and more wrinkled it becomes, your bosom rivals in color and softness the sweetest pineapple.  Oh, Senora, if the city of Amsterdam be as beautiful as you told me yesterday, and the day before, and every day, the ground on which it rests is far lovelier still.”

The cavalier spoke these last words with affected earnestness, and squinted longingly at the large medallion which hung from Schnapper-Elle’s neck.  Nose Star looked down with inquisitive eyes, and the much-bepraised bosom heaved so that the whole city of Amsterdam rocked from side to side.

“Ah!” sighed Schnapper-Elle, “virtue is worth more than beauty.  What use is my beauty to me?  My youth is passing away, and since Schnapper is gone—­anyhow, he had handsome hands—­what avails beauty?”

With that she sighed again, and like an echo, all but inaudible, Nose Star sighed behind her.  “Of what avail is your beauty?” cried Don Isaac.  “Oh, Dona Schnapper-Elle, do not sin against the goodness of creative Nature!  Do not scorn her most charming gifts, or she will reap most terrible revenge.  Those blessed, blessing eyes will become glassy balls, those winsome lips grow flat and unattractive, that chaste and charming form be changed into an unwieldy barrel of tallow, and the city of Amsterdam at last rest on a spongy bog.”  Thus he sketched piece by piece the appearance of Schnapper-Elle, so that the poor woman was bewildered, and sought to escape the uncanny compliments of the cavalier.  She was delighted to see Beautiful Sara appear at this instant, as it gave her an opportunity to inquire whether she had quite recovered from her swoon.  Thereupon she plunged into lively chatter, in which she fully