Hans continued to shave and thrive, and all the careful old burghers foretold of his future well-doing; when he met with a misfortune, which promised for a time to shut up his shop and leave him a beggar.  He fell in love.

Neighbours warned Hans of the consequences of his folly; but all remonstrance was vain.  Customers became scarce, wearing out their patience and their wigs together; the shop became dirty, and winter saw the flies of summer scattered on his show-board.

Agnes Flirtitz was the prettiest girl in Stocksbawler.  Her eyes were as blue as a summer’s sky, her cheeks as rosy as an autumn sunset, and her teeth as white as winter’s snow.  Her hair was a beautiful flaxen—­not a drab—­but that peculiar sevenpenny-moist-sugar tint which the poets of old were wont to call golden.  Her voice was melodious; her notes in alt were equal to Grisi’s:  in short, she would have been a very desirable, loveable young lady, if she had not been a coquette.

Hans met her at a festival given in commemoration of the demise of the burgomaster’s second wife—­I beg pardon, I mean in celebration of his union with his third bride.  From that day Hans was a lost barber.  Sleeping, waking, shaving, curling, weaving, or powdering, he thought of nothing but Agnes.  His love-dreams placed him in all kinds of awkward predicaments.  And Agnes—­what thought she of the unhappy barber?  Nothing, except that he was a presumptuous puppy, and wore very unfashionable garments.  Hans received an intimation of this latter opinion; and, after sundry quailings and misgivings, he resolved to dispose of his remaining stock in trade, and, for once, dress like a gentleman.  The measure had been taken by the tailor, the garments had been basted and tried on, and Hans was standing at his door in a state of feverish excitement, awaiting their arrival in a completed condition (as there was to be fete on the morrow, at which Agnes was to be present), when a stranger requested to be shaved.  Hans wished him at the ——­ next barber’s; but there was something so unpleasantly positive in the visitor’s appearance, that he had not the power to object, so politely bowed him into the shop.  The stranger removed his cap, and discovered two very ugly protuberances, one on each side of his head, and of most unphrenological appearance.  Hans commenced operations—­the lather dried as fast as he laid it on, and the razor emitted small sparks as it encountered the bristles on the stranger’s chin, Hans felt particularly uncomfortable, and not a word had hitherto passed on either side, when the stranger broke the ice by asking, rather abruptly, “Have you any schnapps in the house?” Hans jumped like a parched pea.  Without waiting for a reply, the stranger rose and opened the cupboard.  “I never take anything stronger than water,” said Hans, in reply, to the “pshaw!” which broke from the stranger’s lips as he smelt at the contents of a little brown pitcher.  “More fool you,” replied his customer.  “Here taste that—­some of the richest grape-blood of Rheingau;” and he handed Hans a small flask, which the sober barber respectfully declined.  “Ha! ha! and yet you hope to thrive with the women,” said the stranger.  “No wonder that Agnes treats you as she does.  But drink, man! drink!”