head sank on his
comrade's breast.

The sun's last rays had set, and the pale moon rose, shedding her
quiet beams on the closed eyes and silent lips!

The long-looked-for day had come and gone; that day so full of hope
and fear for the young sisters.

It had brought grief and joy; but the joy was not for the hopeful, nor
the tear for the trembling heart, though one stood at the altar, and
the other at the lonely grave; and one indeed wore the white and the
other the black dress, but neither wore that which she had prepared.

THE BREWER.

Nature had endowed Vendel Hornyicsek, the brewer of B----, in the
county of Raab, with five hundred and seventy nine pounds of standard
weight; and he was not the man to turn tail before a stuffed lamb and
any given quantity of beer.

His head was a complete circle, a worthy rival for any pumpkin
produced on the sunniest plain; and Mount Ararat itself might have
blushed in the vicinity of his nose. He had only one eye, which you
might have suspected he had borrowed _ad usum_ from some misanthropic
mole--it was small, green, and peculiarly adapted to sleep; but mother
Nature was not unjust, and what she curtailed in one feature she amply
refunded in another, by bestowing more than ordinary proportions on
the mouth, into which capacious aperture the four-quart tankard would
certainly have disappeared altogether had it not been held fast by its
two handles. Except, however, to receive the contents of the tankard,
the good man seldom made use of this feature. It is true that he could
speak nothing but the German and Bohemian languages, in which he had
been born and bred; for though he had lived thirty years in the county
of Raab, he had never been able to make himself understood in the
Hungarian language, and certainly he found no living creature, unless
it were those travelled gentlemen, the storks, to address him in his
native tongue. Moreover, Vendel Hornyicsek gazda[61] was not a lover
of great commotion; he was by no means ambitious. He would sit quietly
in the chimney-corner from morning till night, replenishing his
interior with ample potions of the genuine barley-bree, and turning in
his mind some philosophy peculiarly his own. He never dined at regular
hours, or rather he dined at every hour of the day; it was a
continual, unwearied struggle with his appetite--that invincible
Antaeus, who, as often as he was overcome, rose with redoubled strength
to renew the att