IT was one cool refreshing evening, at the close of a very sultry day, in the latter end of the month of _August_, when a stranger, mounted upon a dark mule, with a small cloak-bag behind him, containing a few shirts, a pair of shoes, and a crimson-sattin pair of breeches, entered the town of _Strasburg._ He told the centinel, who questioned him as he entered the gates, that he had been at the Promontory of NOSES—was going on to _Frankfort_——and should be back again at _Strasburg_ that day month, in his way to the borders of _Crim Tartary._ The centinel looked up into the stranger’s face——he never saw such a Nose in his life! —I have made a very good venture of it, quoth the stranger—so slipping his wrist out of the loop of a black ribbon, to which a short scymetar was hung, he put his hand into his pocket, and with great courtesy touching the fore part of his cap with his left hand, as he extended his right——he put a florin into the centinel’s hand, and passed on. It grieves, me, said the centinel, speaking to a little dwarfish bandy- legg’d drummer, that so courteous a soul should have lost his scabbard——he cannot travel without one to his scymetar, and will not be able to get a scabbard to fit it in all _Strasburg._——I never had one, replied the stranger, looking back to the centinel, and putting his hand up to his cap as he spoke——I carry it, continued he, thus——holding up his naked scymetar, his mule moving on slowly all the time—on purpose to defend my nose. It is well worth it, gentle stranger, replied the centinel. ——’Tis not worth a single stiver, said the bandy-legg’d drummer——’tis a nose of parchment. As I am a true catholic—except that it is six times as big—’tis a nose, said the centinel, like my own. —I heard it crackle, said the drummer. By dunder, said the centinel, I saw it bleed. What a pity, cried the bandy-legg’d drummer, we did not both touch it! At the very time that this dispute was maintaining by the centinel and the drummer—was the same point debating betwixt a trumpeter and a trumpeter’s wife, who were just then coming up, and had stopped to see the stranger pass by. _Benedicity!_——What a nose! ’tis as long, said the trumpeter’s wife, as a trumpet. And of the same metal said the trumpeter, as you hear by its sneezing. ’Tis as soft as a flute, said she. —’Tis brass, said the trumpeter. —’Tis a pudding’s end, said his wife. I tell thee again, said the trumpeter, ’tis a brazen nose, I’ll know the bottom of it, said the trumpeter’s wife, for I will touch it with my finger before I sleep. The stranger’s mule moved on at so slow a rate, that he heard every word of the dispute, not only betwixt the centinel and the drummer, but betwixt the trumpeter and trumpeter’s wife.