into that city, the queen of the cities of Brabant, his hopes were raised to a high pitch. Opulence and luxury were everywhere visible, and it seemed as if want and poverty were banished from this seat of industry. “My father’s debtors,” he said to himself, “are most likely sharing in this general wealth; they have again improved their circumstances, and will be ready to pay me if I produce my documents to prove my demands are just.” After he had recovered from the fatigues of his journey, he made some inquiries concerning the circumstances of some of his debtors, before he went to call on them. “How is it with Peter Martens?” he asked his companions at table, “is he still living, and does he thrive?”
“Peter Martens is a wealthy man,” replied one of the company, “and drives a flourishing trade.”
“Is Fabian van Plurs in good circumstances?”
“Oh! he scarce knows how to employ his immense capital; he is one of the council, and his woollen manufactures give him ample profits.”
“Has the house of the Bütekant failed, or does it carry on business?”
“Some years ago it was tottering, but the Spanish Caravelles[1] have helped to prop it up, so that it seems now likely to stand.”
Franz having inquired after several other houses, or persons, on whom he had demands, learned that most of them, who had in his father’s time stopped payment, were now flourishing, which confirmed a common opinion, that a seasonable bankruptcy is a sure foundation for after prosperity. This news served to cheer up his spirits; he arranged his papers, and presented the old bills at their proper places. But he experienced from the people of Antwerp the same treatment which his travelling fellow-citizens of this age experience from shopkeepers in the provincial towns of Germany. Every one treats them well until they call to get in their money. Many would hear nothing of their old debts, declaring that they had all been settled at the time of the bankruptcy; and it was the creditor’s fault if he had not accepted payment. Others said, they did not even remember the name; their books gave no account of any Melchior. A few submitted a large balance against Franz’s father; and in the course of three days he found himself safely lodged in prison, to answer for them to the very last farthing.
This was an unpleasant prospect for a man who had so far confided in the honest people of Antwerp, as to consider them as the authors of his future fortune. The bubble had vanished in a moment; and he began to feel all the tortures of purgatory—thrown into prison—his vessel wrecked just as he was making the harbour, where he hoped he should be safe from the storms of life. The thought of Mela was a dagger to his heart: there was
- ↑ Spanish ships, which then traded to America.
