this is certainly the reason why I feel and comprehend so keenly—
The exulting sense—the pulse’s maddening play
That thrills the wanderer of the trackless way,
as soon as ever I set foot on the planks of the Steam Navigation Company’s good ship the Baron Osy, or something of that kind. The smell of the Thames itself, prefatory of something better, invigorates me. The Isle of Sheppey reconciles me to the substitution of Galignani for the Times. In the contemplation of the Goodwin Sands I forget the existence of the penny post. And by the time the cheerful coast of Flushing presents itself, or rather ought to present itself to view, or the bar at Rotterdam has been safely crossed, I have become either a Belgian or a Dutchman. This will account for my visit to Baden-Baden, and my introduction to that well-known locality under a new phase.
The fact is, I am as pure a cosmopolite as ever was born. I have, with some difficulty I admit, shaken off those prejudices which hamper the true Briton, and cloud the judgment, for which the Anglo-Saxon race is remarkable above all others. I can scarcely believe in the existence of intellect or sympathy which fails to meet with some sort of adventure in a passage of four-and-twenty hours. I say four-and-twenty, for although about sixteen or eighteen is the professionally recognised period, I have never yet seen any steamer whose machinery did not come to grief, nor any river whose tide was not discovered to be most provokingly running out when it ought to have been running in, or the reverse. This time, therefore, I devote to the fabrication of incident, and on the present occasion was as fortunate as usual.
I had not been long on board before I was accosted by a good-humoured, stout, little German. He had taken his passage as far as Antwerp on his return to his wife and children, after a lengthened sojourn in London. He described them as an angel and cherubim, living in the neighbourhood of Berlin. He was manifestly not a man of great consistency of purpose, and I presume he admired in me a supposed quality, the absence of which in himself he affected to deplore.
He had left London with a misgiving that he ought to have seen more of England. Two things he particularly regretted not having visited: the Crystal Palace and Sheffield. I explained to him the peculiar situation of both; the nature, intention, and attractions of the one, and the productions of the other. Could he get back? Certainly, by the sacrifice of his fare. Should he do so? What of his wife and children? That was a question for himself to decide; he knew the mildness of madame’s temper, and the sharpness of her talons better than I. He had really a great mind. I thought a very little one. Could I direct him? Nothing easier; go on shore at Gravesend; take the train to London Bridge—go down to Sydenham—return to-night, and go to Sheffield to-morrow. But what would madame say? He really—well; he wished he could make up his mind. Half-an-hour to Gravesend—would I decide for him? With pleasure, if he was serious. Perfectly; and he would esteem it a favour. “Go back,” said I, “by all means;” for I was getting very tired of him, and I had the satisfaction of handing him over to the steward, who ordered up his portmanteau, and dropped them both into a boat off Gravesend Pier.
Having finished off my first affair satisfactorily, I was shortly afterwards addressed by a Frenchman. He was free from the effervescent insouciance of la jeune France, and equally removed from the gentlemanly empressement of the middle aged Gaul. In fact, I have seen nothing so like him as our friend Leech’s sketches of the modern “Mossoo.” He was very stout, very pursy, asthmatically disposed in fact, and ignorant of the uses of soap. His hair and the beaver of his hat were not dissimilar: and he exhibited much “severity of foliage” on either side of his mouth. He squinted more vilely than those original and ill-omened Strabos of Bombastes Furioso. He spoke his own language—shall I say volubly?—one half of each sentence being incomprehensible, and the other remaining bodily upon his lips in the form of saliva. But he could speak nothing else, and was now in distress. Could I, and would I, assist him to a berth? He was a man and a brother, and was I the one to say “No.” I pushed my way through a crowd of strong smells down the cabin-stairs. I invaded the steward in his den. I explained matters to both parties; and took care that my new friend’s berth should be as far as possible from my own. In return for my kindness, he informed me of his visit to my detestable country. London was triste, dirty, expensive, with nothing to see, nothing to eat, and nothing but portière bière to drink. At night there was nowhere to go. On Sunday there was nothing to do; not even in Feenesbewrie Squarrre. My suggestion that Finsbury Square was not the only aristocratic faubourg in London, and that an abonnement of half a guinea a day was not calculated to beget the luxuries of the Hôtel des Princes, or the ménage of the Trois Frères, was treated with contempt. After hearing that he had only had three meals a day for his ten-and-sixpence, with bed and attendance, and after ascertaining that a bath was an extra in that favoured locality, strange to say, I tired of my new acquaintance. I was charmed to see him later in the evening, after a dinner at which he narrowly escaped suicide from the knife, led despondingly down-stairs between a waiter and a cabin-boy.
The following morning I woke happily; for I was really on my way to the long-anticipated pleasures of Baden-Baden. I was in Antwerp. London was behind me, and Cologne and Heidelberg in front. Courage, mon ami, “le diable est mort.”
Everybody has been at Cologne: most persons many times. No less than two-and-twenty churches open their portals for the gratification of your curiosity. Of course you have done the cathedral; the Dom-Kirche; but did you ever hear high mass in it? If not, manage to hit Cologne on a Saturday night, the next visit you pay it; and be early enough to get a seat in the cathedral the next day. The magnificence of the building, in itself no mean pleasure, is enhanced by the