Of the implicit faith with which John and his “Manual” are received, I remember well, witnessing a pleasant instance a few years back on the Rhine.
On the deck of the steamer, amid that strange commingled mass of Cockneys and Dutchmen, Flemish boors, German barons, bankers and blacklegs, money-changers, cheese-mongers, quacks, and consuls, sat an elderly couple, who, as far apart from the rest of the company as circumstances would admit, were industriously occupied in comparing the Continent with the “Hand-book,” or, in other words, were endeavouring to see, if nature had dared to dissent from the true type, they held in their hands.
“‘Andernach, formerly. Andemachium,’” read the old lady aloud. “Do you see it, my dear?”
“Yes,” said the old gentleman, jumping up on the bench, and adjusting his pocket telescope—“yes,” said he, “go on. I have it.”
“‘Andernach,’” resumed she, “‘is an ancient Roman town, and has twelve towers——‘”
“How many did you say?”
“Twelve, my dear—”
“Wait a bit, wait a bit,” said the old gentleman; while, with outstretched finger, he began to count them, one, two, three, four, and so on till he reached eleven, when he came to a dead stop, and then dropping his voice to a tone of tremulous anxiety, he whispered, “There’s one a-missing.”
“You don’t say so!” said the lady, “dearee me, try it again.”
The old gentleman shook his head, frowned ominously, and recommenced the score.