From Ratisbon, twelve hours by mail coach brings one to the old city of Nuremburg, the most antique in Germany. Its former population, ninety thousand, now counts fifty-two thousand; it is surrounded by a wall forty feet high, upon which are seventy-two towers and bastions; the four towers of the principal gates are built in the form of cannons. Its cathedral and churches are remarkable for their old illuminated glass windows, woodcarving of the altars, and life of Christ, by the renowned artists Veit, Stoss, and Adam Kraft; also paintings from the original school of Albert Durer and his master, as early as 1485. A remarkable old cemetery contains the tombs of the artists named. The venerable château, erected in the tenth century, recently fitted up for the royal family, who are soon expected, is worth a visit, not only for the view, but its contents. In the courtyard is a large linden tree, seven hundred years old. The city hall, built in the sixteenth century, is a fine structure, and contains remarkable stucco-work of that period, and paintings of Albert Durer, particularly the triumphal procession of the Emperor Maximilian I. The bridges over the stream which runs through the city, the fountains, monuments, and style of architecture of the old town, generally interest travellers. Nine hours by rail transports one, via Bamburg and Würzburg, through an interesting and varied country, to the free city of Frankfort-upon-the-Main. Being on my way to this favorite resort for a rest, and the use of the waters, I tarried but little on the Rhine, and as these points are as familiar as old acquaintances, nothing strikes one as new. Wiesbaden I find on each repeated visit much improved; the usual concourse of guests is from fifteen thousand to twenty thousand annually; its position on the slope of the Taunus hills, gives it the beautiful valleys that surround it, and the advantage of healthful and recreating excursions to the mountains.

I shall remain here a few days longer, then make my way to Paris, for the Exhibition, after which I may conclude to take steamer to my own Vaterland.

1856.
CXII.

Paris, France, Jan. 28, 1856.

You have been kept advised from time to time for so many years past of my whereabouts, that I fancy you inquiring, “Where are you? What are you doing? What kind of passage had you out?” and the like. The heading of this epistle will show you that I am once again, and for the tenth time, in the great metropolis of the continent, which is a sort of culminating point for European travellers going and returning. The first day of January, for the first time in some ten years, I was permitted to remain late enough in the north to unite with the denizens of our great Empire City in keeping up the good old Knickerbocker custom of wishing a “happy new year;” on the fifth I stepped on board the good steamship Pacific bound for Liverpool.

We stood shivering upon the upper deck, gazing after those left behind us, until reminded of the comfort of a cabin.

We soon found ourselves at Sandy Hook, in the commencement of a north-east snow storm, and with much difficulty disposed of our pilot. One of the roughest and most boisterous nights followed. Those of our passengers who were at sea for the first time, suffered all the horrors of sea-sickness. Our gallant ship combatted nobly the mountain waves, the decks were swept from time to time, and one life-boat was carried away; so passed the first twenty-four hours. Sunday morning, the sixth, I found three passengers out of fifty-eight at breakfast, and our dinner was not served as usual, “à la carte,” as the cook’s galley had been flooded and things temporarily deranged.

We had a succession of head winds and snow flurries for several days, with seldom a nautical observation. The first day we only made sixty-five knots, as we could not see to run, but our noble ship did her duty, and made up for lost time, doing the passage in twelve days. I had just taken up the papers from New York, and noticed that the snow storm ashore was one of the worst ever experienced by that venerable gentleman, the oldest inhabitant.

Passengers at sea are disposed to accommodate themselves to circumstances, and being more dependent upon each other for the means of passing the time than ashore, generally make themselves as amiable as possible. Our commander I had formerly known; our steward had catered to my wants from Panama to San Francisco; we had several gentlemen and ladies—old acquaintances—and passed our time as pleasantly as our rolling and pitching would permit. We had a great variety of character for so limited a number of passengers—American, English, French, German, Italian, and Spanish, who finding your humble servant was familiar with their several countries, rather taxed his vocal organs in the exercises of their different languages.

Once landed at Liverpool, the great commercial mart of England, our party were soon scattered to the four winds. I started for Chester, one of the oldest and most curious towns in England, with its porticoes and colonnades which enable the pedestrian to walk long distances without exposure to sun or rain, and remind one of Bologna.