RAMBLES
IN
GERMANY AND ITALY.
PART II.—1842–1843.
LETTER I.
Steam Voyage to Amsterdam.—Rubens’ Picture of the Descent from the Cross.—Various Misadventures.—Liege.—Cologne.—Coblentz.—Mayence.—Francfort.
Francfort, June, 1842.
I have delayed writing hitherto—for this is our first stazion. I know not of what clay those persons are made who write on board steamers, or before going to bed, when they reach an inn, after a long day’s journey. I rather disbelieve in such achievements. A date or reference may be put down; but during a voyage, I am at first too interested, and then too tired; and at night, on arriving, I confess, supper and the ceremonial of retiring to rest, are exertions almost too much for me: I cannot do more. And then we have travelled amidst a hurricane of misfortunes—money and other property disappearing under the malignant influence of the Belgian railroad and some rogue at the Hotel at Liege. Our missing luggage has been restored, but we have found no remedy for the loss of our money. Sixteen pounds were seized upon at one fell swoop. Imagine such an accident happening when we were abroad, two years ago! At present, it is not pleasant; but it is not fatal, as it would then have been.
Our last week in England was most delightfully spent at the seat of a friend near Southampton, on the skirts of the New Forest. A little quiet sailing in a yacht; drives in a beautiful neighbourhood, strolling about the grounds; the rites of good old English hospitality—varied the day. Our host was all kindness, and added the crowning grace of being really sorry when we departed; his saddened countenance, as the engine whistled and we were whirled towards London, gave us the flattering assurance that we were regretted; and we sincerely returned the compliment.
We spent a day or two in London, taking leave of a few old friends; and on Sunday, 12th of June, we embarked on board the “Wilberforce,” for Antwerp. I hate and dread the sea; having suffered—oh, what suffering it is!—how absorbing!—how degrading!—how without remedy! And then to wish for terra firma—only so much as the feet will stand upon: thus no longer to be the abject victim of the antipathetic element—a speck of rock, one-foot-by-one, would not that suffice to stand upon, and be still? I speak of times past. The mighty Power had, when trusting to its awful mutability, shewn itself merciful as great, as I crossed and re-crossed from and to Dover, in 1840. But this was a longer voyage; and as we steamed down the river, the wind was directly adverse, and felt strong. The sea looked dreary; and the evening set in gray, cold, and unpleasant. I was the last passenger that kept on deck. About ten o’clock, the increasing spray drove me down. However, I escaped the doleful extremity of seasickness, and slept till morning, when the slow waters of the Scheldt received us. The sun was bright; but nothing can adorn with beauty the low, nearly invisible banks of an almost Dutch river; and there was no busy craft to enliven the scene. It is strange to think how a scene, in itself uninteresting, becomes agreeable to look at in a picture, from the truth with which it is depicted, and a perfection of colouring which at once contrasts and harmonises the hues of sky and water.
Though it may be done a thousand times, still English people must always experience a strange sensation when they disembark on a foreign strand, and find every familiar object startlingly changed: but, if strange, it is very pleasing. I have a passionate love of travelling. Add to this, I suffer in my health, and can no longer apply to my ordinary employments. Travelling is occupation as well as amusement, and I firmly believe that renewed health will be the result of frequent change of place.