my uncle's notice. "In the name of wonder, Frank, what can that long-haired fellow be?—the one yonder in the black velvet cap, with a notch cut out of the brim, like a barber's basin." "I suspect," said I, "he is a painter, or would-be painter, from Düsseldorf; that cap is an imitation of Raffael's, and the great hat near it is a copy of Rubens's." My uncle received this intelligence with a "Humph." All kinds of foppery are his especial aversion, and he did not conceal his disgust. Painters, indeed! Take my word for it, Frank, they are rank daubers. It's my notion that people who are so full of themselves are always empty of everything else. As for their Raffael and Rubens hats, I'd back a common London house-painter agin them in his paper cap. No, no, Frank; a man that makes such an exhibition of himself will never cut a figure at Somerset House." 66 In the mean time, these young masters strutted about as complacently as if they had really rivalled the old ones by an "Assumption" and a "Transfiguration." The Raffaelesque hero, in particular, had arranged his chevelure so elaborately after that of Sanzio, as to prove that, if not otherwise skilful, he could handle a hair-brush. But the thing was a profanation; and I could not help favoring the brace of Burschen with a mental apostrophe. "Gentlemen, instead of dressing after Rubens and Raffael, you ought to have gone naked long before them, in the savage ages, gentlemen, when you might at once have exercised your art, and gratified your personal vanity, by painting your own bodies." That vented me; and now, Gerard, for fear of mistakes, please to turn to the noble work on Modern German Art, by the Count Athanasius Raczynski, and there you will find that Düsseldorf can turn out painters, and good ones too, as well as lay figures. my Now, then, methinks you cry, for Cologne ; but hand is tired, and my pen is worn out, and I must reserve that ancient city (it smells high, but it will keep) for another letter. All love to Emily, from dear Gerard, yours very truly, FRANK SOMERVILLE. P. S. You remember Grundy, not the celebrated old lady of that name, but our schoolfellow at Harrow. He has. just put up at our hotel in his way homewards, full of grumbling and grievances, and anathematizing the Rhinelanders for having "extorted" him. Right or wrong, his indignation has turned his complaint into verse, and here follows a copy what Mr. Grundy says of the natives: Ye Tourists and Travellers, bound to the Rhine, Take care of your pocket! take care of your pocket! Don't wash or be shaved, go like hairy wild men, take care of your pocket! You'll sleep at great inns, in the smallest of beds, With thirty per cent as a tax on your heads, Take care of your pocket! take care of your pocket! of You'll see old Cologne, not the sweetest of towns, You'll count seven Mountains, and see Roland's Eck, Old Castles you'll see on the vine-covered hill, - and still Take care of your pocket! take care of your pocket! You'll stop at Coblence, with its beautiful views, A Fortress you'll see, which, as people report, You'll see an old man who 'll let off an old gun, take care of your pocket! You'll gaze on the Rheingau, the soil of the vine! Perchance you will take a frisk off to the Baths, And friendships you 'll swear most eternal of pacts, In short, if you visit that stream or its shore, Take care of your pocket! — take care of your pocket! TO REBECCA PAGE, AT THE WOODLANDS, NEAR BECKENHAM, KENT. DEAR BECKY, — This is to say we ar all safe and well, tho' it's a wunder, for forrin traveling is like a deceatful luvver, witch don't improve on acquaintance. Wat have n't I gone thro since my last faver! Fust morbust by bad Dutch warter, and then frited * to deth at Nim Again with a false alarm of the Frentch, besides a dredful could ketched, by leavin my warm bed, and no time to clap on a varsal thing, xcept my best cap. Well, I've give three warnins, and the next, as master says, will be for good, even if I have to advertize for a plaice, but ketch me sayin no objexshuns to go abroad. Not but Missis have had her own trials, but that's between our too selves, for she would n't like it to git about that she have had a pitcht battel with a dwarft for a glass of gin. Then there's the batterd brass pale, and the Holland only think, Becky, of the bewtiful Dutch linnin being confisticated by the Custom-house Cæsars! It was took up for dutis at the Garman outskirts. But, as I tould the officers, the King of Garmany ortn't to think only of the dutis dew to himself, but of his dutis towards his nabers. The Prushian customs is very bad customs, that's certin. Every thing that's xported into the country must pay by wait, witch naterally falls most heviest on the litest pusses. There's dress. Rich fokes can go in spidder nets and gossumers, and fine gorses, but pore peple must ware thick stuffs and gingums, and all sorts of corse and doreable texters, and so the hard workin class cum to be more taxt than the upper orders, with their flimsy habbits. The same with other yuseful artikels. Wat's a silvur tooth pick in wait compared with a kitching poker, or a filligre goold watch to an 8 day clock. Howsumever, the Dutch linnin was confisticated in spite of my teeth, for Master chose to giv up the pint, and he desarves to go without a Shurt for his panes. The Amung other discomfits, theres no beds in the vessles up the Rind. So, for too hole days, we have been damp shifted, as they call it, without taking of our close, and, as you may supose, I am tired of steeming. Our present stop is at Colon. They say its a verry old citty, and bilt by the Romans, and sure enuff Roman noses did n't easily turn up. natives must have verry strong oilfactories, that's certin. O Becky, sich sniffs and guffs, in spite of my stuft hed! This mornin it raind cats and dogs, but the heviest showrs cant pourify the place. It's enuff to fumigate a pleg. Won thing is the bad smells obleege strangers to buy the O de Colon, and praps the stenchis is encouraged on that account. The wust is, wen you want a bottel of the rite sort, theres so menny farinacious impostors, and Johns and Marias, you don't know witch is him or her. Colon is full of Sites. The principle is the Cathedrul, and by rites theres a Crane pearcht on the tiptop, like the Storks in Holland; but I was out of luck, or he was off a feeding, for he wasnt there. So we went into the Interium witch was performing Hi Mass, that 's to say, me and one of the hottel waiters, who is playing the civel, and I can onely say its enuff to turn one's hed. Wat with the lofty pillers, and the picters, and the gelding and the calving, I felt perfeckly dizzy, but wen the sunshin came rainbowin thro the panted glass winders, and the organ played up, and the Quire of singers with their hevinly vices, and the Priest was insensed with the perfumery, down I went, willy nilly, on both nees, and was amost controverted into a Cathlick afore I knowed were I was ! Luckly, I rekollected witch I cant nor wont Next, we believe in, and that jumpt me up agin on my legs. see a prodigus chest, all of sollid Goold, and when you look through a little grating, you see the empty skulls of the wise kings. They're as brown as mogany, with crowns on, and their christian names ritten in rubbies, if so be it ant red glass. For they do say, wen the Munks run away from the Frentch they took the goold chest, and the three wunderful wise heds, along with them, and sackreligiously pickt out the best part of the volubles and jowls. As another peace of profannity, the hart of Mary de Medicine is left under a grave stone, in the church pavement but where the rest of her body have been boddy snacht to noboddy nose. ca es, The next site was certinly an uncommon one a church chock full of the relicks of morality. I over heard Mr. Frank say, its praps the chastist stile of arkitecter in the world. Howsomever, its full of the Skellitons of Saint Ursulus and Elevin Thowsend Old Maids. Their bones are stuck in the sealing, and into the walls, and under the flore, and into glass its nuthin but bones, bones, bones. But no wunder there was so menny spinsters afore time, considering that now-a-days they're tied down to won chance, namely, a Cathlick sweat-hart. Wat do you think, Becky, of three hunderd yung wimmin, onely the tother day, binding their selves, by a solum act and deed, in black and wite, never to marry any yung man as is Reformed? Theres a pretty way to cause everlastin seperations, instead of mattermony, between the male and female sects! And as for the marrid alreddy, theyre |