alarmed us at Nimeguen by letting off pistols in the night; on the other side of the officer was an empty chair, with its back turned to the table to show that the place was bespoke. The rest of the company was made up of foreign ladies and gentlemen, and at the bottom of the table a person so very outlandish that I must try to describe him. Personally he was a large man, but from the breadth of his face and the size of his head, which looked all the bigger from a great quantity of hair that fell over his shoulders, he ought to have been a giant. His features were rather coarse and vulgar, — they could never have been handsome, and yet could never look ugly, with such an expression of good-humor. But to my fancy it was the good-humor of one who had never had anything to try it. He seemed always ready to smile at something or nothing, but not as if from having cheerful thoughts, but from having no thoughts whatever to trouble him, good, bad, or indifferent. The only idea he seemed to entertain was of his dinner, in expectation of which he had hold of his fork rather awkwardly, with his third and fourth fingers over the handle, and the others under it, so that the prongs came out beyond his little finger. As for his dress, it set at defiance all rules as to colors that go well together. His coat was chocolate-brown, with a pompadour velvet collar,- his waistcoat so gay with all the hues of the rainbow, that it resembled a bed of tulips, — and then plumcolored pantaloons. Across his bosom he wore several gold or gilt chains, to one of which hung a very large watch-key in the shape of a pistol; and his shirt was fastened with mosaic studs, besides a complicated sort of brooch, that looked like two hearts united together by little chains. Besides these ornaments, his hands were covered with rings, his right forefinger always sticking straight out like that on a hand-post, as the joint could not bend for an immense ring, with an amethyst as big as a shilling. Frank whispered that he was travelling for Rundell and Bridge, but I suspect that was only a quiz. In the mean time a dinner-bell kept ringing by way of invitation to all the town, but as no more guests appeared, the ceremony began. First came the soup, very like barley-broth, supposing rice instead of barley, and then the beef which had been boiled in it, of course very insipid. It reminded me of 66 the patent Pimlico bread I once tasted, when, as poor George said, they had extracted all the spirit and left nothing behind but the corpse of a loaf. I was obliged to leave it on my plate, where, as it got cold, it turned almost as white as a piece of wood. But you would have admired the dexterity of the waiters. One of them brought a large pile of clean plates, holding one between each finger, and dealt them out to us as if they had been cards. The worst is, the plates and dishes are all stone-cold, and as, instead of a bill of fare, every course is put on the table to show what you are to expect, and is then taken off again to be carved, the hottest of their hot dinners is only like a hasty attempt in warm weather at a cold collation. But what most surprised me was the order of the eatables, so different to any established by Mrs. Glasse or Mrs. Rundell. After the soup, &c., came in a monstrous dish of asparagus, with a sauce made of oiled butter and hard-boiled eggs. Next appeared a capon and salad, then a very sweet pudding, and then some very sour krout. The next dish that went its rounds, like a novel in a circulating library, was of very small, very waxy kidney potatoes (Frank called them Murphy's thumbs"), and then followed some unknown vegetable, with a very unpleasant smell, in a brown sauce, looking, according to Frank, like "sailors' fingers stewed in tar." Next we had salmon and perch, in jelly, and cold, and last, and certainly not least, a great solid piece of roast veal. My brother, who partook of everything, was amused at this putting the cart before the horse. "Egad! Kate," he whispered, "I have eaten the wrong end of my dinner first, and suppose, to digest it properly, I must stand on my head." Indeed, I came in for my own share of novelties, for what seemed a pickled walnut was so sweet, that the mere surprise made me return it rather hastily to my plate. I was provoked enough, and especially as the Londoner thought proper to notice it. "Just like them Germans, ma'am," said he, "they arn't even up to pickled walnuts!" But what followed was worse, for after helping himself to what looked like preserved plums, but proved to be sour, he spluttered one out again without any ceremony, calling out loud enough for the whole room to hear him, "Pickled bullises, by jingo!' As you may suppose, I made up my mind to dine no more at a table-d'hôte, and especially as I did not know in what tavern doings it might end, for, on asking Frank the meaning of something painted up in large letters on the wall at one end of the room, he told me it was that gentlemen were requested not to smoke during dinner! In fact, when dinner was nearly over, who should walk in, and seat himself in the vacant chair just opposite to me, but a common soldier! Of course such an occurrence is usual, for no one objected to his company; on the contrary, the officer conversed, and even hobnobbed with the new-comer. But as trifles serve to show low-breeding, I was not surprised to observe the private helping himself first to the wine: it was only after partly filling his own glass that he recollected himself and helped his superior. Every moment I grew more uncomfortable, for this young fellow showed a great inclination to address me, and the Londoner got still more vulgar, and faultfinding; in short, I had just resolved to rise and make my retreat, when all at once - pity me, my dear Margaret! door flew wide open, and there stood Lady de Farringdon, with her horrid glass up to her eye! I could have dropped off my chair! Instead of coming in, however, her ladyship contented herself with a haughty stare round the table, and then departed, with a last glance at myself, and a scornful sneer on her face, that seemed plainly to say, "Yes, there you are, at an innkeeper's ordinary, with all kinds of low company, and a common soldier for your vis-à-vis." Without waiting for the dessert, I MY DEAR MARgaret, the The above was written last night. The occasion of my breaking off so suddenly was rather an odd one, and has raised a pretty laugh at my expense. Imagine me writing up in my own bedroom, by the light of a single wax-candle, but which was not above half burned down, when all at once out it went, and left me in utter darkness. I instantly rang the bell, but the hour was so late, or the Germans were so early, or both, that I found I could make nobody hear without disturbing the whole hotel; so I undressed, and groped into bed. This morning has explained the mystery. The wax-ends, it appears, are somebody's perquisites, and in order to make sure of handsome ones, the candles are fabricated on purpose with only a certain length of wick. Frank says he was forewarned of this German trick upon travellers by Mr. Grundy. Besides the secret of the wax-candles, I have learned some particulars that make me a little ashamed of my precipitation at the ordinary dinner. The German hotel-keepers, I understand, are respectable persons, who always take the head of the table; and as for the common soldier, he was a young Prussian Baron, who, as every native must be a soldier, had volunteered into the line. The helping himself first, to a little wine, and then the officer, was only a customary politeness, in case there should be any dust or cork in the neck of the bottle. It will be a warning to me for the future not to be so rash in my judgment of foreigners and foreign customs. I have said nothing of Cologne Cathedral, and the Sepulchre of the Three Kings; but to me tombs only bring painful reflections; and instead of the Cathedral, I would rather have seen a certain village spire, rising above the trees, like a poplar turned into a steeple. But a broken spirit always yearns towards home. As to health, we are in our usual way; except Martha, who has low crying fits that I cannot, and she will not, account for. Adieu. My brother and nephew unite in love to you, with, dear Margaret, your affectionate sister, CATHARINE WILMOT. P. S. -There is a great stir here about a religious agreement that some hundreds of young Catholic females have signed, binding themselves not to marry unless to one of their own persuasion. A very tragical affair has happened in consequence, which Frank has made into a poem. I enclose a copy. Το my taste it is rather pretty; but my brother says it is not good poetry, for it does not sing well to any tune that he knows. THE ROMANCE OF COLOGNE. 'T Is even, on the pleasant banks of Rhine Yet woos in vain, for to the voice of love Untouched by lovely Nature and her laws, Fair is she as the dreams young poets weave, But cold as Nymph of Lurley! The more Love tries her pity to engross, The more she chills him with a strange behavior; Forth goes the Lover with a farewell moan, 'Tis midnight, and the moonbeam, cold and wan, On bower and river quietly is sleeping, And o'er the corse of a self-murdered man In vain she looks into his glassy eyes, Despairing, stunned, by her eternal loss, |