strange land, and surrounded by persons who
did not care a wink of the eye whether I was
alive or dead the next morning.

In looking forward to the day's dinner—an
allowable thing, let us hope, always, but more
particularly when, as on Christmas–day, that
meal is looked upon as a kind of solemn rite—
in looking forward to the dinner and speculating
upon it, I had occupied myself a good deal with
the nature of the company, wondering whether I
should haply have the table to myself; whether,
on the contrary, there would be a large gathering;
whether I should be able to read on any faces
of those who might be present the reason of
their being there—away from friends and
relatives, at that social season of the year. Above
all, I occupied myself with wondering whether
I should hear my own native language talked;
whether there would be any English besides
myself at the table d'hôte of the inn at Schnowenberg.

To my surprise I found the table, long as it
was, well filled with the class of persons that is
usually found at such places. But over them
all—and especially over those members of my
own country who were present—there seemed
to hang a cloud of melancholy which was very
conspicuous, and a counterpart of which may
have rested on my own countenance. We all
looked ashamed of being there, and every
one of us seemed to look upon his neighbour
with suspicion. How the deuce was it
that he was there on Christmas–day? That was
the question which every Englishman present
asked himself about every other Englishman.
There was that young man with the moustache
and his young wife—what did they do there on
such an occasion? There must be a screw loose
there. They have been living too expensively,
and have an amount of debt hanging over them
at home which renders it dangerous to return
even to keep Christmas there. Or perhaps it is
a runaway match—yes, that must be it. They
have run away, and are keeping out of England
for the present. It would never do to be
acquainted with them. Then there is that Irish
gentleman with the dyed moustache, and
the rings and chains: he has an insolvent
look about him: a sort of halo of impecuniosity
surrounds him. It would never do to know
him. A slight conversation with that gentleman
would have dangerous results. You would hear,
in the course of the evening, a gentle tap at
your room door, and on crying "Come in!" the
Irish gentleman would appear with a profusion
of apologies for intruding, and would volubly
inform you that it "was the most ridiculous
thing in the worrrld, but he had just received a
tiligraphic despatch summoning him to England
upon important business, that it happened that
he was without sufficient money to pay his reelway
fare, and that he had felt the moment he
saw your countenance that you were the kyind
of man who would be only too glad to assist a
gentleman and a fellow countryman at a pinch."
Then, with regard to that mysterious family with
the half–pay officer at its head, his wife looking
as if she spent all her time in crying, with the
daughter so poorly dressed, and the insatiably
hungry boy—that half–pay officer (I know him
to be such at a glance) is not a man to know;
he would never do in England as an acquaintance
afterwards.

And how would the two middle–aged ladies
who are travelling together without any
protector—how would they do as acquaintances
afterwards? They would do very well if one
wanted, perchance, to know a couple of damsels
who were never likely to see fifty again, and
who, if they were not persuaded in their own
minds that they were young girls, were fully
persuaded that everybody took them to be so.
They would do very well if one wanted to know
two ladies who were determined to wear what
they liked, and who liked, one a hood lined and
turned back with scarlet, disclosing a wig parted
at the side, and the other a juvenile brown hat
with a childish brown feather and a profusion of
brown curls showing beneath. Again, if your
taste led you to admire a couple of spinsters
who, being very open to criticism themselves,
were in the habit of quizzing everybody with
whom they were brought in contact, and
giggling sportively behind their handkerchiefs
at the young married lady opposite. If these
characteristics gave you pleasure, and if you were
interested in seeing two ladies, who, determining
to be independent, would rush and push for
all the comfortable places everywhere, turning
other people out and trading upon the deference
paid to their sex to secure the best of everything,
and to indulge in every species of bargaining,
haggling, and disputation—if these were
your tastes, then would the lady in the hood
and the lady in the innocent hat be the very
acquaintances you would select, and your joy at
finding them would be complete.

But if it happened that you associated with
the idea of the feminine character certain graces
of a modest and retiring kind; if, while you
admired the display of courage and heroism in a
woman when extraordinary circumstances
rendered it necessary, you abhorred the assumption
of such qualities where they had no place;
then you would have done well to give the lady
in the hood and the lady in the hat as wide a
berth as possible.

We all, I say, looked upon each other with
alarm and mistrust for being away from home
on Christmas–day. The young Englishman with
his English wife regarded the Irish gentleman
with horror, while the half–pay lady watched the
lady of the young Englishman with hardly
disguised suspicion. Among the foreigners present
there was of course no such feeling. They were
all either Germans or French, and while the
Germans were stolidly indifferent as to where
they partook of their dinner, provided the meal
was long enough, the Frenchmen were all proud
of being there. A Frenchman is always proud
of being anywhere where he is, and of doing
anything that he is doing. He is proud of being
at the play; he is proud of being on horseback;
he is proud of being married, and will walk