wholesale proscriptions of Hungary, Italy,
Austria, Russia, and Baden—all these
contributed to swell the number of Herr Lurleibeg's
customers a hundred fold, and to fill
Patmos to overflowing. The svveetstuff and
dolls disappeared "right away," and the
coffee-pots and cups and saucers multiplied
exceedingly. In addition to this, the Herr
caused to be stretched across the single
window a canvas blind, on which his name,
and the style and title of his establishment,
were painted in painfully attenuated
letters, with which not yet content, he incited
young Fritz Schiftmahl, the artist, with
dazzling prospects of a carte-blanche for
coffee and tobacco, to depict beneath, in real
oil colours, the counterfeit presentments of a
Pole, a Hungarian, and a German embracing
each other in a fraternal accolade, all smoking
like volcanos; the legend setting forth
that true, universal, and political brotherhood
are only to be found at Albrecht
Lurleibeg's.

In the Herr's back parlour—he once
designed in the flush of increased business to
enlarge it by knocking it into the back yard,
till warned, by a wary neighbour, of the
horrible pains and penalties (only second to
premunire) incurred by meddling with a wall in
England—in this dirty back parlour with rings
made by coffee-cups on the ricketty Pembroke
tables, on the coarsely papered, slatternly
printed foreign newspapers and periodicals,
are a crowd of men in every variety of beard
and moustache and head-dress, in every
imaginable phase of attire more or less dirty
and picturesque. Figures such as, were you
to see them in the drawings of Leech,
or Daumier, or Gavarni, you would
pronounce exaggerated and untrue to nature;
hooded, tasselled, and braided garments of
unheard of fashion; hats of shapes to make
you wonder to what a stage the art of squeezability
had arrived; trousers with unnumbered
plaits; boots made as boots were never
made before; finger and thumb-rings of
fantastic fashion; marvellous gestures, Babel-like
tongues; voices anything but (Englishly)
human; the smoke as of a thousand brick-
kilns; the clatter as of a thousand spoons: such
are the characteristics of this in-door Patmos.

Here are Frenchmen ex-representatives of
the people, ex-ministers, prefects and republican
commissaries, Prolétaires, Fourierists,
Phalansterians, disciples of Proudhon, Pierre
le Roux and Cahagnet, professors of barricade
building; men yet young, but two-thirds of
whose lives have been spent in prison or in
exile. Here are political gaol-birds who have
been caged in every state prison of Europe;
the citadels of France, the cachots of Mont
St. Michel, the secrets of the Conciergerie, the
piombi of Venice, the gloomy fastnesses of
Ehrenbreitstein and Breslau and Pilnitz, the
oubliettes of the Spielberg and Salzburg. Here
are young men—boys almost—of good families
and high hopes, blasted by the sirocco of
civil war. Here are German philosophic
democrats—scientific conspirators—who
between Greek roots and algebraical quantities,
tobacco smoke and heavy folios in German
text upon international law, have somehow
found themselves upon barricades and in
danger of the fate of Robert Blum. Here are
simple-minded German workmen—such
honest-faced, tawny-bearded young fellows as
you see in the beer cellars of Berlin—who have
shaken off their dreams of German unity to
find themselves in this back slum Patmos far
away from home and friends. Here are
swarthy Italians, eying the Tedeschi (though
friendly ones) askance; cursing Radetzky and
Gyulay, and telling with wild gesticulations
how Novara was fought and Rome defended.
Here, and in great numbers, are the poor,
betrayed, cozened Hungarians, with glossy
beards, and small embroidered caps and
braided coats. They are more woe-begone,
more scared and wild-looking than the rest,
for they are come from the uttermost corners
of Europe, and have little fellowship save
that of misfortune with their continental
neighbours. Lastly, here are the Poles, those
historical exiles who have been so long
fugitives from their country that they have
adopted Patmos with a will, have many of
them entered into and succeeded in business,
but would, I think, succeed better if the
persons with whom they have commercial
transactions were able to pronounce their
names—those jaw-breaking strings of
dissonant letters in which the vowels are so few
that the consonants seem to have compassed
them round about, like fortifications, to
prevent their slipping out.

There are many ot these poor refugees
(I speak of them in general) who sit in coffee-
shops similar to Herr Lurleibeg's, from early
morning till late at night, to save the modicum
of fire and candle they would otherwise
be compelled to consume at home (if home
their garrets can be called), and which God
knows they can ill spare. About one o'clock
in the day, those who are rich enough
congregate in the English cook-shops, and regale
themselves with the cheap cag-mag there
offered for sale. Towards four or five the
foreign eating-houses, of which there are
many in Patmos of a fifth or sixth rate order
of excellence, are resorted to by those who yet
adhere to the gastronomic traditions of the
land they have been driven from; and there
they vainly attempt to delude themselves into
the belief that they are consuming the
fricassées and ragouts, the suet puddings and
sauerkraut, the maccaroni and stuffato of
France or Germany or Italy—all the delightful
messes on which foreigners feed with such
extreme gusto and satisfaction. But alas!
these dishes, though compounded from foreign
recipes and cooked by foreign hands, are not,
or, at least, do not taste by any means like
foreign dishes. Cookery, like the amor patrice,
is indigenous. It cannot be transplanted. It