Olla Podrida | Page 6

assistance, and have raised a spirit which they cannot put down again?
Is it not true, sir, that treason walks barefaced through the land,
pointing to general destruction--to a violation of all rights, to anarchy,
confusion, and the shedding of blood? is not reason borne down by
faction, sir? but, sir, is that all? Oh, no!"
This last "oh, no!" was more melancholy than the preceding, but I

considered that my companion must have nearly exhausted his budget
of miseries, and was curious to ascertain what would come next.
"What, is there more, sir?" inquired I, innocently.
"More, sir. Yes, sir, plenty more. I ask you whether even the seasons
have not changed in our unhappy country; have we not summer with
unusual, unexampled heat, and winters without cold; when shall we
ever see the mercury down below sixty degrees again? never, sir. What
is summer but a season of alarm and dread? Does not the cholera come
in as regularly as green peas--terrifying us to death, whether we die of
it or not? Of what advantage are the fruits of the earth so bountifully
bestowed--have they not all been converted into poisons? Who dares to
drink a light summer wine now? Are not all vegetables abjured,
peaches thrown to the pigs, and strawberries ventured upon only by
little boys who sweep the streets, with the broom in one hand and the
pottle in the other? Are not melons rank poison, and cucumbers sudden
death? And in the winter, sir, are we better off? Instead of the
wholesome frosts of olden days, purifying the air and the soil, and
bracing up our nerves, what have we but the influenza, which lasts us
for four months, and the spasmodic cough which fills up the remainder
of the year? I am no grumbler, sir, I hate and abhor anything like
complaining, but this I will say, that the world has been turned upside
down--that everything has gone wrong--that peace has come to us
unattended by plenty--that every body is miserable; and that
vaccination and steam, which have been lauded as blessings, have
proved the greatest of all possible curses, and that there is no chance of
a return to our former prosperity, unless we can set fire to our coal
mines, and re-introduce the small-pox. But, sir, the will of Heaven be
done, I shall say no more; I don't wish to make other people unhappy;
but pray don't think, sir, I've told you all. Oh, no!"
At this last "oh, no!" my companion laid his face down upon his
knuckles, and was silent. I once more sought the deck, and preferred to
encounter the east wind. "Blow, blow, thou wintry wind, thou art not so
unkind," soliloquised I, as I looked over the bows, and perceived that
we were close to the pile entrance of the harbour of Ostend. Ten

minutes afterwards there was a cessation of paddle, paddle, thump,
thump, the stern-fast was thrown on the quay, there was a rush on board
of commissionnaires, with their reiterated cries accompanied with cards
thrust into your hands, "Hotel des Bains, Monsieur." "Hotel Waterloo,
Monsieur." "Hotel Bellevue." "Hotel Bedford, Monsieur." "Hotel
d'Angleterre," ad infinitum--and then there was the pouring out of the
Noah's Ark, with their countenances wearing a most paradoxical
appearance, for they evidently showed that they had had, quite enough
of water, and, at the same time, that they required a great deal more. I
looked at my children, as they were hoisted up from the ladies' cabin,
one after another; and upon examination I decided that, with their
smudged faces, the Hotel des Bains would be the most appropriate to
their condition; so there we went.
CHAPTER FOUR.
Ostend, April 18, 1835.
I was confoundedly taken in by a rascal of a commissionnaire, and
aware how the feelings of travellers are affected by the weather or the
treatment they receive at any place they may pass through, I shall
display the heroism of saying nothing about the place, except that I
believe Ostend to be the most rascally hole in the world, and the sooner
the traveller is out of it so much the better will it be for his purse and
for his temper.
April 19.
It has been assumed as an axiom that every one in this world is fond of
power. During our passage in the track-schuyt I had an evidence to the
contrary, for as we glided noiselessly and almost imperceptibly along, a
lady told me that she infinitely preferred the three-horse power of the
schuyt to the hundred-horse power of the steam-packet. We arrived at
Bruges, escaping all the horrors and difficulties of steam navigation.
House rent at Bruges is cheap, because one half of the houses are
empty--at least that was the cause assigned to