teach me much more yet.
Saturday.—Homburg at last. Delightful and most easy journey. I have written my letter to her from this sweet and pastoral place. I write in the daintiest of little rooms, the yellow jalousies drawn close to keep out the sun. Outside the window is a balcony, Venetian-like in its breadth, filled up with a whole garden of flowers, where there is a table, and where one can walk about. It recals an old and lost place in the country, before we were ruined, as they say. Overhead is an awning, and when the sun is less strong, I can go out, and walk up and down, and look into the street. If only Dora were here! No matter; one of these days she shall be, and better times will come; "one colour cannot always be turning up," as the maid said this morning. And here comes the post—a fellow like a soldier, with a very grim moustache, who hands in a letter. It is from her, I could guess at her writing from the very balcony. I run down to take it from the landlady's hands and tear it open. It seems a whole year since I have seen her. Dear characters! sweet writing! I fasten it in here, at this page of my little diary.
"Dearest—Oh, how I miss and long for you. How I long to learn that you have borne the journey well; not that you are better already, for that I am not so unreasonable as to expect. But soon you will tell me so. Our two little darlings only know that you have gone away. They think it is to the nearest town, and that you will be back to-morrow. Don't fatigue yourself writing, think only of your dear health. Keep out of the dreadful sun, and amuse yourself. I hope this will find you on your arrival.
"Dora."
The underlined words, how delicate, how like her sweet soul! She has a faint notion, but she dares not let it appear, that I am a little better. I shall write this moment—what joyful news for her! … There, I have told her all, everything. Four closely written pages, a little swimming of the head, but I could almost work at the ledger this moment. I have told her how I was out betimes this morning, at six o'clock; how I walked up the bright street lined with fairy looking houses, all with their short broad balconies loaded with flowers, past the gay festive pavilions, more than hotels, the Four Seasons, the Victoria, with the cool shady courts and porches, past that turn to the right, down another sweet alley where are more fairy-like houses with balconies, and where the great ones live. The Kisseleff-street they call it, which gives a grand and inspiring Russian association. All this time in front of me, as I ascend, and seemingly far away, yet very close, are the rich, cool, heavily laden Taunus hills, covered with trees and verdure, rising slowly and grandly, and filling up the gap between the houses at the far end of the town. Then I walk on upwards, and see lovers of pleasure in white coats and straw Panama hats, sitting out in front of the hotels and smoking in the shade. Then I pass the great red building, the Kursaal, the Temple of Play, which looks like a king's palace. Then I turn down to the right, past the most inviting villas, all colours and shapes, now a Swiss châlet, now a true Italian house, but overgrown with the most exquisite foliage, the metal of their balconies all embroidered with leaves, behind which you see white dresses, and from behind which comes the clink of breakfast china. Other windows, windows lower down, are thrown wide open, and there the morning meal goes on, even in the gardens; fat men in white coats and no waistcoats, with four double chins at least, are enjoying pipe and coffee. Then the houses stop short, and the dense greenery begins, groves upon groves, forest mounting over forest, walks winding here and winding there. Along the path, honest Homburgers have their little table with an awning, under which is the cool melon, the grape, the delicious honey, and mountain butter, most inviting. If Dora were but on my arm how she would enjoy all this, as, indeed, I must stop in this description to tell her.
Well, I walk on through this greenery, through the most charming alleys, cut in the groves, and, through the trees, see afar the glitter of company, the sheen of curious figures flitting to and fro among the leaves, the glimpse of a Swiss châlet. Such crowds, it seems like a Watteau feast! Down through the avenues float the balmiest breezes, health restoring as I feel when they touch me. Then I emerge on the open space, and see the most animated scene, bright colours, bright dresses, white coats, grey coats, hats white and grey, fluttering veils, pink and cream coloured parasols, flowers, "costumes," of every pattern, actually like the opening scene of the chorus at an opera seen long, long ago. From a pagoda, came strains of rich music with the clash of cymbals, and soft stroke of drum. How new, how delicious all this to me! In the centre was the well deep below, with spacious steps leading down, and girls giving out the water, and crowds pressing forward to receive it. The chinking of glass everywhere. Beyond, again, rows of little shops for jewellery and trifles, charming and most exhilarating scene, as I look on. The animation and gaiety drive away all the sinking and weakness, and I seem to grow strong and hopeful every moment. Down the steps do they troop, the loveliest of women, French, English, and American, as I know by the curious chatter of the voices, and with them lords, and friends, and admirers.
Chapter III
Chapter III.
The Briton—I know him by his talking loud about my "breakfast." How often do I hear the florid, white-whiskered Briton, suffering from the heat acutely, tell his friend and tell me—for he does not care who hears him, and prefers an audience—that "he'd speak to Gungl, at the Hesse, about giving some more of that wild deer," or "that he was going to get his cutlets, and very odd the Times was so late;" or else what seems the standard grumble, about "kreutzers and their informal money. Look, I say, what can you make of such things as these?" And he does seem to think that wherever the Englishman goes, his money, meats, steaks, joints, beds, clubs, Times, &c., should go with him, and be the money, meat, steaks of the country. (My dearest Dora, will you know me after this, or do you suppose it is your poor invalid that is writing? Such a change in me already—to be affecting to be funny!) But I go on. Then I see the great doctor of the place, Seidler, whose book, Homburg and its Springs, is in every bookseller's. He is walking about here, talking to the English, who hang on his words, and his carriage and horses wait at the end of the walk—a good advertisement, for every stranger asks whose it is. The Briton with the white whiskers, I remark, is great on Seidler. At dinner he tells every one what "Seidler said to me this morning. Seidler made me cut off a tumbler of the kayserbrowning, and told me if I had taken it another day he would not have answered for it. Egad! I was working away, and if he hadn't stopped me," &c. Seidler, I can see, is looked on as a magician who can do as he likes with the springs, and mysteriously check their whole efficiency if you offend him. Any one who takes them without consulting him goes to destruction at once; or else they do the patient no good at all. We might as well be quaffing common spring water. A third of a tumbler, he will say, every half-hour in the morning, or a tumbler at seven, and half a tumbler at a quarter to ten. The idea seems to be, that, delayed till ten, the prescription would have no efficacy; and I see the fresh white-whiskered man, watch in hand, counting the moments. I go myself to Seidler, and believe him to be clever; and he certainly hit off my case at once. But these little tricks the English themselves force on him, as their maladies are so tricky and fanciful. He says, three weeks of the water, and, of course, of Seidler—three tumblers of the former, and one interview with the latter per diem—"will make a new man of me." And I believe him. My dear, shall I confess it, I can bear this separation, and am not craving to be back. It will be better in the end I should be here. But after ten days I know I shall get restless and eager to see your pretty face. Now, dear, I stop this log, for I have to go to the baths. To-morrow I go into Frankfort on the business, having heard from the merchant, who has fixed an hour to see me. He talks of some difficulty, but I shall work hard, and do everything to show our gratitude to our dear benefactor. And if I can conclude the matter on more favourable terms, and save him some money, I shall lessen my obligation a little. I find a gentleman whom I met in the walks, and who seems to have a sort of interest in me, is going back to London to-night. I shall send him what I have written so far, and he will post it in London to Dora.
Saturday.—The first portion of the log has gone off. She will have it by Monday, and I know it will amuse them. She will read it out.
At twelve to-day, I pass by the