I STARTED from London for my holiday trip early in the month of June, 1873. The route I had laid out for myself on my departure was not exactly that which I eventually adopted, for nothing is truer than that man proposes, but God disposes. I had intended visiting the Crimea, and then crossing over the Straits of Kertch, I meant to have rambled over the Caucasus, finishing my trip with a visit to the Monastery of Echmiadzin, at the foot of Mount Ararat.

But it was not to be; I got as far as Pesth, when the cholera, which was then very active, not to say raging in Hungary, barred my further passage down the river into the Lower Provinces of the Danube, by threatening me with a quarantine of eleven days in a dirty lazzaretto, at a temperature of at least 90° in the shade. I would have risked the cholera, but I could not face the loss of eleven days in the limited time I had at my disposal, nor could I contemplate at all the horrors of an Oriental lazzaretto. All my plans were therefore upset; still the result was eventually satisfactory, as I think I shall be able to prove in the following pages.

After leaving London, I made straight for Vienna, by Brussels and Cologne, where I remained only a few hours, during which I visited for the twentieth time and more that exquisite specimen of ecclesiastical structure, its unrivalled Cathedral; every time I see it I admire it more and more, I think there are none to equal it, while most certainly none surpass it.

St. Peter's at Rome is a magnificent building, astonishes one by its size and its rich adornments, but it fails to impress one from a religious point of view. It might be a church, or it might be a grand reception room, a salle des ambassadeurs, or a colossal ball-room—whereas the Cathedral of Cologne is a church, a place of worship, and nothing else. I suppose there is something in the pure Gothic architecture conducive to this impression. There is but one other church I know of in the world which has the same solemn awe-producing effect, perhaps in a greater degree even than the Cathedral of Cologne, and that is Santa Maria del Fiore, the Cathedral of Florence. I have been hundreds of times in that grand old edifice, but never without feeling an overwhelming sense of solemnity and awe. It was not only the low murmuring notes of the organ sounding the responses at eve to the plaintive litanies of the Virgin, nor the deep tones of the full accompaniment to the Miserere mei Deus in the Passion Week, which produced it, for I was perhaps oftener there when all was silent, than during festive times, as I have always had the greatest objection to going into Catholic churches during service, gaping about and sight-seeing, to the evident annoyance and discomfort of the worshippers—a habit which, I regret to say, many of our country people too often indulge in, greatly to our detriment, especially in the less frequented places of the continent, where the people have come to regard us as heathens, and constantly to say of us, "Non sanno meglio, non sono Cristiani."

It was something more than all this which ever filled me with a feeling of intense devotion when I entered that grand old building. The severe simplicity of the structure, with no tawdry ornamentation to obtrude itself and take off the attention, may have played an important part in giving birth to solemn thoughts, together with the height and size of the three enormous pilasters which alone support the roof—the lofty arches, the vast depth and gloom of the aisles, the intensity of the shade, the deep silence made still more impressive by an occasional foot-fall—all would combine to proclaim this a house of prayer, and nothing else; a Temple in the fullest and most unequivocal sense of the word, offering to the old and the broken-spirited, to the infirm and to all who sought it in prayer, an assurance of tranquillity, consolation, and peace!

Having enjoyed my oft-repeated visit, and purchased a large supply of Eau de Cologne from the Farina gegenÜber dem Julichs Platz, (and don't you believe that the others make it near as good), I got in the train for Munich and for Vienna.

I think I see a smile, slightly perhaps savouring of a sneer, from some of my readers of the masculine gender, at my purchase of a large supply of Eau de Cologne; but just let them hold hard, till they shall have endured the trials of hot winds and dusty roads in the daytime, stuffy cabins and the ordinary accompaniment of flea invasions and other entomological attacks in the night-time; and then if they have the luck to have any of it with them, they will discover the use of Eau de Cologne in allaying pain and irritation.

Travellers in all Eastern countries should have with them a supply of good Eau de Cologne, not for scenting their pocket-handkerchiefs only, but principally as a remedy. Some people suffer more, some suffer less from insect attacks; but I have seen a man, a strong, stout, brawny Britisher, set nearly wild by flea-bites, and I shall never forget his appearance, as he stood before me one morning, after passing a restless night in a very wild region in the South of Europe, like a patient with small-pox, and scratching away at himself for bare life. I am sure he would have been in a high fever that night, had I not bathed him with a mixture of equal parts of Eau de Cologne, laurel water, and sal-volatile. So don't forget it, kind reader, if ever in your travels you are likely to be in countries infested with insect tribes; whatever their nature may be, whether the mosquito which flieth, the flea which hoppeth, or t'other thing which crawleth, my nostrum will be found a sovereign remedy against them all.

Although the Vienna Exhibition was fully open, and that numbers were flocking from all parts to that most charming capital, which has so justly acquired the epithet of "le Paradis des Hommes," I was fortunate in having but one companion in the train all the way, and thus we both were enabled to extend our limbs and sleep as comfortably as in our beds. It is wonderful the amount of comfort one can obtain through life by the judicious distribution of a few cigars accompanied by a little silver!

At Vienna, I went—as I always do—to the Archduke Charles' Hotel; a little old-fashioned, perhaps, but unquestionably the best hotel in Vienna, and where the cooking is always undeniable. During my short stay, I went every day to the Universal Exhibition—the world's fair! but don't be afraid that I mean to weary you by dragging you with me through those confusing avenues of "all sorts," where nothing that was wanted could be found, and everything we wanted not was sure to be everlastingly obtruding itself before our eyes.

I confess that the Vienna Exhibition disappointed me; whereas the Paris one of 1867 left me nothing to desire; and all owing to the want of order and system in the one instance—while in the other, the arrangement was so perfect that there was not the smallest difficulty in getting at anything one wanted to find out.

But if the exhibitional department was less perfect in its arrangement at Vienna than at Paris, the gardens and the outside accessories were far more beautiful at the former than the latter; while Strauss's delightful band always afforded an hour's luxurious enjoyment in the cool of the afternoon, till the fearful braying of the steam trumpet, (they called it a Telephone, I think) drove one out into the Prater. Then the restaurants and cafÉs of the different Nationalities were so well got up and so picturesquely scattered about the Gardens, as were also the several buildings characteristic of the different Nations, and among which was pre-eminent for elegance of form, design, and execution, the kiosk of the Pasha of Egypt.

And then the Viennese ladies! I know I should have mentioned them the first, I confess it; confiteor, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, but, gentle reader, it was from sheer diffidence! I did not know how to approach the subject, I felt myself totally incompetent, and indeed I do so now! To say that at Vienna there are more lovely women to be seen than in any other city in Europe, is not saying one half. There are loads of pretty women to be seen in Dublin of a fine Sunday afternoon, especially among the middle and lower classes; but at Vienna they are not only lovely, but terribly attractive, and winning, and seductive; there are none like them anywhere else!

In the fine arts department there were many beautiful things to be seen; but as I promised not to drag the reader round the World's Fair, I shall keep my word, and shall only call his attention to two statues which greatly attracted me, one was a bronze figure of a Hindoo charming a cobra, the other a Negro running away, both figures perfectly alive!

I went twice to the opera, once to hear Meyerbeer's "Africaine," which disappointed me; and once to see a grand ballet, I think it was called "Eleonora," which did not. I had not been for several years at Vienna, and had, therefore, not seen the new Opera House. I was greatly struck with its size and beauty; it is unquestionably the finest theatre in Europe, and the arrangements are perfect. But Vienna is now undergoing such a process of transformation, and to such an extent, that in a few years those who knew it ten or twelve years ago will be utterly unable to recognise it. Even now it is one of the finest capitals in Europe, but at the rate it is progressing, it bids fair to surpass in a short time every other city, when the Viennese will really be able to give utterance with truth to their old saying, "Gibt nur eine Kaiserstadt, gibt nur ein Wien!"

After a very delightful week in Vienna, which seemed indeed far too short a time to bestow upon the most enjoyable capital in Europe, I took my passage in a steamer to Pesth, starting at six a.m., and arriving at my destination at about the same hour in the evening. The steamer was a very fine one, the accommodation excellent, the cuisine not good, but then I had been terribly spoilt at the Erz-Herzog Karl; probably had I been at a worse hotel, I would not have found so much fault with the cookery on board the steamer. The company on board was worse than the cookery—in all my rambles I don't think I ever met so unprepossessing a lot.

The large steamers that navigate the Danube don't come up to Vienna, but lie off the Island of Lobau, to which passengers are carried in a smaller steamer. The morning I started was drizzling and chilly in the extreme, in marked contrast with the weather of the previous week, which had been intensely hot; and when I sat down on the deck of the little steamer which was to take me down a branch of the Danube to the main steamer, I was glad to avail myself of my top-coat and rugs. In a short time we reached the larger vessel, and, having all got on board, we started at a good round speed.

From Vienna to Gran, the Danube is uninteresting so far as scenery is concerned. Its enormous volume of muddy water, wider than the Thames at Westminster, though still upwards of nine hundred miles from its entrance into the Black Sea, flows through a vast flat country; an interminable front of sallows and alders on the one side, and an interminable plain on the other, dotted all over with countless herds of white cattle with long black horns like the Tuscan oxen, and endless troops of horses; and as I gazed on the mighty flood of turbid waters, the old Italian nursery rhyme came back to my memory.

We passed by Pressburg where the two sides of the river are united by a bridge of boats. We only remained a short time and I had no opportunity of going ashore, so that I could form but a very inaccurate opinion of the place; it seemed to me from its outward look as not now prosperous, but had quite the appearance of having seen better days.

After a time we came to Komorn, the celebrated fortress; if I had not been told, "There is Komorn," I might almost have passed it without observing it, so protected from sight are its bastions by the immense earthworks in front of them. Still down we steamed, and still the same country right and left met our view, till we came to Gran, the seat of the Prince-Primate of Hungary, perhaps one of the wealthiest prelates in the world, possessing no less an income than £90,000 per annum.

Here the scenery began to improve; the Cathedral of Gran, though in itself unclassical, and one that in any other place might be passed by unnoticed, yet served to relieve the monotony of the view. The river, which up to this had flowed through boundless plains, became suddenly contracted, and consequently swifter as the high lands approached the edge of it; and now with every revolution of the paddles the scenery improved, till on reaching Vissegrad it became absolutely lovely. Instead of the interminable plains, we now had precipitous mountains on either side, some clad with forest down to the water's edge, some bare, ragged, and rocky, but all lovely, quite equal to the finest parts of the Rhine, not even lacking a Drachenfels in the beautiful ruins of the ancient castellated palace of the Kings of Hungary, the favourite retreat of the learned Matthias Corvinus.

Nature has done everything to beautify this favoured spot, but man, as is too often the case, has done his best to mar it. At the foot of the cliff, the top of which is crowned by the ancient residence of the Kings of Hungary, on a beautifully wooded spot between the mountain and the rushing Danube, some enterprising German has erected, horribile visu, three villa residences, in the correct suburban style, a few yards distant from one another. Regardless of expense, everything about them, including themselves, is radiant with white-wash, except where green paint asserts its place. At first I thought it must be an hotel or pension, with two succursales; but no, the skipper assured me they were country houses, and seemed astonished when I said the man that built them deserved to be hanged in front of them; he could not comprehend me, he thought them lovely!

Often during my subsequent travels I thought of that lovely country between Gran and Vissegrad; such exquisite scenery, so diversified; such a combination of rolling pastures, of glorious hills clad with forests, backed by rugged mountains, with that grand old Danube rushing through the midst; such shooting and fishing, all in a compact locality, and only four hours by rail from Vienna; such a spot for a country residence could scarcely be equalled, and certainly not surpassed. If it were within ten hours of London, what a fabulous price it would command! but here no one seems to have placed any value on it since the days of Matthias Corvinus.

After going through this gorge, the Danube spreads itself out again, and the scenery becomes tame and uninteresting, and continues so till one reaches Pesth, where I arrived somewhat later than I expected.