And now, in sober seriousness, what literary fame equals John Murray’s? What portmanteau, with two shirts and a night-cap, hasn’t got one “Hand- book?” What Englishman issues forth at morn, without one beneath his arm? How naturally, does he compare the voluble statement of his _valet- de-place_, with the testimony of the book. Does he not carry it with him to church, where, if the sermon be slow, he can read a description of the building? Is it not his guide at _table-d’hôte_, teaching him, when to eat, and where to abstain? Does he look upon a building, a statue, a picture, an old cabinet, or a manuscript, with whose eyes does he see it? With John Murray’s to be sure! Let John tell him, this town is famous for its mushrooms, why he’ll eat them, till he becomes half a fungus himself; let him hear that it is celebrated for its lace manufactory, or its iron work--its painting on glass, or its wigs; straightway he buys up all he can find, only to discover, on reaching home, that a London shopkeeper can undersell him in the same articles, by about fifty per cent. In all this, however, John Murray is not to blame; on the contrary, it only shows his headlong popularity, and the implicit trust, with which is received, every statement he makes. I cannot conceive anything more frightful than the sudden appearance of a work which should contradict everything in the “Hand-book,” and convince English people that John Murray was wrong. National bankruptcy, a defeat at sea, the loss of the colonies, might all be borne up against; but if we awoke one morning to hear that the “Continent” was no longer the Continent we have been accustomed to believe it, what a terrific shock it would prove. Like the worthy alderman of London, who, hearing that Robinson Crusoe was only a fiction, confessed he had lost one of the greatest pleasures of his existence; so, should we discover that we have been robbed of an innocent and delightful illusion, for which no reality of cheating waiters and cursing Frenchmen, would ever repay us. Of the implicit faith with which John and his “Manual” are received, I remember well, witnessing a pleasant instance a few years back on the Rhine. On the deck of the steamer, amid that strange commingled mass of Cockneys and Dutchmen, Flemish boors, German barons, bankers and blacklegs, money-changers, cheese-mongers, quacks, and consuls, sat an elderly couple, who, as far apart from the rest of the company as circumstances would admit, were industriously occupied in comparing the Continent with the “Hand-book,” or, in other words, were endeavouring to see, if nature had dared to dissent from the true type, they held in their hands. “‘Andernach, formerly. Andemachium,’” read the old lady aloud. “Do you see it, my dear?” “Yes,” said the old gentleman, jumping up on the bench, and adjusting his pocket telescope--“yes,” said he, “go on. I have it.” “‘Andernach,’” resumed she, “‘is an ancient Roman town, and has twelve towers----’”