“How many did you say?” “Twelve, my dear--” “Wait a bit, wait a bit,” said the old gentleman; while, with outstretched finger, he began to count them, one, two, three, four, and so on till he reached eleven, when he came to a dead stop, and then dropping his voice to a tone of tremulous anxiety, he whispered, “There’s one a-missing.” “You don’t say so!” said the lady, “dearee me, try it again.” The old gentleman shook his head, frowned ominously, and recommenced the score. “You missed the little one near the lime-kiln,” interrupted the lady. “No!” said he abruptly, “that’s six, there’s seven--eight--nine--ten-- eleven--and see, not another.” Upon this, the old lady mounted beside him, and the enumeration began in duet fashion, but try it how they would, let them take them up hill, or down hill, along the Rhine first, or commence inland, it was no use, they could not make the dozen of them. “It is shameful!” said the gentleman. “Very disgraceful, indeed!” echoed the lady, as she closed the book, and crossed her hands before her; while her partner’s indignation took a warmer turn, and he paced the deck in a state of violent agitation. It was clear that no idea of questioning John Murray’s accuracy had ever crossed their minds. Far from it--the “Handbook” had told them honestly what they were to have at Ander-nach--“twelve towers built by the Romans,” was part of the bill of fare; and some rascally Duke of Hesse something, had evidently absconded with a stray castle; they were cheated, “bamboozled, and bit,” inveigled out of their mother-country under false pretences, and they “wouldn’t stand it for no one,” and so they went about complaining to every passenger, and endeavouring, with all their eloquence, to make a national thing of it, and, determined to represent the case to the minister, the moment they reached Frankfort. And now, as the _a propos_ reminds me, what a devil of a life an English minister has, in any part of the Continent, frequented by his countrymen.