LONDON AND THE OCEAN.--HOW YOU MAY ATTACK THE REPUTATION OF EITHER.--THE METROPOLIS "EN NEGLIGEE."--THE POST-OFFICE.--THE MODERN LETTER-WRITER.--MONEY ORDERS.--PENNY STAMPS, THEIR USE AND ABUSE.--JOHN BULL AND THE CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER.--HOW MR. BULL IMPOSES UPON THAT RESPECTABLE FUNCTIONARY.--WHAT IS A NEWSPAPER?--THE GREAT HALL OF THE POST-OFFICE AT SIX P.M.
"Did you ever see the ocean?" said I, some time ago, to a Vienna friend, as by accident we met in Cheapside. Not far from the spot where from Newgate-street the passenger turns off to the Bank, there is a crossing of some of the most crowded streets. We stood on the pavement waiting for an opportunity, or a stoppage among the vehicles, to make a rush to the opposite side. "Well," said I; "Did you ever see the ocean."
"In a way!" replied my countryman, producing a cigar; and in a moment a match-seller was by his side offering his inflammable wares. "In a manner," repeated my countryman, as he lit his cigar. "Of course I did not come by land from St. Stephen's Place, in Old Vienna. I did cross a piece of salt water as far as I can remember; but that confounded sea-sickness got hold of my stomach, and made me blind to the marvels of the ocean. And--between you and me--I can't say I was much taken with what I could see. I've read a deal about the sea, the wide and open sea, and all its glories. But it's all humbug, that's what it is; or, if you would rather, it's poetic fancy. Water, after all, is but water. And, as for the sharks, you can't see them. There wasn't even such a thing as a storm. The lakes of Ischl are quite as green as the channel, and, perhaps, a shade greener. And last year, when I was on the Platten Lake, on my honour! I could not see to the opposite shore. Water, after all, is but water; and a few miles, more or less, make no difference that I can see. Besides, you only see a certain portion. That's _my_ opinion."
O good and honest Viennese! I stopped my countryman, who was just taking a desperate leap into the road. No doubt he would have reached the opposite pavement in safety; but I stopped him, for I wanted a pretence for shaking hands with him. A Berlin man would never have deigned to declare that the ocean is a humbug, even though he had never gone beyond the bridges of the Spree or Havel river at Potsdam. Humbug has no existence for the real Berlin man, who has been reared in the superlative; and, besides, how can a Berliner, with all his contempt for authority, ever plead guilty to considering an important phenomenon, one which has been established ever since the days of the Great Elector, with less poesy than Henry Heine, and with less interest than Alexander von Humboldt. A Berliner would certainly have held forth on the "absolute idea," or the "relative nothing," or the "subjective view of space"; even though he never felt anything like the meaning of those hard words, and even if, within his secret heart, he had thought exactly as the Viennese did before he got sea-sick. There are things which a Berliner would rather die than say in public.