I would not venture to urge upon any man to follow in my footsteps. I should scarcely retrace them myself under the same conditions; but I believe I have shown the practicability of such an undertaking, and its probability of success, with no more unusual qualifications than a ready hand, a patient will, and some perseverance.
Hamburg at last!—after eight days’ sail from London, three of them spent in knocking about the North Sea, where the wind always blows in your teeth. Never mind! we are now safely moored to these substantial timbers; huge piles, driven in a line, which form the outer harbour of Hamburg. The city lies before us, but there is nothing very imposing in it; the houses, with gable roofs and whitened walls, look rather lath-and-plastery, in fact; but we must not express our opinions too rashly, for first impressions are not always the most faithful after all.
We scramble down the sides of the British schooner, the “Glory,” and seat ourselves along with Tom. What a confusion of boats, long-pointed barges, and small sailing vessels!
“Ay, ay, sir!” replies Tom, contemptuously shifting his quid.
These small sailing vessels we see are from the Hanoverian and Danish coasts. Their cargoes consist principally of wood, and whole stacks of vegetables, the latter ridiculously small. Those long-pointed barges are for canal navigation, and are admirably adapted to Hamburg, threaded as it is by canals in every direction.
Steady! Do you see that curious, turret-looking building, old and time-worn, guarded by a sentinel?—it is the fort to protect the water-gate through which we are now passing. It is also occasionally used as a prison. On the opposite side is a poor, dilapidated, wooden building, erected on a barge, where permits are obtained for spirits and tobacco—a diminutive custom-house indeed. There being no one to question or molest us, we pass on, and in a few moments are at our landing-place, a short flight of stone steps leading to the Vorsetzen or quay.
Tom moors his boat with a grave celerity, leads the way up the stone steps on to the quay, and as speedily disappears down a sort of trap which gapes in the open street, in the immediate vicinity of the landing-place. Let him alone; Tom knows the way. We follow him down an almost perpendicular flight of stairs into a spirit kellar, and gratify Tom’s little propensity for ardent liquors.