It has long been the custom of the North German Lloyd steamers, which convey passengers from Bremen to New York, to anchor for several hours in the pleasant port of Southampton, where their human cargo¹ receives many additions. An intelligent young German, Count Otto Vogelstein, hardly knew a few years ago whether to condemn² this custom or approve it. He leaned over the bulwarks³ of the Donau as the American passengers crossed the plank—the travellers who embark⁴ at Southampton are mainly of that nationality—and curiously⁵, indifferently, vaguely⁶, through the smoke of his cigar, saw them absorbed in the huge capacity of the ship, where he had the agreeable consciousness that his own nest was comfortably made. To watch from such a point of vantage the struggles of those less fortunate than ourselves—of the uninformed, the unprovided, the belated, the bewildered—is an occupation not devoid⁷ of sweetness, and there was nothing to mitigate⁸ the complacency with which our young friend gave himself up to it; nothing, that is, save a natural benevolence⁹ which had not yet been extinguished by the consciousness of official greatness. For Count Vogelstein was official, as I think you would have seen from the straightness of his back, the lustre¹⁰ of his light elegant spectacles, and something discreet¹¹ and diplomatic in the curve of his moustache, which looked as if it might well contribute to the principal function, as cynics say, of the lips—the active

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