yellow, unshaven, and sick at heart, are
summoned on deck, to give up their keys,
for opening boxes and trunks; and though
the river is tolerably smooth, and the old
quays and houses of Wapping and
Rotherhithe slide by smoothly enough now,
the ghost of the terrible long night, the
memory of all that quivering and plunging,
still endure. At last this ordeal over,
and the masts and cordage beginning to
thicken through a dense London mist and
pea-soup fog, the first bridge is seen looming.
The yellow Frenchman with the
stubbly cheeks is told he will presently
be able to see London. His wife, his sister,
his mother—ma mère, of the songs—with
a whole mitrailleuse of grey curls on each
side of her head, are stretched on the floor
of the cabin, where for many hours they
have been calling to Heaven to save them
from this agony. When, therefore, the
boat stops, the unshaved Gaul draws with
infinite difficulty, but with equal joy, ma
mère upon the deck; the poor lady is tottering,
and flattened, and beaten into papier-mâché
with sickness. When the foreign
party emerges into the cold, sharp morning
air, their feet slipping on the sloppy
deck, they might reasonably think their
woes were ended. It would seem as if they
had only to walk ashore and be free of the
hateful vessel. Yet the sight is anything
but encouraging. The spot where they are
to touch the shore of the perfidious country
is far off, somewhere among those grim,
soiled warehouses; those lofts, which look like
rat-holes, but which have little shelves hung
out before them, like scales, as if something
were going to be weighed. Many steamers,
with soaked and dripping decks, lie
between the new arrivals and the shore. The
water of the "Tamise," of a rich mud hue,
exhales strange odours, and is still rough
and troubled. From it the Gallic eyes turn
away uneasily. Round the vessel are a shoal
of low, dirty boats, appropriate to the water
in which they float: with men standing up
and appealing and shouting in a strange
gibberish. Already the sloppy deck
re-echoes to the patter of heavy feet, and
other men, porters, Heaven save the mark!
swarm over the deck, like the savages over
Captain Cook's ships; are eagerly seized on
by all, but disdainfully decline to treat until
they see and appraise the amount of spoil
and the quality of the victims.

The hapless refugee French of these days
are in special demand. There they stand,
the stout gentleman, the poor elderly lady on
his arm, trembling with cold, ill, shrunken;
by his side the sallow girls, all the colour
washed out of them. Two rude marauders,
noting with satisfaction the pile of French
toy boxes, that look as if made of cardboard
and tin, with their neat hasps, and locks,
and nails, see here a fine opportunity for
pillage, and graciously undertake the office.
The rain is still drizzling down; at the gangway
a steep slippery ladder has been fitted,
sloping down to where boats rise and fall,
while other mahogany-coloured men have
their faces upturned, and hold on by
boathooks, eager for their share of the prey.
Now the boxes are in the hands of these
cormorants; now the boatmen fight with
each other, forcing the noses of their boats
before each other; and as the trembling
French lady is assisted down by her
children, almost, poor things, as incapable as
herself, she stands in terror on the last
step, the water washing up over her feet,
and half a dozen mahogany hands clutching
at her, and trying to drag her each
into their boats, until the poor lady thinks
Pandemonium itself must be at hand.
Meanwhile, down are coming the boxes on
bent shoulders, their corners thrust into
eyes and chests. At last trunks and
passengers are crowded into one boat, a fine
spoil, with the brigands in charge, exulting
in their prey. The swaying and dashing
together of the boats, the screams of
the foreigners, the swearing of the Britons,
all make up an indescribable scene. "Mon
Dieu! mon Dieu!" shrieks "ma mère."
"We shall be drowned!" No, madame, the
marauders have too much sense for that.
They reserve you for another fate. Yonder
is the wooden wharf, with a slippery flight
of steps, on which stand a crowd of other
truculent fellows waiting for their prey. A
few strokes of the oars will land the party;
but before getting near the shore, mail of the
blackest kind will be levied. "Now, gents
and ladies, if you please—two shillings,
three shillings, four shillings a piece,"
according to the humour for extortion the
brigands find themselves in. These charges
are angrily demurred to; but it is intimated
in the most forcible language that no one
will be allowed to leave the boat until
these demands are satisfied. There is an
overcrowded packet, there are many
passengers still on board, the harpies do not
choose to waste time discussing the matter,
so frightened ladies and worn-out men
are forthwith bullied ferociously into
compliance, and the money almost snatched
from their fingers. But now the heavily-laden
boat just touches the stair, and