exchanging animal. Forbid exchange by protective
duties, or throw great difficulties in the way,
and, in both man and woman, you assuredly have
smuggling animals. Neither of the sexes can
resist it. People living just within the French
frontier do smuggle, and do get caught now and
then; which they don't much mind: and also do
succeed, to their heart's delight—the male
population with cheap tobacco mainly (few care a
straw for prohibited portraits or literature), the
females with embroidered muslins and lace, or
anything else in the forbidden novelty line.
Still, it is a ridiculous and undignified sight to
behold a tall, strong fellow laid on a board to
have his boots pulled off and be otherwise
examined; to hear a lady requested to walk
into an adjoining room in company with a
female searcher (some custom-house officer's
wife), who enjoys the task with expectant
inquisitiveness. Therefore, I always urge, "Bring
nothing;" and so have avoided all unpleasantness,
to self and own proper kin at least.

Never, on returning into France across the
Swiss or the Belgian frontier, have I been
treated with so much apparent forbearance as
by the douaniers at Steenworde (between
Poperingues and Cassell). But, in the first
place, I had given my name and address (to
enable the carriage to return duty-free) when
passing that station on our way into Belgium;
so that, if we were caught tripping,
they knew where to lay hands upon us. And,
secondly, the tenderness was only apparent.
As a matter of principle, we scorned
being the bearers of any printed insult to the
chief of the State; and, as a matter of precaution,
if only to avoid formalities and trouble,
we had no tobacco—not a pinch, nor a cigar,
nor a pipeful, nor a cheekful. Our driver only
had a wisp of birds'-eye in his side-pocket
(which he openly avowed), to console his
cravings along the road. We had no trunk,
portmanteau, only carpet-bags and baskets.
All were taken out. A small hand-bag—the
principal inspector or brigadier said—it was
needless to open. The larger bags were
unlocked, and (while our backs were turned and
our attention directed to a subaltern searching
the carriage itself) he adroitly thrust his hand
down each compartment of the bag, stealthily
smelling his fingers each time he withdrew
them.

It was a masterstroke, a touch of professional
skill deserving laudatory record. There was
no vulgar turning out and tumbling the
contents of the bag, what was not in it being
ascertained by negative proof. The trick, too, was
executed with such finished address that it
would have passed off unobserved, but for an
accidental glance cast in that direction by one of
our party. No doubt, that inspector, by long
experience and practice, had acquired for
tobacco the scent of a bloodhound. His
fingers had been educated to absorb, and his
nose to detect, the slightest trace or trail of
the weed.

After the performance of this very effectual
and, as he thought, secret mode of search, we
were told, with a patronising wave of the hand,
that "the bags might be closed and
reconsigned to their places. He saw we had
nothing to declare liable to duty." And thus all
brutal emptying of the bags, all tossing about
of night and day clothes, all offence, in short,
to personal privacies, was politely and
pleasantly escaped. And I hold that the plan of
searching tourists' luggage by the scent is as
good as any, better than most, until the time
arrives when all search shall be obsolete.

Our "visitor," however, might perhaps have
been a little aided by physiognomical skill.
Shutting one eye and peering sharply with the
other, he examined our countenances one by
one, tacitly inquiring of himself whether we
were Guilty or Not Guilty, before proceeding to
any further investigation. Arriving at a verdict
of at least Not Proven, he then brought his
olfactory tactics into play.

But this is not all. We proceeded to Cassel
to enjoy the hospitalities of the Hôtel du
Sauvage. Mont Cassel deserves to be ascended,
although it won't procure your admission to
the Alpine Club. It is even worth a few days'
sojourn. Pure is the air, lovely the view,
excellent and abundant the fare. There are plenty
of pretty walks about and around it, all full of
ups and downs tending to the development of
calves and the strengthening of crural muscles.

Half-way up the hill on which Cassel stands
is the wigwam of an official whose business is
to receive the export duties on articles going
out of France. He is a faded old fogy of
waning occupation (owing to new-fangled
treaties of commerce and other devices of the
Evil One), but not the less self-important for
that. There he sits, in the dignity of plain
clothes, now threadbare and rusty, but which
once were black. Beside him stands his private
orderly, in uniform, both on the look-out for
travellers on whom they may pounce and
impress with the idea that they are a couple of
somebodies. So, because we are coming from
Belgium, they authoritatively stop our carriage,
as a feudal lord would pull up a merchant's
string of mules.

"But we have already been searched," one of
our party remonstrates.

"That is no business of mine," the fogy
answers, in a hollow voice suited for the utterance
of Fee, fo, fum. "I have my duty to
fulfil." ["My duty," in order to keep my
place, being to make believe that I have
something to do.]

So he peeps in at the carriage window, takes
up a book, and gravely turns over its leaves, as if
searching for dangerous passages. But the
book, he ought to know from its binding, is a
publication authorised by bishops, and signed
with a †. We feel inclined to ask if he can
read, but do not for fear of hurting his feelings.
His curiosity satisfied, he returns the volume to
its place; and then, solemnly walking round
the carriage, like a witch performing an
incantation, he taps it with his knuckles here and