It was the present writer, Mr. Swallow, who
passed you on the stairs when, giving up all
hope, you abandoned your unfastened effects
to the porter. You were telling him, in your
own original mode of uttering the language of
the nation, to lock the carpet-bag in number
twenty-one. With a matter-of-course coolness
that implied the mere shooting of an easy
bolt, you treacherously transferred to him a
task you had found impossible, and descended
to breakfast.—It was I who translated your
desires to the proper officer to whom you
were applying on the port for your permit to
leave the country of your three weeks' adoption:
it was my hat which was knocked off
upon the deck of the steamer, when, just as
the paddles were making their first revolution,
the hotel porter flung your bursting bag
triumphantly into the vessel. My eye was upon
you when you ostentatiously superintended the
stowage of the luggage belonging to the
elegant widow who breakfasted with us at the
Hôtel des Bains; and I observed all your subsequent
attentions to that stately beauty; who,
you artfully learnt, was travelling quite alone.
My hands were ready when, yielding to the
influence of a sudden lurch, you nearly poured
a bubbling glass of brandy and soda-water over
her satin dress. It was to me you remarked,
as she passed us to descend into the cabin,
that she reminded you of the portraits of
the late Mrs. Siddons, only that she was a
great deal handsomer.

You may remember, Mr. Swallow, that the
boat was very full. The passengers were
mostly foreigners, whose destination was
chiefly Hyde Park. A few, however, had
special engagements; which, from their
numerous and anxious inquiries of Captain
Tune as to when they would probably
reach London, appeared to be of a pressing
nature. It was no less conventional than true
(as I think you remarked) that the London
alderman who was escorting his niece from a
Capécure boarding-school had an appointment
to dine in Westbournia at six; the Frenchman
in the green shooting-jacket and gaiters—
whose slouched hat shaded the swarthiest
complexion and thickest moustaches in the
boat, and who reminded us of Caspar on a
sporting tour—was pledged, he said, to be in
Leicester Square at six-and-a-half hours, on a
matter of supreme importance: (I thought
there was nothing in your suspicion, Swallow,
that he alluded to one of the promised
back-street foreign conspiracies which have
never yet broken out into a blazing revolution,
as it was cunningly foretold they would, by
certain nervous politicians as a sure result of
'51.) Your Mrs. Siddons was desirous, as you
adroitly extracted from her, of reaching her
mother, who was alarmingly ill in Essex, that
night. The Contractor for conveying the
twenty-eight ladies and gentlemen from Paris
to London and back at so much a head, had
ordered a splendid repast to be prepared for
them in Anne Street Soho, at seven precisely.
You, Swallow, were in great anxiety to fulfil
with your usual zeal your critical duties for
the "Warrior of Peace," by being in time for
the overture of Thalberg's new opera at Her
Majesty's Theatre. The young fellow with
the pretty sister wished very much to get
down to Cambridge by the half-past six o'clock
train, in order to be ready to go up the next
morning for his first "ex." All these anxious
querists would have been made happy by the
captain's confident answer that they would
assuredly be abreast of Nicholson's Wharf at
half-past four, had not the alderman followed
him about, and tagged on to the end of each
of his replies:—

"But then there's the Custom House!"

The jolly skipper looked very blank, and
shook his head till the gold lace in his cap
glistened in the sun like a portentous meteor;
he added, assentingly, "I can't answer for the
Baggage Warehouse!"

"How long are we likely to be detained
there?" asked a full chorus of pale passengers.

"Can't say."

"I can," thundered a gruff comforter;—it
was the alderman. "The last time I went to
France I travelled from Tooley Street to
Folkestone harbour (seventy-six miles) in
exactly"—here he exhibited a huge stop-
watch"—one hundred and sixty-nine minutes,
forty seconds: on my return it took me and
my baggage two hours and five minutes to
pass from this very boat to the Thames Street
side of the Baggage Warehouse."

Why, Swallow, were alarm and disgust so
powerfully depicted in your countenance when
you heard these facts? Did the six bottles
of brandy sit heavily on your soul? Were
the Maraschino, and the boots, and the
lavender water, and the gloves excoriating
your conscience? No, Swallow, I will not do
you the injustice of any such supposition.
You intended, I feel certain, to declare them
for duty, and to pay. You shrank from the
idea of sneaking ashore like a timid cheat; it
was, I sincerely believe, your intention from
the first to tread the gangway with the bold
independence of a British tax-payer. It was
not the money—it was the time you grudged.
The dread of being too late for the opening
of Thalberg's opera, and that alone, distorted
your countenance.

It is a pity, Swallow, that the consolations
you were pouring into the widow's ear on
the probability of her long detention at the
Custom House, prevented you from benefiting
by a conversation which Caspar and several
of his compatriots were carrying on with the
Contractor. The mention of the Custom House
suggested the subject of passports; which
some of them manifestly did not know were
unnecessary in this free country. One gentleman
—his friends called him Monsieur le
Docteur—drew near to you both, and became
glowingly eloquent (for a woman must grace
a French orator's auditory) on the freedom,
liberality, magnanimity, and hospitality of this