face be turned upside down, and jackasses sit
upon his uncle's grave!

Now fresher air, now glimpses of unenclosed
Down-land with flapping crows flying over it
whom we soon outfly, now the Sea, now
Folkestone at a quarter after ten. "Tickets ready,
gentlemen!" Demented dashes at the door.
"For Paris, Sir? No hurry."

Not the least. We are dropped slowly
down to the Port, and sidle to and fro (the
whole Train) before the insensible Royal
George Hotel, for some ten minutes. The
Royal George takes no more heed of us than
its namesake under water at Spithead, or
under earth at Windsor, does. The Royal
George's dog lies winking and blinking at us,
without taking the trouble to sit up; and the
Royal George's "wedding party" at the open
window (who seem, I must say, rather tired
of bliss) don't bestow a solitary glance upon
us, flying thus to Paris in eleven hours. The
first gentleman in Folkestone is evidently used
up, on this subject.

Meanwhile, Demented chafes. Conceives
that every man's hand is against him, and
exerting itself to prevent his getting to Paris.
Refuses consolation. Rattles door. Sees
smoke on the horizon, and "knows" it's the
boat gone without him. Monied Interest
resentfully explains that he is going to Paris
too. Demented signifies that if Monied
Interest chooses to be left behind, he don't.

"Refreshments in the Waiting-Room, ladies
and gentlemen. No hurry, ladies and gentlemen,
for Paris. No hurry whatever!"

Twenty minutes' pause, by Folkestone clock,
for looking at Enchantress while she eats a
sandwich, and at Mystery while she eats of
everything there that is eatable, from pork-
pie, sausage, jam, and gooseberries, to lumps
of sugar. All this time, there is a very waterfall
of luggage, with a spray of dust, tumbling
slantwise from the pier into the steamboat.
All this time, Demented (who has no business
with it) watches it with starting eyes, fiercely
requiring to be shown his luggage. When it
at last concludes the cataract, he rushes hotly
to refresh—is shouted after, pursued, jostled,
brought back, pitched into the departing
steamer upside down, and caught by mariners
disgracefully.

A lovely harvest day, a cloudless sky, a
tranquil sea. The piston-rods of the engines
so regularly coming up from below, to look
(as well they may) at the bright weather, and
so regularly almost knocking their iron heads
against the cross beam of the skylight, and
never doing it! Another Parisian actress is
on board, attended by another Mystery.
Compact Enchantress greets her sister artist—
Oh, the Compact One's pretty teeth!—and
Mystery greets Mystery. My Mystery soon
ceases to be conversational—is taken poorly,
in a word, having lunched too miscellaneously—
and goes below. The remaining
Mystery then smiles upon the sister artists
(who, I am afraid, wouldn't greatly mind
stabbing each other), and is upon the whole
ravished.

And now I find that all the French people
on board begin to grow, and all the English
people to shrink. The French are nearing
home, and shaking off a disadvantage, whereas
we are shaking it on. Zamiel is the same
man, and Abd-el-Kader is the same man, but
each seems to come into possession of an
indescribable confidence that departs from us
—from Monied Interest, for instance, and
from me. Just what they gain, we lose.
Certain British "Gents" about the steersman,
intellectually nurtured at home on parody
of everything and truth of nothing, become
subdued, and in a manner forlorn; and
when the steersman tells them (not
unexultingly) how he has "been upon this station
now eight year, and never see the old town of
Bullun yet," one of them, with an imbecile
reliance on a reed, asks him what he considers
to be the best hotel in Paris?

Now, I tread upon French ground, and am
greeted by the three charming words, Liberty,
Equality, Fraternity, painted up (in letters a
little too thin for their height) on the Custom
House wall—also by the sight of large cocked
hats, without which demonstrative head-gear
nothing of a public nature can be done upon
this soil. All the rabid Hotel population of
Boulogne howl and shriek outside a distant
barrier, frantic to get at us. Demented, by
some unlucky means peculiar to himself, is
delivered over to their fury, and is presently
seen struggling in a whirlpool of Touters—
is somehow understood to be going to Paris
—is, with infinite noise, rescued by two cocked
hats, and brought into Custom House bondage
with the rest of us.

Here, I resign the active duties of life to
an eager being, of preternatural sharpness,
with a shelving forehead and a shabby
snuff–colored coat, who (from the wharf)
brought me down with his eye before the
boat came into port. He darts upon my
luggage, on the floor where all the luggage is
strewn like a wreck at the bottom of the great
deep; gets it proclaimed and weighed as the
property of "Monsieur a traveller unknown;"
pays certain francs for it, to a certain
functionary behind a Pigeon Hole, like a paybox
at a Theatre (the arrangements in general
are on a wholesale scale, half military and
half theatrical); and I suppose I shall find it
when I come to Paris—he says I shall. I
know nothing about it, except that I pay him
his small fee, and pocket the ticket he gives
me, and sit upon a counter, involved in the
general distraction.

Railway station. "Lunch or dinner, ladies
and gentlemen. Plenty of time for Paris.
Plenty of time! "Large hall, long counter,
long strips of dining-table, bottles of wine,
plates of meat, roast chickens, little loaves of
bread, basins of soup, little caraffes of brandy,
cakes, and fruit. Comfortably restored from
these resources, I begin to fly again.