governors, &c. "What each may have said,
done, or devoured during the voyage home—
the colour of his countenance or skin — what
hotels each put up at, and full particulars
relating to the suites and the keepers that
attended on them — all furnish abundant
material for the descriptive powers of
Southampton correspondents. Here, in Southampton,
exiles wait to catch the first news from
abroad, or watch the moment when they
can return to their own countries. An
amiable-looking old man, with an English
face, leisurely walking about the town, with
a tiny black footman following him, is
General Rosas, the once terrible Dictator of
Buenos Ayres. Espartero and Count de
Thomar stopped here until the time arrived
when they could safely return to the
Peninsula.

The King of Portugal; the Scindian princes;
Ibrahim Pacha; El Hami Pacha; Nepaulese,
Persian, and Turkish ambassadors; the Rajahs
of Surat and Coorg; the Dukes of Oporto and
Cobourg: the son and grandson of Tippoo
Saib, called the Tiger of Mysore; the son of
Runjeet Singh, surnamed the Lion of Lahore;
Louis Kossuth; Orista and Paredes, the
banished Presidents of Mexico; Count de
Thomar, the expatriated Prime Minister of
Portugal; Guizot; and many more with whose
names Europe is familiar, have landed at
Southampton. Many come on errands of friendship
or homage, bringing costly presents for
the Queen. Dusky princes from farther Ind
come to see the land of the people who have
subjugated mighty empires in the East, or
to crave increased allowance from merchants
who are kings in Hindostan. Some of these
visitors come to make of our island a platform
from which to scatter abroad winged
words, that they may shake kings on their
thrones or raise up nations from the dust.
Others, again, seek in this country only
shelter from the rage of princes or of peoples.
The contrast between the ways in which
some of these men have been received at
Southampton is very singular. A few
years since a Gibraltar mail-packet arrived
at that port, and twenty thousand people
congregated in the docks to receive one
of its passengers. Hundreds wept for
joy at the sight of him. Strong men
fought for the honour of drawing his
chariot. All business was suspended in the
town. No ancient conqueror entering the
capital of his country with the spoils of
armies and kingdoms ever had a greater
welcome. The next Gibraltar packet that
arrived contained a passenger who emerged
stealthily from the fore-cabin. No one
welcomed him. The Custom House officers
rudely ransacked his one carpet-bag. Both
of these passengers were penniless but
distinguished exiles, personally unknown to the
people of Southampton. But one of them
was known as Louis Kossuth, the Hungarian
Patriot; the other was Costa Cabral, the
Count de Thomar, and Prime Minister of
Portugal. The one had attempted to uphold
the privileges of a nation— the other,
it was believed, had attempted to destroy
them.

Two flags flying at the pier-head denote an
ocean steamer in sight and making its way
up the Southampton waters. The news
spreads through as much of the neighbourhood
as feels any interest in the matter.
Bay-windows are flung up, telescopes protruded,
and many are the guesses as to whether it is
the Magdalena or the Croesus, — whether it
brings dollars or nuggets. Many a bet is
laid, and many an anxious knot of people
hastens to the docks to have the question
settled. A Jersey packet, laden with troops
for the army of the East, is at the moment
being hauled alongside the wharf, the military
band playing, The Girl I Left Behind
Me. But, for once, soldiers and deserted
damsels pass unheeded; — the war in the
East is forgotten in the interest excited by
the steamer from the West.

Far out upon the waters a puff of smoke
and a black hull of a ship are perceptible,
and we are told the ship is the Magdalena
from the West Indies and the Pacific. In an
incredibly short space of time the gigantic
Magdalena has swept up to the dock-heads,
and is making her stately entrance within the
pool. She floats past the spot where Canute
is said to have once seated himself; and,
sending forth volumes of steam and gigantic
puffs and groans about the paddle-wheels,
enters the docks. A score or two of shoremen
holloa to a score or two of sailors; and,
after a great deal of hard swearing, coaxing,
and struggling, they have lassoed the ocean
monster by the means of hempen ropes, then
they pass heavier cables round the capstans
and the ship is made a prisoner.

I have come down to the Dock with the
expectation perhaps of getting on board and
witnessing a scene of the wildest confusion
and disorder. I find nothing of the kind. I
step upon the Magdalena's clean white deck,
and may suppose, if I like, that I am on
board the vessel outward bound, ready
cleaned for her voyage to St. Thomas's. But,
looking towards the saloon, I perceive groups
of sun-burnt passengers lounging as only
Indian residents know how to lounge on
couches and settees. Few of them appear to
be at all anxious about landing, and the
ladies, at any rate, seem to be more intent
upon their shawls and fans than on the
prospect of British ground so near them. Among
the more languid groups are some huge
bearded men who may have been spending a
dozen years amongst the Mexican wars, or at
the Californian gold-fields, or in the Peruvian
silver mines, they look so savage and so reckless
of appearance. Meanwhile the necessary
work is being done quickly, though quietly,
on deck. Fifteen minutes after the mooring
of the vessel, there remains scarcely one of