to the
water. You might have heard Mrs. Coxe's shriek as far as Gravesend; it
rung in my ears as I went down, all grieved at the thought of leaving
her a disconsolate widder. Well, up I came again, and caught the brim of
my beaver-hat--though I have heard that drowning men catch at straws:--I
floated, and hoped to escape by hook or by crook; and, luckily, just
then, I felt myself suddenly jerked by the waistband of my whites, and
found myself hauled up in the air at the end of a boat-hook, to the
sound of "Yeho! yeho! yehoi! yehoi!" and so I was dragged aboard. I
was put to bed, and had swallowed so much water that it took a very
considerable quantity of brandy to bring it to a proper mixture in my
inside. In fact, for some hours I was in a very deplorable state.

NOTICE TO QUIT.

Well, we arrived at Boulogne; and Jemmy, after making inquiries, right
and left, about the Baron, found that no such person was known there;
and being bent, I suppose, at all events, on marrying her daughter to a
lord, she determined to set off for Paris, where, as he had often said,
he possessed a magnificent ---- hotel he called it;--and I remember
Jemmy being mightily indignant at the idea; but hotel, we found
afterwards, means only a house in French, and this reconciled her. Need
I describe the road from Boulogne to Paris? or need I describe that
Capitol itself? Suffice it to say, that we made our appearance there,
at "Murisse's Hotel," as became the family of Coxe Tuggeridge; and saw
everything worth seeing in the metropolis in a week. It nearly killed
me, to be sure; but, when you're on a pleasure-party in a foreign
country, you must not mind a little inconvenience of this sort.

Well, there is, near the city of Paris, a splendid road and row of
trees, which--I don't know why--is called the Shandeleezy, or Elysian
Fields, in French: others, I have heard, call it the Shandeleery; but
mine I know to be the correct pronunciation. In the middle of this
Shandeleezy is an open space of ground, and a tent where, during the
summer, Mr. Franconi, the French Ashley, performs with his horses and
things. As everybody went there, and we were told it was quite the
thing, Jemmy agreed that we should go too; and go we did.

It's just like Ashley's: there's a man just like Mr. Piddicombe, who
goes round the ring in a huzzah-dress, cracking a whip; there are a
dozen Miss Woolfords, who appear like Polish princesses, Dihannas,
Sultannas, Cachuchas,