n that quarter, so my conscience is so far
clear.

_B._ You arrive at Dov_o_r (mind you spell it Dov_o_r)--go to bed tired
and reflective--embark early the next morning--a rough passage----

_A._ And sea-sick, of course?

_B._ No, Ansard, there I'll give you a proof of my tact--you sha'n't be
sea-sick.

_A._ But I'm sure I should be.

_B._ All travellers are, and all fill up a page or two with complaints,
_ad nauseam_--for that reason sick you shall not be. Observe--to your
astonishment you are not sea-sick: the other passengers suffer
dreadfully; one young dandy puffs furiously at a cigar in bravado, until
he sends it over the side, like an arrow from the blow-pipe of a South
American Indian. Introduce a husband with a pretty wife--he jealous as a
dog, until he is sick as a cat--your attentions--she pillowed on your
arms, while he hangs over the lee gunwale--her gratitude--safe arrival
at Calais--sweet smiles of the lady--sullen deportment of the
gentleman--a few hints--and draw the veil. Do you understand?

_A._ Perfectly. I can manage all that.

_B._ Then when you put your foot on shore, you must, for the first time,
_feel sea-sick_.

_A._ On shore?

_B._ Yes; reel about, not able to stand--every symptom as if on board.
Express your surprise at the strange effect, pretend not to explain it,
leave that to medical men, it being sufficient for you to state the
_fact_.

_A._ The fact! O Barnstaple!

_B._ That will be a great hit for a first chapter. You reverse the order
of things.

_A._ That I do most certainly. Shall I finish the first chapter with
that _fact_?

_B._ No. Travellers always go to bed at the end of each chapter. It is a
wise plan, and to a certain degree it must be followed. You must have a
baggage adventure--be separated from it--some sharp little urchin has
seized upon your valise--it is no where to be found--quite in
despair--walk to the hotel d'Angleterre, and find that you are met by
the landlord and garcons, who inform you that your carriage is in the
remise, and your rooms ready--ascend to your bedroom--find that your
baggage is not only there, but neatly laid out--your portmanteau
unstrapped--your trunk uncorded--and the little rascal of a commissaire
standing by with his hat in his hand, and a smile _de malice_, having
installed _himself_ as your _domestique de place_--take him for his
impudence--praise the "_Cotelettes_ and the _vin de Beaune_"--wish the
reader good-night, and