nderness that a father denies them. He is a foreigner, and you
have been conversing with him, in the course of the morning, in
French--which, he says, you speak remarkably well, like a native
in fact, and then in English (which, after all, you find is more
convenient). What can express your gratitude to this gentleman for all
his goodness towards your family and yourself--you talk to him, he has
served under the Emperor, and is, for all that, sensible, modest,
and well-informed. He speaks, indeed, of his countrymen almost with
contempt, and readily admits the superiority of a Briton, on the seas
and elsewhere. One loves to meet with such genuine liberality in a
foreigner, and respects the man who can sacrifice vanity to truth. This
distinguished foreigner has travelled much; he asks whither you are
going?--where you stop? if you have a great quantity of luggage on
board?--and laughs when he hears of the twenty-seven packages, and
hopes you have some friend at the custom-house, who can spare you the
monstrous trouble of unpacking that which has taken you weeks to put up.
Nine, ten, eleven, the distinguished foreigner is ever at your side; you
find him now, perhaps, (with characteristic ingratitude,) something of
a bore, but, at least, he has been most tender to the children and their
mamma. At last a Boulogne light comes in sight, (you see it over the
bows of the vessel, when, having bobbed violently upwards, it sinks
swiftly down,) Boulogne harbor is in sight, and the foreigner says,--

The distinguished foreigner says, says he--"Sare, eef you af no 'otel, I
sall recommend you, milor, to ze 'Otel Betfort, in ze Quay, sare, close
to the bathing-machines and custom-ha-oose. Good bets and fine garten,
sare; table-d'hote, sare, a cinq heures; breakfast, sare, in French
or English style;--I am the commissionaire, sare, and vill see to your
loggish."

... Curse the fellow, for an impudent, swindling, sneaking French
humbug!--Your tone instantly changes, and you tell him to go about his
business: but at twelve o'clock at night, when the voyage is over, and
the custom-house business done, knowing not whither to go, with a wife
and fourteen exhausted children, scarce able to stand, and longing for
bed, you find yourself, somehow, in the Hotel Bedford (and you can't be
better), and smiling chambermaids carry off your children to snug beds;
while smart waiters produce for your honor--a cold fowl, say, and a
salad, and a bottle of