allow himself to
be unfairly influenced by it. I had fully expected that, by some
ingenious mechanical device, my luggage would be landed simultaneously
with myself, and placed on certain square yards of the American
Continent set apart for our temporary use. I had imagined the
custom-house a many-storied edifice in keeping with the high tariff it
enforced. Instead, however, of any such expectations being realised, I
found myself in a large open shed, from which I could watch the luggage
as it was being ejected in a most primitive way from our ship, with a
good riddance shove from above, and a "look out" shout from below.

An army of porters made a rush for it, and began strewing it all over
the place, getting everybody's belongings thoroughly mixed, and
generally acting as if they were shuffling a pack of cards before
commencing a new game.

The new game took the shape of a free fight, which was waged with
varying fortunes for two or three hours. By dint of displaying much
energy in the attainment of my own ends, to the detriment of everybody
else's, I succeeded in regrouping the greater part of my effects; not
without sorrow can I look back, however, to that field-day, and the sad
losses I sustained, the latter conclusively proving to me that within
the carefully guarded precincts of the custom-house no thieves are
admitted except on business.

The process of clearing and of being cleared out once terminated, I
drove to the "Brevoort," that most respectable of hotels, founded, I
believe, by a party that came over in the _Mayflower_, a house second
only in antiquity to some "Noah's Ark Hotel" in Philadelphia. I went
there because the last, not least, of the Henrys had selected it for his
headquarters. As soon as the rescued trunks reached me I unpacked my
writing materials, and, following illustrious examples, at once sat down
to write a book about America, and the manners and customs of its
inhabitants. But, unlike the illustrious ones, I thought better of it,
and got up again. The fact that I have now once more taken up the pen,
evidently with the same purpose, somewhat recalls Jean Paul Richter's
story of the tippler, who, for once resisting temptation, passes the
door of the public-house, and then, proud of his achievement, turns back
that he may reward himself for so much self-denial. So, too, do I appear
to be tardily, but none the less surely, succumbing to temptation; and
the parallel goes even further, for,