* * * * *

THE WRONG OF SEARCH.

(_A DREAM OF THE BRITISH INQUISITION._)

The unfortunate foreigner, travel-stained and suffering from the
after-glow of a stormy passage, crawled up the gangway and was once
more on land. He carried in his hand a portmanteau.

"Have you anything to declare?" asked an official, in a gold-peaked
cap and blue frock coat, gruffly.

"Only that your seas are terrible," was the reply.

The official made no answer, but merely pointed to some planks that
had been placed upon trestles. The foreigner glanced at the people
who were standing in front of these planks, and noticed that they were
pale with apprehension.

"Have you anything to declare?" was a second time uttered--now by a
person less gold-laced. Then the official continued, "Here, open it!"

In a moment the portmanteau was thrown with force on the planks, and
the foreigner protested.

"I understand you now. I have no cigars--I do not smoke. I have no
spirits--I am what you call a teatotaller. I have no lace--I am a
widower."