waistcoats, collars and brushes. At length they came to the
photographic plates--they were removed in a trice from their
receptacle, and held up to the light.

"Have you no hearts!" cried the foreigner, his face streaming
with tears. "In a moment you have undone the labour of years! That
plate--now destroyed for ever--when properly developed would have
revealed the smiling features of my wife's mother! It took me a
quarter of a century to catch her with such an expression! For when
she saw me she always frowned. But ah, my shirts, my heirlooms! In the
name of mercy, spare my shirts!"

But no, once more the appeal was disregarded. The small portmanteau
was turned inside out. This the official chalked.

"So this is one of the habits of the English," cried the foreigner,
bitterly.

"Not only the habits, Monsieur," observed a bystander, who trembling
with apprehension, was waiting his turn; "but the customs. Customs
that are out of date with the age. Customs that are contrary to the
spirit of the century. Customs that cost more than they yield, and
deserve to be cussed!"

"They do," cried the foreigner, excitedly. "May the Customs be--"

"You must not utter that word," interrupted the Revenue Officer, in a
tone of peremptory command.

"It is British; why not?"