"All modern, though," says somebody, in tones of disappointment. Now we
are passing the Victoria Dock. Bang, bang, again. We are in a forest of
ships of all nations; their masts bristling like the tall pines in
Maine; their many colored flags streaming like the forest leaves in
autumn.

"Hark," says one; "there's, a chime of bells from the city; how sweet! I
had quite forgotten it was Sunday."

Here we cast anchor, and the small steam tender conies puffing
alongside. Now for the custom house officers. State rooms, holds, and
cabins must all give up their trunks; a general muster among the
baggage, and passenger after passenger comes forward as their names are
called, much as follows: "Snooks." "Here, sir." "Any thing contraband
here, Mr. Snooks? Any cigars, tobacco, &c.?" "Nothing, sir."

A little unlocking, a little fumbling. "Shut up; all right; ticket
here." And a little man pastes on each article a slip of paper, with the
royal arms of England and the magical letters V.R., to remind all men
that they have come into a country where a lady reigns, and of course
must behave themselves as prettily as they can.

We were inquiring of some friends for the most convenient hotel, when we
found the son of Mr. Cropper, of Dingle Bank, waiting in the cabin, to
take us with him to their hospitable abode. In a few moments after the
baggage had been examined, we all bade adieu to the old ship, and went
on board the little steam tender, which carries passengers up to the
city.