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
Bordeaux and Seltzer-water.

. . . . . .

The morning comes--I don't know a pleasanter feeling than that of
waking with the sun shining on objects quite new, and (although you
have made the voyage a dozen times,) quite strange. Mrs. X. and
you occupy a very light bed, which has a tall canopy of red
"percale;" the windows are smartly draped with cheap gaudy calicoes
and muslins; there are little mean strips of carpet about the tiled
floor of the room, and yet all seems as gay and as comfortable as