The conversation that I am now about to repeat, took
place on the Thames. Our visits, hitherto, had been
restricted by the rain to London. To-day, the weather
being fine, we took passage on board of a steamer, and
went to Greenwich.

While we were walking up and down the deck, Mr. Slick
again adverted to the story of the government spies with
great warmth. I endeavoured, but in vain, to persuade
him that no regular organized system of espionage existed
in England. He had obtained a garbled account of one or
two occurrences, and his prejudice, (which, notwithstanding
his disavowal, I knew to be so strong, as to warp all
his opinions of England and the English), immediately
built up a system, which nothing I could say, could at
all shake.

I assured him the instances he had mentioned were isolated
and unauthorized acts, told in a very distorted manner
but mitigated, as they really were, when truly related,
they were at the time received with the unanimous
disapprobation of every right-thinking man in the kingdom,
and that the odium which had fallen on the relators, was
so immeasurably greater than what had been bestowed on
the thoughtless principals, that there was no danger of
such things again occurring in our day. But he was
immovable.

"Oh, of course, it isn't true," he said, "and every
Englishman will swear it's a falsehood. But you must not