We had no great reason to brag of our tournament at Tuggeridgeville: but, after all, it was better than the turn-out at Kilblazes, where poor Lord Heydownderry went about in a black velvet dressing-gown, and the Emperor Napoleon Bonypart appeared in a suit of armor and silk stockings, like Mr. Pell’s friend in Pickwick; we, having employed the gentlemen from Astley’s Antitheatre, had some decent sport for our money.

We never heard a word from the Baron, who had so distinguished himself by his horsemanship, and had knocked down (and very justly) Mr. Nabb, the bailiff, and Mr. Stubbs, his man, who came to lay hands upon him. My sweet Jemmy seemed to be very low in spirits after his departure, and a sad thing it is to see her in low spirits: on days of illness she no more minds giving Jemimarann a box on the ear, or sending a plate of muffins across a table at poor me, than she does taking her tea.

Jemmy, I say, was very low in spirits; but, one day (I remember it was the day after Captain Higgins called, and said he had seen the Baron at Boulogne), she vowed that nothing but change of air would do her good, and declared that she should die unless she went to the seaside in France. I knew what this meant, and that I might as well attempt to resist her as to resist her Gracious Majesty in Parliament assembled; so I told the people to pack up the things, and took four places on board the “Grand Turk” steamer for Boulogne.

The travelling-carriage, which, with Jemmy’s thirty-seven boxes and my carpet-bag, was pretty well loaded, was sent on board the night before; and we, after breakfasting in Portland Place (little did I think it was the — but, poh! never mind), went down to the Custom House in the other carriage, followed by a hackney-coach and a cab, with the servants, and fourteen bandboxes and trunks more, which were to be wanted by my dear girl in the journey.

The road down Cheapside and Thames Street need not be described: we saw the Monument, a memento of the wicked Popish massacre of St. Bartholomew;— why erected here I can’t think, as St. Bartholomew is in Smithfield;— we had a glimpse of Billingsgate, and of the Mansion House, where we saw the two-and-twenty-shilling-coal smoke coming out of the chimneys, and were landed at the Custom House in safety. I felt melancholy, for we were going among a people of swindlers, as all Frenchmen are thought to be; and, besides not being able to speak the language, leaving our own dear country and honest countrymen.

Fourteen porters came out, and each took a package with the greatest civility; calling Jemmy her ladyship, and me your honor; ay, and your honoring and my ladyshipping even my man and the maid in the cab. I somehow felt all over quite melancholy at going away. “Here, my fine fellow,” says I to the coachman, who was standing very respectful, holding his hat in one hand and Jemmy’s jewel-case in the other —“Here, my fine chap,” says I, “here’s six shillings for you;” for I did not care for the money.

“Six what?” says he.

“Six shillings, fellow,” shrieks Jemmy, “and twice as much as your fare.”

“Feller, marm!” says this insolent coachman. “Feller yourself, marm: do you think I’m a-going to kill my horses, and break my precious back, and bust my carriage, and carry you, and your kids, and your traps for six hog?” And with this the monster dropped his hat, with my money in it, and doubling his fist put it so very near my nose that I really thought he would have made it bleed. “My fare’s heighteen shillings,” says he, “hain’t it?— hask hany of these gentlemen.”

“Why, it ain’t more than seventeen-and-six,” says one of the fourteen porters; “but if the gen’l’man IS a gen’l’man, he can’t give no less than a suffering anyhow.”

I wanted to resist, and Jemmy screamed like a Turk; but, “Holloa!” says one. “What’s the row?” says another. “Come, dub up!” roars a third. And I don’t mind telling you, in confidence, that I was so frightened that I took out the sovereign and gave it. My man and Jemmy’s maid had disappeared by this time: they always do when there’s a robbery or a row going on.

I was going after them. “Stop, Mr. Ferguson,” pipes a young gentleman of about thirteen, with a red livery waistcoat that reached to his ankles, and every variety of button, pin, string, to keep it together. “Stop, Mr. Heff,” says he, taking a small pipe out of his mouth, “and don’t forgit the cabman.”

“What’s your fare, my lad?” says I.

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