“Eh! that’s the way they come it,” whispers a Cockney to his friend. “That ere chap gets a berth before us all.” “I beg your pardon, sir,” says the baronet mildly, “I took mine three days ago.” “Oh! I didn’t mean anything,” stammers out the other, and sneaks off. “Laura-Mariar--where’s Laurar?” calls out a shrill voice from the aft- cabin. “Here, Ma,” replies a pretty girl, who is arranging her ringlets at a glass, much to the satisfaction of a young fellow in a braided frock, that stands gazing at her in the mirror with something very like a smile on his lip. There’s no mistaking that pair of dark-eyed fellows with aquiline noses and black ill-shaven beards--Hamburgh or Dutch Jews, dealers in smuggled lace, cigars, and Geneva watches, and occasionally small money-lenders. How they scan the company, as if calculating the profit they might turn them to! The very smile they wear seems to say, ‘_Comment c’est doux de tromper les Chrétiens_.’ But, holloa! there was a splash! we are moving, and the river is now more amusing than the passengers. I should like to see the man that ever saw London from the Thames; or any part of it, save the big dome of St. Paul’s, the top of the Monument, or the gable of the great black wharf inscribed with “Hodson’s Pale Ale.” What a devil of a row they do make. I thought we were into that fellow. See, here’s a wherry actually under our bow; where is she now? are they all lost already? No! there they go bobbing up and down, and looking after us, as if asking, why we didn’t sail over them. Ay! there comes an Indiaman, and that little black slug that ‘s towing her up against the stream, is one of the Tug Company’s craft; and see how all the others at anchor keep tossing and pitching about, as we pass by, like an awkward room full of company, rising at each new arrival. There’s Greenwich! a fine thing Greenwich. I like the old fellows that the first lord always makes stand in front, without legs or arms; a cheery sight: and there’s a hulk, or an hospital ship, or something of that kind. “That’s the Hexcellent,” saith a shrill voice behind me. “Ah! I know her, she’s a revenue cruizer.” Lord, what liars are the Cockneys! The plot thickens every moment; here come little bright green and gold things, shooting past, like dragon- flies skimming the water, steaming down to Gravesend. What a mob of parasols cover the deck, and what kissing of hands and waving of handkerchiefs to anonymous acquaintances nowhere. More steamers--here’s the “Boulogne boat,” followed by the Ostender, and there, rounding the reach, comes the Ramsgate; and a white funnel, they say, is the Cork packet; and yonder, with her steam escaping, is the Edinburgh, her deck crowded with soldiers. “Port--port it is--steady there--steady.” “Do you dine, sir!” quoth the steward to the pale gentleman. A faint “Yes,” “And the ladies too?” A more audible “No.” “I say, steward,” cries Sir Peter, “what’s the hour for dinner?”