As Gingham appears more than once upon the stage in the course of my Peninsular adventures, and I should really be sorry to annoy the reader, as much as I was annoyed myself, with his perpetual and abominable perversions of classic latinity, I beg leave to dispose of this part of the subject at once, before we get to sea. Suffice it to say, then, that in the spring of the year 1838, just a quarter of a century after the period of which I am now writing, I once more left London for Falmouth, _en route_ to Lisbon, though with an object far different from that of my voyage now to be recorded, and in a far different capacity. Science, in these five-and-twenty years, had done wonders; and I had secured my passage in London, not by a miserable tub of a sailing packet, but by a well-found and fast Peninsular steamer. The day before the steamer was to start from Falmouth, I walked down to the water's side to take a view of her. On the quay stood Gingham. By one of those strange coincidences which sometimes happen in life, we had again met at Falmouth, and were again to cross the Bay of Biscay in company. I recognised him: he did not recognise me. Time had somewhat changed his look, his dress very little. Its predominant aspect was still white. His nose, too, was unmistakeable. Perceiving at once that he was, like myself, a passenger to the Peninsula, I availed myself of the freedom conceded in such cases, and commenced a conversation by some remark on the steamer. "I presume, sir," said he, "you are a passenger?" "Yes, Mr Gingham, and so are you. Glad to meet you." He stared, but admitted the fact. "But, sir," said he, "you have the advantage of me." "Well, well," said I, "you'll find me out to-morrow on board the Guadalquivir. Fine ship that. To-morrow, you know, as Horace said, when he was off by the steamer:-'Cras, ingins! iterabimus æquor!" The effect was instantaneous. Gingham did not speak, he shouted:--"Dine with me: I have got a john dory." We walked off to the town--I rubbing my shoulder, which Gingham shook, when he shook my hand--he, for a few paces, thoughtful and silent. I expected a burst of sentiment. "By the bye," said Gingham, "while your hand was in, you might just as well have quoted the _other_ line, for that, also, refers to our voyage." "The other line?" "Yes, the other line. Don't you see that pair of rooks flying over the harbour?" "Rooks fly in droves. I see no rooks." "Right," said he; "they are a couple of crows." "But the line from Horace, referring to our voyage?" "Not only referring to it," said Gingham, "but highly encouraging. 'Nil desperandum two crow duce, et auspice two crow." "Gingham, you are incorrigible."