_White Horse Cellar, Piccadilly, September 13th._--Here I arrived last night, and having neither time nor inclination to write during my journey, must note down occurrences now as well as I can recollect them before I start for Farringdon; the which done, adieu to pens, ink, and paper--at least for a time. On the morning of the 8th inst. I was punctually standing on the _trottoir_ in front of a villanous _tabagie_ in St Denis at six o’clock, William and my portmanteau beside me. The house was full of drunken, and therefore insolent, Flemish waggoners, and I had no inclination to enter. Our Noah’s Ark did not keep me long waiting for its arrival, although it tarried sufficiently when it did come. M. le Conducteur, a little man, but a most important one, wrapped in a brown greatcoat, a silk handkerchief round his throat, and his head covered by one of those grey linen forage-caps, descended from his airy perch on the roof with great gravity, and pulling out his way-bill, demanded of the _cabaretier_ where was the English Monsieur who was to be taken up at St Denis. I presented myself. The little man, scrutinising me from head to foot, “Vous avez un portmanteau, monsieur?” “Oui, monsieur.” “Où se trouvé-t-il donc?” “Le voilà, monsieur.” “_Le voilà?--quoi ceci?_” “Oui.” “Et vous appelez ceci un portmanteau? Sacre Dieu! mais c’est une malle que ça! Elle ne montera pas sur la diligence!” looking up at the insides, who had thrust their heads out of the window on hearing the row. “Sacre Dieu! cela _un portmanteau_!” and he began to swagger and fume and pester among the _saboted_, greasy night-capped gentry who stood by, enjoying exceedingly having a John Bull on the horns of a dilemma.