Ah! the last carpet-bag is in; the bell rings, the bad language partially ceases, the mooring ropes are cast off, and the fussy old animal is allowed to have her own way. The philosophic tourist finds his companions of the train. The tutor is curled up under the table in the cabin, which is full of sleepers, lying about in every direction like great flies who have over-eaten themselves. The distinguished foreigners have already become pale even at the tranquil heaving of the harbour tide. The hook-and-eye man and the boy are smoking infamous cheroots, drinking neat cognac, and making pointless jokes in a loud voice to the steward. We are outside the pier. Your correspondent has no emotions. He sees the cliffs of Albion diminish without a sigh--a regret. He does not feel the poetry of the situation. He omits to quote _Childe Harold_ to a gentleman's servant who kindly helps him on with a third great-coat. He is perhaps brutal; yet he is not without some remains of human sentiment. The greatest pleasure man can enjoy is to contemplate the misfortunes of others. Accordingly, he visits the sick. The cabin has become a hospital--a Pandemonium. To stay there is impossible, he returns to the deck. Alas! the furry exiles are paying a bitter tribute to the ocean. The happier ancients could propitiate NEPTUNE with a horse. Now-a-days he has a fancy for human sacrifices, and will only lie appeased by a portion of ourselves. HOOKS-AND-EYES has lost his disposition to joke, regrets the brandy, curses the cheroot, and sits down in gloomy silence. The youngster is jollier than ever, and chaffs his discomfited friend, whom he pronounces in private an awful snob.