The little steamer made several trips between the ship and the shore, and they availed themselves of its accommodation to land. Terrace after terrace they ascended the picturesque heights of the town until they reached the highest point—“Spy Hill,”—from which they enjoyed a magnificent bird’s-eye view of the sea and land—the broad expanse of the channel; the harbor, with its abrupt headlands and its countless shipping; its shores, with their beautiful trees and elegant villas; and the rolling countries beyond. They spent the morning in walking about amid the charming scenery, until little Lenny, having tired his own legs and everybody else’s arms, got hungry and sleepy, and ordered his biggers to give him something to eat and to put him to bed. Then they went down to the village, entered a pastry-cook’s shop, and got a light luncheon; and, next, they hired a boat to take them back to their ship. They found that they had no time to lose, for she was getting up her steam to start again; and, if they had not hastened, they might have been left behind. The steamer sailed at four o’clock that afternoon; but she encountered rough weather in the channel, so that it was nearly dark the next day when she reached Liverpool. And now our party felt the inconvenience of having so much baggage. They were anxious to hasten on to London. They could see Liverpool at any future time before their return home; but they wished to reach London soon enough to enjoy the last few remaining weeks of the season, and, above all, to be in time to see the “Derby,” which was to come off in two days. There was a train to start at six that evening, and if they could have caught it, they might have reached London by twelve midnight, in time for a good night’s rest. And if it had not been for their great quantity of baggage, they could have done so; but they had twenty-one trunks to be inspected by the custom-house officers, and had also to wait their turn to be attended to. There is much grumbling at these functionaries; but for my part, I have found them always courteous—doing their ungracious duty with as much forbearance as they could conscientiously exercise. “You have made us lose the train. We wished to go up to London by the six o’clock express,” growled General Lyon, as the officer on duty came up at length to examine the luggage. “Very sorry, sir; but it could not be helped. There is a parliamentary goes at ten.” “‘A parliamentary?’ What the deuce is a ‘parliamentary?’” The man looked up in surprise at this traveler’s ignorance, yet scarcely knew how to enlighten him on so simple a subject; for the most obvious things are often the most difficult of explanation to those that do not understand them. “What the mischief is the parliamentary?” again inquired the General. The officer looked up from the open trunk before which he was kneeling, and answered, slowly: “Well, sir, the parliamentary is——the parliamentary, you know.” “Humph!”