The crossing had been calm as a lake. Even H.C., who would sooner brave
the tortures of a Spanish Inquisition than the ocean in its angry moods,
and who has occasionally landed after a rough passage in an expiring
condition: even H.C. was impatient to land and break his fast at the
liberal table of the Hôtel de France--very liberal in comparison with
the Hôtel Franklin. We had once dined at the table d'hôte of the
Franklin, and found it a veritable Barmecide's feast, from which we got
up far more hungry than we had sat down; a display so mean that we soon
ceased to wonder that only two others graced the board with ourselves,
and they, though Frenchmen, strangers to the place. The Hôtel de France
was very different from this; if it left something to be desired in the
way of refinement, it erred on the side of abundance.

Therefore, on landing this morning, we gave our lighter baggage in
charge of the porter of the hotel, who knew us well, and according to
his wont, gave us a friendly greeting. "Monsieur visite encore St.
Malo," said he, "et nous apporte le beau temps. Soyez le bienvenu!" This
was not in the least familiar--from a Frenchman.

[Illustration: ST. MALO.]

We went on to the custom-house, and as we had nothing to declare the
inspection was soon over. H.C. had left all his tea and cigars behind
him at the Waterloo Station, in a small hand-bag which he had put down
for a moment to record a sudden fine phrenzy of poetical inspiration.
Besides tea and cigars, the bag contained a copy of his beloved "Love
Lyrics," without which he never travels, and a bunch of lilies of the
valley, given him at the moment of leaving home by Lady Maria; an
amiable but æsthetical aunt, who lives on crystallised violets, and