"How mother, when we used to stun Her head wi' all our noisy fun, Did wish us all a-gone from home; But now that some be dead and some Be gone, and, oh, the place is dumb, How she do wish wi' useless tears To have again about her ears The voices that be gone!" We have passed Cologne; have passed Brussels; have passed Calais and Dover; have passed London; we are drawing near home.

How refreshing sounds the broad voice of the porters at Dover! Squeamish as I am, after an hour and three-quarters of a nice, short, chopping sea, the sight of the dear green-fustian jackets, instead of the slovenly blue blouses across-Channel, goes nigh to revive me.

Adieu, O neatly aquiline, broad-shaved French faces! Welcome, O bearded Britons, with your rough-hewn noses! To avoid the heat of the day, we go down from London by a late afternoon train.

It is evening when, almost _before_ the train has stopped, I insist on jumping out at our station.

Imagine if through some accident we were carried on to the next by mistake! Such a thing has never happened in the annals of history, but still it _might_.
Sir Roger has some considerable difficulty in hindering me from shaking hands with the whole staff of officials.