of the voyage. The stewards, always prompt, on board the "Gallia," were almost aggressively attentive as though to reproach us for going on shore from them so soon.

Outside Sandy Hook we took in a pilot, a grave bearded gentleman in a black frock coat, tall hat, and satin waistcoat, from one of the pretty pilot boats, the appearance of which in the distance was attended with a good deal of anxiety connected with a sum of money in the lottery, the ownership of which was determined by the figure on her mainsail. But the news the pilot brought us was startling, and engrossed every thought for the time. "Lord Beaconsfield is dead!" In an instant it was known all over the ship. Up to the time of the "Gallia" leaving Queenstown the bulletins had given ground for hope, indeed almost the assurance, that there was no great reason to fear a fatal termination to Lord Beaconsfield's illness, and one of us had received a letter from the best authority, expressing the belief that the critical period had been passed and that he might be expected to "pull through all right." The sad intelligence for a while overpowered all other interests. We had forgotten Europe for eight days, and now the voice which aroused us announced "Lord Beaconsfield is dead!" The various objects on the shores we were approaching or passing were for a time unnoticed. Among our little party were men of different phases of political feeling, but on one point they were all agreed—that England had lost a great minister, and the world one of the most brilliant and original statesmen of the age. Even amongst Americans, who might not be expected to have much sympathy for the loss of a statesmen of his Imperial stamp, much regret was expressed for Lord Beaconsfield's death. "I doubt, sir," said one of them, "if he could have done it in our country. I guess his novels would have prevented it, even if he could have got over being a Jew. We cannot run politics and literature together as you can—that's a fact. The writers who get places don't amount to much—ministers and consuls, and that sort of thing, abroad. To succeed they must take to the one line or the other."

The Health Officer's boat came alongside with friends at the Quarantine Ground, and Judge Pierrepoint, formerly United States Minister at the Court of St. James's, boarded the "Gallia" to welcome the Duke of Sutherland, whose guest he had been at Dunrobin Castle, and to claim the fulfilment of the Duke's promise given in London to dine with him in New York.

In one sense the attachment of Americans to the land of their birth or adoption is generally intense; our fellow-passengers gazed on the shore with delight. "You have before you, sir," said a gentleman alongside, as I leant over the bulwarks, "the most beautiful bay in the world!" "The most beautiful bay in the world"! I wonder how many places there are of that description? Several I know of in Ireland and in Scotland, some in England, a few in the Mediterranean; and others there are in Indian and Chinese seas, right away to California, north and south, and east and west, and in all the isles of the ocean. But, certainly, the approach to the great city enthroned on the Hudson, with its wide-stretching arms of river and commingling sea, is very fine, and, although the scenery around it is not of the very highest order of beauty, New York is grandly placed.

Well! though Sir Walter may have put the thought into very exalted verse, most of us have felt the sensation he describes, and it does not require a very remarkable or ancient pedigree among the nations to cause a country to be beloved of its people. Woman, however, was occupied at that particular moment on board the "Gallia" in devising means to evade the inquisitorial search of the myrmidons of Uncle Sam's Custom House, and to reduce the amount of her contributions to the Imperial Exchequer—for a Republic can be Imperial, I presume—to the lowest possible figure.

The manners of the Custom House officers were exceedingly bland, and so were their customs as far as our baggage was concerned, because they passed it with the greatest readiness on nominal parole, and I may now declare that there was not in the whole lot a single article subject to the smallest duty. But there was a fair and charming lady who was returning with the purchased plunder of, I dare say, the best milliners and dressmakers in the capitals of Europe, and on these treasures there would be heavy duty to pay. Feminine sagacity, aided by masculine depravity, enabled her to achieve a triumph in which most of the outside accomplices rejoiced exceedingly. "Mrs. A., I see you have twenty-two packages marked; have you anything to declare?" Mrs. A. smiled, blushed, and with downcast eyes said, "Yes, sir; I have got some lace, silk, and other things of the kind in box No. 4." "We will search box No. 4, if you please, ma'am." The keys were produced, the articles duly examined and assessed, and the twenty-one unexamined boxes were marked with the sign of customs emancipation. The box which was examined contained, as the lady declared subsequently when she got on shore, the smallest number of articles liable to duty of the whole number; the others were crammed with them!

I shall not attempt to describe the approaches to New York and the various objects on shore—the towering Elevators and the antithetical beauties of the New Jersey hills; the monumental piles of the mammoth hotels on Coney Island—"where," whispers my American, "from 50,000 to 60,000 people go for dinner every day during the season. Why, if they spend but 50 cents each, that's £5,000 to £6,000 a day of your money! Just see!"—but suppose we have worked up the river, and are sidling in to our berth through the flotillas of the white-sailed coasters and the huge walking-beam steamers crowded with people, which impress new-comers perhaps more than any other novelty.

CHAPTER II.
NEW YORK.

Friends on shore—The landing—First impressions—Brevoort House—The interviewers—Aspect of the streets—1861 and 1881—Cockades and armorial bearings—The Union League Club—The Fire Brigade.

As the "Gallia" neared the Cunard wharf a mass of upturned faces was visible on shore with eyes fixed on the steamer to detect friends. "There is Jack!" "I see Lucy." "There is Sam!" and so on. And, indeed, there was "Sam" ready to greet us, and the "desiderium tam cari capitis" was gratified by the appearance of its valued owner. It was over twenty years ago since I first landed at this very wharf on a bright March morning in 1861, and there were some men living whom I longed to see once more, despite the change which had been wrought in their faith, and the time which had elapsed and separated our lives. The States were then unconsciously preparing for the tremendous conflict which burst on the world so suddenly. New York was divided into two camps, in one of which was concentrated most of the ability, culture, wealth, and political knowledge of the State, and into that I was thrown on my arrival. I speedily found out there was another and a tremendous power which commanded "les gros bataillons" arrayed on the other side. The decks were now soon thronged with visitors and friends, and passengers mistaken for the Duke enjoyed the intoxication of a brief ovation till the imposture was discovered. There was the leave-taking—the civility which costs so little, and is so agreeable, giving even the misanthrope a kindly impression of human nature escaping from shipboard—the telling off, with all their bags,