business to watch your pet boxes, marked, it
may be, "with care," forming part of an
avalanche of luggage crashing down a wooden
slide on to the wet deck. But these are minor
difficulties, and may occur under many other
circumstances. It is when the boat clears the
pier-head and takes that first convulsive leap
at the bar, like a buck-jumping horse at an
unexpected hurdle, that you may look for the
commencement of your real troubles. You, Mr.
Reader, are travelling with Mr. Writer and
Mr. Friend. It has long been notorious to
Mr. Writer's family and friends that he has a
gift of becoming sea-sick on the shortest
provocation. It accordingly affords you no surprise
to find your friend diving hurriedly into the cabin,
obviously surrendering himself to his fate. But,
if it so happen that you are strange to the
boats appropriated to the service of the South
Eastern Railway, it will surprise you to see
him very shortly tumble up-stairs again with
horror depicted on his pale face; and you
will be astonished to see him cast himself
down in the rain by the side of Mr. Friend,
who, equally sea-sick but more knowing, has
not attempted the cabin. A sniff—one sniff
will prove the fact— down the cabin stairs, will
explain all. The Black Hole of Calcutta
would have had few terrors for an acclimatised
steward of a Channel boat. Perhaps, being
yourself a good sailor, you are prepared to
enjoy the passage? No expectation could be
more fallacious! The narrow boat, built for
speed alone, is driven through, not over, the
tumbling, chopping waves of the Channel; and
takes whole seas aboard at every pitch and roll.
Add the driving spray, and from being wet
through there is no escape. The cabin is already
crammed with victims, too miserably
ill to be conscious of the villanous atmosphere
they breathe, and there would be no getting
into it even if you wished. You must stay
on deck exposed to the tender mercies of the
weather. In all directions are ladies, prone
and prostrate, vainly endeavouring to protect
themselves with shawls, or rugs, or oilskin
garments, lent (for a consideration) by the crew,
who drive a brisk and profitable trade in such
articles. Clothes are spoilt, tempers suffer,
and a dripping and moody band emerge on the
Folkestone pier. The two hours' railway
journey up to town, with salt water sticky in
your hair, stiffening your clothes, and running
out at the cuffs of your many coats; with evil
suggestions of stale cabin pervading your
fellow-travellers; and somebody in a middle seat
becoming retrospectively ill on peppermint
drops, and plunging at the window, is a
weariness to the flesh. The excellent general
arrangements and the marvellous punctuality of
the run between Paris and London, stand a
great chance of being forgotten in the
remembrance of the horrors and discomforts of the
middle passage.

In dry weather it is not so bad; but, even
in dry weather, if there be any sea on (and the
vexed waters of the Channel, like the course
of true love, rarely run smooth) to remain on
deck is to be drenched with spray, while to go
below is as repugnant to the mind of any one
with even rudimentary ideas of cleanliness and
ventilation, in dry weather as in wet. It is
amazing that while the land service improves so
much and so steadily (a little more liberality in
some of the train arrangements on the French
side, being now almost all that can be asked
for), the sea arrangements should remain
absolutely barbarous. Except in the matters,
important enough no doubt, of speed and safety,
the Channel steamboats are as far behind the
age, and the requirements of the service on
which they are employed, as if they were so
many Margate hoys.

In a greater or less degree the Boulogne and
Folkestone passage is representative of all,
with one strong point in its favour. It is the
shortest.

It would seem, on the face of the case, that
the remedy for this disagreeable state of things
is simple. The employment of larger and more
commodious steamers seems the first thing to
ask for. Unfortunately, the greater number of
the Channel harbours on either side, are not
suited for the reception of very large vessels;
and, to combine comfort with the high rate of
speed which the travelling public has learned
to insist upon, steamers of considerable size
would be necessary. This consideration would
shelve the whole question with many people.
They would be satisfied to go on with the
existing system, however wretched, comforting
themselves with the reflection that there
is no help for it, and that people whose business
or pleasure leads them across the Channel,
must make the best of what they can get
there.

But there is another and an important point
to be considered: a point which, as it touches
the pocket, is likely to receive very respectful
attention from two great commercial
countries. Business men have long complained
sadly of the great cost attaching to the rapid
carriage of goods between France and England,
owing to the heavy extra expenses attendant
on transhipment. Experienced heads
have been laid together, to endeavour to devise
some scheme by which a continuous railway
service between London and Paris might be
secured. As in most cases where some great
change is involved, or where some strikingly
novel application of the arts of the engineer is
required, the general public has smiled rather
contemptuously on the suggestions made, and
has looked upon some of the schemes proposed
as purely visionary. But those whose business
it has been to discuss the question practically,
and who are well aware of the vast amount of
money that is yearly lost, not only in shipping
charges, but in actual damage to goods in the
various loadings and unloadings to which they
are subjected, are convinced that the time has
arrived when this important question must be
seriously taken in hand. Moreover: the passenger
traffic alone shows an increase sufficiently
great to warrant considerable improvements,
  even of a costly nature. It is, and has