eek's trip
enough to last a century. My weakness, reader, is, I believe, a very
common one, i.e., a desire to have everything, and yet carry scarce
anything.

The difficulties of this arrangement are very perplexing to your
servant, if you have one, as in my case. First you put out every
conceivable article on the bed or floor, and then with an air of
self-denial you say, "There, that will be enough;" and when you find an
additional portmanteau lugged out, you ask with an air of astonishment
(which may well astonish the servant), "What on earth are you going to
do with that?" "To put your things into it, sir," is the very natural,
reply; so, after a good deal of "Confound it, what a bore," &c., it ends
in everything being again unpacked, a fresh lot thrown aside, and a new
packing commenced; and believe me, reader, the oftener you repeat this
discarding operation, the more pleasantly you will travel. I speak from
experience, having, during my wanderings, lost everything by shipwreck,
and thus been forced to pass through all the stages of quantity, till I
once more burdened myself as unnecessarily as at starting.

It was a lovely September morning in 1852, when, having put my traps
through the purging process twice, and still having enough for
half-a-dozen people, I took my place in the early train from
Euston-square for Liverpool, where I was soon housed in the Adelphi. A
young American friend, who was going out in the same steamer on the
following morning, proposed a little walk before the shades of evening
closed in, as he had seen nothing of the city. Off we started, full of
intentions never to be realized: I stepped into a cutler's shop to buy a
knife; a nice-looking girl in the middle of her teens, placed one or two
before me; I felt a nudge behind, and a voice whispered in my ear, "By
George, what a pretty hand!" It was perfectly true; and so convinced was
my friend of the fact, that he kept repeating it in my ear. When my
purchase was completed, and the pretty hand retired, my friend exhibited
symptoms of a strong internal struggle: it was too much for him. At last
he burst out with, "Have you any scissors?"--Aside to me, "What a pretty
little hand!"--Then came a demand for bodkins, then for needles, then
for knives, lastly for thimbles, which my friend observed were too
large, and begged might be tried on her taper fingers. He had become so
enthusiastic, and his asides to me were so rapid, that I believe he
wo