The desperate thought flashed upon me of opening the door and escaping into the darkness.  The carriage itself was so dimly lighted that I could barely see the face of my opposite neighbor, and I therefore hoped to be able to slip out without any one perceiving it.  The attempt was desperate, but so was the situation.  The officer was buried in the passports, holding them near his face to catch the dim light.  The door was fastened upon the outside, and so, watching him, I leaned far out of the window until I was able to reach the catch and unfasten the door.  A slight push, and it swung noiselessly open.  I glanced at the officer:  he was intently reading the last passport.  I had placed one foot upon the outside step, and was about to glide out into the darkness, when he laid the paper down and looked directly at me.

It would have been madness to attempt an escape with his eyes upon me; so, assuming as nonchalant a look as my present feelings would allow, I answered his inquiring glance with one of confident assurance.

He saw my nonchalant expression.  He saw the open pocket-book in my hand.  He had not counted the number of passports.  All the passengers were settling themselves to sleep.  It must be all right; so, with a polite “Bon soir, messieurs!” he bowed and left the carriage.  My sensation of relief may be better imagined than described.  Hardly had he left our carriage when we heard the sound of voices and hurrying feet upon the platform, and looking out saw some unfortunate individual carried off under guard.  I trembled as I thought how narrowly I had escaped his fate.  In a few moments, however, we were safely on our way to Geneva, and as we sped on into the darkness, while congratulating myself upon my fortunate escape, I firmly resolved to be better prepared for the emergency the next time I should hear those memorable words, “Passports, gentlemen!”

A.H.

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

THE CORNWALLIS FAMILY.

The death was lately announced of two of the last survivors—­only one of the name is now left—­of a family whose chief played a very conspicuous, and for himself unfortunate, part in this country a century ago—­the marquis Cornwallis.  His only son, who married a daughter of the celebrated match-making duchess of Gordon, left no male issue, but five daughters.  Two of them, the countess of St. Germans—­wife of the earl who accompanied the prince of Wales on his visit here—­and Lady Braybrook, died some years ago; and recently Lady Mary Ross, whose husband edited the correspondence of the first marquis, and Lady Louisa, who never married, have also gone to their graves.

The family of Cornwallis is very ancient, and can point to many distinguished members.  Its ancestral seat is at Brome, in Suffolk.  This is a fine old mansion, and the hall, which is very lofty and open to the roof, is an excellent specimen of the work of other days.  The chapel contains capital oak carving.  In the village church there are monuments worth notice of the family.