me.  She suggested the house of an Irishwoman who lived in a court hard by.  I had no alternative.  The poor woman received me with tears.  Such was her emotion that I could not hesitate to trust her with my life:  Her son and daughter-in-law, who spent the day with her, were about returning home.  They lived in the suburbs, at the Surrey side.  They proposed to take me to their cottage, and I readily consented.  We got a coach and drove home.  The kindliest attentions were lavished on me by these people.  As soon as I arrived, I shaved and cleansed myself; no small task, considering that I had on a fortnight’s beard, and had rubbed my face over with soot and grease.

I had a shirt and clothes from my host, with whom, in my new trim, I sat down to a comfortable supper.  Early next morning he informed my friend of my arrival, and I was at once surrounded by several who would risk their lives for my safety.  I had by this time begun to regard many singular escapes of mine as preordained by Providence, and I ceased to feel much concern in my fate.  I cherished a presentiment of safety until it grew into a conviction, and acting on its assurance, I gave way to an unconcern that was quite inexplicable to those around me.  But one feeling of fear lingered with me:  it was lest Parker should add treason to cowardice, which certain ominous expressions that were said to fall from him, confirmed.  I otherwise felt so secure, and so thankful to my entertainers, that I would gratify their wishes to remain a day or two longer with them; but the tide answered so well—­the whole journey to Boulogne being by night, that I determined to avail myself of the opportunity.  I donned my clerical costume, got me a sleek wig, folded a stole round my breviary, and with Christian patience awaited the hour of departure.  I was to be accompanied to Paris by my young friend, who spoke the French language perfectly, and was well acquainted with the etiquette of the journey.  We entered the express train at London Bridge at half-past eight.  When it was just starting, my host, who had accompanied us, clung to the panel of the door, and warned me, with provoking warmth, to “write, write, as soon as I was safe.”  As the train drove off and his boisterous adieus died on my ear, I lost the last feeling of anxiety on my own account.  The carriage was full—­a German with a toothache—­two gossiping old bachelors—­a jolly English resident of the sunny south—­my friend and myself occupied the six seats.  However fluttered may be the hearts of the passengers, whatever may be the pressure of guilt, or fear, or remorse upon their souls, the heart of the mighty engine, on its fiery course, throbs only with one passion, namely how to outspeed the flight of time.  Our fellow-travellers conversed upon all subjects, and wished for my opinion upon each; but I was so reserved and pious, and my friend so ready and witty, and exuberant in his gaiety, that my obstinate silence was pardoned or forgotten.  We were able to make our way on board Her Majesty’s mail packet by the light of a clouded moon, then fast waning.  I did not trouble myself to learn the name of the boat, but she appeared endued with more than the speed of fire.  She flew over her allotted trip in one hour and three-quarters, and about two o’clock I set my foot on the free soil of the young Republic.