Mrs. T. Do you know, uncle, we purpose crossing the Alps into Italy?
Crok. It was but yesterday I was reading of a party of six young Englishmen being buried beneath an avalanche on the great St. Bernard.
Todd. Buried—alive?
Crok. Alive.
Todd. B—b—but it don’t often happen, does it?
Crok. Continually, at this season. Ask Albert Smith; he knows:—and what is most distressing, they all leave large families—of creditors to deplore their loss.
Todd. I’m not naturally timid; but these things are sufficient to shake the stoutest heart.
Crok. Take my advice, Samuel, and stay in your own country. If you must travel—if you must go to the seaside—have you not Gravesend, Southend, and Mile-end?
Todd. Oh, but you know, if one never moves from one’s native shore, one might as well be born a muscle—or a barnacle!
Mrs. T. Besides, my dear uncle, it’s now too late to alter our arrangements. What would they say at Brompton if we went to Margate, with a passport for Naples?