At the door of the “Ship Hotel” the canary-coloured coach of Mr. Wright, the landlord, with four piebald horses, was in waiting for him to take his evening drive, and Mrs. Wright’s pony phaeton, with a neat tiger in a blue frock-coat and leathers, was also stationed behind to convey her a few miles on the London road.  Of course the equipages of such important personages could not be expected to move for a common stage-coach, consequently it pulled up a few yards from the door.  It is melancholy to think that so much spirit should have gone unrewarded, or in other words, that Mr. Wright should have gone wrong in his affairs.—­Mrs. Ramsbottom said she never understood the meaning of the term, “The Crown, and Bill of Rights (Wright’s),” until she went to Rochester.  Many people, we doubt not, retain a lively recollection of the “bill of Wright’s of Dover.”  But to our travellers.

“Now, sir! this be Dover, that be the Ship, I be the coachman, and we goes no further,” observed the amphibious-looking coachman, in a pea-jacket and top-boots, to Mr. Jorrocks, who still kept his seat on the box, as if he expected, that because they booked people “through to Paris,” at the coach office in London, that the vehicle crossed the Channel and conveyed them on the other side.  At this intimation, Mr. Jorrocks clambered down, and was speedily surrounded by touts and captains of vessels soliciting his custom. “Bonjour, me Lor’,” said a gaunt French sailor in ear-rings, and a blue-and-white jersey shirt, taking off a red nightcap with mock politeness, “you shall be cross.”  “What’s that about?” inquires Mr. Jorrocks—­“cross! what does the chap mean?” “Ten shillin’, just, me Lor’,” replied the man.  “Cross for ten shillings,” muttered Mr. Jorrocks, “vot does the Mouncheer mean?  Hope he hasn’t picked my pocket.”  “I—­you—­vill,” said the sailor slowly, using his fingers to enforce his meaning, “take to France,” pointing south, “for ten shillin’ in my bateau, me Lor,” continued the sailor, with a grin of satisfaction as he saw Mr. Jorrocks began to comprehend him.  “Ah!  I twig—­you’ll take me across the water.” said our citizen chuckling at the idea of understanding French and being called a Lord—­“for ten shillings—­half-sovereign in fact.”  “Don’t go with him, sir,” interrupted a Dutch-built English tar; “he’s got nothing but a lousy lugger that will be all to-morrow in getting over, if it ever gets at all; and the Royal George, superb steamer, sails with a King’s Messenger and dispatches for all the foreign courts at half-past ten, and must be across by twelve, whether it can or not.”  “Please take a card for the Brocklebank—­quickest steamer out of Dover—­wind’s made expressly to suit her, and she can beat the Royal George like winking.  Passengers never sick in the most uproarious weather,” cried another tout, running the corner of his card into Mr. Jorrocks’s eye to engage his attention.  Then came the captain