after the great war by one Webster, an English laceman. It has grown
up, with broad stately streets, in which, it is said, some four or
five thousand Britons live and thrive. As you walk along you see the
familiar names, 'Smith and Co.,' 'Brown and Co.,' etc., displayed on
huge brass plates at the doors in true native style. Indeed, the whole
air of the place offers a suggestion of Belfast, these downright
colonists having stamped their ways and manners in solid style on the
place. Poor old original Calais had long made protest against the
constriction she was suffering; the wall and ditch, and the single
gate of issue towards the country, named after Richelieu, seeming to
check all hope of improvement. Reasons of state were urged. But a few
years ago Government gave way, the walls towards the country-side were
thrown down, the ditch filled up, and some tremendous 'navigator' work
was carried out. The place can now draw its breath.
On my last visit I had attended the theatre, a music-hall adaptable to
plays, concerts, or to 'les meetings.' It was a new, raw place, very
different from the little old theatre in the garden of Dessein's,
where the famous Duchess of Kingston attended a performance over a
hundred and twenty years ago. This place bore the dignified title of
the 'Hippodrome Theatre,' and a grand 'national' drama was going on,
entitled
'THE CUIRASSIER OF REICHSHOFEN.'
Here we had the grand tale of French heroism and real victory, which
an ungenerous foe persisted in calling defeat. A gallant Frenchman,
who played the hero, had nearly run his daring course, having done
prodigies of valour on that fateful and fatal day. The crisis of the
drama was reached almost as I entered, the cuirassier coming in with
his head bound up in a bloody towel! After relating the horrors of
that awful charge in an impassioned strain, he wound up by declaring
that _'He and Death'_ were the only two left upon the field! It need
not be said there were abundant groans for the Germans and cheers for
the glorious Frenchmen.
Now at last down to the vessel, as the wheezy chimes give out that it
is close on two o'clock a.m. All seems dozing at 'Maritime Calais.'
The fishing-boats lie close together, interlaced in black network,
snoozing, as it were, after their labours. Afar off the little town
still maintains its fortress-like air and its picturesque aspect, the
dark central spires rising like shadows, the few lights twinkling. The
whole scene is deliciously tranquil. The plashing of the water seems
to invite slumber, or at least a temporary doze, to which the
traveller, after his long day and night, is justly entitled. How
strange those old days, when the exiles for debt abounded here! They
were in multitudes then, and had a sort of society among themselves in
this Alsatia. That gentleman in a high stock and a short-waisted
coat--the late Mr. Brummell surely, walking in this direction? Is he
pursued by this agitated crowd, hurrying after him with a low roaring,
like the sound of the waves?...
* * * * *
I am roused up with a start. What a change! The whole is alive and
bustling, black shadowy figures are hurrying by. The white-funnelled
steamer has come up, and is moaning dismally, eager to get away.
Behind is the long international train of illuminated chambers, fresh
from Paris and just come in, pouring out its men and women, who have
arrived from all quarters of the world. They stream on board in a
shadowy procession, laden with their bundles. Lower down, I hear the
_crashing_ of trunks discharged upon the earth! I go on board with
the rest, sit down in a corner, and recall nothing till I find myself
on the chill platform of Victoria Station--time, six o'clock a.m.
It was surely a dream, or like a dream!--a dream a little over thirty
hours long. And what strange objects, all blended and confused
together!--towers, towns, gateways, drawbridges, religious rites and
processions, pealing organs and jangling chimes, long dusty roads
lined with regimental trees, blouses, fishwomen's caps, _sabots_,
savoury and unsavoury smells, France dissolving into Belgium, Belgium
into France, France into Belgium again; in short, one bewildering
kaleidoscope! A day and two nights had gone, during all which time I
had been on my legs, and had travelled nigh six hundred miles! Dream
or no dream, it had been a very welcome show or panorama, new ideas
and sights appearing at every turn.
And here is my little _'orario'_:
O'clock.
1. Victoria, depart 5.0
2. Dover, arrive 7.0
" depart 10.0
3. Calais, arrive 12.44
" depart 1.0
4. Tournay, arrive 4.13
" depart 5.1
5. Orchies, arrive 6.8
" depart 6.29
6. Douai, arrive 7.6
" depart 10.8
7. Arras, arrive 10.52
" depart 11.17
8. Bethune, arrive 12.6
" depart 1.1
9. Lille, arrive 2.44
" depart 4.40
10. Comines, arrive 5.19
" depart 5.57
11. Ypres 6.42
12. Hazebrouck 7.50
13. Cassel 8.18
14. Bergues, arrive 9.6
" depart 10.4
15. St. Omer 11.37
16. Calais 12.14
17. Dover 4.0
18. Victoria 6.0
Time on journey 37 hours
This, of course, is more than a day, but it will be seen that eight
hours were spent on English soil, and certainly nearly twelve in
inaction.
THE END.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
[Illustration: PEARS' SOAP
A Specialty for Children]