[Illustration: PRICE ONE SHILLING. 

CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY. ]

[Illustration]

 A DAY'S TOUR

 A Journey through France and Belgium

 BY

 _CALAIS, TOURNAY, ORCHIES, DOUAI, ARRAS, BETHUNE, LILLE, COMINES, YPRES, HAZEBROUCK, BERGUES, AND ST. OMER_

 WITH A FEW SKETCHES

 BY PERCY FITZGERALD

[Illustration]

 London CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1887

PREFACE. 

This trifle is intended as an illustration of the little story in'Evenings at Home' called 'Eyes and No Eyes, ' where the prudent boysaw so much during his walk, and his companion nothing at all. Travelling has become so serious a business from its labours andaccompaniments, that the result often seems to fall short of what wasexpected, and the means seem to overpower the end. On the other hand, a visit to unpretending places in an unpretending way often producesunexpected entertainment for the contemplative man. Some suchexperiment was the following, where everything was a surprise becauselittle was expected. The epicurean tourist will be facetious on theloss of sleep and comfort, money, etc. ; but to a person in good healthand spirits these are but trifling inconveniences. 

 ATHENÆUM CLUB, _August, 1887_. 

CONTENTS. 

 I. IN TOWN

 II. DOVER

 III. THE PACKET

 IV. CALAIS

 V. TOURNAY

 VI. DOUAI

 VII. ARRAS

 VIII. LILLE

 IX. YPRES

 X. BERGUES

 XI. ST. OMER

 XII. ST. PIERRE LES CALAIS

A DAY'S TOUR. 

I. 

_IN TOWN. _

It is London, of a bright sultry August day, when the flags seemscorching to the feet, and the sun beats down fiercely. It has yet acertain inviting attraction. There is a general air of bustle, and theprovincial, trundled along in his cab, his trunks over his head, looksout with a certain awe and sense of delight, noting, as he skirts thePark, the gay colours glistening among the dusty trees, the figuresflitting past, the riders, the carriages, all suggesting a foreigncapital. The great city never looks so brilliant or so stately as onone of these 'broiling' days. One calls up with a sort of wistfulnessthe great and picturesque cities abroad, with their grand streets andpalaces, ever a delightful novelty. We long to be away, to be crossingover that night--enjoying a cool fresh passage, all troubles andmonotony left behind. 

On one such day this year--a Wednesday--these mixed impressions andlongings presented themselves with unwonted force and iteration. Sowistful and sudden a craving for snapping all ties and hurrying awaywas after all spasmodic, perhaps whimsical; but it was quickened bythat sultry, melting air of the parks and the tropical look of thestreets. The pavements seemed to glare fiercely like furnaces; therewas an air of languid Eastern enjoyment. The very dogs 'snoozed'pleasantly in shady corners, and all seemed happy as if enjoying aholiday. 

How delightful and enviable those families--the father, mother, andfair daughters, now setting off gaily with their huge boxes--whoto-morrow would be beside the ever-delightful Rhine, posting on toCologne and Coblentz. What a welcome ring in those names! Stale, hackneyed as it is, there comes a thrill as we get the first glimpseof the silvery placid waters and their majestic windings. Even thehotels, the bustle, and the people, holiday and festive, all seemnovel and gay. With some people this fairy look of things foreignnever 'stales, ' even with repetition. It is as with the illusions ofthe stage, which in some natures will triumph over the rudest, coarsest shocks. 

Well, that sweltering day stole by. The very cabmen on their 'stands'nodded in blissful dreams. The motley colours in the Park--a straycardinal-coloured parasol or two added to the effect--glinted behindthe trees. The image of the happy tourists in the foreign streets grewmore vivid. The restlessness increased every hour, and was not to be'laid. '

Living within a stone's-throw of Victoria Station, I find a strangeand ever new sensation in seeing the night express and its passengersstarting for foreign lands--some wistful and anxious, others supremelyhappy. It is next in interest to the play. The carriages are marked'CALAIS, ' 'PARIS, ' etc. It is even curious to think that, within threehours or so, they will be on foreign soil, among the French spires, sabots, blouses, gendarmes, etc. These are trivial and fancifulnotions, but help to fortify what one has of the little faiths oflife, and what one wise man, at least, has said: that it is thesmaller unpretending things of life that make up its pleasures, particularly those that come unexpectedly, and from which we hope butlittle. 

When all these thoughts were thus tumultuously busy, an odd _bizarre_idea presented itself. By an unusual concatenation, there was beforeme but a strictly-tightened space of leisure that could not beexpanded. Friday must be spent at home. This was Wednesday, alreadythree-quarters spent; but there was the coming night and the whole ofThursday. But Friday morning imperatively required that the travellershould be found back at home again. The whole span, the _irreduciblemaximum_, not to be stretched by any contrivance beyond about thirtyhours. Something could be done, but not much. As I thought of thestrict and narrow limits, it seemed that these were some preciousgolden hours, and never to recur again; the opportunity must beseized, or lost for ever! As I walked the sunshiny streets, imagesrose of the bright streets abroad, their quaint old towers, andtown-halls, and marketplaces, and churches, red-capped fisherwomen--allthis scenery was 'set, '--properties and decorations--and the foreignplay seemed to open before my eyes and invite me. 

There is an Eastern story of a man who dipped his head into a tub ofwater, and who there and then mysteriously passed through a longseries of events: was married, had children, saw them grow up, wastaken prisoner by barbarians, confined long in gaol, was finallytried, sentenced, and led out to execution, with the scimitar about todescend, when of a sudden--he drew his head out of the water. And lo!all these marvels had passed in a second! What if there were to bemagically crowded into those few hours all that could possibly beseen--sea and land, old towns in different countries, strange people, cathedrals, town-halls, streets, etc. ? It would be like some wild, fitful dream. And on the Friday I would draw my head, as it were, outof the tub. But it would need the nicest balancing and calculation, not a minute to be lost, everything to be measured and jointedtogether beforehand. 

There was something piquant in this notion. Was not life short? andprecious hours were too often wasted carelessly and dawdled away. Itmight even be worth while to see how much could be seen in these fewhours. In a few moments the resolution was taken, and I was walkingdown to Victoria, and in two hours was in Snargate Street, Dover. 

II. 

_DOVER. _

Dover has an old-fashioned dignity of its own; the town, harbour, ports, and people seem, as it were, consecrated to packets. There isan antique and reverend grayness in its old inns, old streets, oldhouses, all clustered and huddled into the little shelteredamphitheatre, as if trying to get down close by their pride, thepackets. For centuries it has been the threshold, the _hall-door_, ofEngland. It is the last inn, as it were, from which we depart to seeforeign lands. History, too, comes back on us: we think of 'expresses'in fast sloops or fishing-boats; of landings at Dover, and taking postfor London in war-time; how kings have embarked, princessesdisembarked--all in that awkward, yet snug harbour. A most curiouselement in this feeling is the faint French flavour reachingacross--by day the white hills yonder, by night the glimmering lightson the opposite coast. The inns, too, have a nautical, seaport air, running along the beach, as they should do, and some of the older oneshaving a bulging stern-post look about their lower windows. Even thefrowning, fortress-like coloured pile, the Lord Warden, thrusts itsshoulders forward on the right, and advances well out into the sea, asif to be the first to attract the arrivals. There is a quaint relish, too, in the dingy, old-fashioned marine terrace of dirty tawny brick, its green verandas and _jalousies_, which lend quite a tropical air. Behind them, in shelter, are little dark squares, of a darker stone, with glimpses of the sea and packets just at the corners. Indeed, atevery point wherever there is a slit or crevice, a mast or somecordage is sure to show itself, reminding us how much we are of thepacket, packety. Ports of this kind, with all their people andincidents, seem to be devised for travellers; with their flaringlights, _up-all-night_ hotels, the railway winding through the narrowstreets, the piers, the stormy waters, the packets lying by all thepiers and filling every convenient space. The old Dover of Turner'swell-known picture, or indeed of twenty years ago, with its 'dumpy'steamers, its little harbour, and rude appliances for travel, was avery different Dover from what it is now. There was then no rollingdown in luxurious trains to an Admiralty Pier. The stoutest heartmight shrink, or at least feel dismally uncomfortable, as he foundhimself discharged from the station near midnight of a blowy, tempestuous night, and saw his effects shouldered by a porter, whom hewas invited to follow down to the pier, where the funnel of the'Horsetend' or Calais boat is moaning dismally. Few lights weretwinkling in the winding old-fashioned streets; but the near vicinityof ocean was felt uncomfortably in harsh blasts and whistling sounds. The little old harbour, like that of some fishing-place, offeredscarcely any room. The much-buffeted steamer lay bobbing and springingat its moorings, while a dingy oil-lamp marked the gangway. Acomforting welcome awaited us from some old salt, who uttered thecheering announcement that it was 'agoin' to be a roughish night. '

On this night there was an entertainment announced at the 'Rooms, ' andto pass away the time I looked in. It was an elocutionist one, entitled 'Merry-Making Moments, or, Spanker's Wallet of Varieties, 'with a portrait of Spanker on the bills opening the wallet with anexpression of delight or surprise. This was his 'Grand CompetitionNight, ' when a 'magnificent goblet' was competed for by all comers, which I had already seen in a shop window, a blue ribbon reposing in_dégagé_ fashion across it. If a tumbler of the precious metal couldbe called a magnificent goblet--it was scarcely bigger--it deservedthe title. The poor operator was declaiming as I entered, inunmistakable Scotch, the history of 'Little Breeches, ' and giving itwith due pathos. I am bound to say that a sort of balcony which hungout at the end was well filled by the unwashed takers, or at leastdonees, of sixpenny tickets. There was a purpose in this, as will beseen. After being taken through 'The Raven, ' and 'The Dying Burglar, 'the competition began. This was certainly the most diverting portionof the entertainment, from its genuineness, the eagerness of thecompetitors, and their ill-disguised jealousy. There were fourcandidates. A doctor-looking man with a beard, and who had the aireither of reading familiar prayers to his household with good parsoniceffect, or of having tried the stage, uttered his lines with a verysuperior air, as though the thing were not in doubt. Better than he, however, was one, probably a draper's assistant, who competed with awild and panting fashion, tossing his arms, now raising, now droppinghis voice, and every _h_, too. But a shabby man, who looked as if hehad once practised tailoring, next stepped on the platform, and atonce revealed himself as the local poet. Encouraged by the generousapplause, he announced that he would recite some lines 'he 'ad wroteon the great storm which committed such 'avoc on hour pier. ' Therewere local descriptions, and local names, which always touched thetrue chord. Notably an allusion to a virtuous magnate then, I believe, at rest:

 'Amongst the var'ous noble works, It should be widely known, 'Twas WILLIAM BROWN' _(applause)_ 'that gave _this_ town The Dover's Sailors' 'OME!' _(applause)_. 

Need I say that when the votes came to be taken, this poet receivedthe cup? His joy and mantling smiles I shall not forget, though thedonor gave it to him with unconcealed disgust; it showed whatuniversal suffrage led to. The doctor and the other defeatedcandidates, who had been asked to retire to a private room during theprocess of decision, were now obliged to emerge in mortifiedprocession, there being no other mode of egress. The doctor's face wasa study. The second part was to follow. But it was now growing late, and time and mail-packets wait for no man. 

III. 

_THE PACKET. _

As I come forth from the Elocution Contest, I find that night hasclosed in. Not a ripple is on the far-stretching blue waste. From thehigh cliffs that overhang the town and its amphitheatre can be seenthe faintly outlined harbour, where the white-chimneyed packet snoozesas it were, the smoke curling upwards, almost straight. The sea-airblows fresh and welcome, though it does not beat on a 'fevered brow. 'There is a busy hum and clatter in the streets, filled with soldiersand sailors and chattering sojourners. Now do the lamps begin totwinkle lazily. There is hardly a breath stirring, and the greatchalk-cliffs gleam out in a ghostly fashion, like mammoth wave-crests. 

As it draws on to ten o'clock, the path to the Admiralty Pier beginsto darken with flitting figures hurrying down past the fortress-likeLord Warden, now ablaze and getting ready its hospice for the night;the town shows itself an amphitheatre of dotted lights--while downbelow white vapours issue walrus-like from the sonorous'scrannel-pipes' of the steamer. Gradually the bustle increases, andmore shadowy figures come hurrying down, walking behind their baggagetrundled before them. Now a faint scream, from afar off inland, behindthe cliffs, gives token that the trains, which have been tearingheadlong down from town since eight o'clock, are nearing us; while therailway-gates fast closed, and porters on the watch with green lamps, show that the expresses are due. It is a rather impressive sight towait at the closed gates of the pier and watch these two outward-boundexpresses arrive. After a shriek, prolonged and sustained, the greattrains from Victoria and Ludgate, which met on the way and became one, come thundering on, the enormous and powerful engine glaring fiercely, flashing its lamps, and making the pier tremble. Compartment aftercompartment of first-class carriages flit by, each lit up sorefulgently as to show the crowded passengers, with their rugs andbundles dispersed about them. It is a curious change to see thesolitary pier, jutting out into the waves, all of a sudden thuspopulated with grand company, flashing lights, and saloon-likesplendour--ambassadors, it may be, generals for the seat of war, greatmerchants like the Rothschilds, great singers or actors, princes, dukes, millionnaires, orators, writers, 'beauties, ' brides andbridegrooms, all ranged side by side in those cells, or _vis-à-vis_. That face under the old-fashioned travelling-cap may be that of aprime minister, and that other gentlemanly person a swindlingbank-director flying from justice. 

During the more crowded time of the travelling season it is notundramatic, and certainly entertaining, to stand on the deck of thelittle boat, looking up at the vast pier and platform some twenty orthirty feet above one's head, and see the flood of passengersdescending in ceaseless procession; and more wonderful still, thebaggage being hurled down the 'shoots. ' On nights of pressure this maytake nearly an hour, and yet not a second appears to be lost. Onegazes in wonder at the vast brass-bound chests swooping down andcaught so deftly by the nimble mariners; the great black-domed ladies'dress-baskets and boxes; American and French trunks, each with itsnational mark on it. Every instant the pile is growing. It seems likebuilding a mansion with vast blocks of stone piled up on each other. Hat-boxes and light leather cases are sent bounding down likefootballs, gradually and by slow degrees forming the mountain. 

What secrets in these chests! what tales associated with them! Bridaltrousseaux, jewels, letters, relics of those loved and gone; here thestately paraphernalia of a family assumed to be rich and prosperous, who in truth are in flight, hurrying away with their goods. Here, again, the newly bought 'box' of the bride, with her initials gaudilyemblazoned; and the showy, glittering chests of the Americans. 

There is a physiognomy in luggage, distinct as in clothes; and astrange variety, not uninteresting. How significant, for instance, ofthe owner is the weather-beaten, battered old portmanteau of thetravelling bachelor, embrowned with age, out of shape, yet stillstrong and serviceable!--a business-like receptacle, which, like him, has travelled thousands of miles, been rudely knocked about, weighed, carried hither and thither, encrusted with the badges of hotels as anold vessel is with barnacles, grim and reserved like its master, andnever lost or gone astray. 

Now the engines and their trains glide away home. The shadowy figuresstand round in crowds. To the reflecting mind there is somethingbewildering and even mournful in the survey of this huge agglomerationand of its owners, the muffled, shadowy figures, some three hundred innumber, grouped together, and who will be dispersed again in a fewhours. 

A yacht-voyage could not be more tranquilly delightful than thispleasant moonlight transit. We are scarcely clear of the twinklinglights of the Dover amphitheatre, grown more and more distant, whenthose of the opposite coast appear to draw near and yet nearer. Oftenas one has crossed, the sense of a new and strange impression is neverwanting. The sense of calm and silence, the great waste of sea, themonotonous 'plash' of the paddle-wheels, the sort of solitude in themidst of such a crowd, the gradually lengthening distance behind, withthe lessening, as gradual, in front, and the always novel feeling ofapproach to a new country--these elements impart a sort of dreamy, poetical feeling to the scene. Even the calm resignation of thewrapped-up shadows seated in a sort of retreat, and devoted to theirown thoughts or slumbers, add to this effect. With which comes thethought of the brave little vessels, which through day and night, yearafter year, dance over these uncertain waters in 'all weathers, ' as itis termed. When the night is black as Erebus, and the sea in its furyboiling and raging over the pier, the Lord Warden with itsstorm-shutters up, and timid guests removed to more shelteredquarters, the very stones of the pier shaken from their places by theviolence of the monster outside--the little craft, wrapping its mantleabout its head, goes out fearlessly, and, emerging from the harbour tobe flung about, battered with wild fury, forces her way on through thenight, which its gallant sailors call, with truth, 'an awful one. '

While busy with these thoughts I take note of a little scene ofcomedy, or perhaps of a farcical kind, which is going on near me, inwhich two 'Harrys' of the purest kind were engaged, and whose odditieslightened the tediousness of the passage. One had seen foreign parts, and was therefore regarded with reverence by his companion. 

They were promenading the deck, and the following dialogue was borneto me in snatches:

First Harry (interrogatively, and astonished): 'Eh? no! Now, really?'

Second Harry: 'Oh, Lord bless yer, yes! It comes quite easy, you know'(or 'yer know'). 'A little trouble at first; but, Lord bless yer'(this benediction was imparted many times during the conversation), 'it ain't such a difficult thing at all. '

I now found they were speaking of acquiring the French language--amatter the difficulty of which they thought had been absurdlyoverrated. Then the second Harry: 'Of course it is! Suppose you're ina Caffy, and want some wine; you just call to the waiter, and yousay--'

First Harry (who seems to think that the secret has already beencommunicated): 'Dear me; yes, to be sure--to be sure! I never thoughtof that. A Caffy?'

Second Harry: 'Oh, Lor' bless yer, it comes as easy as--that! Well, you go say to the fellow--just as you would say to an Englishwaiter--"_Don-ny maw_"--(pause)--"_dee Vinne_. "'

First Harry (amazed): 'So _that's_ the way! Dear, dear me! Vinne!'

Second Harry: 'O' course it is the way! Suppose you want yer way tothe railway, you just go ask for the "_Sheemin--dee--Fur_. " _Fur_, youknow, means "rail" in French--_Sheemin_ is "the road, " you know. '

Again lost in wonder at the simplicity of what is popularly supposedto be so thorny, the other Harry could only repeat:

'So that's it! What is it, again? _Sheemin_--'

_'Sheemin dee Fur. '_

Later, in the fuss and bustle of the 'eating hall, ' this 'Harry, ' moreobstreperous than ever by contact with the foreigners, again attractedmy attention. Everywhere I heard his voice; he was rampant. 

'When the chap laid hold of my bag, "Halloo, " says I; "hands off, oldboy, " says I. 

"'Eel Fo!" says he. 

'"Eel-pie!" says I. "Blow your _Fo_, " says I, and didn't he grin likean ape? I declare I thought I'd have split when he came again with his"_Eel Fo_!"'

He was then in his element. Everything new to him was 'a guy, ' or 'sorum, ' or 'the queerest go you ever. ' One of the two declared that, 'inall his experience and in all his life he had never heard sich a lingoas French;' and further, that 'one of their light porters atBucklersbury would eat half a dozen of them Frenchmen for a bender. '

This strange, grotesque dialogue I repeat textually almost; and, itmay be conceived, it was entertaining in a high degree. _'Sheemin deeFur'_ was the exact phonetic pronunciation, and the whole scenelingers pleasantly in the memory. 

IV. 

_CALAIS. _

But it is now close on midnight, and we are drawing near land; the eyeof the French _phare_ grows fiercer and more glaring, until, close onmidnight, the traveller finds the blinding light flashed full on him, as the vessel rushes past the wickerwork pier-head. One or two beings, whose unhappy constitution it is to be miserable and wretched at thevery whisper of the word 'SEA, ' drag themselves up from below, rejoicing that here is CALAIS. Beyond rises the clustered townconfined within its walls. As we glide in between the friendly arms ofthe openwork pier, the shadowy outlines of the low-lying town takeshape and enlarge, dotted with lamps as though pricked over withpin-holes. The fiery clock of the station, that sits up all night fromyear's end to year's end; the dark figures with tumbrils, and a straycoach waiting; the yellow gateway and drawbridge of the fortress justbeyond, and the chiming of _carillons_ in a wheezy fashion from theold watch-tower within, make up a picture. 

[Illustration: HOGARTH'S GATE (CALAIS)]

[Illustration: HALL OF THE STAPLE, (Calais)]

Such, indeed, it used to be--not without its poetry, too; but the oldCalais days are gone. Now the travellers land far away down the pier, at the new-fangled 'Calais Maritime, ' forsooth! and do not evenapproach the old town. The fishing-boats, laid up side by side alongthe piers, are shadowy. It seems a scene in a play. The great sea isbehind us and all round. It is a curious feeling, thinking of thenervous unrest of the place, that has gone on for a century, and thatwill probably go on for centuries more. Certainly, to a person who hasnever been abroad, this midnight scene would be a picture not withouta flavour of romance. But such glimpses of poetry are held intrusivein these matter-of-fact days. 

There is more than an hour to wait, whilst the passengers gorge in thehuge _salle_, and the baggage is got ashore. So I wander away up tothe town. 

How picturesque that stroll! Not wholly levelled are the old yellowwalls; the railway-station with its one eye, and clock that neversleeps, opens its jaws with a cheerful bright light, like an inn fire;dark figures in cowls, soldiers, sailors, flit about; curiously-shapedtumbrils for the baggage lie up in ordinary. Here is the old archedgate, ditch, and drawbridge; Hogarth's old bridge and archway, wherehe drew the 'Roast Beef of Old England. ' Passing over the bridge intothe town unchallenged, I find a narrow street with yellow houses--thewhite shutters, the porches, the first glance of which affects one socuriously and reveals France. Here is the Place of Arms in the centre, whence all streets radiate. What more picturesque scene!--the moonabove, the irregular houses straggling round, the quaint oldtown-hall, with its elegant tower, and rather wheezy but most musicalchimes; its neighbour, the black, solemn watch-tower, rising rude andabrupt, seven centuries old, whence there used to be strict look-outfor the English. Down one of these side streets is a tall building, with its long rows of windows and shutters and closed door(Quillacq's, now Dessein's), once a favourite house--the 'SilverLion, ' mentioned in the old memoirs, visited by Hogarth, and where, twenty years ago, there used to be a crowd of guests. Standing in thecentre, I note a stray roysterer issuing from some long-closed _café_, hurrying home, while the _carillons_ in their airy _rococo_-lookingtower play their melodious tunes in a wheezy jangle that isinteresting and novel. This chime has a celebrity in this quarter ofFrance. I stayed long in the centre of that solitary _place_, listening to that midnight music. 

It is a curious, not unromantic feeling, that of wandering about astrange town at midnight, and the effect increases as, leaving the_place_, I turn down a little by-street--the Rue de Guise--closed atthe end by a beautiful building or fragment, unmistakably English incharacter. Behind it spreads the veil of blue sky, illuminated by themoon, with drifting white clouds passing lazily across. This is theentrance to the Hôtel de Guise--a gate-tower and archway, pureTudor-English in character, and, like many an old house in the Englishcounties, elegant and almost piquant in its design. The arch isflanked by slight hexagonal _tourelles_, each capped by a pinnacledecorated with niches in front. Within is a little courtyard, andfragments of the building running round in the same Tudor style, butgiven up to squalor and decay, evidently let out to poor lodgers. This charming fragment excites a deep melancholy, as it is a neglectedsurvival, and may disappear at any moment--the French having littleinterest in these English monuments, indeed, being eager to effacethem when they can. It is always striking to see this on some tranquilnight, as I do now--and Calais is oftenest seen at midnight--and thinkof the Earl of Warwick, the 'deputy, ' and of the English wool-staplemerchants who traded here. Here lodged Henry VIII. In 1520; and twelveyears later Francis I. , when on a visit to Henry, took up his abode inthis palace. 

[Illustration: BELFRY, CALAIS. ]

Crossing the _place_ again, I come on the grim old church, built bythe English, where were married our own King Richard II. And Isabelleof Valois--a curious memory to recur as we listen to the 'high mass'of a Calais Sunday. But the author of 'Modern Painters' has furnishedthe old church with its best poetical interpretation. 'I cannot findwords, ' he says in a noble passage, ' to express the intense pleasure Ihave always felt at first finding myself, after some prolonged stay inEngland, at the foot of the tower of Calais Church. The large neglect, the noble unsightliness of it, the record of its years, written sovividly, yet without sign of weakness or decay; its stern vastness andgloom, eaten away by the Channel winds, and overgrown with bittersea-grass. I cannot tell half the strange pleasures and thoughts thatcome about me at the sight of the old tower. ' Most interesting of allis the grim, rusted, and gaunt watch-tower, before alluded to, whichrises out of a block of modern houses in the _place_ itself. It can beseen afar off from the approaching vessel, and until comparativelylate times this venerable servant had done the charity of lighthousework for a couple of centuries at least. 

But one of the pleasantest associations connected with the town wasthe old Dessein's Hotel, which had somehow an inexpressiblyold-fashioned charm, for it had a grace like some disused château. Some of the prettiest passages in Sterne's writings are associatedwith this place. We see the figures of the monk, the well-known host, the lady and the _petit-maître_: to say nothing of the old_désobligeante_. Even of late years it was impossible to look at theold building, which remained unchanged, without calling up the imageof Mr. Sterne, and the curious airy conversation--sprinkled with whatexecrable French both in grammar and spelling!--that took place at thegate. An air of the old times pervaded it strongly: it was likeopening an old _garde de vin_. You passed out of the _place_ and foundyourself in the Rue Royale--newly named Rue Leveux--and there, Dessein's stood before you, with its long yellow wall, archway andspacious courts, on each side a number of quaint gables or _mansardes_, sharp-roofed. Over the wall was seen the foliage of tall and handsometrees. There is a coloured print representing this entrance, with themeeting of the 'little master' and the lady--painted by Leslie--andwhich gives a good idea of the place. In the last century the courtyardused to be filled with posting-carriages, and the well-known _remise_lay here in a corner. Behind the house stretched large, well-stockedgardens, with which the guests at the hotel used to be recreated;while at the bottom of the garden, but opening into another street, was the theatre, built by the original Dessein, belonging to the hotel, and still used. This garden was wild and luxuriant, the birds singing, while the courtyard was dusty and weed-grown. 

This charming picture has ever been a captivating one for thetraveller. It seemed like an old country-house transferred to town. There was something indescribable in the tranquil flavour of theplace, its yellow gamboge tint alternated with green vineries, itsspacious courtyard and handsome chambers. It was bound up withinnumerable old associations. Thackeray describes, with an almostpoetical affection and sympathy, the night he spent there. He calledup the image of Sterne in his 'black satin smalls, ' and talked withhim. They used to show his room, regularly marked, as I have seen it, 'STERNES'S ROOM, NO. 31, ' with its mezzotint, after SirJoshua, hung over the chimney-piece. But this tradition received ashock some sixty years since. An inquisitive and sceptical travellerfancied he saw an inscription or date lurking behind the vine-leavesthat so luxuriantly covered the old house, and sent up a man on aladder to clear away the foliage. This operation led to the discoveryof a tablet, dated two years too late for the authenticity of thebuilding in which 'Sterne's room' was. The waiter, however, in nowisedisconcerted, said the matter could be easily 'arranged' by selectinganother room in an unquestioned portion of the building! To make up, however, there was a room labelled 'SIR WALTER SCOTT'S ROOM, ' withhis portrait; and of this there could be no reasonable question. 

 +------+ | AD | | 1770 | +------+

In later years it did not flourish much, but gently decayed. Everything seemed in a state of mild sleepy abandonment and decay tillabout the year 1861, when the Desseins gave over business. The town, much straitened for room, and cramped within its fortifications, hadlong been casting hungry eyes on this spacious area. Strange to say, even in the prosaic pages of our own 'Bradshaw, ' the epitaph of 'oldDessein's' is to be read among its advertisements:

 'CALAIS. 

 'HÔTEL DESSEIN. --L. Dessein, the proprietor, has the honour to inform his numerous patrons, and travellers in general, that after the 1st of January his establishment will be transferred to the Hôtel Quillacq, which has been entirely done up, and will take the name of HÔTEL DESSEIN. The premises of the old Hôtel Dessein having been purchased by the town of Calais, it ceases to be an Hôtel for Travellers. '

Still, in this new function it was 'old Dessein's, ' and you were shown'Sterne's room, ' etc. I recall wandering through it of a holiday, surveying the usual museum specimens--the old stones, invariablespear-heads, stuffed animals; in short, the usual rather heterogeneouscollection, made up of 'voluntary contributions, ' prompted half by thevanity of the donor and half by his indifference to the objectspresented. We had not, indeed, the 'old pump' or the parish stocks, asat Little Pedlington, but there were things as interesting. Here werea few old pictures given by the Government, and labelled in writing;the car of Blanchard's balloon, and a cutting from a newspaperdescribing his arrival; portraits of the 'Citizen King' in his whitetrousers; ditto of Napoleon III. , name pasted over; the flagstone, with an inscription, celebrating the landing of Louis XVIII. , removedfrom the pier--in deference to Republican sensitiveness--no doubt tobe restored again in deference to monarchical feelings; and, ofcourse, a number of the usual uninteresting cases containing whitecards, and much cotton, pins, and insects, stuffed birds, andsymmetrically-arranged dried specimens, the invariable Indian gourds, and arrows, and moccasins, which 'no gentlemanly collection should bewithout. ' Never, during many a visit, did I omit wandering up to seethis pleasing, old, but ghostly memorial. It may be conceived what ashock it was when, on a recent visit, I found it gone--razed--cartedaway. I searched and searched--fancied I had mistaken the street; butno! it was gone for ever. During M. Jules Ferry's last administration, when the rage for 'Communal schools' set in, this tempting site hadbeen seized upon, the interesting old place levelled, and afactory-like red-brick pile rapidly erected in its place. It wasimpossible not to feel a pang at this discovery; I felt that Calaiswithout its Dessein's had lost its charm. Madame Dessein, agrand-niece or nearly-related descendant of _le grand Dessein_, stilldirects at Quillacq's--a pleasing old lady. 

There is still a half hour before me, while the gorgers in 'MaritimeCalais' are busy feeding against time; and while I stand in the_place_, listening to the wheezy old chimes, I recall a pleasantexcursion, and a holiday that was spent there, at the time when theannual _fêtes_ were being celebrated. Never was there a brighter day:all seemed to be new, and the very quintessence of what wasforeign--the gay houses of different heights and patterns were deckedwith streamers, their parti-coloured blinds, devices, and balconiesrunning round the _place_, and furnishing gaudy detail. Here thereused to be plenty of movement, when the Lafitte diligences wentclattering by, starting for Paris, before the voracious railwaymarched victoriously in and swallowed diligence, horses, postilions--bells, boots and all! The gay crowd passing across the_place_ was making for the huge iron-gray cathedral, quite ponderousand fortress-like in its character. Here is the grand _messe_ goingon, the Swiss being seen afar off, standing with his halbert under thegreat arch, while between, down to the door, are the crowdedcongregation and the convenient chairs. Overhead the ancient organ ispealing out with rich sound, while the sun streams in through thedim-painted glass on the old-fashioned costumes of the fish-women, just falling on their gold earrings _en passant_. There is a dreamyair about this function, which associated itself, in some strange way, with bygone days of childhood, and it is hard to think that about twoor three hours before the spectator was in all the prose of London. 

For those who love novel and picturesque memories or scenes, there arefew things more effective or pleasant to think of than one of theseSunday mornings in a strange unfamiliar French town, when everycorner, and every house and figure--welcome novelty!--are gay as thecostumes and colours in an opera. The night before it was, perhaps, the horrors of the packet, the cribbing in the cabin, the unutterablesqualor and roughness of all things, the lowest depth of hard, uglyprose, together with the rudest buffeting and agitation, and poignantsuffering; but, in a few hours, what a 'blessed' change! Now there isthe softness of a dream in the bright cathedral church crowded to thedoor, the rites and figures seen afar off, the fuming incense, themusic, the architecture!

During these musings the fiercely glaring clock warns me that time isrunning out; but a more singular monitor is the great lighthouse whichrises at the entrance of the town, and goes through its extraordinary, almost fiendish, performance all the night long. This is truly aphenomenon. Lighthouses are usually relegated to some pier-end, anddisplay their gyrations to the congenial ocean. But conceive a monsterof this sort almost _in_ the town itself, revolving ceaselessly, flashing and flaring into every street and corner of a street, likesome Patagonian policeman with a giant 'bull's-eye. ' A more singular, unearthly effect cannot be conceived. Wherever I stand, in shadow orout of it, this sudden flashing pursues me. It might be called the'Demon Lighthouse. ' For a moment, in picturesque gloom, watching theshadows cast by the Hogarthian gateway, I may be thinking of our greatEnglish painter sitting sketching the lean Frenchwomen, noting, too, the portal where the English arms used to be, when suddenly the 'DemonLighthouse' directs his glare full on me, describes a sweep, is gone, and all is dark again. It suggests the policeman going his rounds. Howthe exile forced to sojourn here must detest this obtrusive beacon ofthe first class! It must become maddening in time for the eyes. Evenin bed it has the effect of mild sheet-lightning. Municipality ofCalais! move it away at once to a rational spot--to the end of thepier, where a lighthouse ought to be. 

V. 

_TOURNAY. _

But now back to 'Maritime Calais, ' down to the pier, where a strangebusy contrast awaits us. All is now bustle. In the great 'hall'hundreds are finishing their 'gorging, ' paying bills, etc. , while onthe platform the last boxes and chests are being tumbled into thewaggons with the peculiar tumbling, crashing sound which is soforeign. Guards and officials in cloaks and hoods pace up and down, and are beginning to chant their favourite '_En voiture, messieurs_!'Soon all are packed into their carriages, which in France alwayspresent an old-fashioned mail-coach air with their protuberant bodiesand panels. By one o'clock the signal is given, the lights flashslowly by, and we are rolling away, off into the black night. 'Maritime Calais' is left to well-earned repose; but for an hour or soonly, until the returning mail arrives, when it will wake up again--atroubled and troublous nightmare sort of existence. Now for a plungeinto Cimmerian night, with that dull, sustained buzz outside, as ofsome gigantic machinery whirling round, which seems a sort oflullaby, contrived mercifully to make the traveller drowsy and enwraphim in gentle sleep. Railway sleeping is, after all, a notunrefreshing form of slumber. There is the grateful 'nod, nod, nodding, ' with the sudden jerk of an awakening; until the noddingbecomes more overpowering, and one settles into a deep and profoundsleep. Ugh! how chilly it gets! And the machinery--or is it thesea?--still roaring in one's ear. 

What, stopping! and by the roadside, it seems; the day breaking, theatmosphere cold, steel-blue, and misty. Rubbing the pane, a fewsurviving lights are seen twinkling--a picture surely somethingMoslem. For there, separated by low-lying fields, rise clusteredByzantine towers and belfries, with strangely-quaint German-lookingspires of the Nuremberg pattern, but all dimly outlined and mysteriousin their grayness. 

There was an extraordinary and original feeling in this approach: theold fortifications, or what remained of them, rising before me; thegloom, the mystery, the widening streak of day, and perfectsolitariness. As I admired the shadowy belfry which rose so supremeand asserted itself among the spires, there broke out of a sudden aperfect _charivari_ of bells--jangling, chiming, rioting, from variouschurches, while amid all was conspicuous the deep, solemn BOOM! BOOM!like the slow baying of a hound. 

It is five o'clock, but it might be the middle of the night, so darkis it. This magic city, which seems like one of those in AlbertDürer's cuts, rises at a distance as if within walls. I stand in theroadside alone, deserted, the sole traveller set down. The train hasflown on into the night with a shriek. The sleepy porter wonders, andlooks at me askance. 

As I take my way from the station and gradually approach the city--forthere is a broad stretch between it and the railway unfilled byhouses--I see the striking and impressive picture growing andenlarging. The jangling and the solemn occasional boom still go on:meant to give note that the day is opening. Nothing more awe-inspiringor poetical can be conceived than this 'cock-crow' promenade. Here arelittle portals suddenly opening on the stage, with muffled figuresdarting out, and worthy Belgians tripping from their houses--betimes, indeed--and hurrying away to mass. Thus to make the acquaintance ofthat grandest and most astonishing of old cathedrals, is to do sounder the best and most suitable conditions: very different from theguide and cicerone business, which belongs to later hours of the day. I stand in the open _place_, under its shadow, and lift my eyes withwonder to the amazing and crowded cluster of spires and towers: itsantique air, and even look of shattered dilapidation showing that therestorer has not been at his work. There was no smugness or trimness, or spick-and-spanness, but an awful and reverent austerity. And withan antique appropriateness to its functions the Flemish women, cronesand maidens, all in their becoming cashmere hoods, and cloaks, andneat frills, still hurry on to the old Dom. Near me rose the antique_beffroi_, from whose jaws still kept booming the old bell, with afine clang, the same that had often pealed out to rouse the burghersto discord and tumult. It pealed on, hoarse and even cracked, butpersistently melodious, disregarding the contending clamours of itsneighbours, just as some old baritone of the opera, reduced and brokendown, will exhibit his 'phrasing'--all that is left to him. Quaint oldburgher city, indeed, with the true flavour, though beshrew them formeddling with the fortifications!

That little scene in this _place_ of Tournay is always a pleasant, picturesque memory. 

I entered with the others. Within the cathedral was the side chapel, with its black oak screen, and a tawny-cheeked Belgian priest at thealtar beginning the mass. Scattered round and picturesquely groupedwere the crones and maidens aforesaid, on their wicker-chairs. A fewsurviving lamps twinkled fitfully, and shadowy figures crossed as ifon the stage. But aloft, what an overpowering immensity, all vaultedshadows, the huge pillars soaring upward to be lost in a Cimmeriangloom!

Around me I saw grouped picturesquely in scattered order, and kneelingon their _prie-dieux_, the honest burghers, women and men, the formerarrayed in the comfortable and not unpicturesque black Flemish cloakswith the silk hoods--handsome and effective garments, and almostuniversal. The devotional rite of the mass, deeply impressive, wasover in twenty minutes, and all trooped away to their daily work. There was a suggestion here, in this modest, unpretending exercise, incontrast to the great fane itself, of the undeveloped power to expand, as it were, on Sundays and feast-days, when the cathedral woulddisplay all its resources, and its huge area be crowded to the doorswith worshippers, and the great rites celebrated in all their fullmagnificence. 

Behind the great altar I came upon an imposing monument, conceivedafter an original and comprehensive idea. It was to the memory of _allthe bishops and canons_ of the cathedral! This wholesale idea may becommended to our chapters at home. It might save the too monotonousrepetition of recumbent bishops, who, after being exhibited at theAcademy, finally encumber valuable space in their own cathedrals. 

The suggestiveness of the great bell-tower, owing to the peculiaremphasis and purpose given to it, is constantly felt in the oldBelgian cities. It still conveys its old antique purpose--the defenceof the burghers, a watchful sentinel who, on the alarm, clanged outdanger, the sound piercing from that eyry to the remotest lane, andbringing the valiant citizens rushing to the great central square. Itis impossible to look up at one of these monuments, grim and solitary, without feeling the whole spirit of the Belgian history, and callingup Philip van Artevelde and the Ghentish troubles. 

In the smaller cities the presence of this significant landmark isalmost invariable. There is ever the lone and lorn tower, belfry, orspire painted in dark sad colours, seen from afar off, rising from thedecayed little town below; often of some antique, original shape thatpleases, and yet with a gloomy misanthropical air, as of totalabandonment. They are rusted and abrased. From their ancient jaws wehear the husky, jangling chimes, musical and melancholy, thedisorderly rambling notes and tunes of a gigantic musical box. Towardsthe close of some summer evening, as the train flies on, we see thesun setting on the grim walls of some dead city, and on the clusteredhouses. Within the walls are the formal rows of trees planted inregimental order which fringe and shelter them; while rises the dark, copper-coloured tower, often unfinished and ragged, but solemn andfunereal, or else capped by some quaint lantern, from whose jawspresently issue the muffled tones of the chimes, halting and broken, and hoarse and wheezy with centuries of work. Often we pass on;sometimes we descend, and walk up to the little town and wanderthrough its deserted streets. We are struck with wonder at some vastand noble church, cathedral-like in its proportions, and nearly alwaysoriginal--such variety is there in these antique Belgian fanes--andfacing it some rustic mouldering town-hall of surprising beauty. Thereare a few little shops, a few old houses, but the generality havetheir doors closed. There is hardly a soul to be seen, certainly not acart. There are innumerable dead cities of this pattern. 

Coming out, I find it broad day. A few natives with their baskets arehurrying to the train. I note, rising above the houses, two or threeother solemn spires and grim churches, which have an inexpressibly sadand abandoned air, from their dark grimed tones which contrast withthe bright gay hues of the modern houses that crowd upon them. Thereis one grave, imposing tower, with a hood like a monk's. Then I wanderto the handsome triangle-shaped _place_, with its statue to Margaretof Parma--erst Governor of the Netherlands, and whose memory isregarded with affection. Here is the old belfry, which has been soclamorous, standing apart, like those of Ghent, Dunkirk, and a fewother towns; an effective structure, though fitted by modern restorerswith an entirely new 'head'--not, however, ineffective of its kind. 

The day is now fairly opened. There is a goodly muster ofmarket-women and labourers at the handsome station, which, like everystation of the first rank in Belgium, bears its name 'writ large. ' Itis just striking five as we hurry away, and in some half an hour wearrive at ORCHIES--one of those new spick-and-span little towns, useful after their kind, but disagreeable to the æsthetic eye. Everything here is of that meanest kind of brick, 'pointed, ' as it iscalled, with staring white, such as it is seen in the smaller Belgianstations. Feeling somewhat degraded by this contact, I was glad to behurried away, and within an hour find we are approaching one of thegreater French cities. 

VI. 

_DOUAI. _

Now begin to flit past us signs unmistakable of an approachingfortified town. Here are significant green banks and mounds cut toangles and geometrical patterns, soft and enticing, enriched withluxuriant trees, but treacherous--smiling on the confiding houses andgardens which one day may be levelled at a few hours' notice. Nextcome compact masses of Vauban brick, ripe and ruddy, of beautiful, smooth workmanship; stately military gateways and drawbridges, with apatch of red trousering--a soldier on his fat Normandy 'punch' amblinglazily over; and the peaceful cart with its Flemish horses. Thebrick-work is sliced through, as with a cheese-knife, to admit therailway, giving a complete section of the work. We are, in short, atone of the great _places fortes_ of France, Douai, where the curioustraveller had best avoid sketching, or taking notes--a seriousoffence. Here I lingered pleasantly for nearly three hours, and, having duly breakfasted, noted its air of snug comfort andprosperity. There is here a famous arsenal--ever busy--one of themost important in France, and it has besides some welcome bits ofartistic architecture. 

It was when wandering down a darkish street, that I came on a mostoriginal building, the old _Mairie_, enriched with a belfry ofdelightfully graceful pattern. It might be a problem how to combine abell-tower with offices for municipal work, and we know in our landhow such a 'job' would be carried out by 'the architect to the Board. 'But all over Flemish France and Belgium proper we find aninexhaustible fancy and fertility in such designs. It is alwaysdifficult to describe architectural beauties. This had its tower inthe centre, flanked by two short wings. Everything was original--thedisposition of the windows, the air of space and largeness. Yet thewhole was small, I note that in all these Flemish bell-towers, thetopmost portion invariably develops into something charminglyfantastic, into cupolas and short, little galleries and lanternssuperimposed, the mixture of solidity and airiness being astonishing. It is appropriate and fitting that this grace should attend on whatare the sweetest musical instruments conceivable. Mr. Haweis, who isthe poet of Flemish bells, has let us into the secret. 'The fragmentof aërial music, ' he tells us, 'which floats like a heavenly sigh overthe Belgian city and dies away every few minutes, seems to set alllife and time to celestial music. It is full of sweet harmonies, andcan be played in pianoforte score, treble and bass. After a week in aBelgian town, time seems dull without the music in the air thatmingled so sweetly with all waking moods without disturbing them, andstole into our dreams without troubling our sleep. I do not say thatsuch carillons would be a success in London. In Belgium the towers arehigh above the towns--Antwerp, Mechlin, Bruges--and partiallyisolated. The sound falls softly, and the population is not so denseas in London. Their habit and taste have accustomed the citizens toaccept this music for ever floating in the upper air as part of thecity's life--the most spiritual, poetical, and recreative part of it. Nothing of the kind has ever been tried in London. The crashing pealsof a dozen large bells banged violently with clapper instead of softlystruck with hammer, the exasperating dong, or ding, dong, of theRitualist temple over the way, or the hoarse, gong-like roar of BigBen--that is all we know about bells in London, and no form of churchdiscipline could be more ferocious. Bell noise and bell music are twodifferent things. ' This fanciful tower had its four corner towerlets, suggesting the old burly Scotch pattern, which indeed came fromFrance; while the vane on the top still characteristically flourishesthe national Flemish lion. 

Most bizarre, not to say extravagant, was the great cathedral, whichwas laid out on strange 'lines, ' having a huge circular chapel orpavilion of immense height in front, whose round roof was capped by avast bulbous spire, in shape something after the pattern of a giganticmangel-wurzel! This astonishing decoration had a quaint andextraordinary effect, seen, as it was, from any part of the city. Nextcame the nave, whilst the transepts straggled about wildly, and agigantic fortress-like tower reared itself from the middle. Correctjudges will tell us that all this is debased work, and 'corruptstyle;' but, nevertheless, I confess to being both astonished andpleased. 

This was the great festival of the _Corpus Domini_, and, indeed, already all available bells in the place had been jangling noisily. Itwas now barely seven o'clock, yet on entering the vast nave I foundthat the 'Grand Mass' had begun, and the whole was full to the door, while in the great choir were ranged about a hundred young girlswaiting to make their first Communion. A vast number of gala carriageswere waiting at the doors to take the candidates home, and for therest of the day they would promenade the city in their veils andflowers, receiving congratulations. There was a pleasant provincialsimplicity in all this and in all that followed, which brought backcertain old Sundays of a childhood spent on a hill overlooking Havre. I liked to see the stout red-cheeked choristers perspiring with theirwork, and singing with a rough stentoriousness, just as I had seenthem in the village church of Sanvic. And there was the organistplaying away at his raised seat in the body of the church, as if in apew, visible to the naked eye of all; while two cantors in copesclapped pieces of wood together as a signal for the congregation tokneel or rise. Most quaint of all were the surpliced instrumentalistswith their braying bassoon and ophicleide: not to forget thedouble-bass player who 'sawed' away for the bare life of him. The evervisible organist voluntarized ravishingly and in really fine style. Ishould like to have heard him at his own proper instrument, aloft, inthe gallery yonder, quite an enormous structure of florid pipes instories and groups, with angels blowing trumpets and flying saints. It seemed like the stern of one of the Armada vessels. How he wouldhave made the pillars quiver! how the ripe old notes would have_twanged_ and brayed into the darkest recesses!

The Mass being over, the Swiss, a tall, fierce fellow, arrayed in afeathered cocked-hat, rich _scarlet_ regimentals and boots, now showedan extra restlessness. The Bishop of Douai, a smooth, polishedprelate, began his sermon, which he delivered from a chair, in cleartones and good elocution. When the ceremonies were over, the wholecongregation gathered at the door to see the young ladies taken awayby their friends. Then I resumed my exploring. 

On a cheerful-looking _place_, which, with its trees and kiosque, recalled the _Place Verte_ at Antwerp, I noticed a large building ofthe pattern so common in France for colleges and convents--a vastexpanse of whiteness or blankness, and a yet vaster array of longwindows. It appeared to be a cavalry barrack for soldiers. The buglessounded through the archway, and orderlies were riding in and out. This monotonous building, I found, had once been the English collegefor priests, where the celebrated Douai or Douay Bible had beentranslated. This rare book--a joy for the bibliophile--was publishedabout 1608, and, as is well known, was the first Catholic version inEnglish of the Scriptures. Here, then, was the cradle of millions ofcopies distributed over the face of the earth. It was a curioussensation to pass by this homely-looking edifice, with the adjoiningchapel, as it appeared to be--now apparently a riding-school. I alsocame upon many a fine old Spanish house, and toiled down in the sunto the Rue des Foulons, where there were some elaborate specimens. 

Short as had been my term of residence, I somehow seemed to know Douaivery well. I had gathered what is called 'an idea of the place. ' Itsways, manners, and customs seemed familiar to me. So I took my wayfrom the old town with a sort of regret, having seen a great deal. 

VII. 

_ARRAS. _

It is just eleven o'clock, and here we are coming to a charming town, which few travellers have probably visited, and of which that genialand experienced traveller, Charles Dickens, wrote in astonisheddelight, and where in 1862 he spent his birthday. 'Here I find, ' hesays, 'a grand _place_, so very remarkable and picturesque, that it isastonishing how people miss it. ' This is old Arras; and I confess italone seems worth a long day's, not to say night's, journey, to see. It is fortified, and, as in such towns, we have to make our way to itfrom the station by an umbrageous country road; for it is fenced, as agentleman's country seat might be, and strictly enclosed by the usualmounds, ditches, and walls, but all so picturesquely disguised in richgreenery as to be positively inviting. Even low down in the deepditches grew symmetrical avenues of straight trees, abundant in theirleaves and branches, which filled them quite up. The gates seemmonumental works of art, and picturesque to a degree; while over thewalls--and what noble specimens of brickwork, or tiling rather, arethese old Vauban walls!--peep with curious mystery the upper storiesand roofs of houses with an air of smiling security. I catch a glimpseof the elegant belfry, the embroidered spires, and mosque-likecupolas, all a little rusted, yet cheerful-looking. Dickens's _place_, or two _places_ rather--for there is the greater and the less--displayto us a really lovely town-hall in the centre, the roof dotted overwith rows of windows, while an airy lace-work spire, with a ducalcrown as the finish, rises lightly. On to its sides are encrustedother buildings of Renaissance order, while behind is a mansion stillmore astonishingly embroidered in sculptured stone, with a colonnadeof vast extent. Around the _place_ itself stretches a vast number ofSpanish mansions, with the usual charmingly 'escalloped' roof, allresting on a prolonged colonnade or piazza, strange, old-fashioned, and original, running round to a vast extent, which the sensible townhas decreed is never to be interfered with. A more pleasing, refreshing, and novel collection of objects for the ordinary travellerof artistic taste to see without trouble or expense, it would beimpossible to conceive. Yet everyone hurries by to see the somewhatstale glories of Ghent and Brussels. 

[Illustration: ARRAS. ]

There was a general fat contented air of _bourgeois_ comfort about thesleepy old-fashioned, handsome Prefecture--in short, a capitalbackground for the old provincial life as described by Balzac. But the_place_, with its inimitable Spanish houses and colonnades--underwhich you can shop--and that most elegant of spires, sister to that ofAntwerp, which it recalls, will never pass from the memory. Abeautiful object of this kind, thus seen, is surely a present, and avaluable one too. 

A spire is often the expression of the whole town. How much issuggested by the well-known, familiar cathedral spire at Antwerp, as, of some fresh morning, we come winding up the tortuous Scheldt, thesad, low-lying plains and boulders lying on either hand, monotonousand dispiriting, yet novel in their way; the cream-coloured, lace-worked spire rising ever before us in all its elegant grace, pointing the way, growing by degrees, never for an instant out ofsight. It seems a fitting introduction to the noble, historical, andpoetical city to which it belongs. It _is_ surely ANTWERP! Wesee Charles V. , and Philip, and the exciting troubles of the Gueux, the Dutch, the Flemings, the argosies from all countries in the greatdays of its trade. Such is the mysterious power of association, whichit ever exerts on the 'reminiscent. ' How different, and how much moreprofitable, too, is this mode of approaching the place, than the othermore vulgar one of the railway terminus, with the cabs and omnibuseswaiting, and the convenient journey to the hotel. 

These old cities--Lille, Douai, and Valenciennes--all boast theirgateways, usually named after the city to which the road leads. Thuswe have 'Porte de Paris, ' 'Porte de Lille, ' etc. I confess to a deepinterest in all gateways of this kind; they have a sort of poetry orromance associated with them; they are grim, yet hospitable, at timesand seasons having a mysterious suggestion. There are towns where thetraveller finds the gate obdurately closed between ten o'clock atnight and six in the morning. These old gates have a state andflamboyant majesty about them, as, in Lille, the Porte de Paris isassociated with the glories of Louis XIV. ; while in Douai there isone of an old pattern--it is said of the thirteenth century--withcurious towers and spires. Even at Calais there is a fine and majesticstructure, 'Porte de Richelieu, ' on the town side, through which everymarket cart and carriage used to trundle. There are florid devicesinscribed on it; but now that the walls on each side are levelled, this patriarchal monument has but a ludicrous effect, for it is leftstanding alone, unsupported and purposeless. The carts and tramcarsfind their way round by new and more convenient roads made on eachside. 

How pleasant is that careless wandering up through some strange andunfamiliar place, led by a sort of instinct which habit soonfurnishes! In some of the French 'Guides, ' minute directions are givenfor the explorer, who is bidden to take the street to right or toleft, after leaving the station, etc. But there is a piquancy in thisuncertainty as compared with the odious guidance of the _laquais deplace_. I loathe the tribe. Here was to be clearly noted the languid, lazy French town where nothing seemed to be doing, but everyoneappeared to be comfortable--'the fat, contented, stubblegoose'--another type of town altogether from your thriving Lilles andRouens. 

The pleasure in surveying this extraordinary combination of beautifulobjects, the richness and variety of the work, the long lines brokenby the charming and, as they are called, 'escalloped' gables, theSpanish balconies, the pillars, light and shade, and shops, made italmost incredible that such a thing was to be found in a poor obscureFrench town, visited by but few travellers. On market-day, when thewhole is filled up with country folks, their wares and their stallssheltered from the sun by gaily-tinted awnings, the bustle andglinting colours, and general _va et vient_, impart a fitting dramaticair. Then are the old Spanish houses set off becomingly. 

This old town has other curious things to exhibit, such as theenormous old Abbey of St. Vaast--with its huge expansive roof, whichsomehow seems to dominate the place, and thrusts forward some fragmentor other--where a regiment might lodge. Its spacious gardens areconverted to secular uses. Then I find myself at the old-newcathedral, begun about a century ago, and finished about fifty yearssince--a 'poorish' heartless edifice in the bald Italian manner, andquite unsuited to these old Flemish cities. I come out on a terracewith a huge flight of steps which leads to a lower portion of thecity. This, indeed, leads down from the _haute_ to the _basse ville_;and it is stated that a great portion of this upper town is supportedupon catacombs or caves from which the white stone of the belfry andtown-hall was quarried. It is a curious feeling to be shown the housein which Robespierre was born, which, for the benefit of the curiousit may be stated, is to be found in the Rue des Rapporteurs, close tothe theatre. Arras was a famous Jacobin centre, and from the balconyof this theatre, Lebon, one of the Jacobins, directed the executions, which took place abundantly on the pretty _place_. 

[Illustration: BETHUNE. ]

Thus much, then, for Arras, where one would have liked to linger, nay, to stay a week or a few days. But this wishing to stay a week at apicturesque place is often a dangerous pitfall, as the amiableCharles Collins has shown in his own quaint style. Has anyone, heasks, ever, 'on arriving at some place he has never visited before, taken a sudden fancy to it, committed himself to apartments for amonth certain, gone on praising the locality and all that belongs toit, ferreting out concealed attractions, attaching undue importance tothem, undervaluing obvious defects: has he gone on in this way forthree weeks, ' or rather three days, 'out of his month, then suddenlybroken down, found out his mistake, and pined in secret fordeliverance?' So it would be, as I conceive, at Bruges, or perhaps atSt. Omer. There you indeed appreciate the dead-alive city 'in all itsquiddity. ' But a few days in a 'dead-alive' city, were it the mostpicturesque in the world, would be intolerable. 

By noon, when the sun has grown oppressively hot, I find myself setdown at a sort of rural town, once flourishing, and of someimportance--Bethune. A mile's walk on a parched road led up the hillto this languishing, decayed little place. It had its forlorn omnibus, and altogether suggested the general desolation of, say, Peterborough. Had it remained in Flemish hands, it would now have been flourishing. I doubt if any English visitor ever troubles its stagnant repose. Yetit boasts its 'grand' _place_, imposing enough as a memorial ofdeparted greatness, and, as usual, a Flemish relic, in the shape of acharming belfry and town-hall combined. It was really truly'fantastical' from the airiness of its little cupolas and galleries, and was in tolerable order. Like the old Calais watch-tower, it wascaked round by, and embedded in, old houses, and had its four curiousgargoyles still doing work. 

On this 'grand' _place_ I noticed an old house bearing date '1625, 'and some wonderful feats in the way of red-tiled roofing, of whichthere were enormous stretches, all narrow, sinuous, and suggestingNuremberg. I confess to having spent a rather weary hour here, andsped away by the next train. 

VIII. 

_LILLE. _

Two o'clock. We are on the road again; the sun is shining, and we arespeeding on rapidly--changing from Flanders to France--which is but anhour or so away. Here the bright day is well forward. Now the welcomefat Flemish country takes military shape, for here comes the scarp, the angled ditch, the endless brick walling and embankment--a genuinefortified town of the first class--LILLE. Here, too, many travellersgive but a glance from the window and hurry on. Yet an interestingplace in its way. Its bright main streets seem as gay and glitteringas those of Paris, with the additional air of snug provincial comfort. To one accustomed for months to the solemn sobriety of our Englishcapital, with its work-a-day, not to say dingy look, nothing is moreexhilarating or gay than one of these first-class French provincialtowns, such as Marseilles, Bordeaux, or this Lille. There is aglittering air of substantial opulence, with an attempt--and asuccessful one--at fine boulevards and fine trees. 

The approach to Lille recalled the protracted approach to some greatEnglish manufacturing town, the tall chimneys flying by thecarriage-windows a good quarter of an hour before the town wasreached. A handsome, rich, and imposing city, though content to accepta cast-off station from Paris, as a poor relative would accept acast-off suit of clothes. The fine façade was actually transportedhere stone by stone, and a much more imposing one erected in itsplace. 

The prevailing one-horse tram-cars seem to suit the Flemishassociations. The Belgians have taken kindly and universally to them, and find them to be 'exactly in their way. ' The fat Flemish horseambles along lazily, his bells jingling. No matter how narrow orwinding the street, the car threads its way. The old burgher of theMiddle Ages might have relished it. The old disused town-hall isquaint enough with its elaborately-carved _façade_, with a high doubleroof and dormers, and a lantern surmounting all. A bit of true'Low-Countries' work; but one often forgets that we are in FrenchFlanders. Entertaining hours could be spent here with profit, simplyin wandering from spot to spot, eschewing the 'town valet' andprofessional picture guide. It is an extraordinary craze, by the way, that our countrymen will want always 'to see the pictures, ' as thoughthat were the object of travelling. 

[Illustration: BOURSE. LILLE. ]

One gazes with pleasure and some surprise at its handsome streets, where everyone seems to live and thrive. There is a general air ofopulence. The new streets, built under the last empire on the Parismodel, offer the same rich and effective detail of gilded inscriptionsrunning across the houses, balconies and flowers, with the luxurious_cafés_ below, and languid _flaneurs_ sitting down to their_absinthe_ or coffee among the orange-trees. These imposing mansions, built with judicious loans--the 'OBLIGATIONS OF THE CITY OFLILLE' are quoted on the Exchanges--are already dark and rusted, and harmonize with the older portions. At every turn there is asuggestion of Brussels, and nowhere so much as on the fine _place_, where the embroidered old Spanish houses aforesaid are abundant. 

The old cathedral, imposing with its clustered apses and great lengthand loftiness, and restored façade, would be the show of any Englishtown. The Lillois scarcely appreciate it, as a few years ago theyordered a brand-new one from 'Messrs. Clutton and Burgess, of London, 'not yet complete, and not very striking in its modern effects anddecorations. These vast old churches of the fourth or fifth class arealways imposing from their size and pretensions and elaborateness ofwork, and are found in France and Belgium almost by the hundred. Andso I wander on through the showy streets, thinking what stirringscenes this complacent old city has witnessed, what tale of siege andbattle--Spaniard, Frenchman, and Fleming, Louis the Great, the refugeof Louis XVIII. After his flight. All the time there is the pleasantmusical jangle going on of tramcars below and bell-chimes aloft. Butof all things in Lille, or indeed elsewhere, there is nothing morestriking than the old Bourse--the great square venerable block, blackened all over with age, its innumerable windows, high roof, andcornices, all elaborately and floridly wrought in decayed carvings. With this dark and venerable mass is piquantly contrasted the garishrow of glittering shops filled with gaudy wares which forms thelowest story. Within is the noble court with a colonnade of pillarsand arches in the florid Spanish style; in the centre a splendidbronze statue of the First Napoleon in his robes, which is so wroughtas to harmonize admirably with the rest. In the same congenialspirit--a note of Belgian art which is quite unfamiliar to us--thewalls of the colonnade are decorated with memorials of famous 'StockExchange' worthies and merchants, and nothing could be more skilfulthan the enrichment of these conventional records, which are made toharmonize by florid rococo decorations with the Spanish _genre_ andencrusted with bronzes and marbles. This admirable and originalmonument is in itself worth a journey to see. 

Who has been at Commines? though we are all familiar enough with thename of Philip of 'that ilk. ' I saw how patriarchal life must be atCommines from a family repairing thither, who filled the wholecompartment. This was a lady arrayed in as much jet-work as she couldwell carry, and who must have been an admirable _femme de ménage_, forshe brought with her three little girls, and two obstreperous boys whokept saying every minute 'maman!' in a sort of whine or expostulation, and two _aides-de-camp_ maids in spotless fly-away caps. With theseassistants she was on perfect terms, and the maids conversed with herand dissented from her opinions on the happiest terms of equality. When taking my ticket I was asked to say would I go to Commines inFrance or to Commines in Belgium, for it seems that, by an oddarrangement, half the town is in one country and half in the other!Each has a station of its own. This curious partition I did not quitecomprehend at first, and I shall not forget the indignant style inwhich, on my asking 'was this the French Commines, ' I was answeredthat '_of course_ it was Commines in Belgium. ' Here was yet anotherpiquant bell-tower seen rising above trees and houses, long before weeven came near to it. I was pursued by these pretty monuments, and Icould hear this one jangling away musically yet wheezily. 

It is past noon now as we hurry by unfamiliar stations, where theinvariable _abbé_ waits with his bundle or breviary in hand, orpeasant women with baskets stand waiting for other trains. There is asense of melancholy in noting these strange faces and figures--whomyou thus pass by, to whom you are unknown, whom you will never seeagain, and who care not if you were dead and buried. (And why shouldthey?) Then we hurry away northwards. 

IX. 

_YPRES. _

As the fierce heat of the sun began to relax and the evening drewon--it was close on half-past six o'clock--we found ourselves inBelgium once more. Suddenly, on the right, I noted, with some treesinterposed, a sort of clustered town with whitened buildings, whichsuggested forcibly the view of an English cathedral town seen from therailway. The most important of the group was a great tower with itsfour spires. I knew instinctively that this was the famous oldtown-hall, the most astonishing and overpowering of all Belgianmonuments. 

Here we halted half an hour. The sun was going down; the air was cool;and there was that strange tinge of sadness abroad, with which the airseems to be charged towards eventide, as we, strangers and pilgrims ina foreign country, look from afar off at some such unfamiliar objects. There were a number of Flemings here returning from some meeting wherethey had been contending at their national game--shooting at thepopinjay. Near to every small town and village I passed, I had notedan enormously tall white post with iron rods projecting at the top. This was the target, and it was highly amusing and characteristic towatch these burghers gathered round and firing at the bird or someother object on the top. Now they were all returning carrying theirbows, and in high good-humour. A young and rubicund priest was of theparty, regarded evidently with affection and pride by his companions;for all that he seemed to say and do was applauded, and greeted withobstreperous Flemish laughter. When an old woman came to offer cakesfrom her basket for sale, he convulsed his friends by facetiousremarks as he made his selection from the basket, depreciating orcriticizing their quality with sham disgust, delighting none so muchas the venerable vendor herself. Every one wore a curious black silkcap, as a gala headpiece. 

When they had gone their way, I set off on mine up to the old town. The approach was encouraging. A grand sweep faced me of old walls, rusted, but stout and vigorous, with corner towers rising out of a moat;then came a spacious bridge leading into a wide, encouraging-lookingstreet of sound handsome houses. But, strange! not a single cab, restaurant, or hotel--nay, hardly a soul to be seen, save a fewrustics in their blouses! It was all dead! I walked on, and at anabrupt turn emerged on the huge expanse of the _place_, and wasliterally dumbfoundered. 

Now, of all the sights that I have ever seen, it must be confessedthat this offered the greatest surprise and astonishment. It wasbewildering. On the left spread away, almost a city itself, the vast, enormous town-hall--a vista of countless arches and windows, its roofdotted with windows, and so deep, expansive, and capacious that italone seemed as though it might have lodged an army. In the centrerose the enormous square tower--massive--rock-like--launching itselfaloft into Gothic spires and towers. All along the sides ran aperspective of statues and carvings. This astonishing work would takesome minutes of brisk motion to walk down from end to end. It isreally a wonder of the world, and, in the phrase applied to moreordinary things, 'seemed to take your breath away. ' It is the largest, longest, most massive, solid, and enduring thing that can beconceived. 

It has been restored with wonderful care and delicacy. By one of thebizarre arrangements--not uncommon in Flanders--a building of anotherkind, half Italian, with a round arched arcade, has been added on atthe corner, and the effect is odd and yet pleasing. Behind rises agrim crag of a cathedral--solemn and mysterious--adding to the effectof this imposing combination, a sort of gloomy shadow overhanging all. The church, on entering, is found overpowering and original of itskind, with its vast arches and massive roof of groined stone. Truly anastonishing monument! The worst of such visits is that only a faintimpression is left: and to gather the full import of such a monumentone should stay for a few days at least, and grow familiar with it. Atfirst all is strange. Every portion claims attention at once; butafter a few visits the grim old monument seems to relax and becomeaccessible; he lets you see his good points and treasures by degrees. But who could live in a Dead City, even for a day? Having seen thesetwo wonders, I tried to explore the place, which took some walking, but nothing else was to be found. Its streets were wide, the houseshandsome--a few necessary shops; but no cabs--no tramway--no cartseven, and hardly any people. It was dead--all dead from end to end. The strangest sign of mortality, however, was that not a singlerestaurant or house of refection was to be found, not even on thespacious and justly called _Grande Place_! One might have starved orfamished without relief. Nay, there was hardly a public-house ordrinking-shop. 

[Illustration: YPRES]

However, the great monument itself more than supplied this absence ofvitality. One could never be weary of surveying its overpoweringproportions, its nobility, its unshaken strength, its vast length, andflourishing air. Yet how curious to think that it was now quitepurposeless, had no meaning or use! Over four hundred feet long, itwas once the seat of bustle and thriving business, for which thebuilding itself was not too large. The hall on the ground seems tostretch from end to end. Here was the great mart for linens--the_toiles flamandes_--once celebrated over Europe. Now, desolate is thedwelling of Morna! A few little local offices transact the stuntedshrunken local business of the place; the post, the municipal offices, each filling up two or three of the arches, in ludicrous contrast tothe unemployed vastness of the rest. It has been fancifully supposedthat the name Diaper, as applied to linens, was supplied by this town, which was the seat of the trade, and _Toile d'Ypres_ might besupposed, speciously enough, to have some connection with the place. 

X. 

_BERGUES. _

But _en route_ again, for the sands are fast running out. Oldfortified towns, particularly such as have been protected by 'thegreat Vauban, ' are found to be a serious nuisance to the inhabitants, however picturesque they may seem to the tourist; for the place, constricted and wrapped in bandages, as it were, cannot expand itslungs. Many of the old fortressed towns, such as Ostend, Courtrai, Calais, have recently demolished their fortifications at great costand with much benefit to themselves. There is something picturesqueand original in the first sight of a place like Arras, or St. Omer, with the rich and lavish greenery, luxuriant trees, banks of grass bywhich the 'fosse' and grim walls are masked. Others are of a grim andhostile character, and show their teeth, as it were. 

Dunkirk, a fortress of the 'first class, ' fortified on the modernsystem, and therefore to the careless spectator scarcely appearing tobe fortified at all--is a place of such extreme platitude, that thebelated wayfarer longs to escape almost as soon as he arrives. Thereis literally nothing to be seen. But a few miles away, there is to befound a place which will indemnify the disgusted traveller, viz. , BERGUES. As the train slackens speed I begin to take note of richgreen banks with abundant trees planted in files, such as Uncle Tobywould have relished in his garden. There is the sound as of passingover a military bridge, with other tokens of the fortified town. Thereit lies--close to the station, while the invariable belfry and heavychurch rise from the centre, in friendly companionship. I have notedthe air of sadness in these lone, lorn monuments, which perhaps arisesfrom the sense of their vast age and all they have looked down upon. Men and women, and houses, dynasties and invaders, and burgomasters, have all passed away in endless succession; but _they_ remain, andhave borne the buffetings of storms and gales and wars and tumults. Aswe turn out of the station, a small avenue lined with trees leadsstraight to the entrance. The bright snowy-looking _place_ basks inthe setting sun, while the tops of the red-tiled roofs seem to peep atus over the walls. At the end of the avenue the sturdy gateway greetsus cheerfully, labelled 'Porte de Biene, ' flanked by two short andburly towers that rise out of the water; while right and left, the oldbrick walls, red and rusted, stretch away, flanked by corner towers. The moat runs round the whole, filled with the usual stagnant water. Ienter, and then see what a tiny compact little place it is--a perfectminiature town with many streets, one running round the walls; all thehouses sound and compact and no higher than two stories, so as to keepsnug and sheltered under the walls, and not draw the enemy's fire. Thewhole seems to be about the size of the Green Park at home, and youcan walk right across, from gate to gate, in about three minutes. Itis bright, and clean 'as a new pin, ' and there are red-legged soldiersdrumming and otherwise employed. 

Almost at once we come on the _place_, and here we are rewarded withsomething that is worth travelling even from Dover to see. Therestands the old church, grim, rusted, and weather-beaten, rising ingloomy pride, huge enough to serve a great town; while facing it isthe belfry before alluded to, one of the most elegant, coquettish, andoriginal of these always interesting structures. The amateur ofFlemish architecture is ever prepared for something pleasing in thisdirection, for the variety of the belfries is infinite; but thisspecimen fills one with special delight. It rises to a great height inthe usual square tower-shape, but at each corner is flanked by aquaint, old-fashioned _tourelle_ or towerlet, while in the centre isan airy elegant lantern of wood, where a musical peal of bells, hungin rows, chimes all day long in a most melodious way. Each of thesetowerlets is capped by a long, graceful peak or minaret. This elegantstructure has always been justly admired by the architect, and in thewonderful folio of etchings by Coney, done more than fifty years ago, will be found a picturesque and accurate sketch. 

[Illustration: BERGUES. ]

It seemed a city of the dead. Now rang out the husky tinkling of thechimes which never flag, as in all Flemish cities, day or night. Itsupplies the lack of company, and has a comforting effect for thesolitary man. From afar off comes occasionally the sound of the drumor the bugle, fit accompaniment for such surroundings. At the foot ofthe belfry was an antique building in another style, with a smallopen colonnade, which, though out of harmony, was still notinappropriate. The only thing jarring was a pretentious moderntown-hall, in the style of one of our own vestry buildings, 'erectedout of the rates, ' and which must have cost a huge sum. It was of agenteel Italian aspect, so it is plain that French localadministrators are, in matters of taste, pretty much as such folk arewith us. One could have lingered long here, looking at this charmingand graceful work, which its surroundings became quite as much as itdid its surroundings. 

While thus engaged it was curious to find that not a soul crossed the_place_. Indeed, during my whole sojourn in the town, a period ofabout half an hour, I did not see above a dozen people. There were butfew shops; yet all was bright, sound, in good condition. There was nosign of decay or decaying; but all seemed to sleep. It was a French'dead city. ' But it surely lives and will live, by its remarkable belltower, which at this moment is chiming away, with a melodioushuskiness, its gay tunes, repeated every quarter of an hour, while asthe hour comes round there breaks out a general and clamorous_charivari_. 

XI. 

_ST. OMER. _

After leaving this wonderful place, I was now speeding on once moreback into France. In all these shifts and changes the _douanier_ farcewas carefully gone through. I was regularly invited to descend, eventhough baggageless, and to pass through the searching-room, makingheroic protest as I did so that '_I had nothing to declare_. ' It waseasy to distinguish the two nations in their fashion of performingthis function, the French taking it _au sérieux_, and going through ithistrionically, as it were; the Belgian being more careless andgood-natured. There lingers still the habit of 'leading' or_plombé_-ing a clumsy, troublesome relic of old times. Such smallarticles as hat-cases, hand-bags, etc. , are subjected to it; anofficer devoted to the duty comes with a huge pair of 'pincers' withsome neat little leaden discs, which he squeezes on the strings whichhave tied up the article. 

Now we fly past the flourishing Poperinghe--a bustling, thrivingplace, out of which lift themselves with sad solemnity a few talliron-gray churches, and another--yet one more--elegant belfry. Thereseems something quaint in the name of Poperinghe, though it is hardlyso grotesque as that of another town I passed by, 'Bully Greny. '

As this long day was at last closing in, I noticed from the window abright-looking town nestling, as it were, in rich green velvet anddark plantation, with a bright, snug-looking gate, drawbridge, etc. One of these gates was piquant enough, having a sort of pavilionperched on the top. Here there was a quaint sort of 'surprise' in aclock, the hours of which are struck by a mechanical figure known tothe town as 'Mathurin. ' There was something very tempting in the lookof the place, betokening plenty of flowers and shaded walks andumbrageous groves. Most conspicuous, however, was the magnificentabbey ruin, suggesting Fountains Abbey, with its tall, striking, andwholly perfect tower. This is the Abbey of St. Bertin, one of the moststriking and almost bewildering monuments that could be conceived. Ilook up at the superb tower, sharp in its details, and wonder at itsfine proportions; then turn to the ruined aisles, and with a sort ofgrief recall that this, one of the wonders of France, had been inperfect condition not a hundred years ago, and at the time of theRevolution had been stripped, unroofed, and purposely reduced to itspresent condition! This disgrace reflects upon the Jacobins--Goths andVandals indeed. 

The streets of this old town, as it is remarked by one of the GuideBooks, 'want animation'--an amiable circumlocution. Nothing sodeserted or lonely can be conceived, and the phenomenon of 'grassliterally growing in the streets' is here to be seen in perfection. There appeared to be no vehicles, and the few shops carry on but amild business. A few English families are said to repair hither foreconomy. I recognise a peculiar shabby shooting-coat which betokensthe exile, accounted for by the pathetic fact that he clings to hissuperannuated garment, long after it is worn out, for the reason thatit 'was made in London. ' There is a rich and beautiful churchhere--Notre Dame--with a deeply embayed porch full of lavish detail. Here, too, rises the image of John Kemble, who actually studied forthe priesthood at the English College. 

By this time the day has gone, and darkness has set in. It is time tothink of journeying home. Yet on the way to Calais there are stillsome objects to be seen _en passant_. Most travellers are familiarwith Hazebrouck, the place of 'bifurcation, ' a frontier between Franceand Belgium. Yet this is known for a church with a most elegant spirerising from a tower, but of this we can only have a glimpse. And, onthe road to Bergues, I had noted that strange, German-named littletown--Cassel--perched on an umbrageous hill, which has its quaintmediæval town-hall. But I may not pause to study it. The hours areshrinking; but little margin is left. By midnight I am back in Calaisonce more, listening to its old wheezy chimes. It seems like an oldfriend, to which I have returned after a long, long absence, so manyevents have been crowded into the day. It still wants some interval tothe hour past midnight, when the packet sails. 

XII. 

_ST. PIERRE LES CALAIS. _

As I wandered down to the end of the long pier, which stretched outits long arm, bent like an elbow, looking, like all French piers, asif made of frail wickerwork, I thought of a day, some years ago, whenthat eminent inventor, Bessemer, conceived the captivating idea ofconstructing a steamboat that should abolish sea-sickness for ever!The principle was that of a huge swinging saloon, moved by hydraulicpower, while a man directed the movement by a sort of spirit-level. Previously the inventor had set up a model in his garden, where anumber of scientists saw the section of a ship rocking violently bysteam. I recall that pleasant day down at Denmark Hill, with all theengineers assembled, who were thus going to sea in a garden. A smallsteam-engine worked the apparatus--a kind of a section of aboat--which was tossed up and down violently; while in the centre wasbalanced a small platform, on which we experimenters stood. On largetables were laid out the working plans of the grand Bessemersteamship, to be brought out presently by a company. 

A year and more passed away, the new vessel was completed, and nearlythe same party again invited to see the result, and make trial of it. I repaired with the rest. Nothing more generous or hospitable could beconceived. There was to be a banquet at Calais, with a free ticket onto Paris. It was a gloomy iron-gray morning. The strange outlandishvessel, which had an engine at each end, was crowded with_connoisseurs_. But I was struck with the figure of the amiable andbrilliant inventor, who was depressed, and received the prematurecongratulations of his friends somewhat ruefully. We could see thecurious 'swinging saloon' fitted into the vessel, with the ingenioushydraulic leverage by which it could be kept nicely balanced. But itwas to be noted that the saloon was braced firmly to the sides of itscontaining vessel; in fact, it was given out that, owing to somedefect in its mechanism, the thing could not be worked that day. Nothing could be handsomer than this saloon, with its fittings anddecorations. But, strange to say, it was at once seen that theprinciple was faulty, and the whole impracticable. It was obvious thatthe centre of gravity of so enormous a weight being brought to theside would imperil the stability of the vessel. The bulk to be movedwas so vast, that it was likely to get out of control, and scarcelylikely to obey the slight lever which worked it. There were manyshakings of the engineering heads, and some smiles, with many an '_Itold you so_. ' Even to the outsiders it seemed Utopian. 

However, the gloomy voyage was duly made. One of the most experiencedcaptains known on the route, Captain Pittock, had been chosen to pilotthe venture. He had plainly a distrust of his charge and thenew-fangled notion. Soon we were nearing Calais. Here was thelighthouse, and here the two embracing arms of the wickerwork pier. Iwas standing at the bows, and could see the crowds on the shorewaiting. Suddenly, as the word was given to starboard or 'port, ' themalignant thing, instead of obeying, took the reverse direction, andbore straight _into_ the pier on the left! Down crashed the hugeflag-staff of our vessel in fragments, falling among us--and therewere some narrow escapes. She calmly forced her way down the pier fornearly a hundred yards, literally crunching and smashing it up intofragments, and sweeping the whole away. I looked back on thedisastrous course, and saw the whole clear behind us! As we gazed onthis sudden wreck, I am ashamed to say there was a roar of laughter, for never was a _surprise_ of so bewildering a character sprung uponhuman nature. The faces of the poor captain and his sailors, who couldscarcely restrain their maledictions on the ill-conditioned 'brute, 'betrayed mortification and vexation in the most poignant fashion. Theconfusion was extraordinary. She was now with difficulty brought overto the other pier. This, though done ever so gently, brought freshdamage, as the mere contact crunched and dislocated most of thetimbers. The ill-assured party defiled ashore, and we made for thebanqueting-room between rows of half-jeering, half-sympathizingspectators. The speakers at the symposium required all their tact todeal with the disheartening subject. The only thing to be done was to'have confidence' in the invention--much as a Gladstonian indifficulty invites the world to 'leave all to the skill of our greatchief. ' But, alas! this would not do just now. The vessel was, infact, unsteerable; the enormous weight of the engines at the bowsprevented her obeying the helm. The party set off to Paris--such aswere in spirits to do so--and the shareholders in the company musthave had aching hearts enough. 

Some years later, walking by the Thames bank, not far from Woolwich, Icame upon some masses of rusted metal, long lying there. There werethe huge cranks of paddle-wheels, a cylinder, and some boiler metal. These, I was informed, were the fragments of the unlucky steamshipthat was to abolish sea-sickness! As I now walked to the end of thesolitary pier--the very one I had seen swept away so unceremoniously--therecollection of this day came back to me. There was an element of grimcomedy in the transaction when I recalled that the Calais harbourofficials sent in--and reasonably--a huge claim for the mischief doneto the pier; but the company soon satisfied _that_ by speedilygoing 'into liquidation. ' There was no resource, so the Frenchmenhad to rebuild their pier at their own cost. 

Close to Calais is a notable place enough, flourishing, too, foundedafter the great war by one Webster, an English laceman. It has grownup, with broad stately streets, in which, it is said, some four orfive thousand Britons live and thrive. As you walk along you see thefamiliar names, 'Smith and Co. , ' 'Brown and Co. , ' etc. , displayed onhuge brass plates at the doors in true native style. Indeed, the wholeair of the place offers a suggestion of Belfast, these downrightcolonists having stamped their ways and manners in solid style on theplace. Poor old original Calais had long made protest against theconstriction she was suffering; the wall and ditch, and the singlegate of issue towards the country, named after Richelieu, seeming tocheck all hope of improvement. Reasons of state were urged. But a fewyears ago Government gave way, the walls towards the country-side werethrown down, the ditch filled up, and some tremendous 'navigator' workwas carried out. The place can now draw its breath. 

On my last visit I had attended the theatre, a music-hall adaptable toplays, concerts, or to 'les meetings. ' It was a new, raw place, verydifferent from the little old theatre in the garden of Dessein's, where the famous Duchess of Kingston attended a performance over ahundred and twenty years ago. This place bore the dignified title ofthe '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, whichan ungenerous foe persisted in calling defeat. A gallant Frenchman, who played the hero, had nearly run his daring course, having doneprodigies of valour on that fateful and fatal day. The crisis of thedrama was reached almost as I entered, the cuirassier coming in withhis head bound up in a bloody towel! After relating the horrors ofthat awful charge in an impassioned strain, he wound up by declaringthat _'He and Death'_ were the only two left upon the field! It neednot be said there were abundant groans for the Germans and cheers forthe glorious Frenchmen. 

Now at last down to the vessel, as the wheezy chimes give out that itis 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 townstill maintains its fortress-like air and its picturesque aspect, thedark central spires rising like shadows, the few lights twinkling. Thewhole scene is deliciously tranquil. The plashing of the water seemsto invite slumber, or at least a temporary doze, to which thetraveller, after his long day and night, is justly entitled. Howstrange those old days, when the exiles for debt abounded here! Theywere in multitudes then, and had a sort of society among themselves inthis Alsatia. That gentleman in a high stock and a short-waistedcoat--the late Mr. Brummell surely, walking in this direction? Is hepursued 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 andbustling, black shadowy figures are hurrying by. The white-funnelledsteamer has come up, and is moaning dismally, eager to get away. Behind is the long international train of illuminated chambers, freshfrom Paris and just come in, pouring out its men and women, who havearrived from all quarters of the world. They stream on board in ashadowy procession, laden with their bundles. Lower down, I hear the_crashing_ of trunks discharged upon the earth! I go on board withthe rest, sit down in a corner, and recall nothing till I find myselfon 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 thirtyhours long. And what strange objects, all blended and confusedtogether!--towers, towns, gateways, drawbridges, religious rites andprocessions, pealing organs and jangling chimes, long dusty roadslined with regimental trees, blouses, fishwomen's caps, _sabots_, savoury and unsavoury smells, France dissolving into Belgium, Belgiuminto France, France into Belgium again; in short, one bewilderingkaleidoscope! A day and two nights had gone, during all which time Ihad been on my legs, and had travelled nigh six hundred miles! Dreamor no dream, it had been a very welcome show or panorama, new ideasand 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 eighthours were spent on English soil, and certainly nearly twelve ininaction. 

THE END. 

BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD. 

[Illustration: PEARS' SOAP

A Specialty for Children]