1831.] My Uncle's Diary at Calais, 523 



beggar has a post. You will see, in Calais, the blind fiddler, in his 

 green glazed hat, and his crying tatter demallion, in punctual attendance 

 on every steam-boat which goes or comes. ' Between the southern gates 

 of the fortification, you as surely find a hale, squat, old, blear-eyed 

 cripple, with inverted feet, who sings with the lungs of Stentor his sup- 

 plications to the passers-by. On Wednesdays and Saturdays the 

 market-days this thoroughfare is apportioned to additions of the halt 

 and blind, who reap a handsome harvest from the pity of the peasantry. 



April 17th. Went to seek for letters, and was nearly smothered on 

 my way by the abominable vehicles and tubs which, in the English 

 towns, are duly limited to midnight occupation. The hall of the post- 

 office is the vestibule of anxious hopes ; I remark the faces as they pass, 

 and contrast them as they return. I have seen them at the window, in 

 eager hope, as the commis has cast his eye across the parcels " II n'y 

 a rien pour vous, Monsieur" these tidings are the message of despair. I 

 have seen the disappointed expectant loiter back, and pause at every 

 street, as if unconscious whither he is bent his eyes expanded into 

 unobservant thought, and speculation far away. The effect is widely 

 different when the reply is " Trente-six sous, s'il vous plait !" The let- 

 ter is received with glee approaching agitation the paper squeezed with 

 all the customary question of a practised touch ; and the responsive 

 softness of a hoped enclosure lightens on the features in rapid flashes of 

 satisfied solicitude. 



April 18th. A hurricane. Confined to my apartments ; the wind 

 whistling through a thousand crevices ; the rain straining through the 

 windows ; volumes of stench and soot continually rushing down the 

 chimney; my wood continually squeaking, fizzing, but too damp to 

 burn attempting to confute the proverb, that " there's no smoke with- 

 out fire." 



April 19th. Continued storm. Sand driven horizontally in sheets 

 nearly choked and blinded ! Saw a few passengers land like drowned 

 rats as pale as spectres, though, from certain tokens, not so superna- 

 tural. 



April 20th. Keen north-east wind ; cold as the arctic regions. 



April 21st. Mild and sunny in the morning oppressively sultry in 

 the middle of the day severely cold at sunset. Every body barking. 

 Undertakers lively. 



April 22d. Saw my friend in the packet another fool come 



abroad in quest of comforts, I suppose. The day favoured his arrival. 

 Calais, from the dark blue water, girded by a fine expanse of level, 

 yellow sands, is certainly an animated picture, in spite of the Arabian 

 wild, extending on its east and west. Its outline is distinctly traced on 

 the horizon. Its ancient Gothic spire, the Saxon massiveness of its 

 pharos, the grotesque and quaint commixture of its Hotel de Ville ; the 

 shipping in its port, surmounted by innumerable tri-colours ; its several 

 belvideres ; the long and handsome pier, by the side of which you ride 

 into the harbour ; its fortified extent of walls, constitute a gay, a novel, 

 and peculiar scene. Look where you will, on all points, the eternal 

 vigilance of the douane is manifest. The solitary wanderers you behold 

 on all sides are the lynxes of the custom-house. Not a boat is on the 

 water, nor a human being on the strand, that escapes the jealous vigi- 

 lance of those ever-wakeful guardians of the shore. 



A three hours' voyage transports you to a world of novelty of other 



3 X2 



