1831.] My Uncle's Diary ai Calais. 519 



which was mawkishly adulatory of one dynasty, was effaced by the tem- 

 porizing weathercocks who have readily subscribed to another. A 

 Frenchman's mind is the region of inconstancy and shadowy fancies ; 

 he can never let well alone he is all talk all theory, pomposity, and 

 enthusiasm a vast braggart, and a little doer. 



Pestered to death by a phalanx of commissioners, who plied me with 

 a thousand questions none of which I answered ; not understanding 

 French, of which I am glad. 



Dined in a cold coffee-room the wind whistling through the doors 

 and windows : the stove filled the chamber with smoke. A good soup. 

 A turbot neither hot nor cold, with the fins cut off: what would they 

 say to this in the city ? Five beggars looking in at the window during 

 our repast ; gave them some halfpence when they departed, and sent 

 another detachment, headed by a blind fiddler in a green hat, led by a 

 ragged boy, who cried bitterly while the musician played. Sent out 

 more halfpence, when they all quarrelled and, having divided the 

 donation, went laughing away. Drank some grave, which gave me the 

 stomach-ache. All the plates cold. Tried several dishes with different 

 names all nasty alike. A French traveller ate of all of them tucked 

 his napkin in his cravat picked his teeth with his fork, and his nails 

 with his knife spoke and drank with his mouth full spat on the bit of 

 carpet in the centre of the room swallowed a cup of coffee drank a 

 dram pocketed half a loaf and some lumps of sugar, and left the table. 

 A man of a most flatulent habit French politeness ! ! 



A good bed, but the odour of the linen offended me. Pulled a bell 

 twenty times which did not ring. My clothes badly brushed, and 

 brought me in a heap. My boots ill-cleaned, or rather smeared, looking 

 like drooping fire-buckets. The soap in my stand too tenacious to yield 

 a lather. I could not forego a pun. An English gentleman told me it 

 was Castile. I told him I thought, from its consistence, it might be 

 cast-iron. He didn't take my joke. 



2d April. Plundered at the custom-house. Lost my little favourite 

 queen's-metal tea-pot an article not found in France. Lost my little 

 blue jug, and a Manchester shawl. Obliged to write to Paris to the 

 director-general of the customs. Received no answer, because as I 

 understood I had not written on stamped paper. Wrote again, accord- 

 ing to direction, and received permission to send back my goods to 

 England. My things, in the interval, had been spoiled. Obliged to 

 make three various applications to different Jacks in office for leave to 

 act on paramount authority. Grew tired of the trouble, and abandoned 

 my property. What became of it is best known to the harpies of the 

 customs. 



3d April. Awakened by the screams of " sauterelles crues ;" mean- 

 ing, I am told, raw shrimps some say grasshoppers. This music was 

 enlivened every half-hour by the blast of a horn the notice of the 

 bakers that they are about to draw their batches. The din of the lace- 

 machines incessant. The carillon of the Hotel de Ville recurring every 

 quarter. The melancholy cry of " eau !" a monosyllable which the 

 French vender has the painful talent of extending to the length of a 

 Greek composite, and of marking, through all its doleful distortions, 

 with a different key; succeeded by the rapid call of " qui vent de la 

 tourbe ?" and the eternal voice of the knife and scissors'-grinder. 



4th April.-What do our travelled youth mean by their encomiums on 



