III.

_THE PACKET._


As I come forth from the Elocution Contest, I find that night has
closed in. Not a ripple is on the far-stretching blue waste. From the
high cliffs that overhang the town and its amphitheatre can be seen
the faintly outlined harbour, where the white-chimneyed packet snoozes
as it were, the smoke curling upwards, almost straight. The sea-air
blows fresh and welcome, though it does not beat on a 'fevered brow.'
There is a busy hum and clatter in the streets, filled with soldiers
and sailors and chattering sojourners. Now do the lamps begin to
twinkle lazily. There is hardly a breath stirring, and the great
chalk-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 begins
to darken with flitting figures hurrying down past the fortress-like
Lord Warden, now ablaze and getting ready its hospice for the night;
the town shows itself an amphitheatre of dotted lights--while down
below white vapours issue walrus-like from the sonorous
'scrannel-pipes' of the steamer. Gradually the bustle increases, and
more shadowy figures come hurrying down, walking behind their baggage
trundled before them. Now a faint scream, from afar off inland, behind
the cliffs, gives token that the trains, which have been tearing
headlong down from town since eight o'clock, are nearing us; while the
railway-gates fast closed, and porters on the watch with green lamps,
show that the expresses are due. It is a rather impressive sight to