the piers, are shadowy. It seems a scene in a play. The great sea is
behind us and all round. It is a curious feeling, thinking of the
nervous unrest of the place, that has gone on for a century, and that
will probably go on for centuries more. Certainly, to a person who has
never been abroad, this midnight scene would be a picture not without
a flavour of romance. But such glimpses of poetry are held intrusive
in these matter-of-fact days.

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

How picturesque that stroll! Not wholly levelled are the old yellow
walls; the railway-station with its one eye, and clock that never
sleeps, opens its jaws with a cheerful bright light, like an inn fire;
dark figures in cowls, soldiers, sailors, flit about; curiously-shaped
tumbrils for the baggage lie up in ordinary. Here is the old arched
gate, ditch, and drawbridge; Hogarth's old bridge and archway, where
he drew the 'Roast Beef of Old England.' Passing over the bridge into
the town unchallenged, I find a narrow street with yellow houses--the
white shutters, the porches, the first glance of which affects one so
curiously and reveals France. Here is the Place of Arms in the centre,
whence all streets radiate. What more picturesque scene!--the moon
above, the irregular houses straggling round, the quaint old
town-hall, with its elegant tower, and rather wheezy but most musical
chimes; its neighbour, the black, solemn watch-tower, rising rude and
abrupt, seven centuries old, whence there used to be strict look-out
for 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 'Silver