shore, and bless the beneficent
dispensations of nature. And now, perhaps, you will do me the favour of
whistling _Rule Britannia_. Thank you."

[Illustration]

The lights of Calais become rapidly visible, the seas abate, the
groaning invalids recover their legs, the poor sick ladies come up from
the cabin; we glide into smooth water listening to strange cries from
the pier, and finally grate along the quay. We are welcomed to the
strand of France by _douaniers_ in green with round caps, and policemen
in blue with cocked hats and yellow shoulder-belts. We must try to
admire and love these men, for as long as we remain, they are fated to
be our constant companions. The dilapidated troop of travellers is
marched into a sort of condemned cell, whence a detachment disappears
from time to time to undergo the examination of their passports and
luggage. Here comes the first need of the French tongue. The miserable
foreigners recover something of their importance, and the Britons, proud
of their exemption from the troubles of the sea, begin to find that they
are mortal. HOOKS-AND-EYES, emboldened by excessive draughts of brandy,
which make him blink and walk unsteadily, becomes a public character by
the wonderful volubility with which he talks an idiom of his own,
perfectly unintelligible to the officials. He fancies, it would seem,
that he is speaking some Continental language. An hour--two hours--are
thus cheerfully spent, and we ultimately settle into a train which
ultimately starts. Sleep is rendered impossible by a tin box full of hot
water laid at the bottom of the carriage, which, though it certainly
warms your feet, brings your knees up to your chin, and at last amounts
to an instrument of torture.

The chill of dawn penetrates through voluminous wrappings, and the grey
light, as it gradually strengthens, renders visible the dreary face of
the country and the haggard unshaven countenances of the travellers. Our
young friend, however, is as fresh as a rose and as airy as a lark.
"Why, the sunrise is just like the sunrise in England, only not so fine.
My eye, look at those pigs! what tremendous legs they've got! That black
one is just like a greyhound; he might go for the Derby if he was in
condition. Look, there's a clod in wooden shoes. Ah! none of the
labourers in Leicestershire wear wooden shoes. That's what my governor
said at the last election, when we licked the Freetraders so. Nothing
like the British peasantry