A Days Tour | Page 5

new
country--these elements impart a sort of dreamy, poetical feeling to the
scene. Even the calm resignation of the wrapped-up shadows seated in
a sort of retreat, and devoted to their own thoughts or slumbers, add to
this effect. With which comes the thought of the brave little vessels,
which through day and night, year after year, dance over these
uncertain waters in 'all weathers,' as it is termed. When the night is
black as Erebus, and the sea in its fury boiling and raging over the pier,
the Lord Warden with its storm-shutters up, and timid guests removed
to more sheltered quarters, the very stones of the pier shaken from their
places by the violence of the monster outside--the little craft, wrapping
its mantle about its head, goes out fearlessly, and, emerging from the
harbour to be flung about, battered with wild fury, forces her way on
through the night, which its gallant sailors call, with truth, 'an awful
one.'
While busy with these thoughts I take note of a little scene of comedy,
or perhaps of a farcical kind, which is going on near me, in which two
'Harrys' of the purest kind were engaged, and whose oddities lightened
the tediousness of the passage. One had seen foreign parts, and was
therefore regarded with reverence by his companion.
They were promenading the deck, and the following dialogue was
borne to me in snatches:
First Harry (interrogatively, and astonished): 'Eh? no! Now, really?'
Second Harry: 'Oh, Lord bless yer, yes! It comes quite easy, you know'
(or 'yer know'). 'A little trouble at first; but, Lord bless yer' (this
benediction was imparted many times during the conversation), 'it ain't
such a difficult thing at all.'

I now found they were speaking of acquiring the French language--a
matter the difficulty of which they thought had been absurdly overrated.
Then the second Harry: 'Of course it is! Suppose you're in a Caffy, and
want some wine; you just call to the waiter, and you say--'
First Harry (who seems to think that the secret has already been
communicated): 'Dear me; yes, to be sure--to be sure! I never thought
of that. A Caffy?'
Second Harry: 'Oh, Lor' bless yer, it comes as easy as--that! Well, you
go say to the fellow--just as you would say to an English
waiter--"_Don-ny maw_"--(pause)--"dee Vinne."'
First Harry (amazed): 'So _that's_ the way! Dear, dear me! Vinne!'
Second Harry: 'O' course it is the way! Suppose you want yer way to
the railway, you just go ask for the "_Sheemin--dee--Fur_." Fur, you
know, means "rail" in French--Sheemin is "the road," you know.'
Again lost in wonder at the simplicity of what is popularly supposed to
be so thorny, the other Harry could only repeat:
'So that's it! What is it, again? _Sheemin_--'
_'Sheemin dee Fur.'_
Later, in the fuss and bustle of the 'eating hall,' this 'Harry,' more
obstreperous than ever by contact with the foreigners, again attracted
my attention. Everywhere I heard his voice; he was rampant.
'When the chap laid hold of my bag, "Halloo," says I; "hands off, old
boy," says I.
"'Eel Fo!" says he.
'"Eel-pie!" says I. "Blow your Fo," says I, and didn't he grin like an ape?
I declare I thought I'd have split when he came again with his "Eel
Fo!"'

He was then in his element. Everything new to him was 'a guy,' or 'so
rum,' or 'the queerest go you ever.' One of the two declared that, 'in all
his experience and in all his life he had never heard sich a lingo as
French;' and further, that 'one of their light porters at Bucklersbury
would eat half a dozen of them Frenchmen for a bender.'
This strange, grotesque dialogue I repeat textually almost; and, it may
be conceived, it was entertaining in a high degree. _'Sheemin dee Fur'_
was the exact phonetic pronunciation, and the whole scene lingers
pleasantly in the memory.

IV.
_CALAIS._
But it is now close on midnight, and we are drawing near land; the eye
of the French phare grows fiercer and more glaring, until, close on
midnight, the traveller finds the blinding light flashed full on him, as
the vessel rushes past the wickerwork pier-head. One or two beings,
whose unhappy constitution it is to be miserable and wretched at the
very whisper of the word 'SEA,' drag themselves up from below,
rejoicing that here is CALAIS. Beyond rises the clustered town
confined within its walls. As we glide in between the friendly arms of
the openwork pier, the shadowy outlines of the low-lying town take
shape and enlarge, dotted with lamps as though pricked over with
pin-holes. The fiery clock of the station, that sits up all night from
year's end to year's end; the dark figures with tumbrils, and