A Days Tour | Page 9

congenial ocean. But conceive a monster
of this sort almost in the town itself, revolving ceaselessly, flashing and
flaring into every street and corner of a street, like some Patagonian
policeman with a giant 'bull's-eye.' A more singular, unearthly effect
cannot be conceived. Wherever I stand, in shadow or out of it, this
sudden flashing pursues me. It might be called the 'Demon Lighthouse.'
For a moment, in picturesque gloom, watching the shadows cast by the
Hogarthian gateway, I may be thinking of our great English painter
sitting sketching the lean Frenchwomen, noting, too, the portal where
the English arms used to be, when suddenly the 'Demon Lighthouse'
directs his glare full on me, describes a sweep, is gone, and all is dark
again. It suggests the policeman going his rounds. How the exile forced
to sojourn here must detest this obtrusive beacon of the first class! It
must become maddening in time for the eyes. Even in bed it has the
effect of mild sheet-lightning. Municipality of Calais! move it away at
once to a rational spot--to the end of the pier, where a lighthouse ought
to be.

V.
_TOURNAY._
But now back to 'Maritime Calais,' down to the pier, where a strange
busy contrast awaits us. All is now bustle. In the great 'hall' hundreds
are finishing their 'gorging,' paying bills, etc., while on the platform the
last boxes and chests are being tumbled into the waggons with the
peculiar tumbling, crashing sound which is so foreign. Guards and
officials in cloaks and hoods pace up and down, and are beginning to
chant their favourite '_En voiture, messieurs_!' Soon all are packed into
their carriages, which in France always present an old-fashioned
mail-coach air with their protuberant bodies and panels. By one o'clock
the signal is given, the lights flash slowly by, and we are rolling away,
off into the black night. 'Maritime Calais' is left to well-earned repose;
but for an hour or so only, until the returning mail arrives, when it will
wake up again--a troubled and troublous nightmare sort of existence.

Now for a plunge into Cimmerian night, with that dull, sustained buzz
outside, as of some gigantic machinery whirling round, which seems a
sort of lullaby, contrived mercifully to make the traveller drowsy and
enwrap him in gentle sleep. Railway sleeping is, after all, a not
unrefreshing form of slumber. There is the grateful 'nod, nod, nodding,'
with the sudden jerk of an awakening; until the nodding becomes more
overpowering, and one settles into a deep and profound sleep. Ugh!
how chilly it gets! And the machinery--or is it the sea?--still roaring in
one's ear.
What, stopping! and by the roadside, it seems; the day breaking, the
atmosphere cold, steel-blue, and misty. Rubbing the pane, a few
surviving lights are seen twinkling--a picture surely something Moslem.
For there, separated by low-lying fields, rise clustered Byzantine towers
and belfries, with strangely-quaint German-looking spires of the
Nuremberg pattern, but all dimly outlined and mysterious in their
grayness.
There was an extraordinary and original feeling in this approach: the
old fortifications, or what remained of them, rising before me; the
gloom, the mystery, the widening streak of day, and perfect solitariness.
As I admired the shadowy belfry which rose so supreme and asserted
itself among the spires, there broke out of a sudden a perfect charivari
of bells--jangling, chiming, rioting, from various churches, while amid
all was conspicuous the deep, solemn BOOM! BOOM! like the slow
baying of a hound.
It is five o'clock, but it might be the middle of the night, so dark is it.
This magic city, which seems like one of those in Albert Dürer's cuts,
rises at a distance as if within walls. I stand in the roadside alone,
deserted, the sole traveller set down. The train has flown on into the
night with a shriek. The sleepy porter wonders, and looks at me
askance.
As I take my way from the station and gradually approach the city--for
there is a broad stretch between it and the railway unfilled by houses--I
see the striking and impressive picture growing and enlarging. The
jangling and the solemn occasional boom still go on: meant to give note

that the day is opening. Nothing more awe-inspiring or poetical can be
conceived than this 'cock-crow' promenade. Here are little portals
suddenly opening on the stage, with muffled figures darting out, and
worthy Belgians tripping from their houses--betimes, indeed--and
hurrying away to mass. Thus to make the acquaintance of that grandest
and most astonishing of old cathedrals, is to do so under the best and
most suitable conditions: very different from the guide and cicerone
business, which belongs to later hours of the day. I stand in the open
place, under its shadow, and lift my eyes with wonder