So strangely goes the time, and on the whole so quickly—­though still I seem to have been on board a week—­that I am bumped, rolled, gurgled, washed, and pitched into Calais Harbour before her maiden smile has finally lighted her through the Green Isle.  When blest for ever is she who relied On entering Calais at the top of the tide.  For we have not to land to-night down among those slimy timbers—­covered with green hair as if it were the mermaid’s favourite combing-place—­where one crawls to the surface of the jetty, like a stranded shrimp; but we go steaming up the harbour to the Railway-station Quay.  And, as we go, the sea washes in and out among the piles and planks with dead, heavy beats and in quite a furious manner (whereof we are proud), and the lamps shake in the wind, and the bells of Calais striking One seem to send their vibrations struggling against troubled air, as we have come struggling against troubled water.  And now, in the sudden relief and wiping of faces, everybody on board seems to have had a prodigious double-tooth out, and to be this very instant free of the dentist’s hands.  And now we all know for the first time how wet and cold we are, and how salt we are; and now I love Calais with my heart of hearts!

“Hotel Dessin!” (but in this one case it is not a vocal cry; it is but a bright lustre in the eyes of the cheery representative of that best of inns).  “Hotel Meurice!” “Hotel de France!” “Hotel de Calais!” “The Royal Hotel, sir, Anglaishe ’ouse!” “You going to Parry, sir?” “Your baggage, registair free, sir?” Bless ye, my Touters; bless ye, my commissionaires; bless ye, my hungry-eyed mysteries in caps of military form, who are always here, day or night, fair weather or foul, seeking inscrutable jobs which I never see you get!  Bless ye, my Custom-house officers in green and grey; permit me to grasp the welcome hands that descend into my travelling-bag, one on each side, and meet at the bottom to give my change of linen a peculiar shake-up, as if it were a measure of chaff or grain!  I have nothing to declare, Monsieur le Douanier, except that, when I cease to breathe, Calais will be found written on my heart.  No article liable to local duty have I with me, Monsieur l’Officier de l’Octroi, unless the overflowing of a breast devoted to your charming town should be in that wise chargeable.  Ah! see at the gangway by the twinkling lantern my dearest brother and friend, he once of the Passport Office, he who collects the names!  May he be for ever changeless in his buttoned black boat-surtout, with his note-book in his hand, and his tall black hat surmounting his round, smiling, patient face!  Let us embrace, my dearest brother.  I am yours a tout jamais—­for the whole of ever.