Calais up and doing at the railway-station, and Calais down and dreaming in its bed; Calais with something of “an ancient and fish-like smell” about it, and Calais blown and sea-washed pure; Calais represented at the Buffet by savoury roast fowls, hot coffee, cognac, and Bordeaux; and Calais represented everywhere by flitting persons with a monomania for changing money—­though I never shall be able to understand, in my present state of existence, how they live by it; but I suppose I should, if I understood the currency question; Calais en gros and Calais en detail, forgive one who has deeply wronged you,—­I was not fully aware of it on the other side, but I meant Dover.

Ding, ding!  To the carriages, gentlemen the travellers.  Ascend then, gentlemen the travellers, for Hazebroucke, Lille, Douai, Bruxelles, Arras, Amiens, and Paris!  I, humble representative of the uncommercial interest, ascend with the rest.  The train is light to-night, and I share my compartment with but two fellow-travellers; one, a compatriot in an obsolete cravat, who thinks it a quite unaccountable thing that they don’t keep “London time” on a French railway, and who is made angry by my modestly suggesting the possibility of Paris time being more in their way; the other, a young priest, with a very small bird in a very small cage, who feeds the small bird with a quill, and then puts him up in the network above his head, where he advances twittering to his front wires, and seems to address me in an electioneering manner.  The compatriot (who crossed in the boat, and whom I judge to be some person of distinction, as he was shut up, like a stately species of rabbit, in a private hutch on deck) and the young priest (who joined us at Calais) are soon asleep, and then the bird and I have it all to ourselves....

LETTERS
[Sidenote:  Walter Bagehot]

The complete letter-writer is now an unknown animal.  In the last century, when communications were difficult, and epistles rare, there were a great many valuable people who devoted a good deal of time to writing elaborate letters.  You wrote letters to a man whom you knew nineteen years and a half ago, and told him what you had for dinner, and what your second cousin said, and how the crops got on.  Every detail of life was described and dwelt on, and improved.  The art of writing, at least of writing easily, was comparatively rare, which kept the number of such compositions within narrow limits.  Sir Walter Scott says he knew a man who remembered that the London post-bag once came to Edinburgh with only one letter in it.  One can fancy the solemn, conscientious elaborateness with which a person would write, with the notion that his letter would have a whole coach and a whole bag to itself, and travel two hundred miles alone, the exclusive object of a red guard’s care.  The only thing like it now—­the deferential minuteness with which one public office writes to another, conscious that the letter will travel on her Majesty’s service three doors down the passage—­sinks by comparison into cursory brevity.