made a great effect from a distance; we were standing on the pier, and couldn’t imagine what they were; “avisos” (dispatch-boats), with their long, narrow flamme, which marks them as war vessels, streaming out in the wind.  Their sailors looked very picturesque in white jerseys and blue berets with red pompons.  Small steamers that run along the coast from Calais to Dunkirk—­others, cargo boats, broad and deep in the water, that take fruit and eggs over to England.  The baskets of peaches, plums, and apricots look most appetizing when they are taken on board.  The steamers look funny when they come back with empty baskets, quantities of them, piled up on the decks, tied to the masts.  Many little pleasure boats—­flat, broad rowing boats that take one across the harbour to the Gare Maritime (which is a long way around by the bridge), a most uncomfortable performance at low tide, as you go down long, steep, slippery steps with no railing, and have to scramble into the boat as well as you can.

Of course, there are fishing-boats of every description, from the modest little sloop with one mast and small sail to the big steam trawlers which are increasing every year and gradually replacing the old-fashioned sailing-boat.  One always knows when the fishing-boats are arriving by the crowd that assembles on the quay; that peculiar population that seems natural to all ports, young, able-bodied sailors, full of interest about the run and the cargo—­old men in blue jerseys who sit on the wall, in the sun, all day, and recount their experiences—­various officials with gold bands on their caps, men with hand carts waiting to carry off the fish and fishwives—­their baskets strapped on their backs—­hoping for a haul of crabs and shrimps or fish from some of the small boats.

All the cargo of the trawlers is sold before they arrive to the marieurs (men who deal exclusively in fish), and who have a contract with the big boats.  There is no possibility of having a good fish except at the Halles, where one can sometimes get some from one of the smaller boats, which fish on their own account and have no contract; but even those are generally sold at once to small dealers, who send them off to the neighbouring inland towns.  In fact, the proprietor of one of the big hotels told me he had to get his fish from Paris and paid Paris prices.

The fishwives, the young ones particularly, are a fine-looking lot—­tall, straight, with feet and legs bare, a little white cap or woollen fichu on their heads—­they carry off their heavy baskets as lightly as possible, taking them to the Halles where all the fish must go.  They are quite a feature of Boulogne, the young fishwives.  One sees them often at low tide—­fishing for shrimps, carrying their heavy nets on their shoulders and flat baskets strapped on their backs into which they tip the fish very cleverly.  They are quite distinct from the Boulonaises matelottes, who are a step higher in the social scale. They always