Close to Calais is a notable place enough, flourishing, too, founded after the great war by one Webster, an English laceman.  It has grown up, with broad stately streets, in which, it is said, some four or five thousand Britons live and thrive.  As you walk along you see the familiar names, ‘Smith and Co.,’ ‘Brown and Co.,’ etc., displayed on huge brass plates at the doors in true native style.  Indeed, the whole air of the place offers a suggestion of Belfast, these downright colonists having stamped their ways and manners in solid style on the place.  Poor old original Calais had long made protest against the constriction she was suffering; the wall and ditch, and the single gate of issue towards the country, named after Richelieu, seeming to check all hope of improvement.  Reasons of state were urged.  But a few years ago Government gave way, the walls towards the country-side were thrown down, the ditch filled up, and some tremendous ‘navigator’ work was carried out.  The place can now draw its breath.

On my last visit I had attended the theatre, a music-hall adaptable to plays, concerts, or to ‘les meetings.’  It was a new, raw place, very different from the little old theatre in the garden of Dessein’s, where the famous Duchess of Kingston attended a performance over a hundred and twenty years ago.  This place bore the dignified title of the ‘Hippodrome Theatre,’ and a grand ‘national’ drama was going on, entitled

     ‘THE CUIRASSIER OF REICHSHOFEN.’

Here we had the grand tale of French heroism and real victory, which an ungenerous foe persisted in calling defeat.  A gallant Frenchman, who played the hero, had nearly run his daring course, having done prodigies of valour on that fateful and fatal day.  The crisis of the drama was reached almost as I entered, the cuirassier coming in with his head bound up in a bloody towel!  After relating the horrors of that awful charge in an impassioned strain, he wound up by declaring that ’He and Death’ were the only two left upon the field!  It need not be said there were abundant groans for the Germans and cheers for the glorious Frenchmen.

Now at last down to the vessel, as the wheezy chimes give out that it is close on two o’clock a.m.  All seems dozing at ‘Maritime Calais.’  The fishing-boats lie close together, interlaced in black network, snoozing, as it were, after their labours.  Afar off the little town still maintains its fortress-like air and its picturesque aspect, the dark central spires rising like shadows, the few lights twinkling.  The whole scene is deliciously tranquil.  The plashing of the water seems to invite slumber, or at least a temporary doze, to which the traveller, after his long day and night, is justly entitled.  How strange those old days, when the exiles for debt abounded here!  They were in multitudes then, and had a sort of society among themselves in this Alsatia.  That gentleman in a high stock and a short-waisted coat—­the late Mr. Brummell surely, walking in this direction?  Is he pursued by this agitated crowd, hurrying after him with a low roaring, like the sound of the waves?...