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 f