er account than had been anticipated.

The preservation of a settlement so important, and yet surrounded by
an inveterately hostile people, demanded no ordinary vigilance. The
keeping of it was accordingly always committed to one of the most
trusty of the English barons, with the title of lord-deputy, and the
command of a sufficient garrison; while no expense was spared on the
works necessary for its maintenance. There were stringent laws for the
daily opening and closing of the gates, which were superintended by a
knight or master-porter, and a gentleman-porter, with a staff of
subordinates. The lord-deputy himself received the keys every evening,
and delivered them in the morning to the knight-porter, with orders as
to the number of gates to be opened for the day. This was done as soon
as the first watch-bell had tolled three times, and the guard turned
out. During the time of dinner, which was an hour before noon, the
gates were invariably closed, and the keys again delivered to the
lord-deputy, by whom they were 'hidden in a safe place, known only to
himself.' When the meal was ended, and business resumed, they were
reopened with the same ceremony as in the morning; and at four o'clock
P.M., they were shut for the night. Except by special order of the
deputy, none but the Lanthorn Gate was opened during the herring
season. There were strict regulations also with regard to strangers
lodging in the town; the keepers of hostelries and lodging-houses
being sworn to make a daily report of the number and quality of their
guests. The French, by the way, have deemed it proper to maintain this
custom of the place, despite the lapse of four centuries since its
peculiar position rendered such espionage a necessary precaution.

During the 200 years that we boasted the possession of Calais, it was
often the scene of courtly festivities on a magnificent
scale--oftener, perhaps, than any other spot under English dominion,
except the metropolis. We need scarcely remind the reader of the
marriage of Richard II. with the youthful Isabella of Valois in the
church of St Nicholas, a fete which cost the English monarch 300,000
marks; nor the rendezvous of Henry VIII. and Francis I., called the
Field of the Cloth of Gold from the sumptuousness of the royal
pavilions, and other accessories, the preparation of which employed
above 2000 English artificers. We have before us a collection of
annals,[3] recently published, chiefly from rare an