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<h2>Chapter 3.LXXXV.</h2>
<p>Now hang it! quoth I, as I look'd towards the French
coast—a man should know something of his own country too,
before he goes abroad—and I never gave a peep into Rochester
church, or took notice of the dock of Chatham, or visited St.
Thomas at Canterbury, though they all three laid in my
way—</p>
<p>—But mine, indeed, is a particular case—</p>
<p>So without arguing the matter further with Thomas o'Becket, or
any one else—I skip'd into the boat, and in five minutes we
got under sail, and scudded away like the wind.</p>
<p>Pray, captain, quoth I, as I was going down into the cabin, is a
man never overtaken by Death in this passage?</p>
<p>Why, there is not time for a man to be sick in it, replied
he—What a cursed lyar! for I am sick as a horse, quoth I,
already—what a brain!—upside down!—hey-day! the
cells are broke loose one into another, and the blood, and the
lymph, and the nervous juices, with the fix'd and volatile salts,
are all jumbled into one mass—good G..! every thing turns
round in it like a thousand whirlpools—I'd give a shilling to
know if I shan't write the clearer for it—</p>
<p>Sick! sick! sick! sick—!</p>
<p>—When shall we get to land? captain—they have hearts
like stones—O I am deadly sick!—reach me that thing,
boy—'tis the most discomfiting sickness—I wish I was at
the bottom—Madam! how is it with you? Undone! undone!
un...—O! undone! sir—What the first time?—No,
'tis the second, third, sixth, tenth time,
sir,—hey-day!—what a trampling over head!—hollo!
cabin boy! what's the matter?</p>
<p>The wind chopp'd about! s'Death—then I shall meet him full
in the face.</p>
<p>What luck!—'tis chopp'd about again, master—O the
devil chop it—</p>
<p>Captain, quoth she, for heaven's sake, let us get ashore.</p>
<SPAN name="linkCH0204" id="linkCH0204"></SPAN>
<h2>Chapter 3.LXXXVI.</h2>
<p>It is a great inconvenience to a man in a haste, that there are
three distinct roads between Calais and Paris, in behalf of which
there is so much to be said by the several deputies from the towns
which lie along them, that half a day is easily lost in settling
which you'll take.</p>
<p>First, the road by Lisle and Arras, which is the most
about—but most interesting, and instructing.</p>
<p>The second, that by Amiens, which you may go, if you would see
Chantilly—</p>
<p>And that by Beauvais, which you may go, if you will.</p>
<p>For this reason a great many chuse to go by Beauvais.</p>
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<h2>Chapter 3.LXXXVII.</h2>
<p>'Now before I quit Calais,' a travel-writer would say, 'it would
not be amiss to give some account of it.'—Now I think it very
much amiss—that a man cannot go quietly through a town and
let it alone, when it does not meddle with him, but that he must be
turning about and drawing his pen at every kennel he crosses over,
merely o' my conscience for the sake of drawing it; because, if we
may judge from what has been wrote of these things, by all who have
wrote and gallop'd—or who have gallop'd and wrote, which is a
different way still; or who, for more expedition than the rest,
have wrote galloping, which is the way I do at present—from
the great Addison, who did it with his satchel of school books
hanging at his a..., and galling his beast's crupper at every
stroke—there is not a gallopper of us all who might not have
gone on ambling quietly in his own ground (in case he had any), and
have wrote all he had to write, dry-shod, as well as not.</p>
<p>For my own part, as heaven is my judge, and to which I shall
ever make my last appeal—I know no more of Calais (except the
little my barber told me of it as he was whetting his razor) than I
do this moment of Grand Cairo; for it was dusky in the evening when
I landed, and dark as pitch in the morning when I set out, and yet
by merely knowing what is what, and by drawing this from that in
one part of the town, and by spelling and putting this and that
together in another—I would lay any travelling odds, that I
this moment write a chapter upon Calais as long as my arm; and with
so distinct and satisfactory a detail of every item, which is worth
a stranger's curiosity in the town—that you would take me for
the town-clerk of Calais itself—and where, sir, would be the
wonder? was not Democritus, who laughed ten times more than
I—town-clerk of Abdera? and was not (I forget his name) who
had more discretion than us both, town-clerk of Ephesus?—it
should be penn'd moreover, sir, with so much knowledge and good
sense, and truth, and precision—</p>
<p>—Nay—if you don't believe me, you may read the
chapter for your pains.</p>
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<h2>Chapter 3.LXXXVIII.</h2>
<h3>Calais, Calatium, Calusium, Calesium.</h3>
<p>This town, if we may trust its archives, the authority of which
I see no reason to call in question in this place—was once no
more than a small village belonging to one of the first Counts de
Guignes; and as it boasts at present of no less than fourteen
thousand inhabitants, exclusive of four hundred and twenty distinct
families in the basse ville, or suburbs—it must have grown up
by little and little, I suppose, to its present size.</p>
<p>Though there are four convents, there is but one parochial
church in the whole town; I had not an opportunity of taking its
exact dimensions, but it is pretty easy to make a tolerable
conjecture of 'em—for as there are fourteen thousand
inhabitants in the town, if the church holds them all it must be
considerably large—and if it will not—'tis a very great
pity they have not another—it is built in form of a cross,
and dedicated to the Virgin Mary; the steeple, which has a spire to
it, is placed in the middle of the church, and stands upon four
pillars elegant and light enough, but sufficiently strong at the
same time—it is decorated with eleven altars, most of which
are rather fine than beautiful. The great altar is a master-piece
in its kind; 'tis of white marble, and, as I was told, near sixty
feet high—had it been much higher, it had been as high as
mount Calvary itself—therefore, I suppose it must be high
enough in all conscience.</p>
<p>There was nothing struck me more than the great Square; tho' I
cannot say 'tis either well paved or well built; but 'tis in the
heart of the town, and most of the streets, especially those in
that quarter, all terminate in it; could there have been a fountain
in all Calais, which it seems there cannot, as such an object would
have been a great ornament, it is not to be doubted, but that the
inhabitants would have had it in the very centre of this
square,—not that it is properly a square,—because 'tis
forty feet longer from east to west, than from north to south; so
that the French in general have more reason on their side in
calling them Places than Squares, which, strictly speaking, to be
sure, they are not.</p>
<p>The town-house seems to be but a sorry building, and not to be
kept in the best repair; otherwise it had been a second great
ornament to this place; it answers however its destination, and
serves very well for the reception of the magistrates, who assemble
in it from time to time; so that 'tis presumable, justice is
regularly distributed.</p>
<p>I have heard much of it, but there is nothing at all curious in
the Courgain; 'tis a distinct quarter of the town, inhabited solely
by sailors and fishermen; it consists of a number of small streets,
neatly built and mostly of brick; 'tis extremely populous, but as
that may be accounted for, from the principles of their
diet,—there is nothing curious in that neither.—A
traveller may see it to satisfy himself—he must not omit
however taking notice of La Tour de Guet, upon any account; 'tis so
called from its particular destination, because in war it serves to
discover and give notice of the enemies which approach the place,
either by sea or land;—but 'tis monstrous high, and catches
the eye so continually, you cannot avoid taking notice of it if you
would.</p>
<p>It was a singular disappointment to me, that I could not have
permission to take an exact survey of the fortifications, which are
the strongest in the world, and which, from first to last, that is,
for the time they were set about by Philip of France, Count of
Bologne, to the present war, wherein many reparations were made,
have cost (as I learned afterwards from an engineer in
Gascony)—above a hundred millions of livres. It is very
remarkable, that at the Tete de Gravelenes, and where the town is
naturally the weakest, they have expended the most money; so that
the outworks stretch a great way into the campaign, and
consequently occupy a large tract of ground—However, after
all that is said and done, it must be acknowledged that Calais was
never upon any account so considerable from itself, as from its
situation, and that easy entrance which it gave our ancestors, upon
all occasions, into France: it was not without its inconveniences
also; being no less troublesome to the English in those times, than
Dunkirk has been to us, in ours; so that it was deservedly looked
upon as the key to both kingdoms, which no doubt is the reason that
there have arisen so many contentions who should keep it: of these,
the siege of Calais, or rather the blockade (for it was shut up
both by land and sea), was the most memorable, as it with-stood the
efforts of Edward the Third a whole year, and was not terminated at
last but by famine and extreme misery; the gallantry of Eustace de
St. Pierre, who first offered himself a victim for his
fellow-citizens, has rank'd his name with heroes. As it will not
take up above fifty pages, it would be injustice to the reader, not
to give him a minute account of that romantic transaction, as well
as of the siege itself, in Rapin's own words:</p>
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