of his own sovereign's notions, respectfully
salutes the runaway monarch, assists him to
land, and between two and three in the morning,
conducts him to M. de Château-Guillaume's
house, the best in Ambleteuse, but a
sorry lodging for one accustomed to regal
splendour. After a little rest, sorely needed,
he betakes himself to Boulogne, where he is
met at the gate by the Duc d'Aumont, accompanied
by all the Boulonnaise nobility, and
the town militia under arms. He doffs the uniform
worn by his guard, bedizens himself with
orders and other gewgaws, and in the course of
a few days sets off for Paris, to shelter himself
under Louis the Fourteenth's wing.

James the Second and Louis the Fourteenth
have faded away; their colouring has paled,
their outline is gone. The canvas is occupied
by actors of a totally different stamp. Martial
hosts are again assembled, with the intention of
invading Albion. Every preparation is made;
all is ready; a propitious moment for starting
has only to arrive. Not only in Boulogne itself,
but at my own point of observation — a creek
to the north of it — basins are hollowed out and
lined with solid oaken piles, for the reception of
the fleet of flat-bottomed boats which are to float
England's conquerors across the Strait. The little
great man himself is there, impatient. Through
his telescope, he devours Britannia with his
eye. The pillage of London will reward his
soldiers; English conscripts will recruit his
wasted army; English tribute will swell his
diminished treasure. The nation of shopkeepers
are soon to be taught the relationship between
Liberty, Equality, and Tyranny. They are to
inaugurate a regime or blood and glory, of civilisation
by the bayonet, and the butchery of
thousands for the pre-eminence of one.
So sure are these hosts of tlieir success, that
—reminding one of Babel — they are erecting,
as a testimonial in honour of their chief, a
column to commemorate the conquest of England.
The town gives the commanding site,
the quarry-owners present the marble, the
officers and engineers subscribe their skill, and
the common men contribute their labour. You
see the tall shaft rising day by day. Meanwhile,
the little great man, experimenting, sends out a
few flat boats to test their quality. The day is
stormy and unpropitious; but great men like him
listen to no remonstrance. The human cargo is
launched at a venture. If two or three hundred
lives are sacrificed, what is that out of so many?

And so it goes on, the storm thickening and
the sky growing charged with thunder-clouds.
Crosses of honour are showered by handfuls,
banquets given, forts constructed, menacing
placards stuck about, although they cannot be
seen by the people menaced, and general threats
to the stiff-necked islanders by no means economised.
But before the hurricane can be quite
let loose and the lightnings strike, the spell is
broken by one word — Trafalgar! And then, when
"Waterloo" has rung in his ears, the little great
man gradually fades away, after lingering for a
while in the distance confined to a solitary rock.

Our lantern presents another slide. I and my
belongings are bundled off, for health and quiet,
to the sea. And where do we happen to drop,
in the flesh, but at this very identical spot —
one of the ports whence the flat-bottomed boats
did not go forth to victory! What a change!
There is no strife or bustle now. Gone are the
busy troops of the First Napoleon; gone the
superior officers, naval and military; vanished
are the quays, the locks, the aqueducts, the
fosses, the storehouses, the powder-magazines,
the workshops, the public fountains. Everything
has reassumed its natural and ancient
aspect — an arid and desert spot, with nothing
but a brook winding through the sand-hills.
The wondrous port "created" for the flat-bottomed
boats is silted up — filled and encumbered
with mud and sand. The boats themselves
have long since suffered dissolution. The
oaken piles of the basin are wormeaten and split,
though tough and strong in their decrepitude.
There is hardly a road; paths even are rarities.

Our baggage, in a wheelbarrow, reaches, by
a foot bridge, a lodging where nobody would
believe that lodgings could contrive to exist.
Once installed, we wander unrestrained over
breezy downs and along the cliff, with the
swallow and the wild bee for our companions,
the lark and the linnet for our private band,
while the air is perfumed by thyme and furze.
Rarely, we meet a withered old man, with a
small bronze medal dangling at his coat. It
is called the Decoration of St. Helena, but is
really a ticket for the other world. The little
corporal's column rises in sight, finished, not
by him or his, but by a great little man of
different race, who preferred his family to
France — or say his family's interest to his own
— and who was foolish enough to let France see
it. But for the view of that monumental pillar
—  and also for the walking postman — we might
fancy ourselves fifty miles beyond the confines
of the habitable world. The freehold of a stonebuilt
cot and its surrounding plot of garden-sand,
is offered me for eight pounds sterling,
and I do not purchase. Think of that, ye building
speculators! But I probably make a slight
mistake in not so investing eight pounds sterling.

We are independent as islanders. The sea
gives us fish and firewood, and occasionally
other things besides; for wrecks are far from
rare. The bravest ship, once on the rocks,
must submit to be sold to be broken up. There
are indigenous poultry, pigs, and cows; and I
guess that a few of our comforts, if they would
confess the truth, are contraband. At least the
white counterpane, which covers my bed, was
smuggled in with a cargo of coals. Once a week
only, by the cliff or, the shore, do we venture
into town on foot or on donkey-back, returning
speedily to the unknown nook, whither Boulogne
bathers never think of penetrating.

But there are rumours of troubles in the
East. Nicholas of Russia is growing insolent.
My view of quiet downs and unexplored sandhills
curdles and changes into something else.
The grass is spotted with rows of white tents;