two boys fishing, brothers evidently, for the
elder is bullying the younger beyond the
mere warranty of size, weight, and seniority.
The younger is—What? Good Heavens! As
I live a blue-coat boy in full costume! I am
disgusted—not merely at the bad grammar,
for I am used to that sort of thing: but at
the young scoundrel's shameless presence,
under the circumstances. What business has
he here among the poplars and watter-gands
bringing his nation into contempt by his
ridiculous outfit? Does he mean to tell me he
has no pocket-money? Could he not buy a
blouse? The merest chimney-sweep in
Calais knows that they are cheap enough!
Could he not conceal his shame (and mine),
in a borrowed suit of his not very big
brother? He is afraid to ask him—the
wretched little coward! I pass the
unpatriotically minded blue-coat boy with
loathing; and hope (without seriously doubting)
that his senior will give him a speedy
hiding.

I console myself in a British manner by
contrasting the French wheat with the general
condition of that plant as I left it a
week or so back in our own favoured isle.
I find an average of about six tufts of a
very tall species of flag-grass to every ear
of corn. There is comfort in this. My
vision is no longer tormented by the sight of
a dark blue robe with a strap round the
middle, and a pair of unearthly yellow
stockings.

Hah! What cry is that? It is the howl
as of a blue-coat boy in the extremity of
physical suffering. I go on my way
re-appeased and rejoicing.

I must treat myself to some refreshment.
Here is a junction of the canal with a
branch that leads to some other no-where,
like that I am so busily walking to. There
is an estaminet here—aux rendezvous des
canotiers. I am not a canotier, it is true;
but surely those jovial mariners will not
refuse a way-worn traveller the use of their
rendezvous. I enter on the speculation. The
canotiers have not yet rolled up in very
enthusiastic numbers, or indeed in any numbers
at all, for the rendezvous is empty. It looks,
moreover, so preternaturally clean, as to
make it improbable that any representative
of the pitch and tar interests could ever have
sat down in it. The estaminet is a large,
roomy apartment, capable of accommodating
any quantity of canotiers, if they would only
take the trouble to come—and is quaintly
furnished in a half-French, half-Flemish
manner. But, from the moment of my
entrance to my departure, I have eyes for
one article of furniture alone. This is the
clock.

I believe it to be the tallest clock that
ever was seen. It is a clock which might
be shown with pecuniary advantage in a
caravan at a fair. Associated with—say
George the Fourth's celebrated watch, that
he wore set in a ring on his little finger—for
contrast—I am sure it would beat the
combined forces of Mr. Hales and General Tom
Thumb out of any field. The clock has
further the appearance of having grown to
its present extraordinary dimensions in the
room where it stands. I have framed a
theory on the subject. I believe that some
years ago a squat, paunchy little time-piece
was planted on the floor; and, by the action
of some mysterious Jack in the Beanstalk,
it shot suddenly up till it reached the
ceiling. Then, of course, its growth was
stopped which was, perhaps, fortunate; for
the tall clock has already the look of having
run entirely to case, and is weak in the
works.

I cannot stand looking at a clock all day,
even at a phenomenon of the species nine
feet high, by scarcely as many inches wide.
The landlady (who is rather pretty, but not
half the height of the clock), appears to think
so, too, and to take my scrutiny of her household
ornament somewhat in dudgeon. She
asks me rather sharply what I desire. I
apologise, and desire a "chope." I am supplied
with a pennyworth of the most ridiculously
French beer I ever met with— it is nearly all
froth—occupies a great deal of room and
attention, is very unmanageable, makes an
immense noise about nothing, is entirely without
body; and yet, on the whole, is rather
agreeable than otherwise. I drink as much
of my beer as will keep off the floor, pay my
penny honestly, and, with one parting glance
at the landlady and two or three glances at
the clock, resume my journey.

I am soon reminded of my recent draught
by some French labourers who are stacking
hay; they, too, are making an immense deal
of fuss with a very disproportionate display
of strength. Johnson says that Frenchmen—
in this part of the country, at least—make
their haystacks as they do their houses—
nearly all roof. They moreover waste a great
deal of hay in ropes, which are connected on
the vertex of the stack and allowed to hang
down all round it like bell-pulls. I confess
I do not see the policy of this. It is like
cutting up all your leather into laces, and
leaving none for your boots. I think the
farmers of the Pas de Calais fortunate in that
they are not obliged to employ Irish
haymakers; these haystack ornaments would
offer such temptation for the manufacture of
the national stocking, as no high-principled
Emeralder would be able to resist.

The next object of interest is an old
gentleman fishing. He is seated in an
armchair in front of his own door. It is a
tolerably fine day, but he wears a camlet
cloak. I suppose if it were to come on to
rain, his housemaid would come out with an
umbrella to hold over him. I can read the
programme of this old gentleman's daily
existence at a glance. He has taken this
house for the facility of fishing in the canal.