Times have changed, and now I enter Calais
self-reliant and rational. I know where it is beforehand, I keep a
look-out for it, I recognise its landmarks when I see any of them, I am
acquainted with its ways, and I know--and I can bear--its worst
behaviour.
Malignant Calais! Low-lying alligator, evading the eye-sight and
discouraging hope! Dodging flat streak, now on this bow, now on that,
now anywhere, now everywhere, now nowhere! In vain Cape Grinez, coming
frankly forth into the sea, exhorts the failing to be stout of heart and
stomach; sneaking Calais, prone behind its bar, invites emetically to
despair. Even when it can no longer quite conceal itself in its muddy
dock, it has an evil way of falling off, has Calais, which is more
hopeless than its invisibility. The pier is all but on the bowsprit and
you think you are there--roll, roar, wash!--Calais has retired miles
inland, and Dover has burst out to look for it. It has a last dip and
slide in its character, has Calais, to be specially commended to the
infernal gods. Thrice accursed be that garrison-town, when it dives
under the boat's keel, and comes up a league or two to the right, with
the packet shivering and spluttering and staring about for it!
Not but what I have my animosities towards Dover. I particularly detest
Dover for the self-complacency with which it goes to bed.
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