that he first went a-seafaring and near foundering (what a terrific
sound that word had for me when I was a boy!) in his first gale of wind.
Still, through all this, I must ask her (who _was_ she, I wonder!) for
the fiftieth time, and without ever stopping, Does she not fear to
stray, so lone and lovely through this bleak way, And are Erin's sons so
good or so cold, As not to be tempted by more fellow-creatures at the
paddle-box or gold? Sir Knight, I feel not the least alarm, No son of
Erin will offer me harm, For though they love fellow creatures with
umbrella down again and golden store, Sir Knight, they--what a
tremendous one!--love honour and virtue more: For though they love
stewards with a bull's-eye bright, they'll trouble you for your ticket,
sir--rough passage to-night!

I freely admit it to be a miserable piece of human weakness and
inconsistency, but I no sooner become conscious of those last words from
the steward than I begin to soften towards Calais. Whereas I have been
vindictively wishing that those Calais burghers who came out of their
town by a short cut into the History of England, with those fatal ropes
round their necks by which they have since been towed into so many
cartoons, had all been hanged on the spot, I now begin to regard them as
highly respectable and virtuous tradesmen. Looking about me, I see the
light of Cape Grinez well astern of the boat on the davits to leeward,
and the light of Calais Harbour undeniably at its old tricks, but still
ahead and shining. Sentiments of forgiveness of Calais, not to say of
attachment to Calais, begin to expand my bosom. I have weak notions that
I will stay there a day or two on my way back. A faded and recumbent
stranger, pausing in a profound reverie over the rim of a basin, asked
me what kind of place Calais is? I tell him (Heaven forgive me!) a very
agreeable place indeed--rather hilly than otherwise.