sometimes to be seen in the drawing-rooms
of the wealthy. Now, one of the landscapes
in my own mind's eye collection, is the scene
of an illustration of the real nature of Custom
House dues, somewhat similar to Sartor's
case of the two soldier lads—if His Transcendency
will, without offence, permit so
audacious a piece of familiarity on my part.

My dissolving-view landscape, which is a
coast scene, is this. A white, perpendicular,
chalk and limestone cliff, four hundred feet
high, has its summit covered with short green
turf. I am walking upon the turf along the
upper edge of that cliff, with the English
Channel on my left, but with the shores of
England sunk far below my horizon. After
I have proceeded a few score paces, the ground
slopes suddenly towards the sea, and, at the
bottom of the hollow, at the very edge of the
precipice, is a coast-guard's hut. I descend
to the hut, thinking there to reach the end of
all things; but the narrow little path, which
leads me thither, makes a sharp turn, and
dips between the sides of an enormous chink
in the cliff. I follow it; down it leads me, step
by step—down, like the ruined staircase of
some primæval steeple; and, instead of wallflowers
in the broken masonry, here we have
wild cabbage, thrift, and samphire, luxuriating
overhead, below, and on that ungainly peak
in mid-air, where no creature but a bird
could contrive to gather them. Down, and
still down I go, for four hundred feet. The
path does not wind; it writhes, and wriggles,
and plunges so suddenly, that it threatens to
play the mole and imitate a Derbyshire lead
mine, as soon as it arrives at level ground.
But at last, with a gentler inclination, it
deposits me upon the rocky shore, and tells
me I may now lounge and stare about me,
without fear of breaking my neck.

The place is a tiny bay, formed by a vast
hollow in the cliff, which answers to the slope
above. On the left is a natural archway in
the rock, through which the waves are
tumbling boisterously, like children breaking
out of school. In the extreme distance, an
alabaster cliff, surmounted by a tall loaf-sugar
light-house, is stretching into the azure
sea. But the spot itself on which I stand
lies sheltered, snug, and hidden apparently
from every mortal eye, beneath the overhanging
ramparts of limestone.

I am not, however, the only living mortal
there; at some distance stands a white-haired
fisherman, in a scarlet nightcap, mending
some bow-nets; nearer, a couple of naked-footed
boys, with baskets at their backs, are
searching for periwinkles; and, almost at the
very foot of my little pathway, a martial
figure, clad in a light slate-grey surtout, is
seated on a ledge of rock, with a carbine and
sabre at his side, as if he were posted there to
repel some expected hostile invasion. He
is one of the douaniers, or coast-guards
stationed at the neighbouring village. At
my approach, he rises and bows, and I cannot,
without incivility, escape saying Bonjour in
return.

"This is a magnificent scene! " I observed,
as the most obvious remark I could make.

"Yes, it is superb; but still, it is very dull
and lonely for me. Six hours here at a spell
with nothing to do except watching the water,
and without a soul to speak to, is but
melancholy work, although it is my trade.
In summer, we frequently have visitors, like
yourself, look in upon us here; but winter is
coming, and you are now the last stranger in
the place. It is cold too—so completely open
to the north—and I come from the south,
from the other side of Bordeaux. Of course,
we expect to feel a little chilly in the night-watches;
but, even by day, the winter's sun
never shines at the foot of these tall cliffs;
and English flannel is so prettily dear!"

"Pardon! Not so very dear," I replied,
turning back the cuff of my coat sleeve.
"This elastic under-garment, which keeps me
warm almost from head to foot, cost me four
francs, and will last me several winters."

"You could not buy such a one in France
for double the money. We take care to keep so
sharp a look-out, that the contrabandists would
not find it very easy to land their English
flannels here."

He pronounced this with a highly satisfied
air. Coast-guard clan-feeling—perhaps I
ought to say duty—had stifled every other
consideration. After a while, he asked, " Is
England the same as France? I know everything
there is much dearer than here, but
have you cliffs and seas like these? Have
you fields, and soldiers, and coast-guards the
same as we have?"

"In the first place," I answered, " everything
is not dearer in England than in France.
Besides flannel, which has just been mentioned,
we have sugar, which you are all so
fond of, better, and at little more than half the
price; besides print dresses, iron, cutlery, and
several other useful things. As to the sea,
the cliffs, the fields, and so on, we have them
all quite as beautiful as in France, and you
would not find yourself altogether in a new
world in England. We have also the honour
to maintain a coast-guard."

"But have you good cider and wine, and
plenty of them, like us?"

"Of cider we make a little, but not near
enough. Wine we buy of you and other
foreign nations; but our coast-guard makes
them very dear in England, exactly as you
make flannel, and sugar, and iron so costly in
France. The last bottle of cider which I
drank in London cost me a franc; the last
bottle of Bordeaux, a good many francs—all
in consequence of the polite attentions of the
English douaniers."

"Saprestie! I shouldn't like that at all!
A bottle of wine would be quite out of the
question for such as me."

"Of course it would, just as much as a
stock of fine lamb's-wool flannel shirts, like