The individuals are caught--the thousands escape. I have noted
down but three whom I have met with in my walk this morning through this
pleasant marine city of Boulogne.
There is the English Raff Snob, that frequents ESTAMINETS and CABARETS;
who is heard yelling, 'We won't go home till morning!' and startling
the midnight echoes of quiet Continental towns with shrieks of English
slang. The boozy unshorn wretch is seen hovering round quays as packets
arrive, and tippling drains in inn bars where he gets credit. He
talks French with slang familiarity: he and his like quite people the
debt-prisons on the Continent. He plays pool at the billiard-houses, and
may be seen engaged at cards and dominoes of forenoons. His signature is
to be seen on countless bills of exchange: it belonged to an honourable
family once, very likely; for the English Raff most probably began by
being a gentleman, and has a father over the water who is ashamed to
hear his name. He has cheated the old 'governor' repeatedly in better
days, and swindled his sisters of their portions, and robbed his younger
brothers. Now he is living on his wife's jointure: she is hidden away in
some dismal garret, patching shabby finery and cobbling up old clothes
for her children--the most miserable and slatternly of women.
Or sometimes the poor woman and her daughters go about timidly, giving
lessons in English and music, or do embroidery and work under-hand, to
purchase the means for the POT-AU-FEU; while Raff is swaggering on the
quay, or tossing off glasses of cognac at the CAFE.
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