Reprinted Pieces

bearing a frayed red ribbon in his threadbare button-hole, always

to be found walking together among these children, before dinnertime.

If they walked for an appetite, they doubtless lived en

pension – were contracted for – otherwise their poverty would have

made it a rash action. They were stooping, blear-eyed, dull old

men, slip-shod and shabby, in long-skirted short-waisted coats and

meagre trousers, and yet with a ghost of gentility hovering in

their company. They spoke little to each other, and looked as if

they might have been politically discontented if they had had

vitality enough. Once, we overheard red-ribbon feebly complain to

the other two that somebody, or something, was ‘a Robber;’ and then

they all three set their mouths so that they would have ground

their teeth if they had had any. The ensuing winter gathered redribbon

unto the great company of faded ribbons, and next year the

remaining two were there – getting themselves entangled with hoops

and dolls – familiar mysteries to the children – probably in the

eyes of most of them, harmless creatures who had never been like

children, and whom children could never be like. Another winter

came, and another old man went, and so, this present year, the last

of the triumvirate, left off walking – it was no good, now – and

sat by himself on a little solitary bench, with the hoops and the

dolls as lively as ever all about him.

In the Place d’Armes of this town, a little decayed market is held,

which seems to slip through the old gateway, like water, and go

rippling down the hill, to mingle with the murmuring market in the

lower town, and get lost in its movement and bustle. It is very

agreeable on an idle summer morning to pursue this market-stream

from the hill-top. It begins, dozingly and dully, with a few sacks

of corn; starts into a surprising collection of boots and shoes;

goes brawling down the hill in a diversified channel of old

cordage, old iron, old crockery, old clothes, civil and military,

old rags, new cotton goods, flaming prints of saints, little

looking-glasses, and incalculable lengths of tape; dives into a

backway, keeping out of sight for a little while, as streams will,

or only sparkling for a moment in the shape of a market drinkingshop;

and suddenly reappears behind the great church, shooting

itself into a bright confusion of white-capped women and bluebloused

men, poultry, vegetables, fruits, flowers, pots, pans,

praying-chairs, soldiers, country butter, umbrellas and other sunshades,

girl-porters waiting to be hired with baskets at their

backs, and one weazen little old man in a cocked hat, wearing a

cuirass of drinking-glasses and carrying on his shoulder a crimson

temple fluttering with flags, like a glorified pavior’s rammer

without the handle, who rings a little bell in all parts of the

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scene, and cries his cooling drink Hola, Hola, Ho-o-o! in a shrill

cracked voice that somehow makes itself heard, above all the

chaffering and vending hum. Early in the afternoon, the whole

course of the stream is dry. The praying-chairs are put back in

the church, the umbrellas are folded up, the unsold goods are

carried away, the stalls and stands disappear, the square is swept,

the hackney coaches lounge there to be hired, and on all the

country roads (if you walk about, as much as we do) you will see

the peasant women, always neatly and comfortably dressed, riding

home, with the pleasantest saddle-furniture of clean milk-pails,

bright butter-kegs, and the like, on the jolliest little donkeys in

the world.

We have another market in our French watering-place – that is to

say, a few wooden hutches in the open street, down by the Port –

devoted to fish. Our fishing-boats are famous everywhere; and our

fishing people, though they love lively colours, and taste is

neutral (see Bilkins), are among the most picturesque people we

ever encountered. They have not only a quarter of their own in the

town itself, but they occupy whole villages of their own on the

neighbouring cliffs. Their churches and chapels are their own;

they consort with one another, they intermarry among themselves,

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