It is a curious town Montreuil, with its steep narrow streets and high walls; but I only saw it _en passant_, for we did not stop. Beyond it, after ascending from the valley of the Canch, we traversed a dreary open country for some way, and then came to wood and very pretty ground, which continued until a long descent brought us at length creepingly to Samer, where we stopped to breakfast at the Tête de Bœuf (William Mallet--a Frenchman, spite of the name). A Cockney party of three ladies and two gentlemen had just arrived from Boulogne--evidently the first time any of them had been out of England. They were all flutter and curiosity, quite childishly so--chattering away bad school French with a regular English enunciation, and giggling when successful in making themselves understood. Had they but guessed that the brown-visaged, mustachioed, befurred hero who stood before them and watched all their movements was English, perhaps they would have been a little more discreet. One of the gentlemen drew, and had brought a camera lucida, which he adjusted at the door of the Tête de Bœuf, and disposed himself to take a view of Samer, surrounded by some eight or ten gaping clowns in their blue frocks and clumsy _sabots_, too picturesque objects to be missed; and my man stuck two or three of them in positions to enter into his picture--the only feature in it, for the point of view he had chosen was a most unfortunate one. As I leaned from my window, right over the artist’s head, and at no great distance above him (for the Tête de Bœuf boasts but a very moderate elevation), many an ogle did I get from the young ladies, who kept running out incessantly in order to persuade our hero that eating his breakfast was better than sketching. But he was stanch to the backbone, and when my _voiturier_ summoned me to start, I left him in the same position, indefatigably occupied upon his insipid picture. Before reaching Samer, my rogue had begun expressing doubts of the soundness of one of his wheels; and true enough--for just as we gained sight of Boulogne (beyond which, I believe, he never from the first meant to go), smash it went all to pieces, and down we came gently enough. The vagabond acted his part well--pretended astonishment, _au désespoir_, &c. &c.--but I saw through him. Under the circumstances, only one thing remained to be done, as no assistance was at hand: William shouldered my _malle_, I carried the _et ceteras_, and on we trudged; and after a pretty hot walk we arrived at Boulogne, and entered the first decent-looking house that presented itself, and ordered dinner. Here I learned that a packet was about to sail in the evening for Dover, and decided on cutting connection with my rascally _voiturier_, who managed to bring in his vehicle shortly after us.