Auront la terre en partage.
Good healthy doctrine this, and an apt introduction to the sermon. While
we were singing, M. Revel mounted the pulpit. He is a man of thirty-five
or thereabouts; middlesized, bald, dark; with a broad brow, large
gray eyes, and sharp, well-cut features. After two short extempore
prayers--almost the only ones I have ever heard in which there was
nothing offensive--he began his sermon on a text in Ecclesiastes. As it
had little bearing on the argument, and was never alluded to again, I do
not repeat it.
“There is much talk,” M. Revel began, “in our day about an order of
nature. All acknowledge it; as science advances it is found more and
more to be unchangeable. We ought to rejoice in this unchangeableness
of the order of nature, for it is a proof of the existence of a God
of order. Had we found the earth all in confusion it would have been a
proof that there could be no such God. But this God has established
a moral order for man as unchangeable as the order of nature. It was
recognised by the heathen who worshipped Nemesis. The whole of history
is one long witness to this moral order, but we need not go back far for
examples. Look at Poland, partitioned by three great monarchs, and at
what is happening and will happen there. Look at America, the land of
equality, of freedom, of boundless plenty, and what has come on her for
the one great sin of slavery. Look at home, at the story of the great
man who ruled France at the beginning of our new era, the man of
success--‘_qui éblouissait lui-même en éblouissant les autres_,’ who
answered by victory upon victory those who maintained that principle had
still something to say to the government of the world, and remember his
end on the rock in mid-ocean.
“Be sure, then, that there is an unchangeable moral order, and this
is the first law of it, ‘_Qui fait du mal fait du malheur_.’ The most
noticeable fact in connection with this moral order which our time is
bringing out is the _solidarité_ of the human race. The _solidarité_ of
the family and the nation was recognised in old times. Now, commerce and
intercourse are breaking down the barriers of nations. A rebellion in
China, a war in America, is felt at once in France, and the full truth
is dawning upon us that nothing but a universal brotherhood will satisfy
men. But you may say that punishment follows misdoing so slowly that the
moral order is virtually set aside. Do not believe it. ‘_Qui fait du
mal fait du malheur_.’ The law is certain; but if punishment followed
at once, and fully, on misdoing, mankind would be degraded. On the other
hand, ‘_Qui fait du bon fait du bonheur_,’ and this law is equally fixed
and unchangeable in the moral order of the world.
“You may wonder that I have scarcely used the name of Christ to you
to-day; but what need? I have spoken of humanity; He is the Son of Man,
of a universal brotherhood which has no existence without Him, of which
He is the founder and the head.”
As we came out of church it was amusing to hear the comments of
the audience, at least of the English portion. Some called it rank
Socialism, others paganism, others good sound Christian teaching; but
all seemed to agree that it was very stirring stuff, and that this
would be the last time that M. Bevel would be allowed to address his old
fellow-townsmen from the pulpit. Indeed, his sketch of Napoleon I. was
much too true to be acceptable to Napoleon III., and though his doctrine
of universal brotherhood may be overlooked, I should scarcely think that
his historical views can be. I was utterly astonished myself to hear
such a sermon in a French pulpit. I had never heard M. Bevel before; but
his reputation, which seems to be very great, is thoroughly deserved.
The sermon of which I have tried to give you a skeleton lasted for fifty
minutes, and never flagged for a moment. Sometimes he was familiar and
colloquial, sometimes impassioned, sometimes argumentative, but always
eloquent. He spoke with his whole body as well as with his voice, which
last organ was managed with rare skill; and, indeed, every faculty of
the man was thoroughly trained for his work, and so well trained, that
notwithstanding my English dislike to action or oratory in a pulpit, I
never felt that it was overdone or in bad taste. In short, I never heard
such scientific preaching, and came away disabused of the notion that
extempore sermons must be either flat, or vulgar, or insincere. I only
wish our young parsons would take the same pains in cultivating their
natural gifts as M. Revel has done, and hope that any of them who may
chance to read this will take an opportunity the next time they are at
Amsterdam of going to hear M. Revel, and taking a lesson. I have been
trying to satisfy myself for the last three days what it is which makes
this town so wonderfully different from any English provincial town of
the same size. I do not mean the watering-place end of it next the sea,
which is composed of the crystal palace known as the _établissement des
bains_, great hotels, and expensive lodging-houses,--this quarter
is inhabited by strangers of all nations, and should be compared to
Brighton or Scarborough,--but the quiet old town behind, which has
nothing in common with the watering-place, and is as hum-drum a place
as Peterborough. As far as I can make out, the difference lies in the
enjoyment which these Dieppois seem to take in their daily business. We
are called a nation of shopkeepers now by all the world, so I suppose
there must be some truth in the nickname. But certainly the Englishman
does his shopkeeping with a very bad grace, and not the least as if he
liked it. He sits or stands at his counter with grim, anxious face,
and it requires an effort, after one has entered his trap and asked a
question as to any article, to retire without buying. The moment his
closing time comes, up go the shutters, and he clears out of the shop,
and takes himself off out of sight and hearing of it as fast as he can.
But here in Dieppe (and the rule holds good, I think, in all French
towns) the people seem really to delight in their shops, and by
preference to live in them, and in the slice of street in front of them,
rather than in any other place. In fact, the shops seem to be convenient
places opened to enable their owners to _causer_ with the greatest
possible number of their neighbours and other people, rather than places
for the receipt of custom and serious making of money. I doubt if any
man is a worse hand at shopping than I, and yet I can go boldly into any
shop here, and turn over the articles, and chaffer over them, and then
go out without buying, and yet feel that I have conferred a benefit
rather than otherwise on the proprietor of the establishment. And as to
closing time, there is no such thing. The only difference seems to be
that after a certain hour, if you choose to walk into a shop, you will
probably find yourself in a family party. No one turns off the gas until
he goes to bed, so as you loiter along you have the advantage of seeing
everything that is going on, and the inhabitants have what they clearly
hold to be an equivalent, the opportunity of looking at and talking
about you. The master of the shop sits at his ease, sometimes reading
his journal, sometimes still working at his trade in an easygoing way,
as if it were a pleasure to him, and chatting away as he works. His wife
is either working with her needle or casting up the accounts of the day,
but in either case is ready in a moment to look up and join in any
talk that may be going on. The younger branches of the family disport
themselves on the floor, or play dominoes on the counter, or flirt with
some neighbour of the opposite sex who has dropped in, in the further
corners. The pastrycooks’ seem favourite social haunts, and often you
will find two or three of the nearest shops deserted, and the inmates
gathered in a knot round the sleek, neatly-shaved citizens who preside
in spotless white caps, jackets, and aprons, over these temples of good
things. In short, the life of the Dieppe burgher is not cut into sharp
lengths as it would be with us, one of which is religiously set apart
for trade and nothing else. Business and pleasure seem with him to be
run together, and he surrounds the whole with a halo of small-talk
which seems to make life run off wonderfully easily and happily to him.
Whether his method of carrying on trade results in as good articles as
with us I cannot say, for the Dieppois is by no means guileless enough
to part with his wares cheap, so that I have had very little experience
of them. But certainly the general aspect of his daily life, so much
more easy, so much more social than that of his compeer in England,
has a good deal of fascination about it. On better acquaintance very
possibly the charm might disappear, but at first one is inclined
strongly to wish that we could take a leaf out of his book, and learn
to take things more easily. The wisdom which has learnt that there are
vastly few things in this world worth worrying about will, I fear, be a
long time in leavening the British nation.
The people of Dieppe are a remarkably well-conducted and discreet
folk in every way--wonderfully so when one considers their close
neighbourhood to the richest and most fashionable crowd which frequents
any French watering-place. Of these, and their amusements, and habits,
and wonderful costumes in and out of the sea, I have no room to speak in
this letter. They are now gone, or fast going, and this is the time
for people of moderate means and quiet tastes, who wish to enjoy the
deliciously exciting air and pretty scenery of this very charming old
sea town, which furnished most of the ships for the invasion of England
eight hundred years ago, and will well repay the costs of a counter
invasion. Only let the English invader take care when he sets his foot
on the Norman shore, unless he thinks it worth while to be fleeced for
the honour and glory of being under the same roof with French dukes,
Russian princes, and English milords, to give a wide berth to the Hotel
Royal. I am happy to say I do not speak from personal experience, but
only give voice to the universal outcry against the extortion of this
huge hotel, the most fashionable in Dieppe. The last story is that
an English nobleman travelling with a courier, who arrived late one
evening, did not dine, and left early the next morning, had to pay a
bill of 75 francs for his entertainment. The bill must have been a work
of-high art.
I hope in another letter to give you some notions of the watering-place
life, which is very quaint and amusing, and as unlike our seaside doings
as the old town is unlike our ordinary towns.
Bathing at Dieppe, 17th September 1863.
That great work, the _Sartor Resartus_, should have contained a chapter
on bathing-dresses, and I have no doubt would have done so had the
author been a frequenter of French watering-places. Each of these--even
such a little place as Treport--has its _établissement des bains_, its
etiquettes and rules as to the dress and comportment of its bathing
populations; and Dieppe is the largest, and not the least quaint, of
them all. The _établissement_ here is a long glass and iron building
like the Crystal Palace, with a dome in the middle, under which there
are daily concerts and nightly balls; and a transept at each end, one
of which is a very good reading-room, while in the other a mild kind
of gambling goes on, under the form of a lottery, for smelling bottles,
clocks, and such like ware. I am told that the play here is by no means
so innocent as it looks, and that persons in search of investments for
spare cash can be accommodated to any amount, but to a stranger nothing
of this discloses itself. Between this building and the sea there runs a
handsome esplanade, the favourite promenade, and immediately underneath
are the rows of little portable canvas huts which serve as bathing
machines. The ladies bathe under one end of the esplanade, and the
gentlemen under the other, while the fashionable crowd leans over,
or sits by the low esplanade wall, inspecting the proceedings.
This contiguity is, no doubt, the cause of the wonderful toilets,
_spécialités des bains_, which fill the shops here, and are used by all
the ladies and many of the men. They consist of large loose trousers and
a jacket with skirts, made of fine flannel or serge, of all shades of
colour according to taste, and of waterproof bathing caps, all of which
garments are trimmed with blue, or pink, or red bows and streamers. Over
all the _baigneurs comme il faut_ throw a large cloak, also tastefully
trimmed. Thus habited the lady walks out of her hut attended by a maid,
to whom when she reaches the water’s edge she hands her cloak, and,
taking the hand of one of the male _baigneurs_, proceeds with such
plunges and dancings as she has a fancy for, and then returns to the
shore, is enveloped in her cloak by her maid, and re-enters her hut.
These male _baigneurs_ are a necessary accompaniment of the performance.
I have only heard of one case of resistance to the custom, which ended
comically enough. A young Englishman, well known in foreign society, was
here with his wife, who insisted on bathing, but vowed she would go into
the water with no man but her husband. He consented, and in due course
appeared on the ladies’ side with his pretty wife, in most discreet
apparel, went through the office of _baigneur_, and returned to his own
side. This raised a storm among the lady bathers, and the authorities
interfered. The next day the lady went to the gentlemen’s side; but this
was even more scandalous, and was also forbidden. The persecuted couple
then took; to bathing at six in the morning; but, alas! on the second
morning the esplanade was lined even at that untimely hour by young
Frenchmen, who, though by no means early risers, had made a point of
being out to assist at the bath of their eccentric friends, and as
these last did not appreciate the _éclat_ of performing alone for the
amusement of their friends, the lawless efforts of _ces Anglais_ came to
an end. In England, where dress for the water is not properly attended
to by either sex, one quite understands the rule of absolute separation;
but here, where every lady is accompanied by a man in any case, where
she is more covered than she is in a ballroom, and where all her
acquaintance are looking on, it does not occur to one why she should not
be accompanied by her husband. For, as on the land, here people are much
better known by their dress in the water than by anything else. A young
gentleman asked one of his partners whether she had seen him doing some
particular feat of swimming that morning; she answered that she had not
recognised him, to which he replied, “Oh! you may always know me by my
straw hat and red ribbon.” The separation here is certainly a farce, for
at sixty yards, as we know from our musketry instructors, you recognise
the features of the party; and the distance between the men and women
bathers is not so much. The rule is enforced, however, at any depth. A
brother and sister, both good swimmers, used to swim out and meet one
another at the boat which lies in the offing in case of accidents. But
this was stopped, as they talked together in English, which excited
doubts as to their relationship. I suppose it would be more improper for
girls and boys of marriageable age to swim together than to walk; but I
vow at this moment I cannot see why.
You may fancy, sir, that in such a state of things as I have described,
good stories on the great bathing subject are rife. The last relates
to a beauty of European celebrity, who is known to be here and to be
bathing, but keeps herself in such strict privacy that scarcely a soul
has been able to get a look at her, even behind two thick veils. Had
she really wished to be unnoticed she could not have managed worse. The
mystery set all the female world which frequents the _établissement_ in
a tremor. They were like a knot of sportsmen when a stag of ten tines
has been seen in the next glen, or when a 30 lb. salmon has broken the
tackle of some cunning fisherman, and is known to lie below a certain
stone. Of course, they were sure that something dreadful must have
happened to her looks, which she who should be happy enough to catch her
bathing would detect. In spite of all, the beauty eluded them for some
time, but at last she has been stalked, and I am proud to say, sir, by a
sportswoman of our own country. By chance this lady was walking at eight
in the morning, when the tide was so low that no one was bathing. She
saw a figure dressed _en bourgeoise_ approaching the bathing-place,
apparently alone, but two women suspiciously like maids followed at a
respectful distance. It flashed across our countrywoman that this must
be the incognita; she followed. To her delight, the three turned to
the bathing-ground, and disappeared in two huts which had been placed
together apparently by accident. She took up a position a few yards from
the huts. After an agonising pause the door opened, and a head appeared,
which was instantly withdrawn, but now too late. The mystery was solved.
It was too late-to send maids to the _directeur_ of the baths to warn
off the spectator, and, moreover, useless, for she politely declined to
move, though there was nothing more to discover. The whole establishment
is ringing with the news that the beauty is _pale comme une morte_, and
the inference, of course, follows that paint has been forbidden. You
will also, sir, no doubt, be interested to know that she wears a red
rose on the top of her bathing-cap, which, having regard to her present
complexion, does not say much for her taste in the choice of colours.
But if the water toilets here are fabulous, what shall I say of those on
the land? The colours, the textures, the infinite variety, and general
loudness of these bewilder the sight and baffle the pen of ordinary
mortals. The keenest rivalry is kept up amongst the fair frequenters
of the establishment. They sit by hundreds there working and casing of
afternoons, while the band plays from three to six, or sweeping about
on the esplanade; and in the evening are there again in ever new and
brighter colours. The _Dieppe Journal_ comments on the most striking
toilets. It noticed with commendation the purple velvet petticoats
of the ladies of a millionaire house; it glowed in describing the
“_toilette Écossaise_” of another rich Frenchwoman. An officer on
reading the announcement laid down the paper, and addressed a lady, his
neighbour, “Mais, madame, comment est que ça se fait?” He, worthy man,
had but one idea of the toilet in question, which he had gained from the
Highland regiments in the Crimea. I am happy to say, both for their own
sakes and their husbands and fathers, that the Englishwomen are by
far the most simply dressed. The men generally speaking are clad like
rational beings, but with many exceptions. I hear of a celebrity in gray
velvet knickerbockers and pink silk stockings, but have not seen him. A
man in a black velvet suit, and a red beard reaching his waist, has just
walked past, without apparently exciting wonder in any breast but that
of your contributor.
Dieppe must be a paradise to the rising generation. The children share
all the amusements of their elders, and have also special entertainments
of their own, amongst which one notes specially two balls a week at the
establishment. The whole building is brilliantly lighted every evening,
and on these nights the space under the central dome is cleared of
chairs, and makes a splendid ballroom. Here the little folk assemble,
and go through the whole performance solemnly, just like their elders.
The raised permanent seats are occupied by mammas, nurses, governesses,
and the public. The girls sit round on the lowest seats, and the boys
gather in groups talking to them, or walking about in the centre. They
are of all nations, in all costumes--one boy in a red Garibaldian blouse
and belt I noted as the most dangerous flirt. There were common English
jackets and trousers, knickerbockers of many colours, and many little
blue French uniforms. There was no dancer older than fifteen, and some
certainly as young as seven. When the music began, the floor was at once
covered with couples, who danced quadrilles, waltzes, and a pretty dance
like the Schottische, to the tune of “When the green leaves come again.”
At the end of each dance the girls were handed to their chairs with bows
worthy of Beau Brummel. There were at least 200 grown folk looking
on, and a prettier sight I have seldom seen, for the children danced
beautifully for the most part. Should I like my children to be amongst
them? That is quite another affair. On the whole, I incline to agree
with the ladies with whom I went, that it would, perhaps, do boys good,
but must be utterly bad for the girls. I certainly never saw before so
self-possessed a set of young gentlemen as those in question, and doubt
if any one of them will ever feel shy in after-life.
Last Sunday afternoon: again, we had a _fete des vacances_ for the
children. The _Gazette des Bains_ announced, “À deux heures, ascensions
grotesques, l’enlèvement du phoque; à deux heures et demie, distribution
de jouets et bonbons; à trois heures, course à ânes, montés par des
jockeys grosse-tête,”--a most piquant programme. Not to mention the
other attractions, what could the _enlèvement du phoque_ be? In good
time I went into the _établissement_ grounds at the cost of a franc, and
was at once guided by the crowd to the brink of a small pond, where
sure enough a veritable live seal was swimming about, asking us all as
plainly as mild brown eyes could speak what all the rout meant, and then
diving smoothly under, to appear again on the other side of the pond.
Were the cruel Frenchmen actually going to send the gentle beast up into
the air? My speculations were cut short by the first comic ascent and
the shouts of the juveniles. A figure very like Richard Doyle’s Saracens
in the illustrations to Rebecca and Rowena, with large head, bottle
nose, and little straight arms and legs, mounted suddenly into the
air, and went away, wobbling and bobbing, before the wind. Another and
another followed, as fast as they could be filled with gas. The wind
blew towards the town, and there was great excitement as to their
destiny, for they rose only to about the height of the houses. I own
I was surprised to find myself so deeply interested whether the absurd
little Punchinellos would clear the chimneys. One only failed, a fellow
in a three-cornered hat like a beadle’s, and, refusing to mount, was
soon torn in pieces by the boys. The last was a balloon of the figure
of a seal, and I was much relieved when we all trooped away to the
distribution of _bonbons_, leaving the real phoca still gliding about in
his pond with wondering eyes. The _bonbons_ were distributed in the most
polite manner, the handfuls which were thrown amongst the crowd only
calling forth a “Pardon Monsieur,” “Pardon Mademoiselle,” as they were
picked up, instead of the hurly-burly and scramble we should have had at
home. The donkey races might better be called processions, which went
three times round the _établissement_. The winner was ridden by a jockey
whose _grosse tête_ was that of a cock, in compliment, I suppose, to the
national bird; the lion jockey was nowhere, but he beat the cook’s boy,
who came in last. The figures were well got up, and some of the heads
really funny. At night we had fireworks, and a grand pyrotechnic drama
of the taking of the old castle, which stands on the chalk cliff right
over the _établissement_ and commanding the town. The garrison joined in
the fun, and assaulted the walls twice amidst discharges of rockets and
great guns. The third assault was successful, and the red-legged
soldiers swarmed on the walls in a blaze of light and planted the
tricolour. A brilliant scroll of “_Vive l’Empéreur_” came out on the
dark castle walls above their heads, and so the show ended. The castle,
by the way, is a most picturesque building. One of the towers has been
favourably noticed by Mr. Ruskin. It is also to be reverenced as the
stronghold of Henry IV. and the Protestants. It was here, just before
the battle of Arques, that he made the celebrated answer to a
faint-hearted ally, who spoke doubtfully as to the disparity of numbers,
“You forget to count God and the good cause, who are on our side.” It
will never be of any use in modern warfare, but makes a good barrack and
a most magnificent place for a pyrotechnic display for the delectation
of young folk, in which definition for these purposes may be included
the whole of the population of France.
As I am writing, a troop of acrobats pass along the green between this
hotel and the sea, followed by a crowd of boys. There is the strong man
in black velvet carrying the long balancing triangle, on which he is
about to support the light fellow in yellow who walks by his side.
There is an athletic fellow in crimson breeches, carrying a table on his
head, and a clown with two chairs accompanying. There they have pitched
on the green, and are going to begin, and the English boys are
leaving their cricket, and the French boys their kites and indiarubber
handballs, and a goodly ring is forming, out of which, if they are
decent tumblers, I hope they may turn an honest franc or two.
They are not only decent but capital tumblers, the best I have seen for
many a day, especially the man in crimson. He has balanced three glasses
full of water on his forehead, and then lain down on his back, and
passed himself, tumblers and all, through two small hoops. He has placed
one chair upon the table, and then has tilted the second chair on
two legs upon the seat of the first, and on this fearfully precarious
foundation has been balancing himself with his legs straight up in the
air while I could count thirty! The strong man has just run up behind
the man in yellow, who was standing with his legs apart, and, stooping,
has put his head between the yellow man’s legs and thrown him a backward
somersault! I must positively go down and give them half a franc. It is
a swindle to look on at such good tumbling for nothing.
P.S.--Imagine my delight, sir, when I got down on the green to find they
were the tumblers of my native land. They joined a French circus for a
tour some weeks back, but could get no money, and so broke off and
are working their way home. They can speak no French, and find it very
difficult to get leave to perform, as they have to do in all French
towns. The crowd of English boys seemed to be doing their duty by them,
so I hope they will speedily be able to raise their passage-money and
return to the land of double stout and liberty.
Normandy, 20th September 1863.
To an Englishman with little available spare cash and time, and in want
of a thorough change of scene and air, which category I take to include
a very handsome percentage of our fellow-countrymen, I can recommend a
run in Normandy without the slightest hesitation. I am come to the age
when one learns to be what the boys call _cocksure_ of nothing in this
world, but am, nevertheless, prepared to take my stand on the above
recommendation without fear or reservation. For in Normandy he will get
an exquisitely light and bracing air, a sky at least twice as far off
as our English one (which alone will raise his spirits to at least twice
their usual altitude), a pleasant, lively, and well-to-do people, a
picturesque country, delicious pears, and, to an Englishman, some of the
most interesting old towns in the world out of his own island. All this
he may well enjoy for ten days for a five-pound note, or thereabouts, in
addition to his return fare to Dieppe or Havre. So let us throw up our
insular vacation wide-awakes, and bless the men who invented steam, and
pears, and Norman architecture, “and everything in the world beside,”
as the good old song of “the leathern bottèl” has it, and start for
the fair land from which our last conquerors came before the days get
shorter than the nights. Alas! how little of that blissful time now
remains to us of the year of grace 1863.
It is some few years, I forget how many, since I was last in a Norman
town, and must confess that in some respects they have changed for the
better, externally at least, now that the Second Empire has had time
to make itself felt in them. All manner of police arrangements, the
sweeping, lighting, and paving, are marvellously improved, and there is
an air of prosperity about them which does one good. Even in Rouen, the
centre of their cotton district, there are scarcely any outward signs of
distress, although, so far as I could see, not more than one in three
of the mills is at work. I was told that there are still nearly 30,000
operatives out of work in the town and neighbourhood, who have no means
of subsistence except any odd job they can pick up to earn a few sous
about the quays and markets, but if it be so they kept out of sight
during my wanderings about the town. But there is one characteristic
sign of the empire to be noted in all these same Norman towns, for
which strangers will not feel thankful, though the inhabitants may. The
building and improving fever is on them all. In Rouen, amongst other
improvements, a broad new street is being made right through some of the
oldest parts of the town, from the quays straight up to the boulevards,
which it joins close by the railway-station. This Grand Rue de
l’Empereur will be a splendid street when finished, to judge by the few
houses which are already built at the lower end. Meantime, the queer
gables of the houses whose neighbours have been destroyed, and a chapel
or two, and an old tower, standing out all by itself, which would make
the architectural fortune of any other city, and which find themselves
with breathing room now, for the first time, I should think, in the
last five hundred years, look down ruefully on the cleared space, in
anticipation of the hour rapidly approaching, when they will be again
shut out from human ken by four-storied stone palaces, and this time,
undoubtedly, for good and all. They can never hold up until another
improving dynasty arrives.
At Havre the same process is going on. New houses are springing up all
along the new boulevards. Between the town and Frescati’s great hotel
and bathing establishment, which faces the sea, there used to stand a
curious old round tower of great size, which commanded the mouth of
the harbour, and some elaborate fortifications of more modern date. All
these have been levelled, old and new together, and the ground is now
clear for building, and will, no doubt, be covered long before I shall
see it again. Large seaports are always interesting towns, and Havre,
besides the usual attractions of such places, has a sort of shop in
greater perfection than any other port known to me. In these you can
buy or inspect curiosities, alive and dead, from all parts of the world.
Parrots of all colours of the rainbow scream at the door, long cages
full of love-birds, and all manner of other delicate little feathered
creatures one has never seen elsewhere, hang on the walls, or stand
about amongst china monsters, and cases of amber, and inlaid stools
from Stamboul, and marmoset monkeys, and goodness knows what other
temptations to solvent persons with a taste for collections or pets.
To neither of these weaknesses can I plead guilty, so after a short
inspection I stroll to the harbour’s mouth, and do wonder to think over
the astounding audacity of our late countryman, Sir Sidney Smith, who
ran his ship close in here, and proceeded in his boats to cut out a
French frigate under the guns of the old fortifications. His ship
got aground, and was taken; he also. But, after all, it was less of a
forlorn hope than throwing himself with his handful of men into Acre,
and facing Bonaparte there, which last moderately lunatic act made him a
name in history. _Audace! et encore d’audace! et toujours d’audace!_ was
the rule which brought our sailors triumphantly through the great war.
And there is another picture in that drama which Havre harbour calls up
in the English mind, to put in the scale against Sir Sidney’s failure--I
mean Citizen Muskein and his gunboats skedaddling from Lieutenant Price
in the _Badger_. Do you remember, sir, Citizen Muskein’s--or rather
Canning’s--inimitable address to his gunboats in the _Anti-Jacobin?_--