some one called me by name, in English. The sound of the most familiar
words, in one’s own language, soon get to be startling in a foreign
country. I remember, on returning to England, after an absence of five
years, that it was more than a week before I could persuade myself I was
not addressed, whenever a passer by spoke suddenly. On the present
occasion, I was called to by an old school-boy acquaintance, Mr. H——r,
who was a consul in England, but who had taken a house on what is called
the _Côte_, a hill-side, just above Ingouville, a village at no great
distance from the town. We went out to his pretty little cottage, which
enjoyed a charming view. Indeed I should particularize this spot, as the
one which gave me the first idea of one species of distinctive European
scenery. The houses cling to the declivity, rising above each other in a
way that might literally enable one to toss a stone into his neighbour’s
chimney-top. They are of stone, but being white-washed, and very
numerous, they give the whole mountain-side the appearance of a pretty
hamlet, scattered without order in the midst of gardens. Italy abounds
with such little scenes; nor are they unfrequent in France, especially
in the vicinity of towns, though whitened edifices are far from being
the prevailing taste of that country.
That evening we had an infernal clamour of drums in the principal
street, which happened to be our own. There might have been fifty,
unaccompanied by any wind instrument. The French do not use the fife,
and when one is treated to the drum, it is generally in large potions,
and nothing but drum. This is a relick of barbarism, and is quite
unworthy of a musical age. There is more or less of it, in all the
garrisoned towns of Europe. You may imagine the satisfaction with which
one listens to a hundred or two of these plaintive instruments, beat
between houses six or eight stories high, in a narrow street, and with
desperate perseverance! The object is to recall the troops to their
quarters.
Havre, is a tide-harbour. In America, where there is, on an average, not
more that five feet of rise and fall to the water of the sea, such a
haven would, of course, be impracticable for large vessels. But the
majority of the ports on the British channel, are of this character, and
indeed, a large portion of the harbours of Great Britain. Calais,
Boulogne, Havre and Dieppe, are all inaccessible at low water. The
cliffs are broken by a large ravine, a creek makes up the gorge, or a
small stream flows outward into the sea, a basin is excavated, the
entrance is rendered safe by moles which project into deep water, and
the town is crowded around this semi-artificial port, as well as
circumstances will allow. Such is, more or less, the history of them
all. Havre, however, is, in some measure, an exception. It stands on a
plain, that I should think had once been a marsh. The cliffs are near
it, seaward, and towards the interior there are fine receding hills,
leaving a sufficient site, notwithstanding, for a town of large
dimensions.
The port of Havre has been much improved of late years. Large basins
have been excavated, and formed into regular wet-docks. They are nearly
in the centre of the town. The mole stretches out several hundred yards,
on that side of the entrance of the port which is next the sea. Here
signals are regularly made to acquaint vessels in the offing with the
precise number of feet that can be brought into the port. These signals
are changed at the rise or fall of every foot, according to a graduated
scale which is near the signal pole. At dead low water the entrance to
the harbour, and the outer harbour itself, are merely beds of soft mud.
Machines are kept constantly at work, to deepen them.
The ship from sea makes the lights, and judges of the state of the tide
by the signals. She rounds the Mole-Head at the distance of fifty or
sixty yards, and sails along a passage too narrow to admit another
vessel, at the same moment, into the harbor. Here she finds from
eighteen to twenty, or, even twenty-four feet of water, according to
circumstances. She is hauled up to the gates of a dock, which are opened
at high water only. As the water falls, one gate is shut, and the
entrance to the dock becomes a lock: vessels can enter, therefore, as
long as there remains sufficient water in the outer harbour for a ship
to float. If caught outside, however, she must lie in the mud until the
ensuing tide.
Havre is the sea-port of Paris, and is rapidly increasing in importance.
There is a project for connecting the latter with the sea, by a
ship-channel. Such a project is hardly suited to the French impulses,
which imagine a thousand grand projects, but hardly ever convert any of
them to much practical good. The opinions of the people are formed on
habits of great saving, and it requires older calculations, greater
familiarity with risks, and more liberal notions of industry, and,
possibly, more capital than is commonly found in their enterprises, to
induce the people to encounter the extra charges of these improvements,
when they can have recourse to what, in their eyes, are simpler and safer
means of making money. The government employs men of science, who
conceive well; but their conceptions are but indifferently sustained by
the average practical intellect of the country. In this particular,
France is the very converse of America.
The project of making a sea-port of Paris, is founded on a principle
that is radically wrong. It is easier to build a house on the sea-side,
than to carry the sea into the interior. But the political economy of
France, like that of nearly all the continental nations, is based on a
false principle, that of forcing improvements. The intellects of the
mass should first be acted on, and when the public mind is sufficiently
improved to benefit by innovations, the public sentiment might be
trusted to decide the questions of locality and usefulness. The French
system looks to a concentration of every thing in Paris. The political
organization of the country favours such a scheme, and in a project of
this sort, the interests of all the northern and western departments
would be sacrificed to the interests of Paris. As for the departments
east and south of Paris, they would in no degree be benefited by making
a port of Paris, as goods would still have to be transhipped to reach
them. A system of canals and rail-roads is much wanted in France, and
most of all a system of general instruction, to prepare the minds of the
operatives to profit by such advantages. When I say that we are behind
our facts in America, I do not mean in a physical, but in a moral,
sense. All that is visible and tangible is led by opinion; in all that
is purely moral, the facts precede the notions of the people.
I found, at a later day, many droll theories broached in France, more
especially in the Chamber of Deputies, on the subject of our own great
success in the useful enterprises. As is usual, in such cases, any
reason but the true one was given. At the period of our arrival in
Europe, the plan of connecting the great lakes with the Atlantic had
just been completed, and the vast results were beginning to attract
attention in Europe. At first, it was thought, as a matter of course,
that engineers from the old world had been employed. This was disproved,
and it was shown that they who laid out the work, however skilful they
may have since become by practice, were at first little more than common
American surveyors. Then the trifling cost was a stumbling-block, for
labour was known to be far better paid in America than in Europe; and
lastly, the results created astonishment. Several deputies affirmed that
the cause of the great success, was owing to the fact, that in America,
we trusted such things to private competition, whereas, in France, the
government meddled with every thing. But it was the state governments,
(which indeed alone possess the necessary means and authority) that had
caused most of the American canals to be constructed. These political
economists knew too little of other systems to apply a clever saying of
their own—_il y a de la Rochefoucald, et de la Rouchefoucald_. All
governments do not wither what they touch.
Some Americans have introduced steam-boats on the rivers of France, and
on the lakes of Switzerland and Italy. We embarked in one, after passing
two delectable nights at the _Hotel de l’Angleterre_. The boat was a
frail-looking thing, and so loaded with passengers that it appeared
actually to stagger under its freight. The Seine has a wide mouth, and a
long ground-swell was setting in from the channel. Our Parisian
cockneys, of whom there were several on board, stood aghast. _Nous voici
en pleine mer!_ one muttered to the other, and the annals of that
eventful voyage are still related, I make no question, to admiring
auditors in the interior of France. The French make excellent seamen
when properly trained; but, I think, on the whole, they are more
thoroughly landsmen than any people of my acquaintance, who possess a
coast. There has been too much sympathy with the army to permit the
mariners to receive a proper share of the public favour.
The boat shaped her course diagonally across the broad current, directly
for Honfleur. Here we first began to get an idea of the true points of
difference between our own scenery and that of the continent of Europe,
and chiefly of that of France. The general characteristics of England
are not essentially different from those of America, after allowing for
a much higher finish in the former, substituting hedges for fences, and
stripping the earth of its forests. These, you may think, are, in
themselves, grand points of difference, but they fall far short of those
which render the continent of Europe altogether of a different nature.
Of forest, there is vastly more in France than in England. But, with few
exceptions, the fields are not separated by enclosures. The houses are
of stone, or of wood, rough-cast. Honfleur, as we approached, had a gray
distinctness that is difficult to describe. The atmosphere seemed
visible, around the angles of the buildings, as in certain Flemish
pictures, bringing out the fine old sombre piles from the depth of the
view, in a way to leave little concealed, while nothing was meretricious
or gaudy. At first, though we found these hues imposing, and even
beautiful, we thought the view would have been gayer and more agreeable,
had the tints been livelier; but a little use taught us that our tastes
had been corrupted. On our return home every structure appeared flaring
and tawdry. Even those of stone had a recent and mushroom air, besides
being in colours equally ill-suited to architecture or a landscape. The
only thing of the sort in America which appeared venerable and of a
suitable hue, after an absence of eight years, was our own family abode,
and this the despoiler, paint, had not defiled for near forty years.
We discharged part of our cargo at Honfleur, but the boat was still
greatly crowded. Fatigue and ill health rendered standing painful to
A——, and all the benches were crowded. She approached a young girl of
about eighteen, who occupied _three_ chairs. On one she was seated; on
another she had her feet; and the third held her _reticule_. Apologizing
for the liberty, A—— asked leave to put the _reticule_ on the second
chair, and to take the third for her own use. This request was refused!
The selfishness created by sophistication and a factitious state of
things renders such acts quite frequent, for it is more my wish to offer
you distinctive traits of character than exceptions. This case of
selfishness might have been a little stronger than usual, it is true,
but similar acts are of daily occurrence, _out of society_, in France.
_In society_, the utmost respect to the wants and feelings of others is
paid, vastly more than with us; while, with us, it is scarcely too
strong to say that such an instance of unfeeling selfishness could
scarcely have occurred at all. We may have occasion to inquire into the
causes of this difference in national manners hereafter.
The Seine narrows at _Quilleboeuf_ about thirty miles from Havre, to the
width of an ordinary European tide river. On a high bluff we passed a
ruin called _Tancarville_, which was formerly a castle of the _de
Montmorencies_. This place was the cradle of one of William’s barons;
and an English descendant, I believe, has been ennobled by the title of
Earl of Tankerville.
Above _Quilleboeuf_ the river becomes exceedingly pretty. It is crooked,
a charm in itself, has many willowy islands, and here and there a gray
venerable town is seated in the opening of the high hills which contract
the view, with crumbling towers, and walls that did good service in the
times of the old English and French wars. There were fewer seats than
might have been expected, though we passed three or four. One near the
water-side, of some size, was in the ancient French style, with avenues
cut in formal lines, mutilated statues, precise and treeless terraces,
and other elaborated monstrosities. These places are not entirely
without a pretension to magnificence; but, considered in reference to
what is desirable in landscape gardening, they are the very _laid idéal_
of deformity. After winding our way for eight or ten hours amid such
scenes, the towers of Rouen came in view. They had a dark ebony-coloured
look, which did great violence to our Manhattanese notions, but which
harmonized gloriously with a bluish sky, the gray walls beneath, and a
back ground of hanging fields.
Rouen is a sea-port; vessels of two hundred, or two hundred and fifty
tons burden, lying at its quays. Here is also a custom house, and our
baggage was again opened for examination. This was done amid a great
deal of noise and confusion, and yet so cursorily as to be of no real
service. At Havre, landing as we did in the night, and committing all to
Désirée the next day, I escaped collision with subordinates. But, not
having a servant, I was now compelled to look after our effects in
person. W—— protested that we had fallen among barbarians; what, between
brawls, contests for the trunks, cries, oaths and snatching, the scene
was equally provoking and comic.
Without schooling, without training of any sort, little checked by
morals, pressed upon by society, with nearly every necessary of life
highly taxed, and yet entirely loosened from the deference of feudal
manners, the Frenchmen of this class have, in general, become what they
who wish to ride upon their fellow mortals love to represent them as
being truculent, violent, greedy of gain, and but too much disposed to
exaction. There is great _bonhomie_ and many touches of chivalry in the
national character; but it is asking too much to suppose that men who
are placed in the situation I have named, should not exhibit some of the
most unpleasant traits of human infirmity. Our trunks were put into a
hand-barrow and wheeled by two men a few hundred yards, the whole
occupying half an hour of time. For this service ten francs were
demanded. I offered five, or double what would have been required by a
dray-man in New York, a place where labour is proverbially dear. This
was disdainfully refused, and I was threatened with the law. Of the
latter I knew nothing, but, determined not to be bullied into what I
felt persuaded was an imposition, I threw down the five francs and
walked away. These fellows kept prowling about the hotel the whole day,
alternately wheedling and menacing, without success. Towards night one
of them appeared and returned the five francs, saying that he gave me
his services for nothing. I thanked him, and put the money in my pocket.
This fit of dignity lasted about five minutes, when, as a _finale_, I
received a proposal to pay the money again, and bring the matter to a
close, Which was done accordingly.
An Englishman of the same class would have done his work in silence,
with a respect approaching to servility, and with a system that any
little _contre tems_ would derange. He would ask enough, take his money
with a “thankee, sir,” and go off looking as surly as if he were
dissatisfied. An American would do his work silently, but independently
as to manner—but a fact will best illustrate the conduct of the
American. The day after we landed at New York, I returned to the ship
for the light articles. They made a troublesome load, and filled a horse
cart. “What do you think I _ought_ to get for carrying this load,
squire?” asked the cartman, as he looked at the baskets, umbrellas, band
boxes, velises, secretaries, trunks, &c. &c., “it is quite two miles to
Carroll Place.” “It is, indeed; what is your fare?” “Only thirty-seven
and a half cents;” (about two francs;) “and it is justly worth
seventy-five, there is so much trumpery.” “I will give you a dollar.”
“No more need be said, sir; you shall have every thing safe.” I was so
much struck with this straight-forward manner of proceeding, after all I
had undergone in Europe, that I made a note of it the same day.
The Hotel de l’Europe, at Rouen, was not a first rate inn, for France,
but it effectually removed the disagreeable impression left by the Hotel
de l’Angleterre at Havre. We were well lodged, well fed, and otherwise
well treated. After ordering dinner, all of a suitable age hurried off
to the cathedral.
Rouen is an old, and by no means a well built town. Some improvements
along the river are on a large scale, and promise well; but the heart of
the city is composed principally of houses of wooden frames, with the
interstices filled-in with cement. Work of this kind is very common in
all the northern provincial towns of France. It gives a place a
singular, and not altogether an unpicturesque air; the short dark studs
that time has imbrowned, forming a sort of visible ribs to the houses.
When we reached the little square in front of the cathedral, verily
Henry VIIth’s chapel sunk into insignificance. I can only compare the
effect of the chiseling on the quaint Gothic of this edifice, to that of
an enormous skreen of dark lace, thrown into the form of a church. This
was the first building of the kind that my companions had ever seen; and
they had, in-so-much, the advantage over me, as I had, in a degree,
taken off the edge of wonder by the visit, already mentioned, to
Westminster. The first look at this pile was one of inextricable
details. It was not difficult to distinguish the vast and magnificent
doors, and the beautiful oriel windows, buried as they were in ornament,
but an examination was absolutely necessary to trace the little towers,
pinnacles, and the crowds of pointed arches, amid such a scene of
architectural confusion. “It is worth crossing the Atlantic, were it
only to see this!” was the common feeling among us.
It was some time before we discovered that divers dwellings had actually
been built between the buttresses of the church, for their comparative
diminutiveness, quaint style, and close incorporation with the pile,
caused us to think them, at first, a part of the edifice itself. This
desecration of the Gothic is of very frequent occurrence on the
continent of Europe, taking its rise in the straitened limits of
fortified towns, the cupidity of churchmen, and the general indifference
to knowledge, and, consequently, to taste, which depressed the ages that
immediately followed the construction of most of these cathedrals.
We were less struck by the interior, than by the exterior of this
building. It is vast, has some fine windows, and is purely Gothic; but
after the richness of the external details, the aisles and the choir
appeared rather plain. It possessed, however, in some of its monuments,
subjects of great interest to those who had never stood over a grave of
more than two centuries, and rarely even over one of half that age.
Among other objects of this nature, is the heart of _Cœur de Lion_, for
the church was commenced in the reign of one of his predecessors,
Normandy at that time belonging to the English kings, and claiming to be
the depository of the “lion heart.”
Rouen has many more memorials of the past. We visited the square in
which Joan of Arc was buried; a small irregular area in front of her
prison; the prison itself, and the hall in which she had been condemned.
All these edifices are Gothic, quaint, and some of them sufficiently
dilapidated.
I had forgotten to relate, in its place, a fact, as an offset to the
truculent garrulity of the porters. We were shown round the cathedral by
a respectable-looking old man in a red scarf, a cocked hat, and a
livery, one of the officers of the place. He was respectful, modest, and
well instructed in his tale. The tone of this good old _cicerone_ was so
much superior to any thing I had seen in England—in America such a
functionary is nearly unknown—that, under the influence of our national
manners, I had awkward doubts as to the propriety of offering him money.
At length the five francs rescued from the cupidity of the
half-civilized peasants of _la basse Normandie_ were put into his hand.
A look of indecision caused me to repent the indiscretion. I thought his
feelings had been wounded. “_Est-ce-que Monsieur, compte me presenter
tout ceci?_” I told him I hoped he would do me the favour to accept it.
I had only given _more_ than was usual, and the honesty of the worthy
cicerone hesitated about taking it. To know when to pay, and what to pay
is a useful attainment of the experienced traveller.
Paris lay before us, and, although Rouen is a venerable and historical
town, we were impatient to reach the French capital. A carriage was
procured, and, on the afternoon of the second day, we proceeded.
After quitting Rouen, the road runs, for several miles, at the foot of
high hills, and immediately on the banks of the Seine. At length we were
compelled to climb the mountain which terminates near the city, and
offers one of the noblest views in France, from a point called St.
Catherine’s Hill. We did not obtain so fine a prospect from the road,
but the view far surpassed any thing we had yet seen in Europe. Putting
my head out the window, when about half way up the ascent, I saw an
object booming down upon us, at the rate of six or eight miles the hour,
that resembled in magnitude, at least, a moving house. It was a
_diligence_, and being the first we had met, it caused a general
sensation in our party. Our heads were in each other’s way, and finding
it impossible to get a good view in any other manner, we fairly alighted
in the highway, old and young, to look at the monster, unincumbered. Our
admiration and eagerness, caused as much amusement to the travellers it
held, as their extraordinary equipage gave rise to among us; and two
merrier parties did not encounter each other, on the public road, that
day.
A proper _diligence_ is formed of a chariot-body, and two coach-bodies
placed one before the other, the first in front. These are all on a
large scale, and the wheels and train are in proportion. On the roof,
(the three bodies are closely united) is a _cabriolet_, or covered seat,
and baggage is frequently piled there, many feet in height. A large
leathern apron covers the latter. An ordinary load of hay, though wider,
is scarcely of more bulk than one of these vehicles, which sometimes
carries twenty-five or thirty passengers, and two or three tons of
luggage. The usual team is composed of five horses, two of which go on
the pole, and three on the lead, the latter turning their heads
outwards, as W—— remarked, so as to resemble a spread eagle.
Notwithstanding the weight, these carriages usually go down a hill
faster than when travelling on the plain. A bar of wood is brought, by
means of a winch that is controlled by a person called the _conducteur_,
one who has charge of both ship and cargo, to bear on the hind wheels,
with a greater or less force, according to circumstances, so that all
the pressure is taken off the wheel horses. A similar invention has
latterly been applied to rail-road cars. I have since gone over this
very road with ten horses, two on the wheel, and eight in two lines on
the lead. On that occasion, we came down this very hill, at the rate of
nine miles the hour.