Should there be any one who wishes to spend a few weeks in a quiet
French watering-place not far from the English coast, let him try St
Valery. Here he will not find the fashion and gaiety of Trouville,
requiring a dozen new costumes for his wife in as many days, nor
the picturesque scenery of Biarritz and the Pyrenees. Yet the flat
plains of Picardy have their charms, and there is much to interest the
archæologist. This is the classic ground of the troubadours. There
are great memories of heroic deeds in the middle ages, and some of
the finest monuments of religious zeal. Rivers flow quietly through
narrow valleys, planted with willows and poplars, often enlarging into
small lakes, where the water-lily spreads its broad leaves and queenly
flowers.
Wandering on the downs near the sea, the scenery is sad, but offers
a grand and severe beauty of its own. Nothing is there to recall the
presence of man; it is a desert, with the eternal murmur of the ocean
and the ever-changing aspects of the season. Animals and birds abound
in these solitudes; rabbits swarm in their burrows to such a degree
that fourteen hundred have been taken from one spot at the same time.
The fishing-hawk comes to seek its food in the finny tribes that rise
to the surface of the water; a species of wild-fowl intrudes into the
rabbit’s burrow and there builds her nest; the sea-gull deposits her
eggs on the bare rock; the curlew mingles her plaintive cry with the
harsher note of the heron. In the cold days of winter the swan, the
eider-duck, the wild-goose, driven from the northern seas by the ice,
take refuge on the sands left bare at low-water. Sometimes, during the
prevalence of east wind, rare foreign birds are driven to the shores;
and in the marshes, lapwings, snipes, and water-fowl abound. Capital
ground this, for the ornithologist and wild-fowler.
St Valery itself, situated on the river Somme and occupying an
important military position, suffered most cruelly in the wars of the
middle ages. Its old walls have seen the inhabitants slaughtered and
the fleets burned twenty times; English, Burgundians, and Spaniards
have helped to level it to the dust; yet the brave little town has
risen again from its ruins and set to work to restore its thriving
commerce. Here it was that a tragical event happened in the thirteenth
century, when the powerful Lord de Coucy held his sway. Many a
story-teller and troubadour has narrated within the castle walls how
he married the lovely Adèle, daughter of the Comte de Ponthieu, and
how, as she was passing through a forest with too small an escort for
such lawless times, she was attacked by brigands and subjected to the
greatest indignities. Her husband, with equal cruelty, wished to efface
the affront, and ordered her to be thrown into the sea. Some Flemings,
sailing on their way to the Holy Land, saw the beautiful lady floating
on the waves, took her on board, and when they arrived, sold her to
the Sultan of Amaria, who by kind treatment made her happy in her
banishment.
But whilst she forgot her country and her religion, the husband and
father were filled with the deepest remorse, and determined to do
penance by going to Jerusalem. A fearful tempest stranded them on
the territory of the Sultan, by whose orders they were thrown into a
dungeon. The day after, a great festival was held in honour of the
Sultan’s birthday; and according to the custom of the country, the
people came to the palace to demand a Christian captive to torture and
kill. The choice fell upon the Comte de Ponthieu. When he was brought
out, and the astonished Adèle recognised him, she said to her husband:
‘Give me, I pray you, this captive; he knows how to play at chess and
draughts.’ Her request was granted; and then another captive appeared,
the Lord de Coucy. ‘Let me also have this one,’ she said; ‘he can tell
wonderful stories to amuse me.’ ‘Willingly,’ answered the obliging
Sultan. Recognition was soon established among the three; pardon was
sought, and granted; and Adèle, under pretext of taking a sail, escaped
with the two captives, and landed in France. They regained their own
possessions, and from that time lived a life of great piety.
Leaving St Valery, let us take a pleasant excursion to see the fine
old feudal castle of Rambures. There is probably not a more perfect
specimen of the military architecture of the middle ages in the whole
of France. We walk round it and admire the four enormous brick towers
rising at the angles of the quadrangular fortress, crowned with the
roofs then so much in favour, resembling pepper-boxes. The walls, many
yards in thickness, are pierced with embrasures; where we now stand
they seem like a narrow slit; but when we enter, there is ample room
for a man and horse to stand in them. Everything is prepared for a long
defence: descending into the vaults, there are stables for a number
of horses, ovens to bake bread for a regiment, wells, and store-rooms
ready to contain any amount of provisions. Below these cold dark
excavations are the still more melancholy _oubliettes_, a suitable
name, where the prisoners were too often forgotten and allowed to die a
lingering death of starvation. Here the lord of the place could without
any trial confine his vassals who refused to grind their wheat at his
mill, bake their bread at his bakehouse, or get in his harvest at the
loss of their own. Such was the state of affairs in these olden times!
The shore-line takes us to the oldest hereditary fief of the French
monarchy, a spot rendered interesting from its connection with Joan
of Arc. A few houses, half-buried in sand, form what the people still
persist in calling ‘the port and town of Crotoy,’ once so flourishing
as the centre of commerce for the wines of the south and the wool
and dye-woods of Spain, which were shipped off from here to the
cloth-workers of Flanders. When it belonged to our kings Edward II. and
III., the port dues amounted to no less than twelve hundred pounds, a
very large sum for those days; now they are but thirty-two pounds a
year. The honest hospitable fishermen are always ready to rescue any
distressed ship driven on to the coast by storms. It is remembered
that one of their race, whose name was Vandenthum, saved the Duc de
Larochefoucauld. In the worst days of the Revolution, when it was a
crime to bear a title, this most devoted of the adherents of Louis XVI.
fled to Crotoy, in the hope of getting to England. Before getting into
Vandenthum’s boat, the Duke gave his valet half of a card, the ace of
hearts, saying: ‘When this good fisherman brings you the other half, I
shall be safe on the other side; pray take it at once to my wife.’ The
card was delivered; and every year after the Duke shewed his gratitude
by making Vandenthum spend a fortnight with him, treating him in a
princely manner, seating him at his side, and recognising him as his
deliverer.
It was in the strong castle of this place where Joan of Arc was
imprisoned in 1430. From Amiens came a priest to receive her confession
and administer the sacrament; and many ladies and citizens from the
same place, sympathising with her under her cruel treatment, visited
her. Thanking them warmly and kissing them, she exclaimed, weeping:
‘These are good people; may it please God, when my days are ended,
that I may be buried in this place.’ If you talk to the fishermen’s
wives here, they speak of this heroic woman with profound respect; and
singularly enough, the last branch of her family has settled among
the people she loved. They are living in comparative poverty, having a
place in the Custom-house, but are proud of the letters-patent which
authorise them to adopt the name of Du Lis, and bear on their arms the
_fleur de lis_ of the Bourbons.
Six miles away we come to the once celebrated church of Rue, with a
dismantled fortress, a belfry, clock tower, and gibbet of the olden
times. St Wulphy was a saint of miracle-working power, and to him the
church was dedicated; but in the incessant attacks of the Normans his
relics were carried off. The saint still cared for his church, and
prayed God to give his people something better; whereupon some workmen
digging near Golgotha found buried in the earth a crucifix, sculptured
by Nicodemus. This was set afloat at Jaffa in a boat without oars,
sail, or pilot, and soon stranded on the shore of Rue. In the present
day it is trade which turns villages into towns; then it was faith;
wherever the relics of a saint were to be found, the most obscure
place grew rapidly in riches and population. Thus pilgrims flocked to
this out-of-the-way place from all parts of France; the popes granted
indulgences to those who visited it, and it became a rival to St James
of Compostella. Here was often found Louis XI., who had great need
for desiring pardon, and miser though he was, left behind him rich
presents. Of the fine old church nothing remains but a chapel, which
is a masterpiece of architectural beauty; the legend of the bark is
represented on the tympanum, and on the façade are statues of several
of the kings of France. All its rich treasures and the miraculous cross
were carried away at the end of the last century by the faithless
dragoons of the Republican army.
Musing on the changes of time and public opinion, we look far away
over the downs towards Abbeville, and under the shadow of the large
forest which darkens the horizon, call to mind the great victory which
the armies of England gained on the field of Crécy. Edward III. knew
the country well, for his youthful days had been passed at the Château
Gard-les-Rue, which belonged to his mother, Isabel of Ponthieu. Walking
over the ground, the spots where the carnage was most terrible may be
traced by the names given to tracts of land, such as the _Marche à
Carognes_, meaning ‘The Pathway of Corpses.’ In the morning, when the
fields are covered with dew, the deep ditches where the victims were
buried may be distinctly traced, for there, curiously enough, the earth
remains damp much longer than in the other furrows. Standing in the
green forest-road is an old cross of sandstone, which the peasants tell
you is the spot where the body of the king of Bohemia was found. He
was one of the most faithful allies of the French king, and blind; but
in the midst of the battle he desired his two faithful knights to lead
his horse in, that he might strike one last blow for his friend. All
the three fell together in front of the hill, from which the English
archers drew their bow-strings with such fatal effect that ten thousand
of the French were left dead on the battle-field. Here it was that the
gallant Black Prince won his spurs, and the crest of feathers which
still pertains to our Prince of Wales.
Starting on the road to Abbeville, and passing the large beetroot
manufactories which abound in Picardy, we gain a beautiful view of the
fertile vale of the Somme; but our destination is eastward, to visit
St Riquier. Two monks from Bangor are said to have preached the gospel
here 590 A.D., and incurring the anger of the idolatrous people, they
were attacked and would have perished but for the help of one of their
converts named Riquier. After their departure he became a priest,
and continued the good work, founding an abbey, which King Dagobert
richly endowed. This exquisite building was built in the form of a
triangle, as a symbol of the Trinity. The number three was everywhere
reproduced; three doors opened into the vestibule, three chapels rose
at the angles, three altars, three pulpits, the three symbols of
Constantinople, of St Athanasius, and the apostles. Three hundred monks
and thirty-three choristers sang in the processions, and finally the
abbot fed daily three hundred poor persons.
Whilst the ruthless hands of the whitewasher have destroyed innumerable
frescoes, there still remain two large mural paintings in the treasury
of this church, one being a representation of the translation of the
relics of St Riquier, the other a Dance of Death. The latter is divided
into three compartments; in the first are three skeletons, one digging
a grave, another holding a spade (the emblem of demolition), the
third an arrow, the instrument of death. Richly-dressed well-mounted
cavaliers appear in the second, setting out for the chase with falcons
on their wrists; but at the sight of the skeletons the horses rear, and
one of the falcons is flying away. In the last, persons of every rank
are walking together to the grave; a wild and poetical teaching, which
recalled, in the midst of the inequalities of the feudal days, the
certainty of their all meeting in the final resting-place.
It was in these well-known funereal allegories that religious thought
took refuge, whilst burlesque associations or brotherhoods traversed
the towns in disorganised bands, and the troubadours sang their
romances of ladies catching hearts in their nets to put into the box
of forgetfulness. Christian art endeavoured to bring men back to
the remembrance of God by shewing them death under various aspects.
Sometimes the artist placed him with a coffin under his arm in the
cortège of kings; or as a guest at the marriage-feast standing behind
the bride; or as a wood-cutter lopping off branches laden with nobles
and citizens; as if to illustrate that however high the position in
this world, all must at last fall.
To St Riquier, Charlemagne loved to repair, and he made it a centre
of learning, like Tours, Metz, and St Gall. Some remains of the old
towers of his day still remain, as well as the mosaic roses which he
sent for from Rome to adorn it. In the porch were buried two abbots who
were killed in 853, in one of the numerous incursions of the Normans.
Their bodies were found wrapped in sheep-skins, when the beautiful
church of the fifteenth century rose from the ashes of the old one.
Among the many statues of saints which adorn the main portal is a very
noble one of Joan of Arc, holding a half-broken lance; her eyes are
cast down, and the expression is that of a perfectly beautiful but sad
countenance. She was confined in the castle for a few days.
Upon the beauties of Amiens we must not dwell; it was a centre for
the cultivation of poetry, sculpture, and the fine arts throughout
the middle ages. The inhabitants worked at its glorious cathedral for
sixty-eight years, forming a kind of camp, and relieving each other as
they cut the stones, singing canticles the while. The tall spire was
destroyed by a thunderbolt in 1527; but two zealous village carpenters
determined to rebuild it; and six years later it was finished. Many
monograms testify to the visits of master-masons, who came to admire
the work of the Picardy peasants; the eighteen hundred medallions
detailing the history of the world, besides many bas-reliefs carved by
the old workmen of Amiens. Abbeville is also a most interesting old
town, not only for its past monuments, but as the home of that modern
geologist M. de Perthes, who has left his museum of relics to the
city. We must bid adieu to Picardy, to its hardy peasants, delicious
cider, and well-cultivated plains with regret, as being not the least
interesting among the French provinces, and well worthy the notice of
the wandering traveller.