THE JOURNEY.
It was with a feeling of pleasure I cannot explain, that I awoke in the
morning, and found myself upon the road. The turmoil, the bustle, the
never-ending difficulties of my late life in Paris had so over-excited
and worried me, that I could neither think nor reflect. Now all these
cares and troubles were behind me, and I felt like a liberated prisoner
as I looked upon the grey dawn of the coming day, as it gradually
melted from its dull and leaden tint to the pink and yellow hue of the
rising sun. The broad and richly-coloured plains of “la belle France”
were before me—and it is “la belle France,” however inferior to parts
of England in rural beauty—the large tracts of waving yellow corn,
undulating like a sea in the morning breeze—the interminable reaches of
forest, upon which the shadows played and flitted, deepening the effect
and mellowing the mass, as we see them in Ruysdael’s pictures—while now
and then some tall-gabled, antiquated chateau, with its mutilated
terrace and dowager-like air of bye-gone grandeur, would peep forth at
the end of some long avenue of lime trees, all having their own
features of beauty—and a beauty with which every object around
harmonizes well. The sluggish peasant, in his blouse and striped
night-cap—the heavily caparisoned horse, shaking his head amidst a
Babel-tower of gaudy worsted tassels and brass bells—the deeply laden
waggon, creeping slowly along—are all in keeping with a scene, where
the very mist that rises from the valley seems indolent and lazy, and
unwilling to impart the rich perfume of verdure with which it is
loaded. Every land has its own peculiar character of beauty. The
glaciered mountain, the Alpine peak, the dashing cataract of
Switzerland and the Tyrol, are not finer in their way than the long
flat moorlands of a Flemish landscape, with its clump of stunted
willows cloistering over some limpid brook, in which the oxen are
standing for shelter from the noon-day heat—while, lower down, some
rude water-wheel is mingling its sounds with the summer bees and the
merry voices of the miller and his companions. So strayed my thoughts
as the German shook me by the arm, and asked if “I were not ready for
my breakfast?” Luckily to this question there is rarely but the one
answer. Who is not ready for his breakfast when on the road? How
delightful, if on the continent, to escape from the narrow limits of
the dungeon-like diligence, where you sit with your knees next your
collar-bone, fainting with heat and suffocated by dust, and find
yourself suddenly beside the tempting “plats” of a little French
dejeuné, with its cutlets, its fried fish, its poulet, its salad, and
its little entré of fruit, tempered with a not despicable bottle of
Beaune. If in England, the exchange is nearly as grateful—for though
our travelling be better, and our equipage less “genante,” still it is
no small alterative from the stage-coach to the inn parlour, redolent
of aromatic black tea, eggs, and hot toast, with a hospitable
side-board of red, raw surloins, and York hams, that would make a Jew’s
mouth water. While, in America, the change is greatest of all, as any
one can vouch for who has been suddenly emancipated from the stove-heat
of a “nine-inside” leathern “conveniency,” bumping ten miles an hour
over a corduroy road, the company smoking, if not worse; to the ample
display of luxurious viands displayed upon the breakfast-table, where,
what with buffalo steaks, pumpkin pie, gin cock-tail, and other
aristocratically called temptations, he must be indeed fastidious who
cannot employ his half-hour. Pity it is, when there is so much good to
eat, that people will not partake of it like civilized beings, and with
that air of cheerful thankfulness that all other nations more or less
express when enjoying the earth’s bounties. But true it is, that there
is a spirit of discontent in the Yankee, that seems to accept of
benefits with a tone of dissatisfaction, if not distrust. I once made
this remark to an excellent friend of mine now no more, who, however,
would not permit of my attributing this feature to the Americans
exclusively, adding, “Where have you more of this than in Ireland? and
surely you would not call the Irish ungrateful?” He illustrated his
first remark by the following short anecdote:—
The rector of the parish my friend lived in was a man who added to the
income he derived from his living a very handsome private fortune,
which he devoted entirely to the benefit of the poor around him. Among
the objects of his bounty one old woman—a childless widow, was
remarkably distinguished. Whether commiserating her utter helplessness
or her complete isolation, he went farther to relieve her than to many,
if not all, the other poor. She frequently was in the habit of pleading
her poverty as a reason for not appearing in church among her
neighbours; and he gladly seized an opportunity of so improving her
condition, that on this score at least no impediment existed. When all
his little plans for her comfort had been carried into execution, he
took the opportunity one day of dropping in, as if accidentally, to
speak to her. By degrees he led the subject to her changed condition in
life—the alteration from a cold, damp, smoky hovel, to a warm, clean,
slated house—the cheerful garden before the door that replaced the
mud-heap and the duck-pool—and all the other happy changes which a few
weeks had effected. And he then asked, did she not feel grateful to a
bountiful Providence that had showered down so many blessings upon her
head?
“Ah, troth, its thrue for yer honour, I am grateful,” she replied, in a
whining discordant tone, which astonished the worthy parson.
“Of course you are, my good woman, of course you are—but I mean to say,
don’t you feel that every moment you live is too short to express your
thankfulness to this kind Providence for what he has done?”
“Ah, darlin’, it’s all thrue, he’s very good, he’s mighty kind, so he
is.”
“Why then, not acknowledge it in a different manner?” said the parson,
with some heat—“has he not housed you, and fed you, and clothed you?”
“Yes, alanah, he done it all.”
“Well, where is your gratitude for all these mercies?”
“Ah, sure if he did,” said the old crone, roused at length by the
importunity of the questioner—“sure if he did, doesn’t he take it out
o’ me in the corns?”