_ST. LO--COUTANCES--GRANVILLE. (CHERBOURG.)_
On our way to ST. LO, COUTANCES, and GRANVILLE on the
western coast of Normandy, we may do well--if we are interested in the
appliances of modern warfare, and would obtain any idea of the
completeness and magnificence of the French Imperial Marine--to see
something of CHERBOURG, situated near the bold headland of Cap
de la Hague.
If we look about us as we approach the town, we shall see that the
railway is cut through an extraordinary natural fortification of rocks;
and if we ascend the heights of Le Roule, we shall obtain, what a
Frenchman calls, a _vue féerique du Cherbourg_. We shall look down upon
the magnificent harbour with its breakwater and surrounding forts, and
see a fleet of iron-clads at anchor, surrounded by smaller vessels of
all nations; gun-boats, turret-ships and every modern invention in the
art of maritime war, but scarcely any ships of commerce. The whole
energy and interest of a busy population seem concentrated at Cherbourg,
either in constructing works of defence or engines of destruction.
The rather slovenly-looking orderly that we have sketched--sauntering up
and down upon the ramparts, and sniffing the fresh breezes that come to
him with a booming sound from the rocks of Querqueville that guard the
west side of the bay--is justly proud of the efficiency and completeness
which everywhere surround him, and with a twinkle in his eye, asks if
'Monsieur' has visited the arsenals, or has ever seen a naval review at
Cherbourg. The pride and boast even of the boys that play upon these
heights (boys with '_La Gloire_' upon their hats, and dressed in a naval
costume rather different from our notions of sailors), is that
'Cherbourg is impregnable and France invincible,' and, if we stay here
long, we shall begin to believe both the one and the other.
[Illustration: A SKETCH AT CHERBOURG.]
There is a little difficulty, not insurmountable to an Englishman, with
the assistance of his consul, in obtaining permission to visit the
government works in progress, and now fast approaching completion; for
the Government is courteous, if cautious, in this matter. The French
people cannot help being polite; there is an English yacht riding in the
harbour this morning, and the ladies, who have just come ashore, have
every politeness and attention shewn to them; and the little yacht will
refit, as so many do here in the summer, and take refuge again and again
in this roadstead, with great convenience and many pleasant
recollections of their reception.
If we had been upon these heights in the summer of 1858, and later in
1865, we might have seen the combined fleets of England and France in
the roadstead; and, in the spring of 1865, with a good telescope, we
might have witnessed a miniature naval engagement between the famous
_Alabama_ and the _Kearsage_, which took place a few miles from the
shore.
The _Port Militaire_ and the _Arsenal de Marine_ at Cherbourg (which are
said to be five times as large as Portsmouth), and its basins, in which
a hundred sail of the line can be accommodated at one time, are sights
which we scarcely realize in description, but which almost overwhelm us
with their magnitude and importance, when seen from this vantage ground.
In three hours after leaving Cherbourg we may find ourselves settled in
the little old-fashioned inn, called the _Hôtel du Soleil Levant_, at
ST. LO, which we shall probably have entirely to ourselves.
St. Lo, although the _chef-lieu_ of the department of La Manche, appears
to the traveller a quiet, second-rate manufacturing town, well-situated
and picturesquely built, but possessing no particular objects of
interest excepting the cathedral; although visitors who have spent any
time in this neighbourhood find it rich in antiquities, and a good
centre from which to visit various places in the environs. In no part of
this beautiful province do we see the country to better advantage, and
nowhere than in the suburbs of St. Lo, shall we find better examples of
buildings of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.
But St. Lo is dull, and there is a gloom about it that communicates
itself insensibly to the mind; that finds expression in the worship of
graven images by little children, and in the burning of innumerable
candles in the churches. There is an air of untidiness and neglect
about the town that no trim military regulations can alter, and a repose
that no amount of chattering of the old women, or even the rattle of
regimental drums, seems able to disturb. They do strange things at St.
Lo in their quiet, dull way; they paint the names of their streets on
the cathedral walls, and they make a post-office of one of its
buttresses; they paste the trees all over with advertisements in the
principal squares, and erect images of the Virgin on their warehouses.
The master at our hotel calls to a neighbour across the street to come
and join us at table, and the people at the shops stand outside,
listlessly contemplating their own wares. There are at least 10,000
inhabitants, but we see scarcely anyone; a carriage, or a cart, startles
us with its unusual sound, and every footstep echoes on the rough
pavement. The arrival of the train from Paris; the commercial travellers
that it brings, and the red liveries of the government grooms, leading
out their horses, impart the only appearance of life to the town.
Nowhere in France does the military element seem more out of place,
never did 'fine soldiers' seem so much in the way as at St. Lo. There is
a parade to-day, there was a parade yesterday, and to-morrow (Sunday)
there will be a military mass for a regiment leaving on foreign duty. It
is all very right, no doubt, and necessary for the peace of Europe, the
'balance of power,' the consumption of pipe-clay, and the breaking of
hearts sometimes; but, in contrast to the natural quiet of this place,
the dust and noise are tremendous, and the national air (so gaily played
as the troops march through the town) has, as it seems to us, an
uncertain tone, and does not catch the sympathy of the bystanders. They
stand gazing upon the pageant like the Venetians listening to the
Austrian band--they are a peace-loving community at St. Lo.
But let us look well at the cathedral, at the grandeur of its spires,
at its towers with open galleries, at the rich 'flamboyant' decoration
of the doorways; at its monuments, chapels, and stained glass, and above
all at the _exterior_ pulpit, abutting on the street at the north-east
end, which is one of the few remaining in France.
[Illustration: Exterior Pulpit at St Lo.[23]]
If we ascend one of the towers, we shall be rewarded with a view over a
varied and undulating landscape, stretching far away westward towards
the sea, and southward towards Avranches and Vire; whilst here and
there we may distinguish, dotted amongst the trees, those curious
châteaux of the _ancienne noblesse_, which are disappearing rapidly in
other parts of France; and the view of the town and cathedral together,
as seen from the opposite hill, with the river winding through the
meadows, and the women washing, on their knees on the bank, is also very
picturesque.
We do not, however, make a long stay at St. Lo, for we are within
sixteen miles of the city of COUTANCES, with its narrow and
curiously modern-looking streets, its ecclesiastical associations, and
its magnificent cathedral. As we approach it, by the road, we see before
us a group of noble Gothic spires, and are prepared to meet (as we do in
nearly every street) ecclesiastics and priests, and to find the
'Catholic Church' holding its head high in this remote part of France.
Everything gives way to the Cathedral in point of interest and
importance. It is considered 'one of the most complete and beautiful in
France, free from exuberant ornament, and captivating the eye by the
elegance of proportion and arrangement. Its plan possesses several
peculiar features, comprising a nave with two west towers, side aisles,
and chapels, filling up what would in other cathedrals be intervals
between buttresses; north and south transepts, with an octagonal tower
at their intersection; a choir with a polygonal apse, double aisles,
with radiating chapels, and a Lady chapel at the east end. The nave,
which is 100 feet high, consists of six bays, with triforium and lofty
clerestory. The effect is exceedingly grand, and is enhanced by the
lateral chapels seeming to constitute a second aisle all round. The
whole of this part of the building is worthy of the closest
examination. The interior of the large chapel of the south transept is
very curious, circular at both ends. The choir has three bays in its
rectangle, and five bays in its apse, the latter being separated by
coupled piers outside each other (not touching), of wonderful lightness
and beauty. The double aisle of the choir has a central range of single
columns running all round it, and the effect of the intersection of so
many shafts, columns, and vaultings is perfectly marvellous. There is no
triforium in the choir, but only a pierced parapet under the clerestory
windows, which are filled with fine early glass. There is much good
glass, indeed, throughout the cathedral, and several interesting tombs.'
We quote this description in detail because the cathedral at Coutances
is a rare gem, and possesses so many points of interest to the architect
and antiquary.
The history of Coutances is like a history of the Roman Catholic Church,
and the relics of bishops and saints meet us at every turn. As early as
the third century there are records of its conversion to Christianity;
it has passed through every vicissitude of war, pillage, and revolution,
until in these latter days it has earned the guide-book appellation of
'a semi-clerical, semi-manufacturing, quiet, clean, agreeable town.'
There are about 9000 inhabitants, including a few English families,
attracted here by its reputation for salubrity and cheapness of living.
The beauty of the situation of Coutances can scarcely be exaggerated;
built upon the sides of a lofty hill commanding views over a vast extent
of country, it is approached on both sides up steep hills, by broad
smooth roads with avenues of trees and surrounding gardens, and is
surmounted by its magnificent old cathedral, which is the last important
building of the kind, that we shall see, until we reach Rouen; and one
the traveller is never likely to forget, especially if he ascend the
tower, as we did, one morning whilst service was being performed
below.[24]
It was our last morning at Coutances, the air was still and clear, and
the panorama was superb; on every side of us were beautiful hills, rich
with orchards laden with fruit, and fields of corn; and beyond them, far
away westward, the sea and coast line, and the channel islands with
their dangerous shores. The air was calm, and dreamy, but in the
distance we could see white lines of foam--the 'wild horses' of the
Atlantic in full career; beneath our feet was the open 'lantern dome,'
and the sound of voices came distinctly up the fluted columns; we could
hear the great organ under the western towers, the voices of the
congregation in the nave, and the chanting of the priests before the
altar,--
'Casting down their golden crowns, beside the glassy sea.'
The town of GRANVILLE, built on a rock by the sea, with its dark granite
houses, its harbour and fishing-boats, presents a scene of bustle and
activity in great contrast to Coutances and St. Lo. There is an upper
and lower town--a town on the rocks, with its old church with five gilt
statues, built almost out at sea--and another town, on the shore. The
streets of the old town are narrow and badly paved; but there is great
commercial activity, and a general sign of prosperity amongst its
sea-faring population. The approach to the sea (on one side of the
promontory, on which the town is built) is very striking; we emerge
suddenly through a fissure in the cliffs on to the sea-shore, into the
very heart and life of the place--into the midst of a bustling community
of fishermen and women. There is fish everywhere, both in the sea and on
the land, and the flavour of it is in the air; there are baskets, bales,
and nets, and there is, it must be added, a familiar ring of
Billingsgate in the loud voices that we hear around us. Granville is
the great western sea port of France, from which Paris is constantly
supplied; and, in spite of the deficiency of railway communication, it
keeps up constant trade with the capital--a trade which is not an
unmixed benefit to its inhabitants; for in the '_Messager de Granville_'
of August, 1869, we read that:--
'L'extrême chaleur de la température n'empêche pas nos marchands
d'expédier à Paris des quantités considérables de poisson, _au
moment même où il est hors de prix sur notre marché_. Nous ne
comprenons rien à de semblables spéculations, dont l'un des plus
fâcheux résultats est d'ajouter--une _affreuse odeur_ aux désagréments
de nos voitures publiques!'
All through the fruitful land that we have passed, we cannot help being
struck with the evident inadequate means of transport for goods and
provisions; at Coutances, for instance, and at Granville (the great
centre of the oyster fisheries of the west) they have only just thought
about railways, and we may see long lines of carts and waggons, laden
with perishable commodities, being carried no faster than in the days
of the first Napoleon.
But we, who are in search of the picturesque should be the very last to
lament the fact, and we may even join in the sentiment of the Maire of
Granville, and be 'thankful' that the great highways of France are under
the control of a careful Government; and that her valleys are not (as in
England) strewn with the wrecks of abandoned railways--ruins which, by
some strange fatality, never look picturesque.
Granville is a favourite place of residence, and a great resort for
bathing in the summer; although the 'Établissement' is second-rate, and
the accommodation is not equal to that of many smaller watering-places
of France. It is, however, a pleasant and favourable spot in which to
study the manners and customs of a sea-faring people: and besides the
active human creatures which surround us, we--who settle down for a
season, and spend our time on the sands and on the dark rocks which
guard this iron-bound coast--soon become conscious of the presence of
another vast, active, striving, but more silent community on the
sea-shore, digging and delving, sporting and swimming, preying upon
themselves and each other, and enjoying intensely the luxury of living.
If we, _nous autres_, who dwell upon the land and prey upon each other
according to our opportunities, will go down to the shore when the tide
is out, and ramble about in the--
'Rosy gardens revealed by low tides,'
we may make acquaintance with a vast Lilliput community; we may learn
some surprising lessons in natural history, and read sermons in shells.
But, amidst this most interesting and curious congregation of fishes--a
concourse of crabs, lobsters, eels in holes, limpets on the rocks, and a
hundred other inhabitants of the sea, in every form of activity around
us--we must not forget, in our enthusiasm for these things, the
treacherous tides on this coast, and the great Atlantic waves, that
will suddenly overwhelm the flat shore, and cut off retreat from those
who are fishing on the rocks.
This happens so often, and is so full of danger to those unacquainted
with the coast, that we may do good service by relating again, an
adventure which happened to the late Campbell of Islay and a friend, who
were nearly drowned near Granville. They had been absorbed in examining
the rocks at some distance from the shore, and in collecting the
numerous marine plants which abound in their crevices; when suddenly one
of the party called out--
'Mercy on us! I forgot the tide, and here it comes.'
Turning towards the sea they saw a stream of water running at a rapid
pace across the sands. They quickly began to descend the rocks, but
before they could reach the ground 'the sand was in stripes, and the
water in sheets.' They then ran for the shore, but before they had
proceeded far, they were met by one of the fisher-girls, who had seen
their danger from the shore, and hastened to turn them back, calling to
them--
'The wave! the wave! it is coming--turn! turn and run--or we are lost!'
They did turn, and saw far out to sea a large wave rolling toward the
shore. The girl passed them and led the way; the two friends strained
every nerve to keep pace with her, for as they neared the rock, the wave
still rolled towards them; the sand became gradually covered, and for
the last ten steps they were up to their knees in water--but they were
on the rock.
'Quick! quick!' said the girl; '_there_ is the passage to the Cross at
the top; but if the second wave comes we shall be too late.'
She scrambled on for a hundred yards till she came to a crack in the
rock, six or seven feet wide, along which the water was rushing like a
mill-sluice. With some difficulty they reached the upper rocks,
carrying the fisher-girl in their arms, and wading above their knees in
water. Here they rest a moment--when a great wave rolls in, and the
water runs along the little platform where they are sitting; they all
rise, and mounting the rocky points (which the little Granvillaise
assures them are never quite covered with water), cluster together for
support. In a few moments the suspense is over, the girl points to the
shore, where they can hear the distant sound of a cheer, and see people
waving their handkerchiefs.
'They think the tide has turned,' says the girl, 'and they are shouting
to cheer us.'
She was right, the tide had turned. Another wave came and wetted their
feet, but when it had passed the water had fallen, and in five minutes
the platform was again dry!
The fisherwomen of Granville are famed for their beauty, industry, and
courage; we, certainly, have not seen such eyes, excepting at Cadiz,
and never have we seen so many active hard-working old women. The women
seem to do everything here--the 'boatmen' are women, and the fishermen
young girls.
We may well admire some of these handsome Granvillaises, living their
free life by the sea, earning less in the day, generally, than our
Staffordshire pit girls, but living much more enviable lives. Here they
are by hundreds, scattered over the beach in the early morning, and
afterwards crowding into the market-place; driving hard bargains for the
produce of their sea-farms, and--with rather shrill and unpronounceable
ejaculations and many most winning smiles--handing over their shining
wares. It is all for the Paris market they will tell you, and they may
also tell you (if you win their confidence) that they, too, are one day
for Paris.
Let us leave the old women to do the best bargaining, and picture to the
reader a bright figure that we once saw upon this shining shore, a
Norman maiden, about eighteen years of age, without shoes or stockings;
a picture of health and beauty bronzed by the sun.[25] This young
creature who had spent her life by the sea and amongst her own people,
was literally overflowing with happiness, she could not contain the half
of it, she imparted it to everyone about her (unconsciously, and that
was its sweetness); she could not strictly be called handsome, and she
might be considered very ignorant; but she bloomed with freshness, she
knew neither ill health nor _ennui_, and happiness was a part of her
nature.
This charming 'aphrodite piscatrix' is stalwart and strong (she can swim
a mile with ease), she has carried her basket and nets since sunrise,
and now at eight o'clock on this summer's morning sits down on the
rocks, makes a quick breakfast of potage, plumes herself a little, and
commences knitting. She does not stay long on the beach, but before
leaving, makes a slight acquaintance with the strangers, and evinces a
curious desire to hear anything they may have to tell her about the
great world.
It is too bright a picture to last; she too, it would seem, has
day-dreams of cities; she would give up her freedom, she would join the
crowd and enter the 'great city,' she would have a stall at '_les
halles_,' and see the world. Day-dreams, but too often fulfilled--the
old story of centralization doing its work; look at the map of Normandy,
and see how the 'chemin de fer de l'Ouest' is putting forth its arms,
which--like the devil-fish, in Victor Hugo's '_Travailleurs de la
Mer'_--will one day draw irresistibly to itself, our fair 'Toiler of the
sea.'[26]
'What does Monsieur think?' (for we are favoured with a little
confidence from our young friend), and what can we say? Could we draw a
tempting picture of life in cities--could we, if we had the heart, draw
a favourable contrast between _her_ life, as we see it, and the lives of
girls of her own age, who live in towns--who never see the breaking of a
spring morning, or know the beauty of a summer's night? Could we picture
to her (if we would) the gloom that shrouds the dwellings of many of her
northern sisters; and could she but see the veil that hangs over London,
in such streets as Harley, or Welbeck Street, on the brightest morning
that ever dawned on their sleeping inhabitants, she might well be
reconciled to her present life!
[Illustration: A TOILER OF THE SEA.]
'Is it nothing,' we are inclined to ask her, 'to feel the first rays of
the sun at his rising, to be fanned with fresh breezes, to rejoice in
the wind, to brave the storm; to have learned from childhood to welcome
as familiar friends, the changes of the elements, and, in short, to have
realised, in a natural life the 'mens sana in corpore sano'? Would she
be willing to repeat the follies of her ancestors in the days of the
_Trianon_ and Louis XIV.? Would she complete the fall which began when
knights and nobles turned courtiers--and roués? Let us read history to
her and remind her what centralization did for old France; let us
whisper to her, whilst there is time, what Paris is like in our own day.
Do we exaggerate the evils of over-centralization? We only at present,
half know them; but the next generation may discover the full meaning
of the word. There is exaggeration, no doubt; some men have lived so
long in the country that they speak of towns as a 'seething mass of
corruption,' pregnant of evil; and of villages as of an almost divine
Arcadia, whence nothing but good can spring; but the evils of
centralization can scarcely be overrated in any community. The social
system even in France, cannot revolve for ever round one sun.