much of the battlefield, but there is little to-day to remind one of the
struggle. Out of Sedan the road is better--a wide, straight, level
highway which enables us to make the longest day's run of our entire
tour. The country improves in appearance and becomes more like the
France of Orleans and Touraine. The day, which began dull and hazy, has
cleared away beautifully and the flood of June sunshine shows Summer
France at its best. From the upland roads there are far-reaching views,
through ranks of stately trees, of green landscapes, flaming here and
there with poppy-fields or glowing with patches of yellow gorse. The
country is trim and apparently well-tilled; the villages are better and
cleaner and the road a very dream for the motorist. At Guise there is a
ruined castle of vast extent, its ancient walls still encircling much of
the town. Guise was burned by the English under John of Hanehault in
1339, but the redoubtable John could not force the surrender of the
castle, which was defended by his own daughter, the wife of a French
nobleman then absent.
So swift is our progress over the fine straight road that we find
ourselves in the streets of St. Quentin while the sun is yet high, but a
glance at our odometer tells us we have gone far enough and we turn in
at the Hotel de France et d'Angleterre. It is evidently an old house and
every nook and corner is cumbered with tawdry bric-a-brac--china,
statuettes, candlesticks and a thousand and one articles of the sort.
Our apartments are spacious, with much antique furniture, and the
high-posted beds prove more comfortable than they look. Mirrors with
massive gilt frames stare at us from the walls and heavy chandeliers
hang from the ceilings. The price for all this magnificence is quite
low, for St. Quentin is in no sense a tourist town and hotel rates have
not yet been adjusted for the infrequent motorist. The hotel is
well-patronized, apparently by commercial men, who make it a rather
lively place. The meals are good and the servants prompt and
attentive--superior in this respect to many of the pretentious
tourist-thronged hotels.
There is nothing to keep us in St. Quentin; in the morning we start out
to drive about the town, but the narrow, crooked streets and miserable
cobble pavements soon change our determination and we inquire the route
to Amiens. It chances that the direct road, running straight as an arrow
between the towns, is undergoing repairs and we are advised to take
another route. I cannot now trace it on the map, but I am sure the
Captain for once became badly mixed and we have a good many miles of the
roughest going we found in Europe.
We strike a stretch of the cobblestone "pave" which is still encountered
in France and ten miles per hour is about the limit. These roads are
probably more than a hundred years old. They are practically abandoned
except by occasional peasants' carts and their roughness is simply
indescribable. As it chances, we have a dozen miles of this "pave"
before we reach the main road and we are too occupied with our troubles
to look at the country or note the name of the one wretched village we
pass.
Once in the broad main highway, however, we are delighted with the
beauty and color of the country. We pass through wide, unfenced fields
of grain, interspersed with the ever-present poppies and blue
cornflowers and from the hills we catch glimpses of the distant river.
Long before we come to Amiens--shall I say before we come in sight of
the city?--we descry the vast bulk of the cathedral rising from the
plain below. The surrounding city seems but a soft gray blur, but the
noble structure towers above and dominates everything else until we
quite forget that there is anything in Amiens but the cathedral. We soon
enter an ancient-looking city of some ninety thousand people and make
the mistake of choosing the Great Hotel d'la Univers, for, despite its
pretentious name, it is dingy and ill-arranged and the service is
decidedly slack.
Amiens Cathedral is one of the greatest churches of Europe, though the
low and inharmonious towers of the facade detract much from the dignity
of the exterior. Nor does the high and extremely slender central spire
accord well with the general style of the building. The body of the
cathedral, divested of spire and towers, would make a fit match for
Cologne, which it resembles in plan and dimensions, but it has a more
ancient appearance, having undergone little change in six centuries. The
delicate sculptures and carvings are stained and weather-worn, but they
present that delightful color toning that age alone can give. Inside, a
recent writer declares, it is "one vast blaze of light and color coming
not only from the clerestory but from the glazed triforium also, the
magnificent blue glass typifying the splendor of the heavens"--a
pleasing effect, on the whole, though the flood of softly toned light
brings out to disadvantage the gaudy ornaments and trinkets of the
private chapels so common in French cathedrals. Ruskin advises the
visitor, no matter how short his time may be, to devote it, not to the
contemplation of arches and piers and colored glass, but to the woodwork
of the chancel, which he considers the most beautiful carpenter work of
the so-called Flamboyant period. There is also a multitude of sculptured
images, some meritorious wall frescoes, and several stained-glass
windows dating from the thirteenth century. At the rear is a statue of
Peter the Hermit, for the monk who started the great crusading movement
of the middle ages was a native of Amiens.
All of these things we note in a cursory manner; we recognize that the
student might spend hours, if not days, in studying the details of such
a mighty structure. But such is not our mood; the truth is, we are a
little tired of cathedrals and are not sorry that Amiens is the last for
the present. What an array we have seen in our month's tour: Rouen,
Orleans, Tours, Dijon, Nevers, Ulm, Mayence, Cologne, Amiens--not to
mention a host of lesser lights. We have had a surfeit and we shall
doubtless be able to better appreciate what we have seen after a period
of reflection, which will also bring a better understanding to our aid
should we resume our pilgrimage to these ecclesiastical monuments.
There is little besides the cathedral to detain the tourist in Amiens,
unless, indeed, he should be fortunate enough to be able to go as
leisurely as he likes. Then he would see the Musee, which has a really
good collection of pictures and relics, or the library, which is one of
the best in French provincial towns. There are some quaint old houses
along the river and many odd corners to delight the artistic eye. John
Ruskin found enough to keep him in Amiens many days and to fill several
pages in his writings. But it would take more than all this to delay us
now when we are so near the English shores. If we leave Amiens early
enough we may catch the noon Channel boat--we ought to cover the ninety
miles to Boulogne in three or four hours. But we find the main road to
Abbeville closed and lose our way twice, which, with two deflated tires,
puts our plan out of question. Much of the road is distressingly rough
and there are many "canivaux" to slacken our speed. We soon decide to
take matters easily and cross the Channel on the late afternoon boat.
The picturesque old town of Abbeville was one of John Ruskin's favorite
sketching grounds. We pass the market-place, which is surrounded by
ancient houses with high-pitched gables colored in varied tints of gray,
dull-blue and pale-green. The church is cited by Ruskin as one of the
best examples of Flamboyant style in France, though the different parts
are rather inharmonious and of unequal merit. Abbeville was held by the
English for two hundred years and the last possession, except Calais, to
be surrendered to France. Here in 1514 Louis of Brittany married Mary
Tudor--the beautiful sister of Henry VIII.--only to leave her a widow a
few months later. She returned to England and afterwards became the wife
of the Duke of Suffolk.
It is market-day in Montreuil and the streets are crowded with country
people. We stop in the thronged market-place, where a lively scene is
being enacted. All kinds of garden produce and fruits are offered for
sale and we are importuned to purchase by the enterprising market-women.
We find the fruit excellent and inexpensive, and this, with a number of
other object lessons in the course of our travels, impressed us with the
advantages of the European market plan, which brings fresh produce
direct to the consumer at a moderate price.
We have most of the afternoon about Boulogne. In starting on our tour a
month before we hardly glanced at our landing port, so anxious were we
for the country roads; but as we drive about the city now, we are
delighted with its antiquity and quaintness. It is still enclosed by
walls--much restored, it is true, and so, perhaps, are the unique
gateways. The streets are mostly paved with cobbles, which make
unpleasant driving and after a short round we deliver the car at the
quay. At the Hotel Angleterre we order some strawberries as an "extra"
with our luncheon--these being just in season--and we are cheerfully
presented with a bill for six francs for a quantity that can be bought
in the market-place for ten cents--this in addition to an unusually high
charge for the meal. Evidently Boulogne Bonifaces are not in business
solely for their health. The town is a frequented summer resort, with a
good beach and numerous hotels and lodging-places. It is said to be the
most Anglicized town in France--almost everyone we meet seems familiar
with English. The Captain suggests that we may be interested in seeing
the Casino, one of the licensed gambling-houses allowed in a few French
towns. The government gets a good share of the profits, which are very
large. We do not care to try our luck on the big wheel, but the Captain
has no scruples--winning freely at first, but quitting the loser by a
goodly number of francs--a common experience, I suppose. The small boy
is not allowed to enter the gambling room, from which minors are rigidly
excluded.
We have a glorious evening for crossing to Folkestone--the dreaded
Channel is on its best behavior. A magnificent sunset gilds the vast
expanse of rippling water to the westward and flashes on the white chalk
cliffs of the English shore. As we come nearer and nearer we have an
increasing sense of getting back home--and England has for us an
attractiveness that we did not find in France and Germany.
And yet our impressions of these countries were, on the whole, very
favorable. France, so far as we saw it, was a beautiful, prosperous
country, though there was not for us the romance that so delighted us in
England. We missed the ivied ruins and graceful church-towers that lend
such a charm to the British landscapes. The highways generally were
magnificent, though already showing deterioration in many places. The
roads of France require dustless surfacing--oil or asphaltum, similar to
the methods extensively used in England. Since the time of our tour
steps have been taken in this direction and in time France will have by
far the best road-system in the world. Her highways are already broad
and perfectly engineered and need only surfacing. About Paris much of
the wretched old pave is still in existence, but this will surely be
replaced before long. The roads are remarkably direct, radiating from
the main towns like the spokes of a wheel, usually taking the shortest
cut between two important points.
The squalor and filth of the country villages in many sections is an
unpleasant revelation to the tourist who has seen only the cities, which
are clean and well-improved. But for all this thrift is evident
everywhere; nothing is allowed to go to waste; there are no ragged,
untilled corners in the fields. Every possible force is utilized.
Horses, dogs, oxen, cows, goats and donkeys are all harnessed to loads;
indeed, the Captain says there is a proverb in France to the effect that
"the pig is the only gentleman," for he alone does not work. The women
seem to have more than their share of heavy disagreeable tasks, and this
is no doubt another factor in French prosperity.
Despite the notion to the contrary, France is evidently a very religious
country--in her way. Crucifixes, crosses, shrines, etc. are common along
the country roadsides, and churches are the best and most important
buildings in the towns and cities. Priests are seen everywhere and
apparently have a strong hold on their parishioners. In view of such
strong entrenchment, it seems a wonder that the government was able to
completely disestablish the church and to require taxation of much of
its property.
The country policeman, so omnipresent in England, is rarely seen in
France, and police traps in rural districts are unknown. Even in towns
arrests are seldom made--the rule being to interfere only with motorists
who drive "to the danger of the public." One misses the handy fund of
information which an English policeman can so readily supply; the few
French officials we questioned were apparently neither so intelligent
nor accommodating.
We were astonished to see so few motor cars in France, and many which we
did see were those of touring foreigners. France, for all her lead in
the automobile industry, does not have many cars herself. She prefers to
sell them to the other fellow and keep the money. The number of cars in
France is below the average for each of the states of the Union, and the
majority are in Paris and vicinity. French cars almost dominate the
English market and many of the taxicabs in London are of French make. We
saw a large shipment of these on the wharves at Boulogne. If it were not
for our tariff, we may be sure that France would be a serious competitor
in the motor-car trade of the United States. There is absolutely no
prejudice against the motorist in France and foreigners are warmly
welcomed to spend their money. The Frenchman does not travel
much--France is good enough for him and he looks on the Americans and
Englishmen who throng his country as a financial asset and makes it as
easy for them to come as he possibly can. In fact, under present
conditions it is easier to tour from one European country to another
than it is among our own states--one can arrange with the Royal
Automobile Club for all customs formalities and nothing is required
except signing a few papers at each frontier.
In some respects we noted a strong similarity between France and
Germany. The cities of both countries are clean and up-to-date, with
museums, galleries, splendid churches and fine public buildings. In
both--so far as we saw--the small villages are primitive and filthy in
the extreme and in rural districts the heaviest burdens appear to fall
on the women. In both countries farming is thoroughly done and every
available bit of land is utilized. Each gives intelligent attention to
forestry--there are many forests now in their prime, young trees are
being grown, and the roadsides are planted with trees.
The roads of Germany are far behind those of France; nor does any great
interest seem to be taken in highway improvement. Of course the roads
are fairly well maintained, but there is apparently no effort to create
a system of boulevards such as France possesses. Germany has even fewer
motor cars than her neighbor, a much smaller number of automobile
tourists enter her borders, and there is more hostility towards them on
part of the country people. There are no speed traps, but one is liable
to be arrested for fast driving in many towns and cities.
The German business-man strikes one more favorably than the Frenchman;
he is sturdy, good-looking and alert, and even in a small establishment
shows the characteristics that are so rapidly pushing his country to the
front in a commercial way.
But the greatest difference in favor of Germany--at least so far as
outward appearance goes--is to be seen in her soldiery. Soldiers are
everywhere--always neat and clean, with faultless uniform and shining
accoutrements, marching with a firm, steady, irresistible swing. To the
casual observer it would seem that if an army of these soldiers should
enter France they could march directly on Paris without serious
resistance. But some authorities say that German militarism is a hollow
show and that there is more real manhood in the Frenchman. Let us hope
the question will not have to be settled again on the field of battle.
Perhaps these random impressions which I have been recording are
somewhat superficial, but I shall let them stand for what they are
worth. On our long summer jaunt through these two great countries we
have had many experiences--not all of them pleasant. But we have seen
many things and learned much that would have been quite inaccessible to
us in the old grooves of travel--thanks to our trusty companion of the
wind-shod wheels. And perhaps the best possible proof that we really
enjoyed our pilgrimage is a constantly increasing desire to repeat
it--with variations--should our circumstances again permit.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Odd Corners of Britain
------------------------------------------------------------------------
VIII
THE MOTHERLAND ONCE MORE
Back to England--back to England! Next to setting foot in the homeland
itself, nothing could have been more welcome to us after our month's
exile on the Continent. And I am not saying that we did not enjoy our
Continental rambles; that we did the pages of this book amply testify.
It seemed to us, however, that for motor touring, England surpasses any
other country in many respects. First of all, the roads average vastly
better--we remembered with surprise the stories we had heard of the
greatly superior roads of France--a delusion entertained by many
Englishmen, for that matter. We had also found by personal experience
that the better English inns outclass those on the Continent in service
and cleanliness and never attempt the overcharges and exactions not
uncommon in France and Germany. The second-rate French inn, we are
informed on good authority, is more tolerable than the second-rate inn
of England. An experienced English motorist told us that since expense
was a consideration to him, he generally spent his vacations in France.
He declared that there he could put up comfortably and cheaply at the
less pretentious inns while he would never think of stopping at English
hotels of the same class. I fancy, however, that if one follows
Baedeker--our usual guide in such matters--and selects number one among
the list, he will find every advantage with the English hotels.
And we are sure that the English landscapes are the most beautiful in
the world. Everywhere one sees trim, parklike neatness--vistas of
well-tilled fields interspersed with great country seats, storied ruins
and the ubiquitous church-tower so characteristic of Britain. It is a
distinctive church-tower, rising from green masses of foliage such as
one seldom sees elsewhere. And where else in a civilized country will
one find such trees--splendid, beautifully proportioned trees, standing
in solitary majesty in the fields, stretching in impressive ranks along
the roadside or clustering in towering groups about some country mansion
or village church?
And who could be impervious to the charm of the English village?
Cleanly, pleasantly situated and often embowered in flowers, it appeals
to the artistic sense and affords the sharpest possible contrast to the
filthy and malodorous little hamlets of France and Germany. The cities
and larger towns of these countries do not suffer any such disadvantage
in comparison with places of the same size in England--but we care less
for the cities, often avoiding them. In England, we found ourselves
among people speaking a common language and far more kindly and
considerate towards the stranger within their gates than is common on
the Continent. We can dispense with our courier, too, for though he was
an agreeable fellow, we enjoy it best alone. So, then, we are glad to be
back in Britain and are eager to explore her highways and byways once
more.
We plan a pilgrimage to John O'Groat's house and of course the Royal
Automobile Club is consulted.
"We have just worked out a new route to Edinburgh," said Mr. Maroney,
"which avoids the cities and a large proportion of police traps as well.
You leave the Great North Road at Doncaster and proceed northward by
Boroughbridge, Wilton-le-Wear, Corbridge, Jedburgh and Melrose. You will
also see some new country, as you are already familiar with the
York-Newcastle route."
And so we find ourselves at the Red Lion at Hatfield, about twenty miles
out of London on the beginning of our northern journey. It is a cleanly,
comfortable-looking old house, and though it is well after noon, an
excellent luncheon is promptly served--the roadside inns are adapting
themselves to the irregular hours of the motorist.
Hatfield House--the Salisbury estate--is near the inn, but though we
have passed it several times, we have never hit on one of the "open"
days, and besides, we have lost a good deal of our ambition for doing
palaces; half-forgotten and out-of-the-way places appeal more strongly
now. We are soon away on the splendid highway which glistens from a
heavy summer shower that fell while we were at luncheon. We proceed
soberly, for we have had repeated warnings of police traps along the
road. The country is glorious after the dashing rainfall; fields of
German clover are in bloom, dashes of dark red amidst the prevailing
green; long rows of sweet-scented carmine-flowered beans load the air
with a heavy perfume. A little later, when we pass out of the zone of
the shower we find hay-making in progress and everything is redolent of
the new-mown grasses. Every little while we pass a village and at
Stilton--I have written elsewhere of its famous old inn--a dirty urchin
runs alongside the car howling, "Police traps! Look out for police
traps!" until he receives a copper to reward his solicitude for our
welfare.
Toward evening we come in sight of Grantham's magnificent spire and we
have the pleasantest recollections of the Angel Inn, where we stopped
some years previously--we will close the day's journey here. One would
never get from the Angel's modest, ivy-clad front any idea of the
rambling structure behind it; indeed, I have often wondered how all the
labyrinth of floors, apartments and hallways could be crowded behind
such a modest facade as that of the Red Lion of Banbury, the Swan of
Mansfield or the Angel of Grantham, for example. Such inns are no doubt
a heritage of the days when it was necessary to utilize every available
inch of space within the city walls. In most cases they are conducted
with characteristic English thoroughness and are cleanly and restful,
despite their antiquity and the fact that they are closely hedged in by
other buildings. As a rule part or all of the old inner court which
formerly served as a stable-yard has been adapted as a motor garage.
The Angel is said to have been in existence as a hostelry as early as
1208, but the arched gateway opening on the street may be of still
earlier date, having probably formed a part of some monastic building.
Tradition connects Charles I. with the inn--an English inn of such
antiquity would be poor indeed without a legend of the Wanderer--but the
claims of the Angel to royal associations go back much farther, for King
John is declared to have held his court here in 1213. Richard III. is
also alleged to have stopped here and to have signed the death warrant
of the Duke of Buckingham at the time. There is record of princely
visitors of later dates and it is easy to see that the Angel has had
rare distinction--from the English point of view. We remember it,
however, not so much for its traditions as for the fact that we are
given a private sitting-room in connection with our bed-rooms with no
apparent increase in the bill. Our good luck in this particular may have
been due to the slack business at the time of our arrival and we could
hardly expect to have our accommodations duplicated should we visit the
Angel and Royal again.