Bonfire--My wife--Matthews--Tunnel
picture--Imposture--Fancy--Moselle--Cocher--"Saturday Review"
Tracts--Gymnastics--The paddle--A spell--Overhead--Feminine
forum--Public breakfast.
As evening came on the little flag of the Rob Roy, which was always
hoisted, even in a cart, showed signs of animation, being now revived by
a fresh breeze from the beautiful Vosges mountains when we gradually
brought their outline more distinctly near.
Then we had to cross the river Thur, but that was an easy matter in
these scorching days of drought. So the cavalcade went on till, the high
road being reached, we drove the cart into the pretty town of Thann. The
driver insisted on going to _his_ hotel, but when there I saw it could
not be the best in a town of this size (experience quickens perception
in these matters), and I simply took the reins, backed out of the yard,
and drove to a better one.
Here the hotel-keeper had read of the Rob Roy, so it was received with
all the honours, and the best of his good things was at my disposal. In
the evening I burned some magnesium-wire signals to amuse the rustics,
who came in great crowds along the roads, drawing home their
bullock-carts, well loaded with large vats full of the new grapes, and
singing hoarsely as they waved aloft flowers and garlands and danced
around them,--the rude rejoicings for a bounteous vine harvest. It is
remarkable how soon the good singing of Germany is lost trace of when
you cross into France, though the language of the peasant here was
German enough.
At night we went to see an experiment in putting out fires. A large
bonfire was lighted in the market-place, and the inventor of the new
apparatus came forward, carrying on his back a vessel full of water,
under the pressure of "six atmospheres" of carbonic acid gas. He
directed this on the fire from a small squirt at the end of a tube, and
it was certainly most successful in immediately extinguishing the
flames.[XXX.] This gentleman and other _savants_ of the town then visited
the boat, and the usual entertainment of the sketch-book closed a
pleasant day, which had begun with every appearance of being the
reverse.
[XXX.] This invention, l'Extincteur, has since been exhibited in
London, and it seems to be a valuable one.
Although this is a busy place, I found only one book-shop in it, and
that a very bad one. A priest and two nuns were making purchases there,
and I noticed that more images and pictures than printed books were kept
for sale.
Next morning a new railroad enabled me to take the boat a little further
into the hills; but they fought hard to make her go separate, that is,
in a "merchandise" train, though I said the boat was "my wife," and
could not travel alone. At last they put their wise heads together,
filled up five separate printed forms, charged double fare, and the
whole thing cost me just ninepence. Verily, the French are still
overloaded with forms, and are still in the straitwaistcoat of
_système_. The railway winds among green hills, while here and there a
"fabrik," or factory, nestles in a valley, or illumines a hill-side at
night with its numerous windows all lighted up. These are the chief
depôts of that wonderful industry of taste which spreads the shawls and
scarfs of France before the eyes of an admiring world, for ladies to
covet, and for their husbands to buy. I was informed that the designs
for patterns here cost large sums, as if they were the oil paintings of
the first masters, and that three times as much is paid in France for
cutting one in wood as will be given by an English manufacturer.
At Wesserling we managed to mount the Rob Roy on a spring vehicle, and
we set off gaily up the winding road that passes the watershed of the
Vosges mountains. I never had a more charming drive. For six hours we
were among woods, vineyards, bright rivulets, and rich pastures. Walking
up a hill, we overtook a carriage, and found one of the occupants was an
Englishman. But he had resided in France for more than twenty years, and
really I could scarcely understand his English. He spoke of "dis ting,"
and "ve vill go," and frequently mingled French and German words with
his native tongue. In a newspaper article here we noticed after the name
"Matthews," the editor had considerately added, "pronounced, in English,
Massious." This is well enough for a Frenchman, but it certainly is
difficult to conceive how a man can fail in pronouncing our "th," if he
is a real live Englishman. When he found out my name, he grasped my
hand, and said how deeply interested he had been in a pamphlet written
by one of the same name.[XXXI.]
[XXXI.] The Loss of the Kent East Indiaman by Fire in the Bay of
Biscay, by General Sir D. Macgregor, K.C.B. (Religious Tract Society,
Paternoster-row.) See a further note on this in the Appendix.
The spring carriage had been chartered as an expensive luxury in this
cheap tour, that is to say, my boat and myself were to be carried about
thirty-five miles in a comfortable four-wheeled vehicle for twenty-six
francs--not very dear when you consider that it saved a whole day's time
to me and a whole day's jolting to the canoe, which seemed to enjoy its
soft bed on the top of the cushion, and to appreciate very well the
convenience of springs. After a good hard pull up a winding road we got
to the top of the pass of this "little Switzerland," as it is called,
and here was a tunnel on the very crest of the watershed.
The arch of this dark tunnel made an excellent frame to a magnificent
picture; for before me was stretched out broad France. All streams at
our back went down to the all-absorbing Rhine, but those in front would
wend their various ways, some to the Mediterranean, others into the Bay
of Biscay, and the rest into the British Channel.
A thousand peaks and wooded knolls were on this side and that, while a
dim panorama of five or six villages and sunny plains extended before
us. This was the chain of the Vosges mountains and their pleasant vales,
where many valorous men have been reared. The most noted crusaders came
from this district, and from here too the first of the two great
Napoleons drew the best soldiers of his army.[XXXII.] Most of the community
are Protestants.
[XXXII.] The giant called "Anak," who has been exhibiting in London,
is from the Vosges mountains.
High up on one side of us was a pilgrim station, where thousands of
people come year by year, and probably they get fine fresh air and
useful exercise. The French seem to walk farther for superstitious
purposes than for mere pedestrian amusement.[XXXIII.]
[XXXIII.] Among other celebrated French "stations" there is the
mountain of La Salette, near Grenoble, where, even in one day, 16,000
pilgrims have ascended to visit the spot where the Virgin Mary was said
to have spoken to some shepherds. On the occasion of my pilgrimage there
I met some donkeys with panniers bringing down holy water (in lemonade
bottles) which was sold throughout Europe for a shilling a bottle, until
a priest at the bottom of the mountain started a private pump of his
own. The woman who had been hired to personate the Holy Saint confessed
the deception, and it was exploded before the courts of law in a report
which I read on the spot; but the Roman Catholic papers, even in
England, published attractive articles to support this flagrant
imposture, and its truth and goodness were vehemently proclaimed in a
book by the Romish Bishop of Birmingham, with the assent of the Pope.
Methinks it is easier to march barefoot 100 miles over sharp stones than
to plod your honest walk of life on common pavement and with strong
soled boots.
My English friend now got into my carriage, and we drove a little way
from the road to the village of Bussang to see the source of the
Moselle.
This river rises under the "Ballon d'Alsace," a lofty mountain with a
rounded top, and the stream consists at first of four or five very tiny
trickling rivulets which unite and come forth in a little spring well
about the size of a washing-tub, from which the water flows across the
road in a channel that you can bridge with your fingers.
But this bubbling brook had great interest for me, as I meant to follow
its growth until it would be strong enough to bear me on its cool, clear
water, now only like feathers strewed among the grass, and singing its
first music very pretty and low.
We like to see the source of a great river; a romantic man must have
much piquant thought at the sight, and a poetic man must be stirred by
its sentiment. Every great thought must also have had a source or germ,
and it would be interesting to know how and when some of the grand ideas
that have afterwards aroused nations first thrilled in the brain of a
genius, a warrior, a philosopher, or a statesman. And besides having a
source, each stream of thought has a current too, with ripples and deep
pools, and scenery as it were around. Some thoughts are lofty, others
broad; some are straight, and others round about; some are rushing,
while others glide peacefully; only a few are clear and deep.
But this is not the place to launch upon fancy's dreams, or even to
describe the real, pretty valleys around us in the Vosges. We go through
these merely to find water for the Rob Roy, and in this search we keep
descending every hour.
When the bright stars came out they glittered below thick trees in pools
of the water now so quickly become a veritable river, and I scanned each
lagoon in the darkness to know if still it was too small for the boat.
We came to the town of Remiremont and to a bad sort of inn, where all
was disorder and dirt. The driver sat down with me to a late supper and
behaved with true French politeness, which always shows better in
company than in private, or when real self-denial or firm friendship is
to be tested. So he ate of his five different courses, and had his wine,
fruit, and neat little etceteras, and my bill next day for our united
entertainment and lodging was just 3_s._ 4_d._
This _cocher_ was an intelligent man, and conversed on his own range of
subjects with considerable tact, and when our conversation was turned
upon the greater things of another world he said, "They must be happy
there, for none of them have ever come back"--a strange thought, oddly
phrased. As he became interested in the subject I gave him a paper upon
it, which he at once commenced to read aloud.[XXXIV.]
[XXXIV.] Some days previously a stranger gave me a bundle of papers
to read, for which I thanked him much. Afterwards at leisure I examined
the packet, which consisted of about thirty large pages sewn together,
and comprising tracts upon politics, science, literature, and religion.
The last subject was prominent, and was dealt with in a style clever,
caustic, and censorious, which interested me much. These tracts were
printed in England and with good paper and type. They are a weekly
series, distributed everywhere at six shillings a dozen, and each page
is entitled "The Saturday Review."
Next morning, the 20th of September, the Rob Roy was brought to the door
in a handcart, and was soon attended by its usual levee.
As we had come into the town late at night the gazers were ignorant of
any claims this boat might have upon their respect, and some of them
derided the idea of its being able to float on the river here, or at any
rate to go more than a mile or two.
But having previously taken a long walk before breakfast to examine the
Moselle, I was convinced it could be begun even here and in this dry
season. The porter was therefore directed to go forward, and the boat
moved towards the river amid plaudits rather ambiguous, until a curious
old gentleman, with green spectacles and a white hat, kindly brought the
sceptical mob to their senses by telling them he had read often about
the boat, and they must not make fun of it now.
Then they all chopped round and changed their minds in a moment--the
fickle French--and they helped me with a will, and carried the Rob Roy
about a mile to the spot fixed upon for the start, which was speedily
executed, with a loud and warm "Adieu!" and "Bon voyage!" from all the
spectators.
It was pleasant again to grasp the paddle and to find pure clear water
below, which I had not seen since the Danube, and to have a steady
current alongside that was so much missed on the sluggish river Ill and
the Basel Canal.
Pretty water flowers quivered in the ripples round the mossy stones, and
park-like meadows sloped to the river with fruit trees heavy laden.
After half an hour of congratulation that we had come to the Moselle
rather than the Saone and the Doubs, I settled down to my day's work
with cheerfulness.
The water of this river was very clear and cool, meandering through long
deep pools, and then over gurgling shallows; and the fish, waterfowl,
woods, and lovely green fields were a most welcome change from the canal
we had left. The sun was intensely hot, but the spare "jib," as a shawl
on my shoulders, defied its fierce rays, and so I glided along in
solitary enjoyment. The numerous shallows required much activity with
the paddle, and my boat got more bumped and thumped to-day than in any
other seven days of the tour. Of course I had often to get out and to
tow her through the water; sometimes through the fields, or over rocks,
but this was easily done with canvas shoes on, and flannel trousers that
are made for constant ducking.
The aspect of the river was rather of a singular character for some
miles, with low banks sloping backwards, and richly carpeted with grass,
so that the view on either side was ample; while in front was a spacious
picture of successive levels, seen to great advantage as the Rob Roy
glided smoothly on crystal waters lipped with green. Again the playful
river descends by sudden leaps and deep falls, chiefly artificial, and
some trouble is caused in getting down each of these, for the boat had
to be lowered by hand, with a good deal of gymnastic exercise among the
slippery rocks; the mosses and lichens were studied in anything but
botanical order.
At this period of the voyage the paddle felt so natural in my hands from
long use of it every day, that it was held unconsciously. In the
beginning of my practice I had invented various tethers and ties to
secure this all-important piece of furniture from being lost if it
should fall overboard, and I had practised what ought to be done if the
paddle should ever be beaten out of my hand by a wave, or dropped into
the water in a moment of carelessness.
But none of these plans were satisfactory in actual service. The strings
got entangled when I jumped out suddenly, or I forgot the thing was tied
when it had to be thrown out on the shore, so it was better to have the
paddle perfectly loose; and thus free, it never was dropped or lost hold
of even in those times of difficulty or confusion which made twenty
things to be done, and each to be done first, when an upset was
imminent, and a jump out had to be managed instead.[XXXV.]
[XXXV.] The bamboo mast was meant originally to serve also as a
boat-hook or hitcher, and had a ferrule and a fishing gaff neatly
fastened on the end, which fitted also into the mast step. I recollect
having used the boat-hook once at Gravesend, but it was instantly seen
to be a mistake. You don't want a boat-hook when your canoe can come
close alongside where it is deep, and will ground when it is shallow.
Besides, to use a boat-hook you must drop the paddle.
The movement of the paddle, then, got to be almost involuntary, just as
the legs are moved in walking, and the ordinary difficulties of a river
seemed to be understood by the mind without special observation, and to
be dealt with naturally, without hesitation or reasoning as to what
ought to be done. This faculty increased until long gazes upwards to
the higher grounds or to the clouds were fully indulged without
apparently interrupting the steady and proper navigation of the boat,
even when it was moving with speed. On one of these occasions I had got
into a train of thought on this subject, and was regretting that the
course of the stream made me turn my back on the best scenery. I had
spun round two or three times to feast my eyes once more and again upon
some glowing peaks, lit up by the setting sun, until a sort of
fascination seized the mind, and a quiet lethargy crept over the system;
and, moreover, a most illogical persuasion then settled that the boat
always _did_ go right, and that one need not be so much on the alert to
steer well. This still held me as we came into a cluster of about a
dozen rocks all dotted about, and with the stream welling over this one
and rushing over that, and yet I was spellbound and doggedly did nothing
to guide the boat's course.
But the water was avenged on this foolish defiance of its power, for in
a moment I was driven straight on a great rock, only two inches below
the surface, and the boat at once swung round, broadside on to the
current, and then slowly but determinedly began to turn over. As it
canted more and more my lax muscles were rudely aroused to action, for
the plain fact stared out baldly that I was about to get a regular
ducking, and all from a stupid, lazy fit.
The worst of it was I was not sitting erect, but stretched almost at
full length in the boat, and one leg was entangled inside by the strap
of my bag. In the moments following (that seem minutes in such a case) a
gush of thoughts went through the mind while the poor little boat was
still turning over, until at last I gave a spring from my awkward
position to jump into the water.
The jerk released the canoe from the rock, but only the head and arms of
its captain fell into the river--though in a most undignified _pose_,
which was soon laughed off, when my seat was recovered, with a wet head
and dripping sleeves!
However, this little _faux pas_ quite wakened and sobered me, and I
looked in half shame to the bank to see if any person had witnessed the
absurd performance. And it was well to have done with sentiment and
reveries, for the river had now got quite in earnest about going along.
Permit me again to invite attention to the washerwomen on the river; for
this institution, which one does not find thus floating on our streams
in England, becomes a very frequent object of interest if you canoe it
on the Continent.
[Illustration: "Washing Barge."]
As the well in Eastern countries is the recognised place for gossiping,
and in colder climes a good deal of politics is settled in the barber's
shop, so here in fluvial districts the washing barge is the forum of
feminine eloquence.
The respectability of a town as you approach it is shadowed forth by the
size and ornaments of the _blanchisseuses'_ float; and as there are
often fifty faces seen at once, the type of female loveliness may be
studied for a district at a time. While they wash they talk, and while
they talk they thump and belabour the clothes; but there is always some
idle eye wandering which speedily will catch sight of the Rob Roy canoe.
In smaller villages, and where there is no barge for them to use, the
women have to do without one, and kneel on the ground, so that even in
far-off parts of the river we shall find them there.
A flat sounding whack! whack! tells me that round the corner we shall
come upon at least a couple of washerwomen, homely dames, with brown
faces and tall caps, who are wringing, slapping, and scrubbing the
"linge." Though this may encourage the French cotton trade, I rejoice
that my own shirts are of strong woollen stuff, which defies their
buffeting.
I always fraternized with these ladies, doffing my hat, and drawing back
my left foot for a bow (though the graceful action is not observed under
the macintosh). Other travellers, also, may find there is something to
be seen and heard if they pass five minutes at the washing-barge. But
even if it were not instructive and amusing thus to study character when
a whole group is met with at once, surely it is to be remembered that
the pleasure of seeing a new sight and of hearing a foreigner speak
cheerful and kind words, is to many of these hard-working, honest
mothers a bright interlude in a life of toil. To give pleasure is one of
the best pleasures of a tourist; and it is in acting thus, too, that
the lone traveller feels no loneliness, while he pleases and is pleased.
Two Englishmen may travel together agreeably among foreigners for a week
without learning so much of the life, and mind, and manners of the
people as would be learned in one day if each of the tourists went
alone, provided he was not too shy or too proud to open his eyes, and
ears, and mouth among strangers, and had sense enough to be an exception
to the rule that "Every Englishman is an island."
Merely for a change, I ran the Rob Roy into a long millrace in search of
breakfast. This stream having secured hold of the boat stealthily ran
away with us in a winding course among the hayfields, and quite out of
reach of the river, until it seemed that after all we were only in a
streamlet for irrigation, which would vanish into rills an inch deep in
a water meadow. However, I put a bold face on it, and gravely and
swiftly sped through the fields, and bestowed a nod now and then on the
rural gazers. A fine boy of twelve years old soon trotted alongside, and
I asked him if he was an honest lad, which he answered by a blush, and
"Yes." "Here is a franc, then. Go and buy me bread and wine, and meet me
at the mill." A few of the "hands" soon found out the canoe, moored, as
it was thought, in quiet retirement, with its captain resting under a
tree, and presently a whole crowd of them swarmed out, and shouted with
delight as they pressed round to see.
The boy brought a very large bottle of wine, and a loaf big enough to
dine four men; and I set to work with an oarsman's appetite, and that
happy _sang froid_ which no multitude of gazers now could disturb.
However, one of the party invited me into her house, and soon set
delicate viands before the new guest, while the others filled the room
in an instant, and were replaced by sets of fifty at a time, all very
good-humoured and respectful.
But it was so hot and bustling here that I resolved to go away and have
a more pleasant and sulky meal by myself on some inaccessible island.
The retreat through the crowd had to be regularly prepared for by
military tactics; so I appointed four of the most troublesome boys as
"policemen" to guard the boat in its transit across the fields, but they
discharged their new duties with such vigour that two little fellows
were soon knocked over into the canoe, and so we launched off, while the
Manager of the factory called in vain to his cottonspinners, who were
all now in full cry after the boat, and were making holiday without
leave.