Quit England.--Approach to France.--Havre.--Our Reception there.--Female
Commissionnaire.--Clamour of Drums.--Port of Havre.--Projected
Enterprize.--American Enterprize.--Steam-boat
Excursion.--Honfleur.--Rouen.--French Exaction.--American
Porters.--Rouen Cathedral.--Our Cicerone.--A Diligence.--Picturesque
Road.--European Peasantry.--Aspect of the Country.--Church at
Louviers.--Village near Vernon.--Rosny.--Mantes.--Bourbon Magnificence.
--Approach to Paris--Enter Paris.
To R. COOPER, ESQ., COOPERSTOWN.
On quitting England, we embarked from the very strand where Henry V.
embarked for the fruitless field of Agincourt. A fearful rumour had gone
abroad that the Camilla (the steam-boat) had been shorn of a wing, and
there were many rueful faces in the boat that took us off to the vessel.
In plainer speech, one of the boilers was out of order, and the passage
was to be made with just half the usual propelling power. At that
season, or indeed at any season, the only probable consequence was loss
of time. With a strong head-wind, it is true, the Camilla might have
been compelled to return; but this might also have happened with the use
of both the boilers.
Our adventurers did not see things in this light. The division of
employments, which produces prices so cheap and good, makes bad
travellers. Our boat's cargo embarked with fear and trembling, and "She
has but one boiler!" passed from mouth to mouth amid ominous faces. A
bachelor-looking personage, of about fifty, with his person well
swaddled in July, declared in a loud voice, that we were "all going on
board to be drowned." This startled A----, who, having full faith in my
nautical experience, asked what we were to think of it? It was a mere
question between ten hours and fifteen, and so I told her. The females,
who had just before been trembling with alarm, brightened at this, and
two or three of them civilly thanked me for the information they had
thus obtained incidentally!--"Boat, sir! boat!" "Thank 'ee, sir; thank
'ee, sir."
We found two or three parties on board of a higher condition than
common. Apprehension cast a shade over the cold marble-like polish of
even the English aristocrat; for if, as Mrs. Opie has well observed,
there is nothing "so like a lord in a passion as a commoner in a
passion," "your fear" is also a sad leveller. The boat was soon under
way, and gradually our cargo of mental apprehensions settled into the
usual dolorous physical suffering of landsmen in rough water. So much
for excessive civilization. The want of a boiler under similar
circumstances, would have excited no feeling whatever among a similar
number of Americans, nineteen in twenty of whom, thanks to their
rough-and-tumble habits, would know exactly what to think of it.
I was seated, during a part of the day, near a group of young men, who
were conversing with a lady of some three or four and twenty. They
expressed their surprise at meeting her on board. She told them it was a
sudden whim; that no one knew of her movements; she meant only to be gone
a fortnight, to take a run into Normandy. In the course of the
conversation I learned that she was single, and had a maid and a footman
with her. In this guise she might go where she pleased; whereas, had she
taken "an escort" in the American fashion, her character would have
suffered. This usage, however, is English rather than European. Single
women on the Continent, except in extraordinary cases, are obliged to
maintain far greater reserve even than with us; and there, single or
married, they cannot travel under the protection of any man who is not
very nearly connected with them, domestics and dependants excepted.
The debates about proceeding at all had detained us so long, and the
"one boiler" proved to be so powerless, that night set in, and we had
not yet made the coast of France. The breeze had been fresh, but it
lulled towards sunset, though not before we began to feel the influence
of the tides. About midnight, however, I heard some one exclaim, "Land!"
and we all hastened on deck, to take a first look at France.
The boat was running along beneath some cliffs. The moon was shining
bright, and her rays lighted up the chalky sides of the high coast,
giving them a ghostly hue. The towers of two lighthouses also glittered
on a headland near by. Presently a long sea-wall became visible, and,
rounding its end, we shot into smooth water. We entered the little port
of Havre between artificial works, on one of which stands a low,
massive, circular tower, that tradition attributes to no less a
personage than Julius Caesar.
What a change in so short a time! On the other side of the Channel,
beyond the usual demands for employment, which were made in a modest
way, and the eternal "Thank'ee, sir," there was a quiet in the people
that was not entirely free from a suspicion of surliness. Here every man
seemed to have two voices, both of which he used as if with no other
desire than to hear himself speak. Notwithstanding the hour, which was
past midnight, the quay was well lined, and a dozen officials poured on
board the boat to prevent our landing. Custom-house officers, gendarmes,
with enormous hats, and female commissionaires, were counteracting each
other at every turn. At length we were permitted to land, being ordered
up to a building near by. Here the females were taken into a separate
room, where their persons were examined by functionaries of their own
sex for contraband goods! This process has been described to me as being
to the last degree offensive and humiliating. My own person was
respected, I know not, why, for we were herded like sheep. As we were
without spot, at least so far as smuggling was concerned, we were soon
liberated. All our effects were left in the office, and we were turned
into the streets without even a rag but what we had on. This was an
inauspicious commencement for a country so polished; and yet, when one
comes to look at the causes, it is not easy to point out an alternative.
It was our own fault that we came so late.
The streets were empty, and the tall grey houses, narrow avenues, and
the unaccustomed objects, presented a strange spectacle by the placid
light of the moon. It appeared as if we had alighted in a different
planet. Though fatigued and sleepy, the whole party would involuntarily
stop to admire some novelty, and our march was straggling and irregular.
One house refused us after another, and it soon became seriously a
question whether the night was not to be passed in the open air. P----
was less than three years old, and as we had a regular gradation from
that age upward, our _début_ in France promised to be anything but
agreeable. The guide said his resources were exhausted, and hinted at
the impossibility of getting in. Nothing but the inns was open, and at
all these we were refused. At length I remembered that, in poring over
an English guide-book, purchased in New York, a certain Hôtel
d'Angleterre had been recommended as the best house in Havre.
"Savez-vous, mon ami, où est l'Hôtel d'Angleterre?"--"Ma fois, oui;
c'est tout près." This "ma fois, oui," was ominous, and the "c'est tout,
près," was more so still. Thither we went, however, and we were
received. Then commenced the process of climbing. We ascended several
stories, by a narrow crooked staircase, and were shown into rooms on the
fifth floor.
The floors were of waxed tiles, without carpets or mats, and the
furniture was tawdry. We got into our beds, which fatigue could scarcely
render it possible to endure, on account of the bugs. A more infernal
night I never passed, and I have often thought since, how hazardous it
is to trust to first impressions. This night, and one or two more passed
at Havre, and one other passed between Rouen and Paris, were among the
most uncomfortable I can remember; and yet if I were to name a country
in which one would be the most certain to get a good and a clean bed, I
think I should name France!
The next morning I arose and went down the ladder, for it was little
better, to the lower world. The servant wished to know if we intended to
use the _table d'hôte_, which he pronounced excellent. Curiosity induced
me to look at the appliances. It was a dark, dirty and crowded room, and
yet not without certain savoury smells. French cookery can even get the
better of French dirt. It was the only place about the house, the kitchen
excepted, where a tolerable smell was to be found, and I mounted to the
upper regions in self-defence.
An hour or two afterwards, the consul did me the favour to call. I
apologized for the necessity of causing him to clamber up so high. "It
is not a misfortune here," was the answer, "for the higher one is, the
purer is the atmosphere;" and he was right enough. It was not necessary
to explain that we were in an inferior house, and certainly everything
was extremely novel. At breakfast, however, there was a sensible
improvement. The linen was white as snow; we were served with silver
forks--it was a breakfast _à la fourchette_--spotlessly clean napkins,
excellent rolls, and delicious butter, to say nothing of _côtelettes_
that appeared to have been cooked by magic. Your aunt and myself looked
at each other with ludicrous satisfaction when we came to taste coffee,
which happened to be precisely at the same instant. It was the first
time either of us had ever tasted French coffee--it would scarcely be
exaggeration to say, that either of us had ever tasted coffee at all. I
have had many French cooks since; have lived years in the capital of
France itself, but I could never yet obtain a servant who understood the
secret of making _café au lait_, as it is made in most of the inns and
_cafés_ of that country. The discrepancy between the excellence of the
table and the abominations of the place struck them all, so forcibly,
that the rest of the party did little else but talk about it. As for
myself, I wished to do nothing but eat.
I had now another specimen of national manners. It was necessary to get
our luggage through the custom-house. The consul recommended a
_commissionnaire_ to help me. "You are not to be surprised," he said,
laughing, as he went away, "if I send you one in petticoats." In a few
minutes, sure enough, one of the _beau sexe_ presented herself. Her name
was Désirée, and an abler negotiator was never employed. She scolded,
coaxed, advised, wrangled, and uniformly triumphed. The officers were
more civil, by daylight, than we had found them under the influence of
the moon, and our business was soon effected.
W---- had brought with him a spy-glass. It was old and of little value,
but it was an heir-loom of the family. It came from the Hall at C----n,
and had become historical for its service in detecting deer, in the
lake, during the early years of the settlement. This glass had
disappeared. No inquiry could recover it. "Send for Désirée," said the
consul. Désirée came, received her orders, and in half an hour the glass
was restored. There was an oversight in not getting a passport, when we
were about to quit Havre. The office hours were over, and the steam-boat
could not wait. "Were is Désirée?" Désirée was made acquainted with the
difficulty, and the passport was obtained. "Désirée, où est Désirée?"
cried some one in the crowd, that had assembled to see the Camilla start
for England, the day after our arrival. "Here is an Englishman who is
too late to get his passport _viséd_," said this person to Désirée, so
near me that I heard it all; "the boat goes in ten minutes--what is to
be done?"--"_Ma foi_--it is too late!" "Try, _ma bonne_--it's a pity he
should lose his passage--_voici_." The Englishman gave his fee. Désirée
looked about her, and then taking the idler by the arm, she hurried him
through the crowd, this way and that way, ending by putting him aboard
without any passport at all. "It is too late to get one," she said; "and
they can but send you back." He passed undetected. France has a plenty
of these managing females, though Désirée is one of the cleverest of
them all. I understood this woman had passed a year or two in England,
expressly to fit herself for her present occupation, by learning the
language.
While engaged in taking our passages on board the steam-boat for Rouen,
some one called me by name, in English. The sound of the most familiar
words, in one's own language, soon get to be startling in a foreign
country. I remember, on returning to England, after an absence of five
years, that it was more than a week before I could persuade myself I was
not addressed whenever a passer-by spoke suddenly. On the present
occasion, I was called to by an old schoolboy acquaintance, Mr. H----r,
who was a consul in England, but who had taken a house on what is called
the _Côte_, a hill-side, just above Ingouville, a village at no great
distance from the town. We went out to his pretty little cottage, which
enjoyed a charming view. Indeed I should particularize this spot as the
one which gave me the first idea of one species of distinctive European
scenery. The houses cling to the declivity, rising above each other in a
way that might literally enable one to toss a stone into his neighbour's
chimney-top. They are of stone, but being whitewashed, and very
numerous, they give the whole mountain-side the appearance of a pretty
hamlet, scattered without order in the midst of gardens. Italy abounds
with such little scenes; nor are they unfrequent in France, especially
in the vicinity of towns; though whitened edifices are far from being
the prevailing taste of that country.
That evening we had an infernal clamour of drums in the principal street,
which happened to be our own. There might have been fifty, unaccompanied
by any wind instrument. The French do not use the fife, and when one is
treated to the drum, it is generally in large potions, and nothing but
drum. This is a relic of barbarism, and is quite unworthy of a musical
age. There is more or less of it in all the garrisoned towns of Europe.
You may imagine the satisfaction with which one listens to a hundred or
two of these plaintive instruments, beat between houses six or eight
stories high, in a narrow street, and with desperate perseverance! The
object is to recall the troops to their quarters.
Havre is a tide-harbour. In America, where there is, on an average, not
more than five feet of rise and fall to the water of the sea, such a
haven would, of course, be impracticable for large vessels. But the
majority of the ports on the British Channel are of this character, and
indeed a large portion of the harbours of Great Britain. Calais,
Boulogne, Havre, and Dieppe, are all inaccessible at low water. The
cliffs are broken by a large ravine, a creek makes up the gorge, or a
small stream flows outward into the sea, a basin is excavated, the
entrance is rendered safe by moles which project into deep water, and
the town is crowded around this semi-artificial port as well as
circumstances will allow. Such is, more or less, the history of them
all. Havre, however, is in some measure an exception. It stands on a
plain, that I should think had once been a marsh. The cliffs are near
it, seaward, and towards the interior there are fine receding hills,
leaving a sufficient site, notwithstanding, for a town of large
dimensions.
The port of Havre has been much improved of late years. Large basins have
been excavated, and formed into regular wet docks. They are nearly in the
centre of the town. The mole stretches out several hundred yards on that
side of the entrance of the port which is next the sea. Here signals are
regularly made to acquaint vessels in the offing with the precise number
of feet that can be brought into the port. These signals are changed at
the rise or fall of every foot, according to a graduated scale which is
near the signal pole. At dead low water the entrance to the harbour, and
the outer harbour itself, are merely beds of soft mud. Machines are kept
constantly at work to deepen them.
The ship from sea makes the lights, and judges of the state of the tide
by the signals. She rounds the Mole-Head at the distance of fifty or
sixty yards, and sails along a passage too narrow to admit another
vessel, at the same moment, into the harbour. Here she finds from
eighteen to twenty, or even twenty-four feet of water, according to
circumstances. She is hauled up to the gates of a dock, which are opened
at high water only. As the water falls, one gate is shut, and the
entrance to the dock becomes a lock: vessels can enter, therefore, as
long as there remains sufficient water in the outer harbour for a ship
to float. If caught outside, however, she must lie in the mud until the
ensuing tide.
Havre is the sea-port of Paris, and is rapidly increasing in importance.
There is a project for connecting the latter with the sea by a ship
channel. Such a project is hardly suited to the French impulses, which
imagine a thousand grand projects, but hardly ever convert any of them
to much practical good. The opinions of the people are formed on habits
of great saving, and it requires older calculations, greater familiarity
with risks, and more liberal notions of industry, and, possibly, more
capital than is commonly found in their enterprises, to induce the
people to encounter the extra charges of these improvements, when they
can have recourse to what, in their eyes, are simpler and safer means of
making money. The government employs men of science, who conceive well;
but their conceptions are but indifferently sustained by the average
practical intellect of the country. In this particular France is the
very converse of America.
The project of making a sea-port of Paris, is founded on a principle
that is radically wrong. It is easier to build a house on the sea-side,
than to carry the sea into the interior. But the political economy of
France, like that of nearly all the continental nations, is based on a
false principle, that of forcing improvements. The intellects of the
mass should first be acted on, and when the public mind is sufficiently
improved to benefit by innovations, the public sentiment might be
trusted to decide the questions of locality and usefulness. The French
system looks to a concentration of everything in Paris. The political
organization of the country favours such a scheme, and in a project of
this sort, the interests of all the northern and western departments
would be sacrificed to the interests of Paris. As for the departments
east and south of Paris, they would in no degree be benefited by making
a port of Paris, as goods would still have to be transshipped to reach
them. A system of canals and railroads is much wanted in France, and
most of all, a system of general instruction, to prepare the minds of
the operatives to profit by such advantages. When I say that we are
behind our facts in America, I do not mean in a physical, but in a moral
sense. All that is visible and tangible is led by opinion; in all that
is purely moral, the facts precede the notions of the people.
I found, at a later day, many droll theories broached in France, more
especially in the Chamber of Deputies, on the subject of our own great
success in the useful enterprises. As is usual, in such cases, any
reason but the true one was given. At the period of our arrival in
Europe, the plan of connecting the great lakes with the Atlantic had
just been completed, and the vast results were beginning to attract
attention in Europe. At first, it was thought, as a matter of course,
that engineers from the old world had been employed. This was disproved,
and it was shown that they who laid out the work, however skilful they
may have since become by practice, were at first little more than common
American surveyors. Then the trifling cost was a stumbling-block, for
labour was known to be far better paid in America than in Europe; and
lastly, the results created astonishment. Several deputies affirmed that
the cause of the great success was owing to the fact, that in America we
trusted such things to private competition, whereas, in France, the
government meddled with everything. But it was the state governments,
(which indeed alone possess the necessary means and authority,) that had
caused most of the American canals to be constructed. These political
economists knew too little of other systems to apply a clever saying of
their own--_Il y a de la Rochefoucald, et de la Rouchefoucald_. All
governments do not wither what they touch.
Some Americans have introduced steam-boats on the rivers of France, and
on the lakes of Switzerland and Italy. We embarked in one, after passing
two delectable nights at the Hôtel d'Angleterre. The boat was a
frail-looking thing, and so loaded with passengers, that it appeared
actually to stagger under its freight. The Seine has a wide mouth, and a
long ground-swell was setting in from the Channel. Our Parisian
cockneys, of whom there were several on board, stood aghast. "Nous voici
en pleine mer!" one muttered to the other, and the annals of that
eventful voyage are still related, I make no question, to admiring
auditors in the interior of France. The French make excellent seamen
when properly trained; but I think, on the whole, they are more
thoroughly landsmen than any people of my acquaintance, who possess a
coast. There has been too much sympathy with the army to permit the
mariners to receive a proper share of the public favour.
The boat shaped her course diagonally across the broad current, directly
for Honfleur. Here we first began to get an idea of the true points of
difference between our own scenery and that of the continent of Europe,
and chiefly of that of France. The general characteristics of England
are not essentially different from those of America, after allowing for
a much higher finish in the former, substituting hedges for fences, and
stripping the earth of its forests. These, you may think, are, in
themselves, grand points of difference, but they fall far short of those
which render the continent of Europe altogether of a different nature.
Of forest, there is vastly more in France than in England. But, with few
exceptions, the fields are not separated by enclosures. The houses are
of stone, or of wood, rough-cast. Honfleur, as we approached, had a grey
distinctness that is difficult to describe. The atmosphere seemed
visible, around the angles of the buildings, as in certain Flemish
pictures, bringing out the fine old sombre piles from the depth of the
view, in a way to leave little concealed, while nothing was meretricious
or gaudy. At first, though we found these hues imposing, and even
beautiful, we thought the view would have been gayer and more agreeable,
had the tints been livelier; but a little use taught us that our tastes
had been corrupted. On our return home every structure appeared flaring
and tawdry. Even those of stone had a recent and mushroom air, besides
being in colours equally ill suited to architecture or a landscape. The
only thing of the sort in America which appeared venerable and of a
suitable hue, after an absence of eight years, was our own family abode,
and this, the despoiler, paint, had not defiled for near forty years.
We discharged part of our cargo at Honfleur, but the boat was still
greatly crowded. Fatigue and ill health rendered standing painful to
A----, and all the benches were crowded. She approached a young girl of
about eighteen, who occupied _three chairs_. On one she was seated; on
another she had her feet; and the third held her _reticule_. Apologizing
for the liberty, A---- asked leave to put the _reticule_ on the second
chair, and to take the third for her own use. This request was refused!
The selfishness created by sophistication and a factitious state of
things renders such acts quite frequent, for it is more my wish to offer
you distinctive traits of character than exceptions. This case of
selfishness might have been a little stronger than usual, it is true,
but similar acts are of daily occurrence, _out of society_, in France.
_In society_, the utmost respect to the wants and feelings of others is
paid, vastly more than with us; while, with us, it is scarcely too
strong to say that such an instance of unfeeling selfishness could
scarcely have occurred at all. We may have occasion to inquire into the
causes of this difference in national manners hereafter.
The Seine narrows at Quilleboeuf, about thirty miles from Havre, to the
width of an ordinary European tide river. On a high bluff we passed a
ruin, called _Tancarville_, which was formerly a castle of the De
Montmorencies. This place was the cradle of one of William's barons; and
an English descendant, I believe, has been ennobled by the title of Earl
of Tankerville.
Above Quilleboeuf the river becomes exceedingly pretty. It is crooked, a
charm in itself, has many willowy islands, and here and there a grey
venerable town is seated in the opening of the high hills which contract
the view, with crumbling towers, and walls that did good service in the
times of the old English and French wars. There were fewer seats than
might have been expected, though we passed three or four. One near the
waterside, of some size, was in the ancient French style, with avenues
cut in formal lines, mutilated statues, precise and treeless terraces,
and other elaborated monstrosities. These places are not entirely
without a pretension to magnificence; but, considered in reference to
what is desirable in landscape gardening, they are the very _laid idéal_
of deformity. After winding our way for eight or ten hours amid such
scenes, the towers of Rouen came in view. They had a dark ebony-coloured
look, which did great violence to our Manhattanese notions, but which
harmonized gloriously with a bluish sky, the grey walls beneath, and a
background of hanging fields.
Rouen is a sea-port; vessels of two hundred, or two hundred and fifty
tons burden, lying at its quays. Here is also a custom-house, and our
baggage was again opened for examination. This was done amid a great
deal of noise and confusion, and yet so cursorily as to be of no real
service. At Havre, landing as we did in the night, and committing all to
Désirée the next day, I escaped collision with subordinates. But, not
having a servant, I was now compelled to look after our effects in
person. W---- protested that we had fallen among barbarians; what
between brawls, contests for the trunks, cries, oaths, and snatching,
the scene was equally provoking and comic.
Without schooling, without training of any sort, little checked by
morals, pressed upon by society, with nearly every necessary of life
highly taxed, and yet entirely loosened from the deference of feudal
manners, the Frenchmen of this class have, in general, become what they
who wish to ride upon their fellow mortals love to represent them as
being, truculent, violent, greedy of gain, and but too much disposed to
exaction. There is great _bonhomie_ and many touches of chivalry in the
national character; but it is asking too much to suppose that men who
are placed in the situation I have named, should not exhibit some of the
most unpleasant traits of human infirmity. Our trunks were put into a
handbarrow, and wheeled by two men a few hundred yards, the whole
occupying half an hour of time. For this service ten francs were
demanded. I offered five, or double what would have been required by a
drayman in New York, a place where labour is proverbially dear. This was
disdainfully refused, and I was threatened with the law. Of the latter I
knew nothing; but, determined not to be bullied into what I felt
persuaded was an imposition, I threw down the five francs and walked
away. These fellows kept prowling about the hotel the whole day,
alternately wheedling and menacing, without success. Towards night one
of them appeared, and returned the five francs, saying, that he gave me
his services for nothing. I thanked him, and put the money in my pocket.
This fit of dignity lasted about five minutes, when, as _finale_, I
received a proposal to pay the money again, and bring the matter to a
close, which was done accordingly.
An Englishman of the same class would have done his work in silence,
with a respect approaching to servility, and with a system that any
little _contretems_ would derange. He would ask enough, take his money
with a "thank 'ee, sir," and go off looking as surly as if he were
dissatisfied. An American would do his work silently, but independently
as to manner--but a fact will best illustrate the conduct of the
American. The day after we landed at New-York, I returned to the ship
for the light articles. They made a troublesome load, and filled a
horse-cart. "What do you think I _ought_ to get for carrying this load,
'sqire?" asked the cartman, as he looked at the baskets, umbrellas,
band-boxes, valises, secretaries, trunks, etc. etc.; "it is quite two
miles to Carroll Place." "It is, indeed; what is your fare?" "Only
thirty-seven and a half cents;" (about two francs;) "and it is justly
worth seventy-five, there is so much trumpery." "I will give you a
dollar." "No more need be said, sir; you shall have everything safe." I
was so much struck with this straight-forward manner of proceeding, after
all I had undergone in Europe, that I made a note of it the same day.
The Hôtel de l'Europe, at Rouen, was not a first-rate inn, for France,
but it effectually removed the disagreeable impression left by the Hôtel
d'Angleterre, at Havre. We were well lodged, well fed, and otherwise
well treated. After ordering dinner, all of a suitable age hurried off
to the cathedral.
Rouen is an old, and by no means a well-built town. Some improvements
along the river are on a large scale, and promise well; but the heart of
the city is composed principally of houses of wooden frames, with the
interstices filled in with cement. Work of this kind is very common in
all the northern provincial towns of France. It gives a place a
singular, and not altogether an unpicturesque air; the short dark studs
that time has imbrowned, forming a sort of visible ribs to the houses.
When we reached the little square in front of the cathedral, verily
Henry the Seventh's chapel sunk into insignificance. I can only compare
the effect of the chiselling on the quaint Gothic of this edifice, to
that of an enormous skreen of dark lace, thrown into the form of a
church. This was the first building of the kind that my companions had
ever seen; and they had, insomuch, the advantage over me, as I had, in a
degree, taken off the edge of wonder by the visit already mentioned to
Westminster. The first look at this pile was one of inextricable
details. It was not difficult to distinguish the vast and magnificent
doors, and the beautiful oriel windows, buried as they were in ornament;
but an examination was absolutely necessary to trace the little towers,
pinnacles, and the crowds of pointed arches, amid such a scene of
architectural confusion. "It is worth crossing the Atlantic, were it
only to see this!" was the common feeling among us.
It was some time before we discovered that divers dwellings had actually
been built between the buttresses of the church, for their comparative
diminutiveness, quaint style, and close incorporation with the pile,
caused us to think them, at first, a part of the edifice itself. This
desecration of the Gothic is of very frequent occurrence on the
continent of Europe, taking its rise in the straitened limits of
fortified towns, the cupidity of churchmen, and the general indifference
to knowledge, and, consequently, to taste, which depressed the ages that
immediately followed the construction of most of these cathedrals.
We were less struck by the interior, than by the exterior of this
building. It is vast, has some fine windows, and is purely Gothic; but
after the richness of the external details, the aisles and the choir
appeared rather plain. It possessed, however, in some of its monuments,
subjects of great interest to those who had never stood over a grave of
more than two centuries, and rarely even over one of half that age. Among
other objects of this nature, is the heart of Coeur de Lion, for the
church was commenced in the reign of one of his predecessors; Normandy at
that time belonging to the English kings, and claiming to be the
depository of the "lion heart."
Rouen has many more memorials of the past. We visited the square in
which Joan of Arc was burned; a small irregular area in front of her
prison; the prison itself, and the hall in which she had been condemned.
All these edifices are Gothic, quaint, and some of them sufficiently
dilapidated.
I had forgotten to relate, in its place, a fact, as an offset to the
truculent garrulity of the porters. We were shown round the cathedral by
a respectable-looking old man in a red scarf, a cocked hat, and a
livery, one of the officers of the place. He was respectful, modest, and
well instructed in his tale. The tone of this good old cicerone was so
much superior to anything I had seen in England--in America such a
functionary is nearly unknown--that, under the influence of our national
manners, I had awkward doubts as to the propriety of offering him money.
At length the five francs rescued from the cupidity of the
half-civilized peasants of _la basse Normandie_ were put into his hand.
A look of indecision caused me to repent the indiscretion. I thought his
feelings had been wounded. "Est-ce que monsieur compte me présenter tout
ceci?" I told him I hoped he would do me the favour to accept it. I had
only given _more_ than was usual, and the honesty of the worthy cicerone
hesitated about taking it. To know when to pay, and what to pay, is a
useful attainment of the experienced traveller.
Paris lay before us, and, although Rouen is a venerable and historical
town, we were impatient to reach the French capital. A carriage was
procured, and, on the afternoon of the second day, we proceeded.
After quitting Rouen the road runs, for several miles, at the foot of
high hills, and immediately on the banks of the Seine. At length we were
compelled to climb the mountain which terminates near the city, and
offers one of the noblest views in France, from a point called St.
Catherine's Hill. We did not obtain so fine a prospect from the road,
but the view far surpassed anything we had yet seen in Europe. Putting
my head out of the window, when about half way up the ascent, I saw an
object booming down upon us, at the rate of six or eight miles the hour,
that resembled in magnitude at least a moving house. It was a diligence,
and being the first we had met, it caused a general sensation in our
party. Our heads were in each other's way, and finding it impossible to
get a good view in any other manner, we fairly alighted in the highway,
old and young, to look at the monster unincumbered. Our admiration and
eagerness caused as much amusement to the travellers it held, as their
extraordinary equipage gave rise to among us; and two merrier parties
did not encounter each other on the public road that day.
A proper diligence is formed of a chariot-body, and two coach-bodies
placed one before the other, the first in front. These are all on a
large scale, and the wheels and train are in proportion. On the roof
(the three bodies are closely united) is a cabriolet, or covered seat,
and baggage is frequently piled there, many feet in height. A large
leathern apron covers the latter. An ordinary load of hay, though wider,
is scarcely of more bulk than one of these vehicles, which sometimes
carries twenty-five or thirty passengers, and two or three tons of
luggage. The usual team is composed of five horses, two of which go on
the pole, and three on the lead, the latter turning their heads
outwards, as W---- remarked, so as to resemble a spread eagle.
Notwithstanding the weight, these carriages usually go down a hill
faster than when travelling on the plain. A bar of wood is brought, by
means of a winch that is controlled by a person called the _conducteur_,
one who has charge of both ship and cargo, to bear on the hind wheels,
with a greater or less force, according to circumstances, so that all
the pressure is taken off the wheel horses. A similar invention has
latterly been applied to railroad cars. I have since gone over this
very road with ten horses, two on the wheel, and eight in two lines on
the lead. On that occasion, we came down this very hill, at the rate of
nine miles the hour.
After amusing ourselves with the spectacle of the diligence, we found the
scenery too beautiful to re-enter the carriage immediately, and we walked
to the top of the mountain. The view from the summit was truly admirable.
The Seine comes winding its way through a broad rich valley, from the
southward, having just before run east, and, a league or two beyond due
west, our own Susquehanna being less crooked. The stream was not broad,
but its numerous isles, willowy banks, and verdant meadows, formed a line
for the eye to follow. Rouen in the distance, with its ebony towers,
fantastic roofs, and straggling suburbs, lines its shores, at a curvature
where the stream swept away west again, bearing craft of the sea on its
bosom. These dark old towers have a sombre, mysterious air, which
harmonizes admirably with the recollections that crowd the mind at such a
moment! Scarce an isolated dwelling was to be seen, but the dense
population is compressed into villages and _bourgs_, that dot the view,
looking brown and teeming, like the nests of wasps. Some of these places
have still remains of walls, and most of them are so compact and well
defined that they appear more like vast castles than like the villages of
England or America. All are grey, sombre, and without glare, rising from
the background of pale verdure, so many appropriate _bas reliefs_.
The road was strewed with peasants of both sexes, wending their way
homeward, from the market of Rouen. One, a tawny woman, with no other
protection for her head than a high but perfectly clean cap, was going
past us, driving an ass, with the panniers loaded with manure. We were
about six miles from the town, and the poor beast, after staggering some
eight or ten miles to the market in the morning, was staggering back
with this heavy freight, at even. I asked the woman, who, under the
circumstances, could not be a resident of one of the neighbouring
villages, the name of a considerable _bourg_ that lay about a gun-shot
distant, in plain view, on the other side of the river. "Monsieur, je ne
saurais pas vous dire, parce que, voyez-vous, je ne suis pas de ce
pays-là," was the answer!
Knowledge is the parent of knowledge. He who possesses most of the
information of his age will not quietly submit to neglect its current
acquisitions, but will go on improving as long as means and
opportunities offer; while he who finds himself ignorant of most things,
is only too apt to shrink from a labour which becomes Herculean. In this
manner ambition is stifled, the mind gets to be inactive, and finally
sinks into unresisting apathy. Such is the case with a large portion of
the European peasantry. The multitude of objects that surround them
becomes a reason of indifference; and they pass, from day to day, for a
whole life, in full view of a town, without sufficient curiosity in its
history to inquire its name, or, if told by accident, sufficient
interest to remember it. We see this principle exemplified daily in
cities. One seldom thinks of asking the name of a passer-by, though he
may be seen constantly; whereas, in the country, such objects being
comparatively rare, the stranger is not often permitted to appear
without some question touching his character.[3]
[Footnote 3: When in London, two years later, I saw a gentleman of rather
striking appearance pass my door for two months, five or six times of a
morning. Remembering the apathy of the Norman peasant, I at length asked
who it was--"Sir Francis Burdett," was the answer.]
I once inquired of a servant girl, at a French inn, who might be the
owner of a chateau near by, the gate of which was within a hundred feet
of the house we were in. She was unable to say, urging, as an apology,
that she had only been six weeks in her present place! This, too, was in
a small country hamlet. I think every one must have remarked, _coeteris
paribus_, how much more activity and curiosity of mind is displayed by a
countryman who first visits a town, than by the dweller in a city who
first visits the country. The first wishes to learn everything, since be
has been accustomed to understand everything he has hitherto seen; while
the last, accustomed to a crowd of objects, usually regards most of the
novel things he now sees for the first time with indifference.
The road, for the rest of the afternoon, led us over hills and plains,
from one reach of the river to another, for we crossed the latter
repeatedly before reaching Paris. The appearance of the country was
extraordinary in our eyes. Isolated houses were rare, but villages
dotted the whole expanse. No obtrusive colours; but the eye had
frequently to search against the hill-side, or in the valley, and, first
detecting a mass, it gradually took in the picturesque angles, roofs,
towers, and walls of the little _bourg_. Not a fence, or visible
boundary of any sort, to mark the limits of possessions. Not a hoof in
the fields grazing, and occasionally, a sweep of mountain-land resembled
a pattern-card, with its stripes of green and yellow, and other hues,
the narrow fields of the small proprietors. The play of light and shade
on these gay upland patches though not strictly in conformity with the
laws of taste, certainly was attractive. When they fell entirely into
shadow, the harvest being over, and their gaudy colours lessened, they
resembled the melancholy and wasted vestiges of a festival.
At Louviers we dined, and there we found a new object of wonder in the
church. It was of the Gothic of the _bourgs_, less elaborated and more
rudely wrought than that of the larger towns, but quaint, and, the
population considered, vast. Ugly dragons thrust out their grinning
heads at us from the buttresses. The most agreeable monstrosities
imaginable were crawling along the grey old stones. After passing this
place, the scenery lost a good deal of the pastoral appearance which
renders Normandy rather remarkable in France, and took still more of the
starched pattern-card look, just mentioned. Still it was sombre, the
villages were to be extracted by the eye from their setting of fields,
and here and there one of those "silent fingers pointing to the skies"
raised itself into the air, like a needle, to prick the consciences of
the thoughtless. The dusky hues of all the villages contrasted oddly,
and not unpleasantly, with the carnival colours of the grains.
We slept at Vernon, and, before retiring for the night, passed half an
hour in a fruitless attempt to carry by storm a large old circular tower,
that is imputed to the inexhaustible industry of Caesar. This was the
third of his reputed works that we had seen since landing in France. In
this part of Europe, Caesar has the credit of everything for which no one
else is willing to apply, as is the case with Virgil at Naples.
It was a sensation to rise in the morning with the rational prospect of
seeing Paris, for the first time in one's life, before night. In my
catalogue it stands numbered as sensation the 5th; Westminster, the
night arrival in France, and the Cathedral of Rouen, giving birth to
numbers 1, 2, and 4. Though accustomed to the tattoo, and the evening
bugle of a man-of-war, the drums of Havre had the honour of number 3.
Alas! how soon we cease to feel those agreeable excitements at all, even
a drum coming in time to pall on the ear!
Near Vernon we passed a village, which gave us the first idea of one
feature in the old _régime_. The place was grey, sombre, and
picturesque, as usual, in the distance; but crowded, dirty,
inconvenient, and mean, when the eye got too near. Just without the
limits of its nuisances stood the chateau, a regular pile of hewn stone,
with formal _allées_, abundance of windows, extensive stables, and
broken vases. The ancient _seigneur_ probably retained no more of this
ancient possession than its name, while some Monsieur Le Blanc, or
Monsieur Le Noir, filled his place in the house, and "personne dans la
seigneurie."
A few leagues farther brought us to an eminence, whence we got a
beautiful glimpse of the sweeping river, and of a wide expanse of
fertile country less formally striped and more picturesque than the
preceding. Another grey castellated town lay on the verge of the river,
with towers that seemed even darker than ever. How different was all
this from the glare of our own objects! As we wound round the brow of
the height, extensive park-grounds, a village more modern, less
picturesque, and less dirty than common, with a large chateau in red
bricks, was brought in sight, in the valley. This was Rosny, the place
that gave his hereditary title to the celebrated Sully, as Baron and
Marquis de Rosny; Sully, a man, who, like Bacon, almost deserves the
character so justly given of the latter by Pope, that of "The wisest,
greatest, _meanest_, of mankind." The house and grounds were now the
property of Madame, as it is the etiquette to term the Duchesse de
Berri. The town in the distance, with the dark towers, was Mantes, a
place well known in the history of Normandy. We breakfasted at Le Cheval
Blanc. The church drew us all out, but it was less monstrous than that
of Louviers, and, as a cathedral, unworthy to be named with those of the
larger places.
The next stage brought us to St. Germain-en-Laye, or to the verge of the
circle of low mountains that surround the plains of Paris. Here we got
within the influence of royal magnificence and the capital. The
Bourbons, down to the period of the revolution, were indeed kings, and
they have left physical and moral impressions of their dynasty of seven
hundred years, that will require as long a period to eradicate. Nearly
every foot of the entire semi-circle of hills to the west of Paris is
historical, and garnished by palaces, pavilions, forests, parks,
aqueducts, gardens, or chases. A carriage terrace, of a mile in length,
and on a most magnificent scale in other respects, overlooks the river,
at an elevation of several hundred feet above its bed. The palace
itself, a quaint old edifice of the time of Francis I, who seems to have
had an architecture not unlike that of Elizabeth of England, has long
been abandoned as a royal abode. I believe its last royal occupant was
the dethroned James II. It is said to have been deserted by its owners,
because it commands a distant view of that silent monitor, the sombre
beautiful spire of St. Denis, whose walls shadow the vaults of the
Bourbons; they who sat on a throne not choosing to be thus constantly
reminded of the time when they must descend to the common fate and
crumbling equality of the grave.
An aqueduct, worthy of the Romans, gave an imposing idea of the scale on
which these royal works were conducted. It appeared, at the distance of
a league or two, a vast succession of arches, displaying a broader range
of masonry than I had ever before seen. So many years had passed since I
was last in Europe, that I gazed in wonder at its vastness.
From St. Germain we plunged into the valley, and took our way towards
Paris, by a broad paved avenue, that was bordered with trees. The road
now began to show an approach to a capital, being crowded with all sorts
of uncouth-looking vehicles, used as public conveyances. Still it was on
a Lilliputian scale as compared to London, and semi-barbarous even as
compared to one of our towns. Marly-la-Machine was passed; an hydraulic
invention to force water up the mountains to supply the different
princely dwellings of the neighbourhood. Then came a house of no great
pretension, buried in trees, at the foot of the bill. This was the
celebrated consular abode, Malmaison. After this we mounted to a hamlet,
and the road stretched away before us, with the river between, to the
unfinished Arc de l'Étoile, or the barrier of the capital. The evening
was soft, and there had been a passing shower. As the mist drove away, a
mass rose like a glittering beacon, beyond the nearest hill, proclaiming
Paris. It was the dome of the Hotel of the Invalids!
Though Paris possesses better points of view from its immediate vicinity
than most capitals, it is little seen from any of its ordinary
approaches until fairly entered. We descended to the river by a gentle
declivity. The chateau and grounds of Neuilly, a private possession of
the Duke of Orleans, lay on our left; the Bois de Boulogne, the carriage
promenade of the capital, on our right. We passed one of those
abortions, a _magnificent_ village, (Neuilly,) and ascended gently
towards the unfinished Arch of the Star. Bending around this imposing
memorial of--Heaven knows what! for it has had as many destinations as
France has had governors--we entered the iron gate of the barrier, and
found ourselves within the walls of Paris.
We were in the Avenue de Neuilly. The Champs Elysées, without verdure, a
grove divided by the broad approach, and moderately peopled by a
well-dressed crowd, lay on each side. In front, at the distance of a
mile, was a mass of foliage that looked more like a rich copse in park
than an embellishment of a town garden; and above this, again, peered
the pointed roofs of two or three large and high members of some vast
structure, sombre in colour and quaint in form. They were the pavilions
of the Tuileries.[4] A line of hotels became visible through trees and
shrubbery on the left, and on the right we soon got evidence that we
were again near the river. We had just left it behind us, and after a
_détour_ of several leagues, here it was again flowing in our front,
cutting in twain the capital.
[Footnote 4: Tuileries is derived from _Tuile_, or tile; the site of the
present gardens having been a tile-yard.]
Objects now grew confused, for they came fast. We entered and crossed a
paved area, that lay between the Seine, the Champs Elysées, the garden
of the Tuileries, and two little palaces of extraordinary beauty of
architecture. This was the place where Louis XVI. and his unfortunate
wife were beheaded. Passing between the two edifices last named, we came
upon the Boulevards, and plunged at once into the street-gaiety and
movement of this remarkable town.