THE RACE THROUGH PICARDY--AMIENS CATHEDRAL--ITS VASTNESS--THE ROAD
TO BOULOGNE
So we bid farewell to Rouen, deep down in her valley by the river, and
rolling swiftly through the fair country towards Neufchâtel, we pause
a moment to render homage at the altar of their great god, cheese; and
so onward past many picturesque spots and interesting ruins. But the
day is too fair to pause for the dead past. This air is the wine of
life and the rush of our car drives it into and through us until, on
arriving at Amiens for luncheon, we are ready to eat anything.
One really runs a risk of being ruined by dyspepsia on such a journey,
as one's appetite becomes great and one gets no exercise. After a long
day's ride and a hearty dinner, bed becomes most attractive at an
early hour, and I often find myself snugly ensconced at eight o'clock
and awakened at two in the morning by vivid dreams of my ancestors,
entangled in flying wheels.
There are few in the vast tide of travellers between London and Paris
who do not note, as their train speeds across the plains of Picardy,
the towering gables and gigantic roof of the great cathedral of her
capital, Amiens. It rises so far above the surrounding city that it
appears to have nothing in common with it, nor are there any other
structures round about to detract from this impression.
In common with millions of others, I had heretofore found no time for
closer inspection. The tide of life sweeps too strongly through here to
allow one to do more than gasp at the immensity of this church. To-day
as we roll onward from the smiling country into the streets of the
town, the cathedral looms up grander and grander until all thought of
anything else passes from the mind. The busy tide of life and the city
of seventy thousand souls does not and will not hold your attention
for half an hour while within its limits. "It is a great manufacturing
town, weaves cotton velvets for Spain, spins woolen yams, makes satin
for ladies' shoes, and was the cradle of cotton manufacture in France."
[Illustration: THE CATHEDRAL AT AMIENS
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein]
Yes, yes, yes,--perhaps so, perhaps so, but, what is that to us? Leave
it all and move faster, into that square. Now,--stop.----What are all
the cotton mills of earth compared to this stately shrine? Look at
those three deeply recessed and majestic portals towering as high as an
ordinary church before you, the destroyer has passed them by and they
are crowded with statues, prominent amongst which, dividing the central
doors is that of the "Beautiful God of Amiens." Over the central
doorway is the Last Judgment in high relief,--the twelve Apostles, the
wise and foolish virgins. Yonder is the Virgin crushing a monster with
a human head, and above it the expulsion of Adam and Eve. One sees the
burial and assumption of the Virgin in another spot, and row after row
of kings, bishops, and priests, with the great towers rising far above
and equally rich in carvings to their very summit. There would appear
to be too much of carved work and yet the church is so huge that it
would look barren without it. Entering, you are at once impressed with
the vast dimensions, which are surpassed only by St. Peter's and the
Dom of Cologne. The nave rises one hundred and forty feet above you.
Its height and breadth are so great and the pillars so majestic that
one wonders whether this church was not built by and intended for a
larger, grander race of beings than we who now walk this earth.
Passing onward down the nave and into the choir, you are again struck
with the beauty and richness of the carvings both in the stalls in
wood and in the stone screens and altars, all around you. The rose
windows are glorious, and yet--you feel that you have dropped your
sense of delightful satisfaction somewhere. What is it,--why? It is
absurd to criticise such a temple, yet Amiens, notwithstanding its
majestic interior, does not fascinate, is not so satisfying as the
great churches of Rouen, and I think it is because there is too much
light. There, all is subdued; here a glare of white light detracts from
the majesty, if such a thing be possible. Certainly one shivers and is
cold and fully realises that ancient coloured glass has a wonderfully
beautifying effect in these old churches.
Amiens has her history also. Henry IV. from a seat up yonder watched
the retreat of the Spaniards and Isabeau of Bavaria here married the
idiot Charles VI.
There is nothing in the city to interest, save the cathedral, and I
come again and again, and finally take a swirling view as my auto
flashes around it, and off and away to the northward. As we move
farther and farther afield, I turn again and again to look backward and
each time the cathedral has risen higher and higher until it reigns
supreme in a kingdom all its own,--a thing not made by man.
The route from Amiens to Boulogne is very unpleasant for France, narrow
and badly marked, so that we several times go astray, especially before
reaching Abbeville. The way is also crossed frequently by stone gutters
which will in passing destroy the springs of the auto unless extreme
caution be used. These should be changed, one does not find them south
of Paris.
As it would be impossible to pass through Brussels without a thought of
Waterloo so at Abbeville the mind wanders away from the noisy town and
off to the neighbouring battlefield of Crécy whose forest we see at our
right as we speed northward.
Reaching Boulogne at about three o'clock, we are almost blown backward
by the winds off the Channel, and seek shelter in a draughty, desolate
hotel. Yama thinks that we have come to the end of the world, and
will be lost if we attempt to go out on that churning sea. He asks if
England is five days off, and seems very doubtful of my truthfulness
when I say it is but an hour's sail.