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[Illustration: PRICE ONE SHILLING.
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY.]
[Illustration]
A DAY'S TOUR
A Journey through France and Belgium
BY
_CALAIS, TOURNAY, ORCHIES, DOUAI, ARRAS, BETHUNE,
LILLE, COMINES, YPRES, HAZEBROUCK,
BERGUES, AND ST. OMER_
WITH A FEW SKETCHES
BY
PERCY FITZGERALD
[Illustration]
London
CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1887
PREFACE.
This trifle is intended as an illustration of the little story in
'Evenings at Home' called 'Eyes and No Eyes,' where the prudent boy
saw so much during his walk, and his companion nothing at all.
Travelling has become so serious a business from its labours and
accompaniments, that the result often seems to fall short of what was
expected, and the means seem to overpower the end. On the other hand,
a visit to unpretending places in an unpretending way often produces
unexpected entertainment for the contemplative man. Some such
experiment was the following, where everything was a surprise because
little was expected. The epicurean tourist will be facetious on the
loss of sleep and comfort, money, etc.; but to a person in good health
and spirits these are but trifling inconveniences.
ATHENÆUM CLUB,
_August, 1887_.
CONTENTS.
I. IN TOWN
II. DOVER
III. THE PACKET
IV. CALAIS
V. TOURNAY
VI. DOUAI
VII. ARRAS
VIII. LILLE
IX. YPRES
X. BERGUES
XI. ST. OMER
XII. ST. PIERRE LES CALAIS
A DAY'S TOUR.
I.
_IN TOWN._
It is London, of a bright sultry August day, when the flags seem
scorching to the feet, and the sun beats down fiercely. It has yet a
certain inviting attraction. There is a general air of bustle, and the
provincial, trundled along in his cab, his trunks over his head, looks
out with a certain awe and sense of delight, noting, as he skirts the
Park, the gay colours glistening among the dusty trees, the figures
flitting past, the riders, the carriages, all suggesting a foreign
capital. The great city never looks so brilliant or so stately as on
one of these 'broiling' days. One calls up with a sort of wistfulness
the great and picturesque cities abroad, with their grand streets and
palaces, ever a delightful novelty. We long to be away, to be crossing
over that night--enjoying a cool fresh passage, all troubles and
monotony left behind.
On one such day this year--a Wednesday--these mixed impressions and
longings presented themselves with unwonted force and iteration. So
wistful and sudden a craving for snapping all ties and hurrying away
was after all spasmodic, perhaps whimsical; but it was quickened by
that sultry, melting air of the parks and the tropical look of the
streets. The pavements seemed to glare fiercely like furnaces; there
was an air of languid Eastern enjoyment. The very dogs 'snoozed'
pleasantly in shady corners, and all seemed happy as if enjoying a
holiday.
How delightful and enviable those families--the father, mother, and
fair daughters, now setting off gaily with their huge boxes--who
to-morrow would be beside the ever-delightful Rhine, posting on to
Cologne and Coblentz. What a welcome ring in those names! Stale,
hackneyed as it is, there comes a thrill as we get the first glimpse
of the silvery placid waters and their majestic windings. Even the
hotels, the bustle, and the people, holiday and festive, all seem
novel and gay. With some people this fairy look of things foreign
never 'stales,' even with repetition. It is as with the illusions of
the stage, which in some natures will triumph over the rudest,
coarsest shocks.
Well, that sweltering day stole by. The very cabmen on their 'stands'
nodded in blissful dreams. The motley colours in the Park--a stray
cardinal-coloured parasol or two added to the effect--glinted behind
the trees. The image of the happy tourists in the foreign streets grew
more vivid. The restlessness increased every hour, and was not to be
'laid.'
Living within a stone's-throw of Victoria Station, I find a strange
and ever new sensation in seeing the night express and its passengers
starting for foreign lands--some wistful and anxious, others supremely
happy. It is next in interest to the play. The carriages are marked
'CALAIS,' 'PARIS,' etc. It is even curious to think that, within three
hours or so, they will be on foreign soil, among the French spires,
sabots, blouses, gendarmes, etc. These are trivial and fanciful
notions, but help to fortify what one has of the little faiths of
life, and what one wise man, at least, has said: that it is the
smaller unpretending things of life that make up its pleasures,
particularly those that come unexpectedly, and from which we hope but
little.
When all these thoughts were thus tumultuously busy, an odd _bizarre_
idea presented itself. By an unusual concatenation, there was before
me but a strictly-tightened space of leisure that could not be
expanded. Friday must be spent at home. This was Wednesday, already
three-quarters spent; but there was the coming night and the whole of
Thursday. But Friday morning imperatively required that the traveller
should be found back at home again. The whole span, the _irreducible
maximum_, not to be stretched by any contrivance beyond about thirty
hours. Something could be done, but not much. As I thought of the
strict and narrow limits, it seemed that these were some precious
golden hours, and never to recur again; the opportunity must be
seized, or lost for ever! As I walked the sunshiny streets, images
rose of the bright streets abroad, their quaint old towers, and
town-halls, and marketplaces, and churches, red-capped fisherwomen--all
this scenery was 'set,'--properties and decorations--and the foreign
play seemed to open before my eyes and invite me.
There is an Eastern story of a man who dipped his head into a tub of
water, and who there and then mysteriously passed through a long
series of events: was married, had children, saw them grow up, was
taken prisoner by barbarians, confined long in gaol, was finally
tried, sentenced, and led out to execution, with the scimitar about to
descend, when of a sudden--he drew his head out of the water. And lo!
all these marvels had passed in a second! What if there were to be
magically crowded into those few hours all that could possibly be
seen--sea and land, old towns in different countries, strange people,
cathedrals, town-halls, streets, etc.? It would be like some wild,
fitful dream. And on the Friday I would draw my head, as it were, out
of the tub. But it would need the nicest balancing and calculation,
not a minute to be lost, everything to be measured and jointed
together beforehand.
There was something piquant in this notion. Was not life short? and
precious hours were too often wasted carelessly and dawdled away. It
might even be worth while to see how much could be seen in these few
hours. In a few moments the resolution was taken, and I was walking
down to Victoria, and in two hours was in Snargate Street, Dover.
II.
_DOVER._
Dover has an old-fashioned dignity of its own; the town, harbour,
ports, and people seem, as it were, consecrated to packets. There is
an antique and reverend grayness in its old inns, old streets, old
houses, all clustered and huddled into the little sheltered
amphitheatre, as if trying to get down close by their pride, the
packets. For centuries it has been the threshold, the _hall-door_, of
England. It is the last inn, as it were, from which we depart to see
foreign lands. History, too, comes back on us: we think of 'expresses'
in fast sloops or fishing-boats; of landings at Dover, and taking post
for London in war-time; how kings have embarked, princesses
disembarked--all in that awkward, yet snug harbour. A most curious
element in this feeling is the faint French flavour reaching
across--by day the white hills yonder, by night the glimmering lights
on the opposite coast. The inns, too, have a nautical, seaport air,
running along the beach, as they should do, and some of the older ones
having a bulging stern-post look about their lower windows. Even the
frowning, fortress-like coloured pile, the Lord Warden, thrusts its
shoulders forward on the right, and advances well out into the sea, as
if to be the first to attract the arrivals. There is a quaint relish,
too, in the dingy, old-fashioned marine terrace of dirty tawny brick,
its green verandas and _jalousies_, which lend quite a tropical air.
Behind them, in shelter, are little dark squares, of a darker stone,
with glimpses of the sea and packets just at the corners. Indeed, at
every point wherever there is a slit or crevice, a mast or some
cordage is sure to show itself, reminding us how much we are of the
packet, packety. Ports of this kind, with all their people and
incidents, seem to be devised for travellers; with their flaring
lights, _up-all-night_ hotels, the railway winding through the narrow
streets, the piers, the stormy waters, the packets lying by all the
piers and filling every convenient space. The old Dover of Turner's
well-known picture, or indeed of twenty years ago, with its 'dumpy'
steamers, its little harbour, and rude appliances for travel, was a
very different Dover from what it is now. There was then no rolling
down in luxurious trains to an Admiralty Pier. The stoutest heart
might shrink, or at least feel dismally uncomfortable, as he found
himself discharged from the station near midnight of a blowy,
tempestuous night, and saw his effects shouldered by a porter, whom he
was invited to follow down to the pier, where the funnel of the
'Horsetend' or Calais boat is moaning dismally. Few lights were
twinkling in the winding old-fashioned streets; but the near vicinity
of ocean was felt uncomfortably in harsh blasts and whistling sounds.
The little old harbour, like that of some fishing-place, offered
scarcely any room. The much-buffeted steamer lay bobbing and springing
at its moorings, while a dingy oil-lamp marked the gangway. A
comforting welcome awaited us from some old salt, who uttered the
cheering announcement that it was 'agoin' to be a roughish night.'
On this night there was an entertainment announced at the 'Rooms,' and
to pass away the time I looked in. It was an elocutionist one,
entitled 'Merry-Making Moments, or, Spanker's Wallet of Varieties,'
with a portrait of Spanker on the bills opening the wallet with an
expression of delight or surprise. This was his 'Grand Competition
Night,' when a 'magnificent goblet' was competed for by all comers,
which I had already seen in a shop window, a blue ribbon reposing in
_dégagé_ fashion across it. If a tumbler of the precious metal could
be called a magnificent goblet--it was scarcely bigger--it deserved
the title. The poor operator was declaiming as I entered, in
unmistakable Scotch, the history of 'Little Breeches,' and giving it
with due pathos. I am bound to say that a sort of balcony which hung
out at the end was well filled by the unwashed takers, or at least
donees, of sixpenny tickets. There was a purpose in this, as will be
seen. After being taken through 'The Raven,' and 'The Dying Burglar,'
the competition began. This was certainly the most diverting portion
of the entertainment, from its genuineness, the eagerness of the
competitors, and their ill-disguised jealousy. There were four
candidates. A doctor-looking man with a beard, and who had the air
either of reading familiar prayers to his household with good parsonic
effect, or of having tried the stage, uttered his lines with a very
superior air, as though the thing were not in doubt. Better than he,
however, was one, probably a draper's assistant, who competed with a
wild and panting fashion, tossing his arms, now raising, now dropping
his voice, and every _h_, too. But a shabby man, who looked as if he
had once practised tailoring, next stepped on the platform, and at
once revealed himself as the local poet. Encouraged by the generous
applause, he announced that he would recite some lines 'he 'ad wrote
on the great storm which committed such 'avoc on hour pier.' There
were local descriptions, and local names, which always touched the
true chord. Notably an allusion to a virtuous magnate then, I believe,
at rest:
'Amongst the var'ous noble works,
It should be widely known,
'Twas WILLIAM BROWN' _(applause)_ 'that gave _this_ town
The Dover's Sailors' 'OME!' _(applause)_.
Need I say that when the votes came to be taken, this poet received
the cup? His joy and mantling smiles I shall not forget, though the
donor gave it to him with unconcealed disgust; it showed what
universal suffrage led to. The doctor and the other defeated
candidates, who had been asked to retire to a private room during the
process of decision, were now obliged to emerge in mortified
procession, there being no other mode of egress. The doctor's face was
a study. The second part was to follow. But it was now growing late,
and time and mail-packets wait for no man.
III.
_THE PACKET._
As I come forth from the Elocution Contest, I find that night has
closed in. Not a ripple is on the far-stretching blue waste. From the
high cliffs that overhang the town and its amphitheatre can be seen
the faintly outlined harbour, where the white-chimneyed packet snoozes
as it were, the smoke curling upwards, almost straight. The sea-air
blows fresh and welcome, though it does not beat on a 'fevered brow.'
There is a busy hum and clatter in the streets, filled with soldiers
and sailors and chattering sojourners. Now do the lamps begin to
twinkle lazily. There is hardly a breath stirring, and the great
chalk-cliffs gleam out in a ghostly fashion, like mammoth wave-crests.
As it draws on to ten o'clock, the path to the Admiralty Pier begins
to darken with flitting figures hurrying down past the fortress-like
Lord Warden, now ablaze and getting ready its hospice for the night;
the town shows itself an amphitheatre of dotted lights--while down
below white vapours issue walrus-like from the sonorous
'scrannel-pipes' of the steamer. Gradually the bustle increases, and
more shadowy figures come hurrying down, walking behind their baggage
trundled before them. Now a faint scream, from afar off inland, behind
the cliffs, gives token that the trains, which have been tearing
headlong down from town since eight o'clock, are nearing us; while the
railway-gates fast closed, and porters on the watch with green lamps,
show that the expresses are due. It is a rather impressive sight to
wait at the closed gates of the pier and watch these two outward-bound
expresses arrive. After a shriek, prolonged and sustained, the great
trains from Victoria and Ludgate, which met on the way and became one,
come thundering on, the enormous and powerful engine glaring fiercely,
flashing its lamps, and making the pier tremble. Compartment after
compartment of first-class carriages flit by, each lit up so
refulgently as to show the crowded passengers, with their rugs and
bundles dispersed about them. It is a curious change to see the
solitary pier, jutting out into the waves, all of a sudden thus
populated with grand company, flashing lights, and saloon-like
splendour--ambassadors, it may be, generals for the seat of war, great
merchants like the Rothschilds, great singers or actors, princes,
dukes, millionnaires, orators, writers, 'beauties,' brides and
bridegrooms, all ranged side by side in those cells, or _vis-à-vis_.
That face under the old-fashioned travelling-cap may be that of a
prime minister, and that other gentlemanly person a swindling
bank-director flying from justice.
During the more crowded time of the travelling season it is not
undramatic, and certainly entertaining, to stand on the deck of the
little boat, looking up at the vast pier and platform some twenty or
thirty feet above one's head, and see the flood of passengers
descending in ceaseless procession; and more wonderful still, the
baggage being hurled down the 'shoots.' On nights of pressure this may
take nearly an hour, and yet not a second appears to be lost. One
gazes in wonder at the vast brass-bound chests swooping down and
caught so deftly by the nimble mariners; the great black-domed ladies'
dress-baskets and boxes; American and French trunks, each with its
national mark on it. Every instant the pile is growing. It seems like
building a mansion with vast blocks of stone piled up on each other.
Hat-boxes and light leather cases are sent bounding down like
footballs, gradually and by slow degrees forming the mountain.
What secrets in these chests! what tales associated with them! Bridal
trousseaux, jewels, letters, relics of those loved and gone; here the
stately paraphernalia of a family assumed to be rich and prosperous,
who in truth are in flight, hurrying away with their goods. Here,
again, the newly bought 'box' of the bride, with her initials gaudily
emblazoned; and the showy, glittering chests of the Americans.
There is a physiognomy in luggage, distinct as in clothes; and a
strange variety, not uninteresting. How significant, for instance, of
the owner is the weather-beaten, battered old portmanteau of the
travelling bachelor, embrowned with age, out of shape, yet still
strong and serviceable!--a business-like receptacle, which, like him,
has travelled thousands of miles, been rudely knocked about, weighed,
carried hither and thither, encrusted with the badges of hotels as an
old vessel is with barnacles, grim and reserved like its master, and
never lost or gone astray.
Now the engines and their trains glide away home. The shadowy figures
stand round in crowds. To the reflecting mind there is something
bewildering and even mournful in the survey of this huge agglomeration
and of its owners, the muffled, shadowy figures, some three hundred in
number, grouped together, and who will be dispersed again in a few
hours.
A yacht-voyage could not be more tranquilly delightful than this
pleasant moonlight transit. We are scarcely clear of the twinkling
lights of the Dover amphitheatre, grown more and more distant, when
those of the opposite coast appear to draw near and yet nearer. Often
as one has crossed, the sense of a new and strange impression is never
wanting. The sense of calm and silence, the great waste of sea, the
monotonous 'plash' of the paddle-wheels, the sort of solitude in the
midst of such a crowd, the gradually lengthening distance behind, with
the lessening, as gradual, in front, and the always novel feeling of
approach to a new country--these elements impart a sort of dreamy,
poetical feeling to the scene. Even the calm resignation of the
wrapped-up shadows seated in a sort of retreat, and devoted to their
own thoughts or slumbers, add to this effect. With which comes the
thought of the brave little vessels, which through day and night, year
after year, dance over these uncertain waters in 'all weathers,' as it
is termed. When the night is black as Erebus, and the sea in its fury
boiling and raging over the pier, the Lord Warden with its
storm-shutters up, and timid guests removed to more sheltered
quarters, the very stones of the pier shaken from their places by the
violence of the monster outside--the little craft, wrapping its mantle
about its head, goes out fearlessly, and, emerging from the harbour to
be flung about, battered with wild fury, forces her way on through the
night, which its gallant sailors call, with truth, 'an awful one.'
While busy with these thoughts I take note of a little scene of
comedy, or perhaps of a farcical kind, which is going on near me, in
which two 'Harrys' of the purest kind were engaged, and whose oddities
lightened the tediousness of the passage. One had seen foreign parts,
and was therefore regarded with reverence by his companion.
They were promenading the deck, and the following dialogue was borne
to me in snatches:
First Harry (interrogatively, and astonished): 'Eh? no! Now, really?'
Second Harry: 'Oh, Lord bless yer, yes! It comes quite easy, you know'
(or 'yer know'). 'A little trouble at first; but, Lord bless yer'
(this benediction was imparted many times during the conversation),
'it ain't such a difficult thing at all.'
I now found they were speaking of acquiring the French language--a
matter the difficulty of which they thought had been absurdly
overrated. Then the second Harry: 'Of course it is! Suppose you're in
a Caffy, and want some wine; you just call to the waiter, and you
say--'
First Harry (who seems to think that the secret has already been
communicated): 'Dear me; yes, to be sure--to be sure! I never thought
of that. A Caffy?'
Second Harry: 'Oh, Lor' bless yer, it comes as easy as--that! Well,
you go say to the fellow--just as you would say to an English
waiter--"_Don-ny maw_"--(pause)--"_dee Vinne_."'
First Harry (amazed): 'So _that's_ the way! Dear, dear me! Vinne!'
Second Harry: 'O' course it is the way! Suppose you want yer way to
the railway, you just go ask for the "_Sheemin--dee--Fur_." _Fur_, you
know, means "rail" in French--_Sheemin_ is "the road," you know.'
Again lost in wonder at the simplicity of what is popularly supposed
to be so thorny, the other Harry could only repeat:
'So that's it! What is it, again? _Sheemin_--'
_'Sheemin dee Fur.'_
Later, in the fuss and bustle of the 'eating hall,' this 'Harry,' more
obstreperous than ever by contact with the foreigners, again attracted
my attention. Everywhere I heard his voice; he was rampant.
'When the chap laid hold of my bag, "Halloo," says I; "hands off, old
boy," says I.
"'Eel Fo!" says he.
'"Eel-pie!" says I. "Blow your _Fo_," says I, and didn't he grin like
an ape? I declare I thought I'd have split when he came again with his
"_Eel Fo_!"'
He was then in his element. Everything new to him was 'a guy,' or 'so
rum,' or 'the queerest go you ever.' One of the two declared that, 'in
all his experience and in all his life he had never heard sich a lingo
as French;' and further, that 'one of their light porters at
Bucklersbury would eat half a dozen of them Frenchmen for a bender.'
This strange, grotesque dialogue I repeat textually almost; and, it
may be conceived, it was entertaining in a high degree. _'Sheemin dee
Fur'_ was the exact phonetic pronunciation, and the whole scene
lingers pleasantly in the memory.
IV.
_CALAIS._
But it is now close on midnight, and we are drawing near land; the eye
of the French _phare_ grows fiercer and more glaring, until, close on
midnight, the traveller finds the blinding light flashed full on him,
as the vessel rushes past the wickerwork pier-head. One or two beings,
whose unhappy constitution it is to be miserable and wretched at the
very whisper of the word 'SEA,' drag themselves up from below,
rejoicing that here is CALAIS. Beyond rises the clustered town
confined within its walls. As we glide in between the friendly arms of
the openwork pier, the shadowy outlines of the low-lying town take
shape and enlarge, dotted with lamps as though pricked over with
pin-holes. The fiery clock of the station, that sits up all night from
year's end to year's end; the dark figures with tumbrils, and a stray
coach waiting; the yellow gateway and drawbridge of the fortress just
beyond, and the chiming of _carillons_ in a wheezy fashion from the
old watch-tower within, make up a picture.
[Illustration: HOGARTH'S GATE (CALAIS)]
[Illustration: HALL OF THE STAPLE, (Calais)]
Such, indeed, it used to be--not without its poetry, too; but the old
Calais days are gone. Now the travellers land far away down the pier,
at the new-fangled 'Calais Maritime,' forsooth! and do not even
approach the old town. The fishing-boats, laid up side by side along
the piers, are shadowy. It seems a scene in a play. The great sea is
behind us and all round. It is a curious feeling, thinking of the
nervous unrest of the place, that has gone on for a century, and that
will probably go on for centuries more. Certainly, to a person who has
never been abroad, this midnight scene would be a picture not without
a flavour of romance. But such glimpses of poetry are held intrusive
in these matter-of-fact days.
There is more than an hour to wait, whilst the passengers gorge in the
huge _salle_, and the baggage is got ashore. So I wander away up to
the town.
How picturesque that stroll! Not wholly levelled are the old yellow
walls; the railway-station with its one eye, and clock that never
sleeps, opens its jaws with a cheerful bright light, like an inn fire;
dark figures in cowls, soldiers, sailors, flit about; curiously-shaped
tumbrils for the baggage lie up in ordinary. Here is the old arched
gate, ditch, and drawbridge; Hogarth's old bridge and archway, where
he drew the 'Roast Beef of Old England.' Passing over the bridge into
the town unchallenged, I find a narrow street with yellow houses--the
white shutters, the porches, the first glance of which affects one so
curiously and reveals France. Here is the Place of Arms in the centre,
whence all streets radiate. What more picturesque scene!--the moon
above, the irregular houses straggling round, the quaint old
town-hall, with its elegant tower, and rather wheezy but most musical
chimes; its neighbour, the black, solemn watch-tower, rising rude and
abrupt, seven centuries old, whence there used to be strict look-out
for the English. Down one of these side streets is a tall building,
with its long rows of windows and shutters and closed door
(Quillacq's, now Dessein's), once a favourite house--the 'Silver
Lion,' mentioned in the old memoirs, visited by Hogarth, and where,
twenty years ago, there used to be a crowd of guests. Standing in the
centre, I note a stray roysterer issuing from some long-closed _café_,
hurrying home, while the _carillons_ in their airy _rococo_-looking
tower play their melodious tunes in a wheezy jangle that is
interesting and novel. This chime has a celebrity in this quarter of
France. I stayed long in the centre of that solitary _place_,
listening to that midnight music.
It is a curious, not unromantic feeling, that of wandering about a
strange town at midnight, and the effect increases as, leaving the
_place_, I turn down a little by-street--the Rue de Guise--closed at
the end by a beautiful building or fragment, unmistakably English in
character. Behind it spreads the veil of blue sky, illuminated by the
moon, with drifting white clouds passing lazily across. This is the
entrance to the Hôtel de Guise--a gate-tower and archway, pure
Tudor-English in character, and, like many an old house in the English
counties, elegant and almost piquant in its design. The arch is
flanked by slight hexagonal _tourelles_, each capped by a pinnacle
decorated with niches in front. Within is a little courtyard, and
fragments of the building running round in the same Tudor style, but
given up to squalor and decay, evidently let out to poor lodgers.
This charming fragment excites a deep melancholy, as it is a neglected
survival, and may disappear at any moment--the French having little
interest in these English monuments, indeed, being eager to efface
them when they can. It is always striking to see this on some tranquil
night, as I do now--and Calais is oftenest seen at midnight--and think
of the Earl of Warwick, the 'deputy,' and of the English wool-staple
merchants who traded here. Here lodged Henry VIII. in 1520; and twelve
years later Francis I., when on a visit to Henry, took up his abode in
this palace.
[Illustration: BELFRY, CALAIS.]
Crossing the _place_ again, I come on the grim old church, built by
the English, where were married our own King Richard II. and Isabelle
of Valois--a curious memory to recur as we listen to the 'high mass'
of a Calais Sunday. But the author of 'Modern Painters' has furnished
the old church with its best poetical interpretation. 'I cannot find
words,' he says in a noble passage,' to express the intense pleasure I
have always felt at first finding myself, after some prolonged stay in
England, at the foot of the tower of Calais Church. The large neglect,
the noble unsightliness of it, the record of its years, written so
vividly, yet without sign of weakness or decay; its stern vastness and
gloom, eaten away by the Channel winds, and overgrown with bitter
sea-grass. I cannot tell half the strange pleasures and thoughts that
come about me at the sight of the old tower.' Most interesting of all
is the grim, rusted, and gaunt watch-tower, before alluded to, which
rises out of a block of modern houses in the _place_ itself. It can be
seen afar off from the approaching vessel, and until comparatively
late times this venerable servant had done the charity of lighthouse
work for a couple of centuries at least.
But one of the pleasantest associations connected with the town was
the old Dessein's Hotel, which had somehow an inexpressibly
old-fashioned charm, for it had a grace like some disused château.
Some of the prettiest passages in Sterne's writings are associated
with this place. We see the figures of the monk, the well-known host,
the lady and the _petit-maître_: to say nothing of the old
_désobligeante_. Even of late years it was impossible to look at the
old building, which remained unchanged, without calling up the image
of Mr. Sterne, and the curious airy conversation--sprinkled with what
execrable French both in grammar and spelling!--that took place at the
gate. An air of the old times pervaded it strongly: it was like
opening an old _garde de vin_. You passed out of the _place_ and found
yourself in the Rue Royale--newly named Rue Leveux--and there,
Dessein's stood before you, with its long yellow wall, archway and
spacious courts, on each side a number of quaint gables or _mansardes_,
sharp-roofed. Over the wall was seen the foliage of tall and handsome
trees. There is a coloured print representing this entrance, with the
meeting of the 'little master' and the lady--painted by Leslie--and
which gives a good idea of the place. In the last century the courtyard
used to be filled with posting-carriages, and the well-known _remise_
lay here in a corner. Behind the house stretched large, well-stocked
gardens, with which the guests at the hotel used to be recreated;
while at the bottom of the garden, but opening into another street,
was the theatre, built by the original Dessein, belonging to the hotel,
and still used. This garden was wild and luxuriant, the birds singing,
while the courtyard was dusty and weed-grown.
This charming picture has ever been a captivating one for the
traveller. It seemed like an old country-house transferred to town.
There was something indescribable in the tranquil flavour of the
place, its yellow gamboge tint alternated with green vineries, its
spacious courtyard and handsome chambers. It was bound up with
innumerable old associations. Thackeray describes, with an almost
poetical affection and sympathy, the night he spent there. He called
up the image of Sterne in his 'black satin smalls,' and talked with
him. They used to show his room, regularly marked, as I have seen it,
'STERNES'S ROOM, NO. 31,' with its mezzotint, after Sir
Joshua, hung over the chimney-piece. But this tradition received a
shock some sixty years since. An inquisitive and sceptical traveller
fancied he saw an inscription or date lurking behind the vine-leaves
that so luxuriantly covered the old house, and sent up a man on a
ladder to clear away the foliage. This operation led to the discovery
of a tablet, dated two years too late for the authenticity of the
building in which 'Sterne's room' was. The waiter, however, in nowise
disconcerted, said the matter could be easily 'arranged' by selecting
another room in an unquestioned portion of the building! To make up,
however, there was a room labelled 'SIR WALTER SCOTT'S ROOM,' with
his portrait; and of this there could be no reasonable question.
+------+
| AD |
| 1770 |
+------+
In later years it did not flourish much, but gently decayed.
Everything seemed in a state of mild sleepy abandonment and decay till
about the year 1861, when the Desseins gave over business. The town,
much straitened for room, and cramped within its fortifications, had
long been casting hungry eyes on this spacious area. Strange to say,
even in the prosaic pages of our own 'Bradshaw,' the epitaph of 'old
Dessein's' is to be read among its advertisements:
'CALAIS.
'HÔTEL DESSEIN.--L. Dessein, the proprietor, has the
honour to inform his numerous patrons, and travellers in
general, that after the 1st of January his establishment will
be transferred to the Hôtel Quillacq, which has been entirely
done up, and will take the name of HÔTEL DESSEIN. The
premises of the old Hôtel Dessein having been purchased by the
town of Calais, it ceases to be an Hôtel for Travellers.'
Still, in this new function it was 'old Dessein's,' and you were shown
'Sterne's room,' etc. I recall wandering through it of a holiday,
surveying the usual museum specimens--the old stones, invariable
spear-heads, stuffed animals; in short, the usual rather heterogeneous
collection, made up of 'voluntary contributions,' prompted half by the
vanity of the donor and half by his indifference to the objects
presented. We had not, indeed, the 'old pump' or the parish stocks, as
at Little Pedlington, but there were things as interesting. Here were
a few old pictures given by the Government, and labelled in writing;
the car of Blanchard's balloon, and a cutting from a newspaper
describing his arrival; portraits of the 'Citizen King' in his white
trousers; ditto of Napoleon III., name pasted over; the flagstone,
with an inscription, celebrating the landing of Louis XVIII., removed
from the pier--in deference to Republican sensitiveness--no doubt to
be restored again in deference to monarchical feelings; and, of
course, a number of the usual uninteresting cases containing white
cards, and much cotton, pins, and insects, stuffed birds, and
symmetrically-arranged dried specimens, the invariable Indian gourds,
and arrows, and moccasins, which 'no gentlemanly collection should be
without.' Never, during many a visit, did I omit wandering up to see
this pleasing, old, but ghostly memorial. It may be conceived what a
shock it was when, on a recent visit, I found it gone--razed--carted
away. I searched and searched--fancied I had mistaken the street; but
no! it was gone for ever. During M. Jules Ferry's last administration,
when the rage for 'Communal schools' set in, this tempting site had
been seized upon, the interesting old place levelled, and a
factory-like red-brick pile rapidly erected in its place. It was
impossible not to feel a pang at this discovery; I felt that Calais
without its Dessein's had lost its charm. Madame Dessein, a
grand-niece or nearly-related descendant of _le grand Dessein_, still
directs at Quillacq's--a pleasing old lady.
There is still a half hour before me, while the gorgers in 'Maritime
Calais' are busy feeding against time; and while I stand in the
_place_, listening to the wheezy old chimes, I recall a pleasant
excursion, and a holiday that was spent there, at the time when the
annual _fêtes_ were being celebrated. Never was there a brighter day:
all seemed to be new, and the very quintessence of what was
foreign--the gay houses of different heights and patterns were decked
with streamers, their parti-coloured blinds, devices, and balconies
running round the _place_, and furnishing gaudy detail. Here there
used to be plenty of movement, when the Lafitte diligences went
clattering by, starting for Paris, before the voracious railway
marched victoriously in and swallowed diligence, horses,
postilions--bells, boots and all! The gay crowd passing across the
_place_ was making for the huge iron-gray cathedral, quite ponderous
and fortress-like in its character. Here is the grand _messe_ going
on, the Swiss being seen afar off, standing with his halbert under the
great arch, while between, down to the door, are the crowded
congregation and the convenient chairs. Overhead the ancient organ is
pealing out with rich sound, while the sun streams in through the
dim-painted glass on the old-fashioned costumes of the fish-women,
just falling on their gold earrings _en passant_. There is a dreamy
air about this function, which associated itself, in some strange way,
with bygone days of childhood, and it is hard to think that about two
or three hours before the spectator was in all the prose of London.
For those who love novel and picturesque memories or scenes, there are
few things more effective or pleasant to think of than one of these
Sunday mornings in a strange unfamiliar French town, when every
corner, and every house and figure--welcome novelty!--are gay as the
costumes and colours in an opera. The night before it was, perhaps,
the horrors of the packet, the cribbing in the cabin, the unutterable
squalor and roughness of all things, the lowest depth of hard, ugly
prose, together with the rudest buffeting and agitation, and poignant
suffering; but, in a few hours, what a 'blessed' change! Now there is
the softness of a dream in the bright cathedral church crowded to the
door, the rites and figures seen afar off, the fuming incense, the
music, the architecture!
During these musings the fiercely glaring clock warns me that time is
running out; but a more singular monitor is the great lighthouse which
rises at the entrance of the town, and goes through its extraordinary,
almost fiendish, performance all the night long. This is truly a
phenomenon. Lighthouses are usually relegated to some pier-end, and
display their gyrations to the congenial ocean. But conceive a monster
of this sort almost _in_ the town itself, revolving ceaselessly,
flashing and flaring into every street and corner of a street, like
some Patagonian policeman with a giant 'bull's-eye.' A more singular,
unearthly effect cannot be conceived. Wherever I stand, in shadow or
out of it, this sudden flashing pursues me. It might be called the
'Demon Lighthouse.' For a moment, in picturesque gloom, watching the
shadows cast by the Hogarthian gateway, I may be thinking of our great
English painter sitting sketching the lean Frenchwomen, noting, too,
the portal where the English arms used to be, when suddenly the 'Demon
Lighthouse' directs his glare full on me, describes a sweep, is gone,
and all is dark again. It suggests the policeman going his rounds. How
the exile forced to sojourn here must detest this obtrusive beacon of
the first class! It must become maddening in time for the eyes. Even
in bed it has the effect of mild sheet-lightning. Municipality of
Calais! move it away at once to a rational spot--to the end of the
pier, where a lighthouse ought to be.
V.
_TOURNAY._
But now back to 'Maritime Calais,' down to the pier, where a strange
busy contrast awaits us. All is now bustle. In the great 'hall'
hundreds are finishing their 'gorging,' paying bills, etc., while on
the platform the last boxes and chests are being tumbled into the
waggons with the peculiar tumbling, crashing sound which is so
foreign. Guards and officials in cloaks and hoods pace up and down,
and are beginning to chant their favourite '_En voiture, messieurs_!'
Soon all are packed into their carriages, which in France always
present an old-fashioned mail-coach air with their protuberant bodies
and panels. By one o'clock the signal is given, the lights flash
slowly by, and we are rolling away, off into the black night.
'Maritime Calais' is left to well-earned repose; but for an hour or so
only, until the returning mail arrives, when it will wake up again--a
troubled and troublous nightmare sort of existence. Now for a plunge
into Cimmerian night, with that dull, sustained buzz outside, as of
some gigantic machinery whirling round, which seems a sort of
lullaby, contrived mercifully to make the traveller drowsy and enwrap
him in gentle sleep. Railway sleeping is, after all, a not
unrefreshing form of slumber. There is the grateful 'nod, nod,
nodding,' with the sudden jerk of an awakening; until the nodding
becomes more overpowering, and one settles into a deep and profound
sleep. Ugh! how chilly it gets! And the machinery--or is it the
sea?--still roaring in one's ear.
What, stopping! and by the roadside, it seems; the day breaking, the
atmosphere cold, steel-blue, and misty. Rubbing the pane, a few
surviving lights are seen twinkling--a picture surely something
Moslem. For there, separated by low-lying fields, rise clustered
Byzantine towers and belfries, with strangely-quaint German-looking
spires of the Nuremberg pattern, but all dimly outlined and mysterious
in their grayness.
There was an extraordinary and original feeling in this approach: the
old fortifications, or what remained of them, rising before me; the
gloom, the mystery, the widening streak of day, and perfect
solitariness. As I admired the shadowy belfry which rose so supreme
and asserted itself among the spires, there broke out of a sudden a
perfect _charivari_ of bells--jangling, chiming, rioting, from various
churches, while amid all was conspicuous the deep, solemn BOOM! BOOM!
like the slow baying of a hound.
It is five o'clock, but it might be the middle of the night, so dark
is it. This magic city, which seems like one of those in Albert
Dürer's cuts, rises at a distance as if within walls. I stand in the
roadside alone, deserted, the sole traveller set down. The train has
flown on into the night with a shriek. The sleepy porter wonders, and
looks at me askance.
As I take my way from the station and gradually approach the city--for
there is a broad stretch between it and the railway unfilled by
houses--I see the striking and impressive picture growing and
enlarging. The jangling and the solemn occasional boom still go on:
meant to give note that the day is opening. Nothing more awe-inspiring
or poetical can be conceived than this 'cock-crow' promenade. Here are
little portals suddenly opening on the stage, with muffled figures
darting out, and worthy Belgians tripping from their houses--betimes,
indeed--and hurrying away to mass. Thus to make the acquaintance of
that grandest and most astonishing of old cathedrals, is to do so
under the best and most suitable conditions: very different from the
guide and cicerone business, which belongs to later hours of the day.
I stand in the open _place_, under its shadow, and lift my eyes with
wonder to the amazing and crowded cluster of spires and towers: its
antique air, and even look of shattered dilapidation showing that the
restorer has not been at his work. There was no smugness or trimness,
or spick-and-spanness, but an awful and reverent austerity. And with
an antique appropriateness to its functions the Flemish women, crones
and maidens, all in their becoming cashmere hoods, and cloaks, and
neat frills, still hurry on to the old Dom. Near me rose the antique
_beffroi_, from whose jaws still kept booming the old bell, with a
fine clang, the same that had often pealed out to rouse the burghers
to discord and tumult. It pealed on, hoarse and even cracked, but
persistently melodious, disregarding the contending clamours of its
neighbours, just as some old baritone of the opera, reduced and broken
down, will exhibit his 'phrasing'--all that is left to him. Quaint old
burgher city, indeed, with the true flavour, though beshrew them for
meddling with the fortifications!
That little scene in this _place_ of Tournay is always a pleasant,
picturesque memory.
I entered with the others. Within the cathedral was the side chapel,
with its black oak screen, and a tawny-cheeked Belgian priest at the
altar beginning the mass. Scattered round and picturesquely grouped
were the crones and maidens aforesaid, on their wicker-chairs. A few
surviving lamps twinkled fitfully, and shadowy figures crossed as if
on the stage. But aloft, what an overpowering immensity, all vaulted
shadows, the huge pillars soaring upward to be lost in a Cimmerian
gloom!
Around me I saw grouped picturesquely in scattered order, and kneeling
on their _prie-dieux_, the honest burghers, women and men, the former
arrayed in the comfortable and not unpicturesque black Flemish cloaks
with the silk hoods--handsome and effective garments, and almost
universal. The devotional rite of the mass, deeply impressive, was
over in twenty minutes, and all trooped away to their daily work.
There was a suggestion here, in this modest, unpretending exercise, in
contrast to the great fane itself, of the undeveloped power to expand,
as it were, on Sundays and feast-days, when the cathedral would
display all its resources, and its huge area be crowded to the doors
with worshippers, and the great rites celebrated in all their full
magnificence.
Behind the great altar I came upon an imposing monument, conceived
after an original and comprehensive idea. It was to the memory of _all
the bishops and canons_ of the cathedral! This wholesale idea may be
commended to our chapters at home. It might save the too monotonous
repetition of recumbent bishops, who, after being exhibited at the
Academy, finally encumber valuable space in their own cathedrals.
The suggestiveness of the great bell-tower, owing to the peculiar
emphasis and purpose given to it, is constantly felt in the old
Belgian cities. It still conveys its old antique purpose--the defence
of the burghers, a watchful sentinel who, on the alarm, clanged out
danger, the sound piercing from that eyry to the remotest lane, and
bringing the valiant citizens rushing to the great central square. It
is impossible to look up at one of these monuments, grim and solitary,
without feeling the whole spirit of the Belgian history, and calling
up Philip van Artevelde and the Ghentish troubles.
In the smaller cities the presence of this significant landmark is
almost invariable. There is ever the lone and lorn tower, belfry, or
spire painted in dark sad colours, seen from afar off, rising from the
decayed little town below; often of some antique, original shape that
pleases, and yet with a gloomy misanthropical air, as of total
abandonment. They are rusted and abrased. From their ancient jaws we
hear the husky, jangling chimes, musical and melancholy, the
disorderly rambling notes and tunes of a gigantic musical box. Towards
the close of some summer evening, as the train flies on, we see the
sun setting on the grim walls of some dead city, and on the clustered
houses. Within the walls are the formal rows of trees planted in
regimental order which fringe and shelter them; while rises the dark,
copper-coloured tower, often unfinished and ragged, but solemn and
funereal, or else capped by some quaint lantern, from whose jaws
presently issue the muffled tones of the chimes, halting and broken,
and hoarse and wheezy with centuries of work. Often we pass on;
sometimes we descend, and walk up to the little town and wander
through its deserted streets. We are struck with wonder at some vast
and noble church, cathedral-like in its proportions, and nearly always
original--such variety is there in these antique Belgian fanes--and
facing it some rustic mouldering town-hall of surprising beauty. There
are a few little shops, a few old houses, but the generality have
their doors closed. There is hardly a soul to be seen, certainly not a
cart. There are innumerable dead cities of this pattern.