Part 7
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 gray 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 water-side, 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 gray walls beneath, and a back ground 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 hand-barrow 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 dray-man 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 a _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 _contre tems_ would derange. He would ask enough, take his money with a “thankee, 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, squire?” asked the cartman, as he looked at the baskets, umbrellas, band boxes, velises, secretaries, trunks, &c. &c., “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 every thing 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 Hotel de l’Europe, at Rouen, was not a first rate inn, for France, but it effectually removed the disagreeable impression left by the Hotel de l’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 VIIth’s chapel sunk into insignificance. I can only compare the effect of the chiseling 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, in-so-much, 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 _Cœur 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 buried; 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 any thing 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 presenter 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 any thing we had yet seen in Europe. Putting my head out 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 rail-road 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 gray, sombre, and without glare, rising from the back ground 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 but 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, parceque, 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 _château_ 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, _cæteris 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 every thing, since he has been accustomed to understand every thing 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 gray 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 Cæsar. This was the third of his reputed works that we had seen, since landing in France. In this part of Europe, Cæsar has the credit of every thing 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 No’s. 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 No. 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 gray, 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 _château_, 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 gray 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 _château_ 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 ettiquette 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.