GATEWAY SERIES -VANDYKE
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INLAND VOYAGE AND
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BLAKELY
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OF ENGLISH TEXTS
GENERAL EDITOR
HENRY VAN DYKE
Addison's Sir Roger de Coverley Papers. Professor C. T.
Winchester, Wesleyan University. 40 cents.
Burke's Speech on Conciliation. Professor William Mac-
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lege, North Carolina. 35 cents.
Coleridge's The Ancient Mariner. Professor George E. Wood-
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H.MERS0N'S Essays. Henry van Dyke. 35 cents.
Franklin's Autobiography. Professor Albert Henry Smyth, Cen-
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< MSKEl.l.'s Ckani-ord. Professor Charles E. Rhodes, Lafayette High
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George Eliot's Silas Marnkk. Professor W. L. Cross, Yale
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Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield and Df-serted Village. Pro-
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Irving's Sketcii-Book. Professor Martin W. Sampson, Cornell
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Gateway Series
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Macaulay's Addison and Johnson. In one volume. (McCIumpha
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Macaulay's Milton, Rev. E. L. Gulick, Lawrenceville School.
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Scott's Ivanhoe. Professor Francis H. Stoddard, New York Uni-
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Shakespeare's Julius C^sar. Dr. Hamilton W. Mabie, "The
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Shakespeare's Macheth. Professor T. M. Parrott, Princeton Uni-
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Stevenson's Inland Voyage and Travels with a Donkey.
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fW[\^vX'f'trui<) O'^vU^iU^^-^L-^A^i^
GATEIVAY SERIES
AN INLAND ^'()YAGE
AND
TRAVELS Willi A DONKEY
BY
R015KRT LOUIS STEVENSON
EDITED HY
GlLr.KRT SYKKS I5LAKELY
DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH, MORRIS HIGH SCIIUOL
NEW YORK CITY
NFAV YORK •:■ CINCINNATI •:•( mcACO
ami«:rican book company
CorVRIGHT, igti, BY
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY.
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London.
Stevenson's inland voyage, etc.
W. P. I
m ^SOQl H3f
GENERAL EDITOR'S NOTE
This series of books aims, first, to give the English texts
required for entrance to college in a form which shall make
them clear, interesting, and helpful to those who are beginning
the study of literature ; and, second, to supply the knowledge
which the student needs to pass the entrance examination.
For these two reasons it is called TAe Gateway Series.
The poems, plays, essays, and stories in these small vol-
umes are treated, first of all, as works of literature, which were
written to be read and enjoyed, not to be parsed and scanned
and pulled to pieces. A short life of the author is given, and
a portrait, in order to help the student to know the real person
who wrote the book. Tlie introduction tells what it is about,
and how it was written, and where the author got the idea,
and what it means. The notes at the foot of the page are
simply to give tlie sense of the hard words so that the student
can read straight on without turning to a dictionary. The
other notes, at the end of the book, explain difficulties and
allusions and fine points.
The editors are chosen jjecause of their thorough training
and special fitness to deal with the books committed to them,
and because they agree with this idea of what a Gateway
.Series ought to lie. They express, in each case, their own
views of the books which they edit. Sini])]icity, thorougli-
ness, shortness, and clearness, — these, we hope, will be tlie
marks of the series.
HENRY VAN DYKE,
CONTENTS
Introduction
Map
An Inland Voyage
Preface to First Edition .
Dedication .....
Antwerp to Boom ....
On the Willebroek Canal
The Royal Sport Nautique
At Maubeuge .....
On the Sambre Canalized : To Quartes
Pont-sur-Sambre : We are Pedlars .
The Travelling Merchant
On the Sambre Canalized : To Landrecies
At Landrecies ....
Sambre and Oise Canal : Canal-boats
The Oise in Flood ....
Origny Sainte-Benoite : A By-day .
The Company at Table
Down the Oise : To Moy
La Fere of Cursed Memory
Down the Oise : Through the Golden Valk-y
Noyon Cathedral ....
Down the Oise : To Compiegne
At Compiegne ....
Changed Times ....
Down the Oise : Church Interiors .
Precy and the Marionettes
Back to the World ....
Notes
vi
I
3
5
lO
15
21
27
33
39
44
50
55
60
69
76
83
88
95
97
102
105
tie
116
123
135
End of Volume
INTRODUCTION
A GREAT many American boys and girls have become
acquainted with Robert Louis Stevenson through some
of his dehghtful romantic stories, perhaps Treasure
Island or Kidnapped or David Balfour} To them, as to
many others, it is of great interest to follow the events
of his life, which was almost as romantic as his stories.
Though his ancestors for generations had lived and died
in Scotland, he felt in him an irresistible desire to wander,
to see new sights, meet new people, and enjoy strange
experiences. So, though he always loved Scotland as the
land of his birth and childhood, he was at home in
France, in Germany, in the United States, and in many
of the islands of the Pacific. His grave is in the Samoan
Islands, almost as far from his native land and the graves
of his fathers as half the distance rounrl the world.
The Stevensons were a family of engineers, famous for
long years of service in cstal)lishing lighthouses in Scottish
waters. The author's grandfather won fame for himself
and his family by constructing the Bell Rock lighthouse,
the first lighthouse ever built on a reef below the
* In England this is called Catriona, and forms I'art II of tlic
story David Balfour, of which Kiiiuappedinxxn^ Part I.
vii
viii Inland Voyage
surface of the water at the lowest tide. According to
the account given by his grandson in the unfinished
A Family of Engineers, he was a strong, masterful man
who in the lighthouse service was " king to his finger-
tips." And yet in spite of his severity and rough ex-
terior he was most kind and thoughtful, not only for his
family, but for those in his service and for their families.
Many of these traits were possessed in large measure
by his son Thomas, the father of Robert Louis. Mr. Col-
vin speaks of him as " a staunch friend and sagacious
adviser, trenchant in judgement and demonstrative in
emotion, outspoken, dogmatic — despotic, even, in little
things, but withal essentially chivalrous and soft hearted."
He had many disappointments that he found very hard
to bear. Of course he was proud of the work done by
the Stevenson family and of the name they had made.
What could be more natural than that he should wish his
only son to follow in his profession and maintain the
family name and reputation? But Robert Louis had not
the health nor the inclination to gratify his father's ambi-
tion. Then, too, the son differed greatly from his father
in taste, in temperament, habits of Hfe, and in religious
beliefs. Relations between them were sometimes strained,
but the father's love and good sense were strong, and so
he was able to overlook some things and appreciate the
traits of character, very different from his own, that in
due time made his son so famous. It is one of the
evidences of his greatness that this dogmatic, even des-
potic Scotchman could accept with grace such great
Introduction ix
disappointments and could enter so sympathetically and
so tenderly into his son's life.
Stevenson's mother was Margaret Balfour, the daughter
of a clergyman in the parish of Colinton. In tempera-
ment she was very different from her husband, for she
was quick, vivacious, and full of interest in whatever was
going on about her. She steadily looked on the bright
side of life, and was a charming hostess. Unfortunately
her health was far from strong ; she suffered from chest
and nerve troubles in early life and was often unable to
give personal care to her son in his many sicknesses. If
he inherited from her his constitutional weaknesses, he
also inherited from her, vivacity, an artistic tempera-
ment, a deep interest in many things, a power to enjoy,
and a spirit that was strong in the midst of discourage-
ment.
Robert Louis Stevenson was born at 8 Howard Place,
Edinburgh, November 13, 1850. He was a delicate
child ; but had no serious sickness until he was about
two years old. From that time he was never very strong,
took cold easily, and was often ill for months at a time.
Since his mother was more or less an invalid, he was left
to a large extent to the care of a nurse. And his nurse
became one of the important influences in his childhood.
Alison Cunningham, always " Cummie " to him, was the
loyal devoted nurse from the time he was eighteen
months old until he was too old to need her care, and re-
mained with the family long afterward. She was a de-
vout Scotch woman, who roused his imaginative terror
X Inland Voyage
with her pictures of hell, but who at other times read
him tales that appealed strongly to his romantic nature
and recited poetry with such dramatic effect that it made
a great impression on him. He was thoroughly devoted
to her and made frequent references to her both in his
poems and in his essays.
Handicapped as he was by fits of sickness so that
sometimes he could not leave his room all winter, he was
kept to a large extent from associations with other chil-
dren and got his entertainment from books, pictures, and
his nurse. His poem. The Land of Counterpane, gives
us a vivid picture of the invalid boy.
" When I was sick and lay a-bed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay
To keep me happy all the day.
"And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go.
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bedclothes, through the hills ;
" And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets ;
Or brought my trees and houses out
And planted cities all about.
" I was the giant, great and still.
That sits upon the pillow hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant Land of Counterpane,"
Introduction xi
At times, however, especially in the summer, he had long
visits at his Grandfather Balfour's in Colinton. Here he
found other children, for it was a favourite place with his
cousins as well as himself, and here were passed the hap-
piest times of his childhood. The Manse, where his
grandfather lived, was next to the churchyard ; and here
the children, led by the imaginative Robert, looked for
ghosts and -played games of witches, ghosts, and fairies.
It is thus easy for us to see not only the imagination that
later gave us Treasure Island and Kidnapped, but also
how that imagination was fostered and developed.
As might be expected in the case of so dehcate a boy,
his education was somewhat irregular. For two or three
years he was a student at the Edinburgh Academy, for a
few weeks he was at an English private school, and for
longer or shorter times at private schools in Edinburgh.
But these facts are comparatively unimportant, for the
real education that he received he got not so much at the
schools, which he very irregularly attended, as in travel
and reading. On account of his mother's health he
spent several winters in I'>ance and in summer made
various excursions to different parts of Scotland. He
read much from poetry and romance, from essays
and history. To prepare him for the vocation of a
civil engineer he was sent \.o E<linburgh University, where
his work was not distinguished. What a|)pealed tc; him
he studied with good success, but much of the i)rescribed
work was uninteresting and therefore unstudied. He
says of himself that he was "an inveterate truant and
xii Inland Voyage
idler," and it is evident that his university work was not a
source of gratification to his friends. At length he came
to an understanding with his father that he should defi-
nitely give up the idea of becoming an engineer, though
his father insisted that he should pursue the study of law
that he might have something more than authorship to
fall back on for a means of livelihood. Accordingly he
dropped engineering studies and in their place took those
of law and was admitted to the bar in 1875. On the
door of the family home appeared the plate, Robert
Louis Stevenson, Advocate, but he never really pursued
the practice of law. His steadfast ambition was to be a
man of letters.
During the latter part of his university life he made
frequent trips to London and the Continent, and in the
four years that followed he repeatedly yielded to the de-
sire to wander that seems to have been in his blood.
During this period he made many warm friends and
some that had a powerful effect on his life and fortunes.
Among them were Mrs. Sitwell, who became an impor-
tant factor in his spiritual development ; Sidney Colvin,
his most intimate friend and literary adviser ; W. E.
Henley, his collaborator in dramas and colleague in mag-
azine work; Andrew Lang; Edmund Gosse ; Leslie
Stephen ; and Mrs. Osbourne, his future wife. He spent
much time in France ; in Paris, of which he was very
fond, and at Barbizon and Grez, where there were con-
genial colonies of artists. It was during this time, too,
that he made the two journeys of which we have an ac-
Introduction xiii
count in the present volume. All these years his serious
thought was given to literature, although it was far from
being his means of support. For that he was dependent
on a liberal allowance from his father. The works written
at this time comprise, besides the two included in this
volume. The New Arabian Nights, the papers published
later as Virginibus Puerisque, and more than twenty other
articles published in the magazines, and later, many of
them, included in his volumes of essays.
The year 1879 marked a crisis in Stevenson's life.
Three years before, on his return from his " inland voy-
age," he found at Grez, where he often stayed with his
artist friends, an American woman, Mrs. Osbourne, and
her two young children. Her home was in California,
but having had an unhappy married life, she sought new
surroundings. Accordingly she had come to France, where
she was energetically following the pursuit of painting.
Stevenson fell in love with her, but the difficulties were
so great that he could have nothing more than a remote
hope of marriage. In the year 1879 she returned to
California, and Stevenson, a few months later, determined
to follow. His friends who knew of his plan all strongly
advised against it. He felt so sure of the opposition (jf
his parents that he did not even consult them. Although
the income from his writing had always been very small,
he now determined to give up the allowance that he had
from his father and trust entirely to his literary work for
his support. Accordingly, partly for economy and partly
for an experience that he might turn to literary use, he
xiv Inland Voyage
took passage on the Devonia as a second-class or a third-
class passenger. He moved freely among the steerage
passengers, learning what he could from them and prov-
ing himself their sincere and helpful friend. After a few
hours in New York he started in an emigrant train across
the continent. His experiences he has given us in
The Amateur Emigrant and Across the Plains. The
strain of the journey and the hardships he suffered left
him in an exhausted condition. To recuperate he went
into the mountains above Monterey and camped in the
open air. But he was near to death's door and would
probably never have recovered had it not been for
two goatherds, who took pity on him, removed him to
their shelter, and cared for him until his strength re-
turned.
After a few weeks spent not unpleasantly in Monterey,
he went, December, 1879, to San Francisco. Here he
struggled with poverty, with loneliness, and with ill
health. He worked very hard, but got little immediate
return ; his correspondence with his parents was short
and unsatisfactory ; and he tried to scrimp a little more,
fearing that he should come to actual want. Worn by
anxiety, constant work, and lack of proper food, he
broke down in health before the end of the winter.
Had it not been for Mrs. Osbourne, who cared for him
until his strength returned, he would probably not
have lived. His father, at this time learning more
about his son's affairs, acknowledged that he had -been
labouring under a misapprehension, and telegraphed him
Introduction xv
that he might count on the old allowance of ;^2 5o a
year. In May he was married to Mrs. Osbourne and
went up into the hills to a deserted mining camp, where
they roughed it for some weeks and where in spite of
some hardships his health grew stronger. The story of
life in this mining camp is found in The Silverado
Squatters. In the summer he learned that his father
and mother were both anxious to have him return
and bring his wife. So, in August, he sailed from
New York with his family and was welcomed in Liver-
pool, a little more than a year after his departure for
America.
Of his marriage it should be said that both husband
and wife seemed peculiarly adapted for each other, and
that their married life proved to be abundantly happy
until they were separated by death. Mrs. Stevenson was
warmly received by her husband's family and was espe-
cially a favourite with her father-in-law.
From this time till his death, fourteen years later, Steven-
son's health was a source of almost constant anxiety to
his family. I lis lungs were affected so that he had more
or less frc(iucnt hemorrhages. The doctor advised spend-
ing the winter in Switzerland, and so for two winters
the invalid somewhat impatiently lived and wrote at
Davos in the mountains of Switzerland. The next two
winters, 1882-1883, were spent most haj)pily in Southern
France and the three following in Hournemouth, England,
where Thomas Stevenson purchased a house and presented
it to his daughter-in-law.
xvl Inland Voyage
All these years of invalidism, however, were full of
hard work. He established his reputation as a writer,
and his books were more and more in demand. When
he returned from California, he had a good deal of liter-
ary material which he used to a large extent in magazine
articles. His first popular success was Treasure Is/ant/,
which met with little favour when it first appeared as a
serial in Young Folks^ Magazhie in 1881, but which was
widely read and very popular when, two years later, it
appeared in book form. Prince Otto, Kidnapped, A
Child's Garden of Verses, and The Strange Case of Dr.
Jekyll and Air. Hyde, soon followed and won for him a
very wide and enthusiastic audience.
Continued ill health made a change of climate again
desirable, and the death of his father and consequent
breaking up of the home left him free to go wherever it
might seem best. Accordingly in 1887 with his family,
including his mother, he bade farewell to Scotland and
England, a farewell which proved to be his last, and
sailed for the United States. If he had any doubt of the
fame that had preceded him, he must have been surprised
and pleased with the reception given him in New York.
Perhaps he compared his arrival at this time with that
eight years before. Then he came alone, unheralded, an
emigrant ; he stayed at a poor little hotel on West Street,
near the docks. Now he was surrounded by his family,
met by friends and others delighting to do him honour,
not to speak of a crowd of reporters ; he was received
by people of wealth and distinction and entertained by
Introduction xvii
them at their homes. He was sought out by magazine
editors who vied with one another in offering large sums
for his work, and he made arrangements with them that
proved exceedingly profitable to him.
The first winter he spent in the Adirondack Mountains
at Saranac Lake, where, in spite of Severe cold and much
discomfort, his health improved ; but the desire to travel
burned in his blood, and so in the early summer he was
again going across the plains to California. With a longing
for the sea, which perhaps he inherited from his ancestors
who built lighthouses in the northern waters, he hired the
yacht Casco for a trip in the Pacific. Although the voy-
age was taken largely for his health, he had a most liberal
offer from McClure's Magazine for letters of travel which
should give an account of his journey. For the three
years from 1888 to 1890 Stevenson travelled up and down
the Pacific, visiting the most important groui)s of islands
and making long stops at the Hawaiian Islands, the (Gil-
bert Islands, Tahiti, and the Samoan Islands. He had a
great many interesting experiences of which we may read
in his book, /// the South Seas. Sometimes he was be-
calmed ; at other times he was in the fury of the hurri-
cane. He escaped from these dangers of the sea and also
fr(jm those of fever and of savages. He entered into
the life of the natives, of the missionaries, and of other
foreign resi(lent.s, eager to learn and to help. He was
trusted by the natives and loved by some of the chiefs
with intense devotion. In Hawaii he visited the leper
settlement, played crotiuet with the diseased children
xviii Inland Voyage
and cheered those who were giving their lives to the care
of those unfortunates. P>erywhere he carried cheer and
courage and kindly sympathy and left behind, as he went
on, groups of sorrowing friends.
Years before, he had dreamed of building a house in
the mild climate of Southern France, and now the longing
for a home returned, only instead of France it was to be
in one of the Pacific islands. For several reasons he de-
cided on one of the Samoan group, and here bought
four hundred acres, densely wooded, two miles from
the coast and six hundred feet above the sea. Here
he built a house that became a resting place for many
a European travelling in Pacific waters and that stood
with open doors for scores of natives who found in
their Tusitala, as they called Stevenson, a sincere friend
and wise adviser. This place he called Vailima, from the
Samoan for "five waters." Here he worked, finishing
many books and beginning others that were left unfinished,
when four years later, December 3, 1894, he was sud-
denly stricken down in the midst of his family and died
without regaining consciousness.
It is delightful to read of the love that Stevenson in-
spired in the natives. He was always sincerely their
friend, listening to their troubles and giving them wise
advice without fear or favour. When the chief Mataafa
and his political associates were kept in prison, he visited
them and did them little kindnesses. He was a father
to his family of servants and gathered them at the close
of day in the great hall of his home for evening prayers.
Introduction xix
Mr. Balfour has quoted Mr. Lloyd Osbourne's account
of the way the natives sought Stevenson's advice on all
sorts of subjects : —
" Government chiefs and rebels consulted him with
regard to policy ; political letters were brought to him
to read and criticize ; his native following was so widely
divided in party that he was often kept better informed
on current events than any other one person in the country.
Old gentlemen would arrive in stately procession with
squealing pigs for the ' chief-house of wisdom,' and
would beg advice on the capitation tax or some such
subject of the hour ; an armed party would come from
across the island with gifts, and a request that Tusitala
would take charge of the funds of the village, and buy
the roof iron for a proposed church. Parties would
come to hear the latest news of the proposed disarm-
ing of the country, or to arrange a private audience
with one of the officials ; and poor war-worn chieftains,
whose only anxiety was to join the winning side, and
who wished to consult with Tusitala as to which that
might be. Mr. Stevenson would sigh sometimes as he
saw these stately folk crossing the lawn in single file, their
attendants following behind with presents and baskets,
but he never failed to hear them."
They showed their regard for him in many ways, the
most notable of which probably was the building of the
" Roafl of the Loving Heart," a broad and beautiful road
to Vailima, built by the Mataafa chiefs, who had' been be-
friended in prison. The grief of the Samoans at their
XX Inland Voyage
Tusitala's death was deep and sincere, A group of them
took their places about his body the evening of his death
and refused to leave. All night long they kept their
silent watch, and the following day they bore the coffin
by a rough and difficult path to the top of the hill above
Vailima, where he rests far from the graves of his fathers,
but near a people whom he loved and who devotedly loved
him in return. On one side of the tomb are the follow-
ing words in Samoan : —
THE TOMB OF TUSITALA
"Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will
lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God:
where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried."
On the other side is Stevenson's own Requicfti.
Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me :
Here he lies where he longed to be ;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea.
And the hunter home from the kill.
XXI
PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION
To equip so small a book with a preface is, I am
half afraid, to sin against proportion. But a preface
is more than an author can resist, for it is the reward
of his labours. When the foundation stone is laid, the
architect appears with his plans, and struts for an hour
before the public eye. So with the writer in his preface :
he may have never a word to say, but he must show
himself for a moment in the portico, hat in hand, and
with an urbane demeanour.
It is best, in such circumstances, to represent a deli-
cate shade of manner between humility and superiority :
as if the book had been written by some one else, and
you had merely run over it and inserted what was good.
But for my part I have not yet learned the trick to that
perfection ; I am not yet able to dissemble the warmth
of my sentiments towards a reader; and if I meet him
on the threshold, it is to invite him in with country
cordiality.
To say truth, T had no sooner finished reading this
little book in proof, than I was seized upon by a dis-
tressing apprehension. It occurred to me that I might
not only be the first to read these pages, but the last
as well ; that I might have pioneered this very smiling
I
2 Preface to First Edition
tract of country all in vain, and find not a soul to follow
in my steps. The more I thought, the more I disliked
the notion ; until the distaste grew into a sort of panic
terror, and I rushed into this Preface, which is no more
than an advertisement for readers.
What am I to say for my book? Caleb and Joshua
brought back from Palestine a formidable bunch of
grapes ; alas ! my book produces naught so nourishing ;
and for the matter of that, we live in an age when
people prefer a definition to any quantity of fruit.
I wonder, would a negative be found enticing? for,
from the negative point of view, I flatter myself this
volume has a certain stamp. Although it runs to con-
siderably upwards of two hundred pages, it contains
not a single reference to the imbecility of God's uni-
verse, nor so much as a single hint that I could have
made a better one myself. — I really do not know where
my head can have been. I seem to have forgotten all
that makes it glorious to be man. — 'Tis an omission
that renders the book philosophically unimportant; but
I am in hopes the eccentricity may please in frivolous
circles.
To the friend who accompanied me, I owe many
thanks already, indeed I wish I owed him nothing else ;
but at this moment I feel towards him an almost exag-
gerated tenderness. He, at least, will become my
reader : — if it were only to follow his own travels
alongside of mine.
R. L. S.
TO
SIR WALTER GRINDLAY SIMPSON, BART.
My dear Cigarette,
It was enough that you should have shared so liberally in
the rains and portages of our voyage ; that you should have
had so hard a battle to recover the derelict Arethtisa on the
flooded Oise ; and that you should thenceforth have piloted
a mere wreck of mankind to Origny Saintc-Benoite and a
supper so eagerly desired. It was perhaps more than enough,
as you once somewhat piteously complained, that I should
have set down all the strong language to you, and kept the
appropriate reflections for myself I could not in decency
expf)se you to share the disgrace of another and more jniblic
shipwreck. But now that this voyage of ours is going into
a cheap edition, that peril, we shall hope, is at an end, and
I may put your name on the burgee.*
But I cannot pause till 1 have lamented the fate of our two
ships. That, sir, was not a fortunate day when we projected
the posses.sion of a canal-barge ; it was not a fortunate day
when we shared our day-dream with the most hojieful of
day-dreamers. Vox a while, indeed, the world looked smil-
ingly. The barge was procured and christened, and as the
I'leven Thousand Virf^ins of Colot^tic, lay for .some months,
the admired of all admirers, in a pleasant river and under the
1 A jK-nnant used by yaclils.
3
4 Dedication
walls of an ancient town. M. Mattras, the accomplished
carpenter of Moret, had made her a centre of emulous labour ;
and you will not have forgotten the amount of sweet cham-
pagne consumed in the inn at the bridge end, to give zeal
to the workmen and speed to the work. On the financial
aspect, I would not willingly dwell. The Eleven Thousand
Virgins of Cologne rotted in the stream where she was beauti-
fied. She felt not the impulse of the breeze ; she was never
harnessed to the patient track-horse. And when at length
she was sold, by the indignant carpenter of Moret, there were
sold along with her the Arethiisa and the Cigarette, she of
cedar, she, as we knew so keenly on a portage, of solid-hearted
English oak. Now these historic vessels fly the tricolor and
are known bv new and alien names.
R. L. S.
AN INLAND VOYAGE
ANTWERP TO BOOM
Wk made a great stir in Antwerp Docks. A stevedore
and a lot of dock porters took up the two canoes, and
ran with them for the sUp. A crowd of children followed,
cheering. The Cigarette went off in a splash and a bub-
ble of small breaking water. Next moment the Arethusa 5
was after her. A steamer was coming down, men on the
paddle-box shouted hoarse warnings, the stevedore and
his porters were bawling from the quay. But in a stroke
or two the canoes were away out in the middle of the
Scheldt, and all steamers, and stevedores, and other 10
'long-shore vanities were left behind.
The sun shone brightly; the tide was making — four
jolly miles an hour; the wind blew steadily, with occa-
sional squalls. For my part, I had never been in a canoe
under sail in my life; and my first experiment out in the 15
middle of this big river, was not made without sonic
trepidation. What would happen when the wind first
caught my little canvas? I suppose it was almost as try-
ing a venture into the regions of the unknown, as to pub-
lish a first book, or to marry. But my doubts were not ao
of long duration; and in five minutes you will not be
surprised to learn that I had tied my sheet.
5
6 Inland Voyage
I own I was a little struck by this circumstance my-
self; of course, in company with the rest of my fellow-
men, I had always tied the sheet in a sailing-boat ; but in
so little and crank a concern as a canoe, and with these
5 charging squalls, 1 was not prepared to find myself follow
the same principle ; and it inspired me with some con-
temptuous views of our regard for life. It is certainly
easier to smoke with the sheet fastened ; but I had never
before weighed a comfortable pipe of tobacco against an
lo obvious risk, and gravely elected for the comfortable
pipe. It is a commonplace, that we cannot answer for
ourselves before we have been tried. But it is not so
common a reflection, and surely more consoling, that we
usually find ourselves a great deal braver and better than
IS we thought. I believe this is every one's experience:
but an apprehension that they may belie themselves in
the future prevents mankind from trumpeting this cheer-
ful sentiment abroad. I wish sincerely, for it would have
saved me much trouble, there had been some one to put
20 me in a good heart about life when I was younger; to
tell me how dangers are most portentous on a distant
sight ; and how the good in a man's spirit will not suffer
itself to be overlaid, and rarely or never deserts him in the
hour of need. But we are all for tootling on the senti-
25 mental flute in literature ; and not a man among us will go
to the head of the march to sound the heady ^ drums.
It was agreeable upon the river. A barge or two
went past laden with hay. Reeds and willows bordered
^ Impetuous.
Antwerp to Boom 7
the stream ; and cattle and grey venerable horses came
and hung their mild heads over the embankment. Here
and there was a pleasant village among trees, with a noisy
shipping yard ; here and there a villa in a lawn. The
wind served us well up the Scheldt and thereafter up the 5
Rupel ; and we were running pretty free when we began
to sight the brickyards of Boom, lying for a long way on
the right bank of the river. The left bank was still green
and pastoral, with alleys of trees along the embankment,
and here and there a flight of steps to serve a ferry, 10
where perhaps there sat a woman with her elbows on her
knees, or an old gentleman with a staff and silver spec-
tacles. But Boom and its brickyards grew smokier and
shabbier with every minute ; until a great church with a
clock, and a wooden bridge over the river, indicated the 15
central quarters of the town.
Boom is not a nice place, and is only remarkable for
one thing : that the majority of the inhabitants have a
private opinion that they can speak English, which is not
justified by fact. This gave a kind of haziness to our 20
intercourse. As for the Hdtel (ic la Navigation, I think it
is the worst feature of the place. It boasts of a sanded
parlour, with a bar at one end, hjoking on the street ;
and another santled parlour, darker and colder, with an
empty birfl-cage and a tricolour subscription box by way 25
of sole adornment, where we made shift to dine -in the
company of three imcommunicative engineer apprentices
and a silent bagman.' The food, as usual in ilclgium,
^ A commercial traveller.
8 Inland Voyage
was of a nondescript occasional character ; indeed, I
have never been able to detect anything in the nature of
a meal among this pleasing people ; they seem to peck
and trifle with viands all day long in an amateur spirit :
5 tentatively French, truly German, and somehow falling
between the two.
The empty bird-cage, swept and garnished, and with
no trace of the old piping favourite, save where two wires
had been pushed apart to hold its lump of sugar, carried
lo with it a sort of graveyard cheer. The engineer appren-
tices would have nothing to say to us, nor indeed to the
bagman ; but talked low and sparingly to one another, or
raked us in the gas-light with a gleam of spectacles. For
though handsome lads, they were all (in the Scotch
15 phrase) barnacled.^
There was an English maid in the hotel, who had been
long enough out of England to pick up all sorts of funny
foreign idioms, and all sorts of curious foreign ways,
which need not here be specified. She spoke to us very
20 fluently in her jargon, asked us information as to the
manners of the present day in England, and obligingly
corrected us when we attempted to answer. But as we
were dealing with a woman, perhaps our information was
not so much thrown away as it appeared. The sex likes
25 to pick up knowledge and yet preserve its superiority.
It is good policy, and almost necessary in the circum-
stances. If a man finds a woman admire him, were it
only for his acquaintance with geography, he will begin
1 Fitted with spectacles.
Antwerp to Boom 9
at once to build upon the admiration. It is only by un-
intermittent snubbing that the pretty ones can keep us in
our place. Men, as Miss Howe or Miss Harlowe would
have said, "are such encroachers." For my part, I am
body and soul with the women ; and after a well- married s
couple, there is nothing so beautiful in the world as the
myth of the divine huntress. It is no use for a man to
take to the woods ; we know him ; Anthony tried the
same thing long ago, and had a pitiful time of it by all
accounts. But there is this about some women, which 10
overtops the best gymnosophist among men, that they
suffice to themselves, and can walk in a high and cold
zone without the countenance of any trousered being.
I declare, although the reverse of a professed ascetic,
I am more obliged to women for this ideal than I should 15
be to the majority of them, or indeed to any but one, for
a spontaneous kiss. There is nothing so encouraging as
the spectacle of self-sufficiency. And when I think of
the slim and lovely maidens, running the woods all night
to the note of Diana's horn ; moving among the old oaks,'2o
as fancy-free as they; things of the forest and the star-
light, not touched by the commotion of man's hot and
turljid life — although there are plenty other ideals that I
should prefer — I find my heart beat at the thought of
this one. 'Tis to fail in life, but to fail with what a grace ! 25
That is not lost which is not regretted. And where —
here slips out the male — where would be much of the
glory of inspiring love, if there were no contempt to over-
come ?
lo Inland Voyage
ON THE WILLEBROEK CANAL
Next morning, when we set forth on the Willebroek
Canal, the rain began heavy and chill. The water of
the canal stood at about the drinking temperature of
tea ; and under this cold aspersion the surface was
5 covered with steam. The exhilaration of departure, and
the easy motion of the boats under each stroke of the
paddles, supported us through this misfortune while it
lasted ; and when the cloud passed and the sun came
out again, our spirits went up above the range of stay-at-
lo home humours. A good breeze rustled and shivered in
the rows of trees that bordered the canal. The leaves
flickered in and out of the light in tumultuous masses.
It seemed sailing weather to eye and ear ; but down
between the banks the wind reached us only in faint
15 and desultory puffs. There was hardly enough to steer
"by. Progress was intermittent and unsatisfactory. A
jocular person, of marine antecedents, hailed us from the
tow-path with a "C'est vite, mais c'est lofig."
The canal was busy enough. Every now and then we
20 met or overtook a long string of boats, with great green
tillers ; high sterns with a window on either side of the
rudder, and perhaps a jug or a flower-pot in one of the
windows ; a dingy following behind ; a woman busied
about the day's dinner, and a handful of children. These
25 barges were all tied one behind the other with tow-ropes,
On the Willebroek Canal ii
to the number of twenty-five or thirty ; and the line was
headed and kept in motion by a steamer of strange con-
struction. It had neither paddle-wheel nor screw ; but
by some gear not rightly comprehensible to the unme-
chanical mind, it fetched up over its bow a small bright s
chain which lay along the bottom of the canal, and paying
it out again over the stern, dragged itself forward, link
by link, with its whole retinue of loaded scows. Until
one had found out the key to the enigma, there was
something solemn and uncomfortable in the progress of lo
one of these trains, as it moved gently along the water
with nothing to mark its advance but an eddy alongside
dying away into the wake.
Of all the creatures of commercial enterprise, a canal-
barge is by far the most delightful to consider. It may 15
spread its sails, and then you see it sailing high above
the tree-tops and the wind-mill, sailing on the aqueduct,
sailing through the green corn-lands : the most picturesque
of things amphibious. Or the horse plods along at a
foot-pace as if there were no such thing as business in 20
the world; and the man dreaming at the tiller sees the
same spire on the hori/on all day long. It is a mystery
how things ever get to their destination at this rate ; and
to see the barges waiting their turn at a lock, affords a
fine lesson of how easily the worKl may be taken. There 25
should be many contented spirits on boanl, for such a
life is both to travel and to stay at home.
The chimney smokes for dinner a.s you go along ; the
banks of the canal slowly unroll their scenery to con-
12 Inland Voyage
templative eyes; the barge floats by great forests and
through great cities with their pubHc buildings and their
lamps at night j and for the bargee, in his floating home,
" travelling abed," it is merely as if he were listening to
5 another man's story or turning the leaves of a picture
book in which he had no concern. He may take his
afternoon walk in some foreign country on the banks of
the canal, and then come home to dinner at his own
fireside.
lo There is not enough exercise in such a life for any
high measure of health ; but a high measure of health is
only necessary for unhealthy people. The slug of a
fellow, who is never ill nor well, has a quiet time of it in
life, and dies all the easier.
IS I am sure I would rather be a bargee than occupy any
position under Heaven that required attendance at an
office. There are few callings, I should say, where a
man gives up less of his liberty in return for regular
meals. The bargee is on shipboard — he is master in
20 his own ship — he can land whenever he will — he can
never be kept beating off a lee shore a whole frosty night
when the sheets are as hard as iron ; and so far as I can
make out, time stands as nearly still with him as is com-
patible with the return of bedtime or the dinner-hour.
25 It is not easy to see why a bargee should ever die.
Half-way between VVillebroek and Villevorde, in a beau-
tiful reach of canal like a squire's avenue, we went ashore
to lunch. There were two eggs, a junk of bread, and a
bottle of wine on l)oard the Arethusa ; and two eggs and
On the Willebroek Canal 13
an Etna cooking apparatus on board the Cigarette. The
master of the latter boat smashed one of the eggs in the
course of disembarkation ; but observing pleasantly that
it might still be cooked a la papier, he dropped it into
the Etna, in its covering of Flemish newspaper. We 5
landed in a blink of fine weather ; but we had not been
two minutes ashore, before the wind freshened into half
a gale, and the rain began to patter on our shoulders.
We sat as close about the Etna as we could. The spirits
burned with great ostentation ; the grass caught flame 10
every minute or two, and had to be trodden out ; and
before long there were several burnt fingers of the
party. But the solid quantity of cookery accomplished
was out of proportion with so much display ; and when
we desisted, after two applications of the fire, the sound 15
egg was little more than loo-warm ; and as for a la papier,
it was a cold and sordid fricassee of printer's ink and
broken egg-shell. We made shift to roast the other two,
by putting them close to the burning spirits ; and that
with better success. And then wc uncorked the bottle of ao
wine, and sat down in a ditch with our canoe aprons over
our knees. It rained smartly. Discomfort, when it is
honestly uncomfortable and makes no nauseous preten-
sions to the contrary, is a vastly humorous business ; and
people well steeped and stupefied in the open air, are in 25
a good vein for laughter. From this point of view, even
egg a la papier, offered byway of food, may ])ass muster
as a sort of accessory to the fun. Hut this manner of
jest, although it may be taken in good part, does not
14 Inland Voyage
invite repetition ; and from that time forward, the Etna
voyaged like a gentleman in the locker of the Cii^arefie.
It is almost unnecessary to mention that when lunch
was over and we got aboard again and made sail, the
5 wind promptly died away. The r'est of the journey to
Villevorde, we still spread our canvas to the unfavouring
air ; and with now and then a puff, and now and then a
spell of paddling, drifted along from lock to lock, be-
tween the orderly trees.
lo It was a fine, green, fat landscape ; or rather a mere
green water-lane, going on from village to village.
Things had a settled look, as in places long lived in.
Crop-headed children spat upon us from the bridges as
we went below, with a true conservative feeling. But
IS even more conservative were the fishermen, intent upon
their floats, who let us go by without one glance. They
perched upon sterlings and buttresses and along the slope
of the embankment, gently occupied.- They were indif-
5ju* ', ferent, like pieces of dead nature. They did not move
'' ^ 20 any more than if they had been fishing in an old Dutch
print. The leaves fluttered, the water lapped, but they
continued in one stay like so many churches established
by law. You might have trepanned every one of their
innocent heads, and found no more than so much coiled
25 fishing line below their skulls. I do not care for your
stalwart fellows in india-rubber stockings breasting up
mountain torrents with a salmon rod ; but I do dearly
love the class of man who plies his unfniitful art, for ever
and a day, by still and depopulated waters.
'I
The Royal Sport Nautique 15
At the last lock, just beyond Villevorde, there was a
lock mistress who spoke French comprehensibly, and
told us we were still a couple of leagues from Brussels.
At the same place the rain began again. It fell in
straight, parallel lines ; and the surface of the canal was 5
thrown up into an infinity of little crystal fountains.
There were no beds to be had in the neighbourhood.
Nothing for it but to lay the sails aside and address our-
selves to steady paddling in the rain.
Beautiful country houses, with clocks and long lines of 10
shuttered windows, and fine old trees standing in groves
and avenues, gave a rich and sombre aspect in the rain
and the deepening dusk to the shores of the canal. I
seem to have seen something of the same effect in engrav-
ings : opulent landscapes, deserted and overhung with 15
the passage of storm. And throughout we had the escort
of a hooded cart, which trotted shabbily along the tow-
path, and kept at an almost uniform distance in our wake.
THE Rr)YAL SPORT NAUTIQUE
The rain took off near Laeken. liut the sun was
already down ; the air was chill ; and we had scarcely a 20
dry stitch between the pair of us. Nay, now we found
ourselves near the end of the Alice Verte, and on the very
threshold of Brussels we were confronted by a serious
difficulty. The shores were closely lined by canal- boats
waiting their turn at the lock. Nowhere was there any 25
convenient landing-place ; nowhere so much as a stable-
i6 Inland Voyage
yard to leave the canoes in for the night. We scrambled
ashore and entered an estaminet ' where some sorry fel-
lows were drinking with the landlord. The landlord was
pretty round with us ; he knew of no coach-house or
5 stable-yard, nothing of the sort ; and seeing we had come
with no mind to drink, he did not conceal his impatience
to be rid of us. One of the sorry fellows came to the rescue.
Somewhere in the corner of the basin there was a slip, he
informed us, and something else besides, not very clearly
10 defined by him, but hopefully construed by his hearers.
Sure enough there was the slip in the corner of the
basin ; and at the top of it two nice-looking lads in boat-
ing clothes. The Arethusa addressed himself to these.
One of them said there would be no difficulty about a
1 5 night's lodging for our boats; and the other, taking a
cigarette from his lips, inquired if they were made by
Searle & Son. The name was quite an introduction.
Half-a-dozen other young men came out of the boat-
house bearing the superscription Royal Sport Nau-
20TIQUE, and joined in the talk. They were all very
polite, voluble and enthusiastic ; and their discourse was
interlarded with English boating terms and the names of
English boat-builders and English clubs. I do not know,
to my shame, any spot in my native land where I should
25 have been so warmly received by the same number of
people. We were English boating men, and the Belgian
boating men fell upon our necks. I wonder if French
Huguenots were as cordially greeted by English Protes-
1 A drinking-house.
The Royal Sport Nautique 17
tants when they came across the Channel out of great
tribulation. But after all, what religion knits people so
closely as a common sport?
The canoes were carried into the boat-house ; they
were washed down for us by the Club servants, the sails 5
were hung out to dry, and everything made as snug and
tidy as a picture. And in the meanwhile we were led
upstairs by our new-found brethren, for so more than one
of them stated the relationship, and made free of their
lavatory. This one lent us soap, that one a towel, a third 10
and fourth helped us to undo our bags. And all the time
such questions, such assurances of respect and sympathy !
I declare I never knew what glory was before.
" Yes, yes, the Royal Sport Nautique is the oldest club
in Belgium." 15
" We number two hundred."
" We " — this is not a substantive speech, but an abstract
of many speeches, the impression left upon my mind after
a great deal of talk ; and very youthful, pleasant, natural
and patriotic it seems to me to be — " \Vc have gained 20
all races, except those where we were cheated by the
French."
"You must leave all your wet things to be dried."
"O! entre frcres ! In any boat-house in England wc
'should find the same." ( I (f)r<Iially hope they might.) ,5
" En Ang/eterre, voua einploycz dcs siu/ing- seats, n' est-
er pas ? "
" We are all employed in comnicr<c during the day ; but
in the evening, voyez vous, nous sommes sen'eux."
1 8 Inland Voyage
These were the words. They were all employed over
the frivolous mercantile concerns of Belgium during the
day ; but in the evening they found some hours for the
serious concerns of life. I may have a wrong idea of
5 wisdom, but I think that was a very wise remark. People
connected with literature and philosophy are busy all their
days in getting rid of second-hand notions and false
standards. It is their ])rofession, in the sweat of their
brows, by dogged thinking, to recover their old fresh
10 view of life, and distinguish what they really and originally
like from what they have only learned to tolerate perforce.
And these Royal Nautical Sportsmen had the distinction
still quite legible in their hearts. They had still those
clean perceptions of what is nice and nasty, what is inter-
ijcsting and what is dull, which envious old gentlemen
refer to as illusions. The nightmare illusion of middle age,
the bear's hug of custom gradually squeezing the life out
of a man's soul, had not yet begun for these happy-starr'd
young Belgians. They still knew that the interest they
20 took in their business was a trifling affair compared to
their spontaneous, long-suffering affection for nautical
sports. To know what you prefer, instead of humbly say-
ing Amen to what the world tells you you ought to pre-
fer, is to have kept your soul alive. Such a man may be
25 generous; he may be honest in something more than the '
commercial sense ; he may love his friends with an elec-
tive, personal sympathy, and not accept them as an
adjunct of the station to which he has been called. He
may be a man, in short, acting on his own instincts, keeping
The Royal Sport Nautique 19
in his own shape that God made him in ; and not a mere
crank in the social engine house, welded on principles that
he does not understand, and for purposes that he does
not care for.
For will anyone dare to tell me that business is mores
entertaining than fooUng among boats? He must have
never seen a boat, or never seen an office, who says so.
And for certain the one is a great deal better for the
health. There should be nothing so much a man's busi-
ness as his amusements. Nothing but money-grubbing
can be put forward to the contrary ; no one but
Mammon, the least erected spirit that fell
From Heaven,
durst risk a word in answer. It is but a lying cant that
would represent the merchant and the banker as people 15
disinterestedly toiling for mankind, and then most useful
when they are most absorbed in their transactions ; for
the man is more important than his services. And when
my Royal Nautical Sportsman shall have so far fallen
from his hopeful youth that he cannot pluck up an en- 20
thusiasm over anything but his ledger, I venture to doubt
whether he will be near so nice a fellow, and whether he
would welcome, with so good a grace, a couple of
drenched Englishmen ])addling into Brussels in the
dusk. 'S
When we had changed our wet clothes and drunk a glass
of pale ale to the Club's prosperity, one of their number
escorted us to an hotel. He wo\il«l not join us at our
dinner, but he had no objection to a glass of wine.
20 Inland Voyage
Enthusiasm is very wearing ; and I begin to understand
why prophets were unpopular in Judaea, where they were
best known. For three stricken hours did this excellent
young man sit beside us to dilate on boats and boat-races ;
5 and before he left, he was kind enough to order our bed-
room candles.
We endeavoured now and again to change the subject ;
but the diversion did not last a moment : the Royal Nau-
tical Sportsman bridled, shied, answered the question,
lo and then breasted once more into the swelling tide of his
subject. I call it his subject; but I think it was he who
was subjected. The Arethusa, who holds all racing as a
creature of the devil, found himself in a pitiful dilemma.
He durst not own his ignorance for the honour of Old
1 5 England, and spoke away about English clubs and Eng-
lish oarsmen whose fame had never before come to his
ears. Several times, and once, above all, on the question
of sliding-seats, he was witiiin an ace of exposure. As
for the Cigarette, who has rowed races in the heat of his
20 blood, but now disowns these slips of his wanton youth, his
case was still more desperate ; for the Royal Nautical
proposed that he should take an oar in one of their eights
on the morrow, to compare the English with the Belgian
stroke. I could see my friend perspiring in his chair
25 whenever that particular topic came up. And there was
yet another proposal which had the same effect on both
of us. It appeared that the champion canoeist of Europe
(as well as most other champions) was a Royal Nautical
Sportsman. And if we would only wail until the Sunday,
At Maubeuge 2i
this infernal paddler would be so condescending as to
accompany us on our next stage. Neither of us had the
least desire to drive the coursers of the sun against Apollo.
When the young man was gone, we countermanded
our candles, and ordered some brandy and water. The s
great billows had gone over our head. The Royal Nau-
tical Sportsmen were as nice young fellows as a man would
wish to see, but they were a trifle too young and a thought
too nautical for us. We began to see that we were old
and cynical ; we liked ease and the agreeable rambling lo
of the human mind about this and the other subject ; we
did not want to disgrace our native land by messing an
eight, or toiling pitifully in the wake of the chamjMon
canoeist. In short, we had recourse to flight. It seemed
ungrateful, but we tried to make that good on a card 15
loaded with sincere compliments. And indeetl it was no
time for scruples ; we seemed to feel the hot breath of
the champion on our necks.
AT MArr.KUCIE
Partly from the terror we had of our good friends the
Royal Nauticals, partly from the fact that there were no jo
fewer than fifty-five locks between lirussels and Charleroi,
we concluded that we should travel by train across the
frontier, boats and all. I-'ifty-fivc lo<ks in a day's journey
was pretty well tantamount t(j trtidging the whole distance
on foot, with the canoes upon our shoulders, an objert of as
22 Inland Voyage
astonishment to the trees on the canal side, and of honest
derision to all right-thinking children.
To pass the frontier, even in a train, is a difficult matter
for the Arethusa. He is, somehow or other, a marked
5 man for the official eye. Wherever he journeys, there are
the officers gathered together. Treaties are solemnly
signed, foreign ministers, ambassadors, and consuls sit
throned in state from China to Peru, and the Union Jack
flutters on all the winds of heaven. Under these safe-
10 guards, portly clergymen, school-mistresses, gentlemen in
grey tweed suits, and all the ruck and rabble of British
touristry pour unhindered, Murray in hand, over the
railways of the continent, and yet the slim person of the
Arethusa is taken in the meshes, while these great fish go
IS on their way rejoicing. If he travels without a passport,
he is cast, without any figure about the matter, into noi-
some dungeons : if his papers are in order, he is suffered
to go his way indeed, but not until he has been humiliated
by a general incredulity. He is a born British subject,
2o yet he has never succeeded in persuading a single official
of his nationality. He flatters himself he is indifferent
honest ; yet he is rarely taken for anything better than a
spy, and there is no absurd and disreputable means of
livelihood but has been attributed to him in some heat of
25 official or popular distrust. . . .
For the life of me I cannot understand it. I too have
been knolled to church, and sat at good men's feasts ; but
I bear no mark of it. I am as strange as a Jack Indian to
their official spectacles. I might come from any part of
At Maubeuge . 23
the globe, it seems, except from where I do. My an-
cestors have laboured in vain, and the glorious Constitu-
tion cannot protect me in my walks abroad. It is a great
thing, believe me, to present a good normal type of the
nation you belong to. -
Nobody else was asked for his papers on the way to
Maubeuge ; but I was ; and although I clung to my rights,
I had to choose at last between accepting the humiliation
and being left behind by the train. I was sorry to give
way ; but I wanted to get to Maubeuge. 10
Maubeuge is a fortified town, with a very good inn, the
Grand Cerf. It seemed to be inhabited princiiially by
soldiers and bagmen ; at least, these were all that we
saw, except the hotel servants. We had to stay there
some time, for the canoes were in no hurry to follow us, 15
and at last stuck hopelessly in the custom-house until we
went back to liberate them. There was nothing to do,
nothing to see. We had good meals, which was a great
matter ; but that was all.
^ The Cii^arette was nearly taken up upon a charge of ao
drawing the fortifications : a feat of which he was hope-
lessly incapable. And besides, as I suppose each bellig-
erent nation has a i)]an of the other's fortified places
already, these precautions are of the nature of shutting the
stable-door after the steed is away. But I have no doubt 25
they help to keep up a good spirit at home. It is a great
thing if you can persuade i)eoi)le that they are someli(nv
or other partakers in a mystery. It makes them feel
bigger. Even the Freemasons, who have been shown up to
24 Inhmd Voyage
satiety, preserve a kind of pride ; and not a grocer among
them, however honest, harmless, and empty-headed he may
feel himself to be at bottom, but comes home from one of
their coenacuhi ^ with a portentous significance for himself.
5 It is an odd thing, how happily two people, if there are
two, can live in a place where they have no acquaintance.
I think the spectacle of a whole life in which you have no
part paralyses personal desire. You are content to be-
come a mere spectator. The baker stands in his door ;
10 the colonel with his three medals goes by to the cafe at
night ; the troops drum and trumpet and man the ram-
parts, as bold as so many lions. It would task language to
say how placidly you behold all this. In a place where
you have taken some root, you are provoked out of your
15 indifference ; you have a hand in the game ; your friends
are fighting with the army. But in a strange town, not
small enough to grow too soon familiar, nor so large as to
have laid itself out for travellers, you stand so far apart
from the business, that you positively forget it would be
10 possible to go nearer ; you have so little human interest
around you, that you do not remember yourself to be a
man. Perhaps, in a very short time, you would be one no
longer. Gymnosophists go into a wood, with all nature
seething around them, with romance on every side ; it
25 would be much more to the purpose, if they took up their
abode in a dull country town, where they should see just so
much of humanity as to keep them from desiring more,
and only the stale externals of man's life. These externals
1 Feasts.
At Maubeuge 25
are as dead to us as so many formalities, and speak a dead
language in our eyes and ears. They have no more mean-
ing than an oath or a salutation. We are so much accus-
tomed to see married couples going to church of a Sun-
day that we have clean forgotten what they represent ; s
and novelists are driven to rehabilitate adultery, no less,
when they wish to show us what a beautiful thing it is for
a man and a woman to live for each other.
One person in Maubeuge, however, showed me some-
thing more than his outside. That was the driver of the 10
hotel omnibus : a mean-enough looking litde man, as
well as I can remember ; but with a spark of something
human in his soul. He had heard of our little journey,
and came to me at once in envious sympathy. How he
longed to travel! he told me. How he longed to be 15
somewhere else, and see the round world before he went
into the grave ! " Here I am," said he. " I drive to
the station. Well. And then I drive back again to the
hotel. And so on every day and all the week round.
My God, is that life? " I could not say I thought it was jo
— for him. He pressed me to tell him where I had
been, and where I hoped to go ; and as he listened, I
declare the fellow sighed. Might not this have been a
brave African traveller, or gone to the Indies after Drake?
Rut it is an evil age for the gipsily inclined among men. 35
He who can sit squarcst on a three-legged stool, he it is
who has the wealth and glory.
I wonder if my friend is still driving the omnibus for
<'^ the Gran^ Cerf? Not very likely, I believe ; for I tliink
26 Inland Voyage
he was on the eve of mutiny when we passed through,
and perhaps our passage determined him for good. Bet-
ter a thousand times that he should be a tramp, and mend
pots and pans by the wayside, and sleep under trees,
5 and see the dawn and the sunset every day above a new
horizon. I think I hear you say that it is a respectable
position to drive an omnibus ? Very well. What right
has he who likes it not to keep those who would like it
dearly out of this respectable position ? Suppose a dish
10 were not to my taste, and you told me that it was a fa-
vourite among the rest of the company, what should I
conclude from that ? Not to finish the dish against my
stomach, I suppose.
Respectability is a very good thing in its way, but it
15 does not rise superior to all considerations. I would not
for a moment venture to hint that it was a matter of
taste ; but I think I will go as far as this : that if a po-
sition is admittedly unkind, uncomfortable, unnecessary,
and superfluously useless, although it were as respectable
20 as the Church of England, the sooner a man is out of it,
the better for himself, and all concerned.
On the Sambre Canalized 27
ON THE SAMBRE CANALIZED
To QUARTES,
About three in the afternoon the whole establishment
of the Grand C<?;/ accompanied us to the water's edge.
The man of the omnibus was there with haggard eyes.
Poor cage-bird ! Do I not remember the time when I
myself haunted the station, to watch train after train carry s
its complement of freemen into the night, and read the
names of distant places on the time-bills with indescrib-
able longings ?
We were not clear of the fortifications before the rain
began. The wind was contrary, and blew in furious gusts ; 10
nor were the aspects of nature any more clement than the
doings of the sky. For we passed through a stretch of
blighted country, sparsely covered with brush, but hand-
somely enough diversified with factory chimneys. We
landed in a soiled meadow among some pollards, and is
there smoked a pipe in a flawof fair weather. Hut the wind
blew so hard we could get little else to smoke. There
were no natural objects in the neighbourhood, but some
sordid workshops. A group of children headed by a tall
girl stood and watched us from a little distance all the jo
time we stayed. I heartily wonder what they thought of
us.
At Hautmont, the lock was almost impassable; the
28 Inland Voyage
landing-place being steep and high, and the launch at a
long distance. Near a dozen grimy workmen lent us a
hand. They refused any reward ; and, what is much
better, refused it handsomely, without conveying any
5 sense of insult. " It is a way we have in our country-
side," said they. And a very becoming way it is. In
Scotland, where also you will get services for nothing, the
good people reject your money as if you had been trying
to corrupt a voter. When people take the trouble to do
10 dignified acts, it is worth while to take a little more, and
allow the dignity to be common to all concerned. But
in our brave Saxon countries, where we plod threescore
years and ten in the mud, and the wind keeps singing in
our ears from birth to burial, we do our good and bad
15 with a high hand and almost offensively ; and make even
our alms a witness-bearing and an act of war against the
wrong.
After Hautmont, the sun came forth again and the wind
went down ; and a little paddling took us beyond the
20 ironworks and through a delectable land. The river
wound among low hills, so that sometimes the sun was at
our backs, and sometimes it stood right ahead, and the
river before us was one sheet of intolerable glory. On
either hand, meadows and orchards bordered, with a
25 margin of sedge and water flowers, upon the river. The
hedges were of great height, woven about the trunks of
hedgerow elms; and the fields, as they were often very
small, looked like a series of bowers along the stream.
There was never any prospect ; sometimes a hill-top with
Oil the Sambre Canalized 29
its trees would look over the nearest hedgerow, just to
make a middle distance for the sky ; but that was all.
The heaven was bare of clouds. The atmosphere, after
the rain, was of enchanting purity. The river doubled
among the hillocks, a shining strip of mirror glass ; and 5
the dip of the paddles set the flowers shaking along the
brink.
In the meadows wandered black and white cattle
fantastically marked. One beast, with a white head and
the rest of the body glossy black, came to the edge to 10
drink, and stood gravely twitching his ears at me as I
went by, like some sort of preposterous clergyman in a
play. A moment after I heard a loud ])lungc, and, turn-
ing my head, saw the clergyman struggling to shore.
The bank had given way under his feet. ,5
Besides the cattle, we saw no living things except a
few birds and a great many fishermen. These sat along
the edges of the meadows, sometimes with one rod,
sometimes with as many as half a score. They seemed
stupefied with contentment ; and when we induced them jo
to exchange a few words with us about the weather, their
voices sounded cpiiet and far-away. There was a strange
fliversily of opinion among them as to the kind of fish
for which they set their lures ; although they were all
agreed in this, that the river was abundantly supplied, aj
Where it was plain that no two of them had ever caught
the same kind of fish, wc could not help suspecting that
perhaps not any one of them had ever caught a fish at
all. 1 hoi)e, since the afternoon was so lovely, that they
30 Inland Voyage
were one and all rewarded ; and that a silver booty went
home in every basket for the pot. Some of my friends
■ would cry shame on me for this ; but I prefer a man,
were he only an angler, to the bravest pair of gills in all
5 God's waters. I do not affect fishes unless when cooked
in sauce ; whereas an angler is an important piece of
river scenery, and hence deserves some recognition among
canoeists. He can always tell you where you are after
a mild fashion ; and his quiet presence serves to accen-
10 tuate the solitude and stillness, and remind you of the
glittering citizens below your boat.
The Sambre turned so industriously to and fro among
his little hills, that it was past six before we drew near
the lock at Quartes. There were some children on the
15 tow-path, with whom the Cigarette fell into a chaffing
talk as they ran along beside us. It was in vain that I
warned him. In vain I told him, in English, that boys
were the most dangerous creatures ; and if once you be-
gan with them, it was safe to end in a shower of stones.
20 For my own part, whenever anything was addressed to
me, I smiled gently and shook my head as though I were
an inoffensive person inadequately acquainted with
French. For indeed I have had such experience at
home, that I would sooner meet many wild animals than
25 a troop of healthy urchins.
But I was doing injustice to these peaceable young
Hainaulters. When the Cigarette went off to make in-
quiries, I got out upon the bank to si'oke a pipe and
superintend the boats, and became at once the centre of
On the Sambre Canalized 31
rrmch amiable curiosity. The children had been joined
by this time by a young woman and a mild lad who had
lost an arm ; and this gave me more security. When I
let slip my first word or so in French, a little girl nodded
her head with a comical grown-up air. " .^h, you see," 5
she said, " he understands well enough now ; he was just
making believe." And the little group laughed together
very good-naturedly.
They were much impressed when they heard we came
from England ; and the little girl proffered the informa- 10
tion that England was an island " and a for way from
here — bien loin (Tici."
" Ay, you may say that, a far way from here," said the
lad with one arm.
I was as nearly home-sick as ever I was in my life ; 15
they seemed to make it such an incalculable distance to
the place where I first saw the day.
They admired the canoes very much. And I observed
one piece of delicacy in these children which is worthy
of record. They had been deafening us for the last hun- »o
dred yards with i)etitions for a' sail ; ay, and they deaf-
ened us to the same tune next morning when we came to
start ; but then, when the canoes were lying empty, there
was no word of any such petition. Delicacy? or perhaps
a bit of fear for the water in so crank a vessel ? I hate »s
cynicism a great deal worse than I do the devil ; unless per-
haps the two were the same thing? And yet 'tis a good
tonic ; the cold tub and bath-towel of the sentiments ; and
positively necessary to life in cases of advanced sensibility.
32 Inland Voyage
From the boats they turned to my costume. They
could not make enough of my red sash ; and my knife
filled them with awe.
"They make them like that in England," said the boy
5 with one arm. I was glad he did not know how badly
we make them in England now-a-days. " They are for
people who go away to sea," he added, " and to defend
one's life against great fish."
I felt I was becoming a more and more romantic
lo figure to the little group at every word. And so I sup-
pose I was. Even my pipe, although it was an ordinary
French clay, pretty well " trousered," as they call it,
would have a rarity in their eyes, as a thing coming from
so far away. And if my feathers were not very fine in
15 themselves, they were all from over seas. One thing in
my outfit, however, tickled them out of all politeness;
and that was the bemired condition of my canvas shoes.
I suppose they were sure the mud at any rate was a home
product. The little girl (who was the genius of the party)
20 displayed her own sabots ^ in competition ; and I wish you
could have seen how gracefully and merrily she did it.
The young woman's milk-can, a great amphora of
hammered brass, stood some way off upon the sward. I
was glad of an opportunity to divert public attention
25 from myself, and return some of the compliments I had
received. So I admired it cordially both for form and
colour, telling them, and very truly, that it was as beauti-
ful as gold. They were not surprised. The things were
^ Wooden shoes worn by the peasants.
Pont-sur-Sambre 23
plainly the boast of the country-side. And the children
expatiated on the costliness of the amphorae, which sell
sometimes as high as thirty francs apiece ; told me how
they were carried on donkeys, one on either side of the
saddle, a brave caparison in themselves ; and how they 5
were to be seen all over the district, and at the larger
farms in great number and of great size.
PONT-SUR-SAMBR E
We are Pedlars
The Cigarette returned with good news. There were
beds to be had some ten minutes' walk from where we
were, at a place called Pont. W'e stowed the canoes in 10
a granary, and asked among the children for a guide.
The circle at once widened round us, and our offers of
reward were received in dispiriting silence. \V'e were
plainly a pair of liluebeards to the ciiildrcn ; they niigiit
speak to us in pul^lic ])laces, and where they had the ad- 15
vantage of numbers ; but it was another thing to venture
off alone with two uncoutli and legendary characters, who
had dropped from the clouds upon their hamlet this (juiet
afternoon, sashed and beknived, and with a flavour of
great voyages. The owner of the granary came to our 20
assistance, singled out one little fellow and liircatt-ncd
him with corporalities ; or I suspect wc .should have had
to find the way for ourselves. As it was, he was niorf
frightened at the cranary man than the strangers, hnving
34 Inland Voyage
perhaps had some experience of the former. But I fancy
his little heart must have been going at a fine rate ; for
he kept trotting at a respectful distance in front, and
looking back at us with scared eyes. Not otherwise may
S the children of the young world have guided Jove or one
of his Olympian compeers on an adventure.
A miry lane led us up from Quartes with its church
and bickering wind-mill. The hinds were trudging home-
wards from the fields. A brisk little old woman passed
lo us by. She was seated across a donkey between a pair
of glittering milk-cans ; and, as she went, she kicked
jauntily with her heels upon the donkey's side, and scat-
tered shrill remarks among the wayfarers. It was nota-
ble that none of the tired men took the trouble to reply.
15 Our conductor soon led us out of the lane and across
country. The sun had gone down, but the west in front
of us was one lake of level gold. The path wandered
awhile in the open, and then passed under a trellis like a
bower indefinitely prolonged. On either hand were
20 shadowy orchards ; cottages lay low among the leaves and
sent their smoke to heaven ; every here and there, in an
opening, appeared the great gold face of the west.
I never saw the Cigarette in such an idyllic frame of
mind. He waxed positively lyrical in praise of country
25 scenes. I was little less exhilarated myself; the mild air
of the evening, the shadows, the rich lights, and the
silence made a symphonious accompaniment about our
walk \ and we both determined to avoid towns for the
future and sleep in hamlets.
Pont-sur-Sambre 35
At last the path went between two houses, and turned
the party out into a wide muddy high-road, bordered, as
far as the eye could reach on either hand, by an unsightly
village. The houses stood well back, leaving a ribbon
of waste land on either side of the road, where there were s
stacks of firewood, carts, barrows, rubbish heaps, and a
little doubtRil grass. Away on the left, a gaunt tower
stood in the middle of the street. What it had been in
past ages, I know not : probably a hold in time of war ;
but now-a-days it bore an illegible dial-plate in its upper 10
parts, and near the bottom an iron letterbox.
The inn to which we had been recommended at
Quartes was full, or else the landlady did not like our
looks. I ought to say, that with our long, damp india-
rubber bags, we presented rather a doubtful type of civili- 15
zation : like rag-and-bone men, the Ci):;arefte imagined.
"These gentlemen are pedlars?" — Ces messieurs sont
des marchands? — asked the landlady. And then, with-
out waiting for an answer, which 1 suppose she thought
superfluous in so i)lain a case, recommended us to a ao
butcher who lived hard by the tower and took in travellers
to lodge.
Thither went we. But the butcher was flitting,' and all
his beds were taken down. Or else he didn't like our look.
As a parting shot, we had " These gentlemen are pedlars ? " as
It began to grow dark in earnest. We could no longer
distinguish the faces of the i)eople who jjassed us by with
an inarticulate good evening. And the householders of
J Scutch for moving.
^6 Inland Voyage
Pont seemed very economical with tlieir oil ; for we saw
not a single window lighted in all that long village. I
believe it is the longest village in the world ; but I dare-
say in our predicament every pace counted three times
5 over. We were much cast down when we came to the
last atiberge ; and looking in at the dark door, asked tim-
idly if we could sleep there for the night.. A female
voice assented in no very friendly tones. We clapped
the bags down and found our way to chairs.
10 The place was in total darkness, save a red glow in the
chinks and ventilators of the stove. But now the land-
lady lit a lamp to see her new guests ; I suppose the
darkness was what saved us another expulsion ; for I can-
not say she looked gratified at our appearance. We were
15 in a large bare apartment, adorned with two allegorical
prints of Music and Painting, and a copy of the Law
against Public Drunkenness. On one side, there was a
bit of a bar, with some half-a-dozen bottles. Two
labourers sat waiting supper, in attitudes of extreme
20 weariness ; a plain-looking lass bustled about with a sleepy
child or two ; and the landlady began to derange the pots
upon the stove and set some beef-steak to grill.
"These gentlemen are pedlars?" she asked sharply.
And that was all the conversation forthcoming. We be-
25 gan to think we might be pedlars after all. I never knew
a population with so narrow a range of conjecture as the
innkeepers of Pont-sur-Sambre. But manners and bear-
ing have not a wider currency than bank-notes. You have
only to get far enough out of your beat, and all your accom-
Pont-sur-Sambre 37
plished airs will go for nothing. These Hainaulters could
see no difference between us and the average pedlar. In-
deed we had some grounds for reflection, while the steak
was getting ready, to see how perfectly they accepted us
at their own valuation, and how our best politeness and 5
best efforts at entertainment seemed to fit quite suitably
with the character of packmen. At least it seemed a good
account of the profession in France, that even before
such judges, we could not beat them at our own weapons.
At last we were called to table. The two hinds (and 10
one of them looked sadly worn and white in the face, as
though sick with overwork and underfeeding) supped off
a single plate of some sort of bread-berry, some potatoes
in their jackets, a small cup of coffee sweetened with
sugar candy, and one tumbler of swipes. The landlady, 15
her son, and the lass aforesaid, took the same. Our meal
was quite a banquet by comparison. We had some beef-
steak, not so tender as it might have been, some of the
potatoes, some cheese, an extra glass of the swipes, and
white sugar in our coffee. -'
You see what it is to be a gentleman — I beg your
pardon, what it is to be a pedlar. It had not before
occurred to me that a pedlar was a great man in a Ial)ourer's
ale-house ; but now that I had to enact the part for an even-
ing, I found that so it was. Me has in his hedge (juarters, 25
somewhat the same pre-eminenry as the man wlio takes
a private ])arlour in a hotel. The more you look into it,
the more infinite are the class distinctions among men ;
and possibly, by a happy dispensation, there is no one at
38 Inland Voyage
all at the bottom of the scale ; no one but can find some su-
periority over somebody else, to keep up his pride withal.
We were displeased enough with our fare. Particularly
the Cigarette ; for I tried to make believe that I was
S amused with the adventure, tough beef-steak and all.
According to the Lucretian maxim, our steak should have
been flavoured by the look of the other people's bread-
berry. But we did not find it so in practice. You may
have a head knowledge that other people live more poorly
10 than yourself, but it is not agreeable — I was going to
say, it is against the etiquette of the universe — to sit at
the same table and pick your own superior diet from among
their crusts. I had not seen such a thing done since
the greedy boy at school with his birthday cake. It was
15 odious enough to witness, I could remember; and I had
never thought to play the part myself But there again
you see what it is to be a pedlar.
There is no doubt that the poorer classes in our country
are much more charitably disposed than their superiors in
20 wealth. And I fancy it must arise a great deal from the
comparative indistinction of the easy and the not so easy
in these ranks. A workman or a j^edlar cannot shutter
himself off from his less comfortable neighbours. If he
treats himself to a luxury, he must do it in the face of a
25 dozen who cannot. And what should more directly lead
to charitable thoughts? . . . Thus the poor man, camp-
ing out in life, sees it as it is, and knows that every
mouthful he puts in his belly has been wrenched out of
the fingers of the hungry.
Pont-sur-Sambre 39
But at a certain stage of prosperity, as in a balloon ascent,
the fortunate person passes through a zone of clouds, and
sublunary matters are thenceforward hidden from his
view. He sees nothing but the heavenly bodies, all in
admirable order and positively as good as new. He finds s
himself surrounded in the most touching manner by the
attentions of Providence, and compares himself involun-
tarily with the lilies and the skylarks. He does not pre-
cisely sing, of course ; but then he looks so unassuming
in his open Landau ! If all the world dined at one lo
table, this philosophy would meet with some rude knocks.
PONT-SUR-SAMBRE
The TkAVKi.i.iNf; Mkrchant
Like the lackeys in Moli^re's farce, when the true noble-
man broke in on their high life below stairs, we were
destined to be confronted with a real pedlar. To make
the lesson still more poignant for fallen gentlemen like us, 15
he was a pedlar of infinitely more consideration than the
sort of scurvy fellows we were taken for : like a lion
among mice, or ship of war bearing down upon two cock-
boats. Indeed, he did not deserve the name of pedlar
at all : he was a travelling merchant. ^o
I suppose it was about half-past eight when this worthy.
Monsieur Hector Gilliard of Maubcuge, turned uj) at the
ale-house floor in a tilt-cart drawn by a donkey, and cried
cheerily on the inhabitants. lie was a lean, nervous
40 Inland Voyage
flibbertigibbet of a man, with something the look of an
actor, and something the look of a horse-jockey. He had
evidently prospered without any of the favours of edu-
cation ; for he adhered with stern simplicity to the mas-
5 culine gender, and in the course of the evening passed off
some fancy futures in a very florid style of architecture.
With him came his wife, a comely young woman with her
hair tied in a yellow kerchief, and their son, a little fellow
of four, in a blouse and military kepi. It was notable that
lo the child was many degrees better dressed than either of
the parents. We were informed he was already at a board-
ing-school ; but the holidays having just commenced,
he was off to spend them with his parents on a cruise.
An enchanting holiday occupation, was it not? to travel
15 all day with father and mother in the tilt-cart full of count-
less treasures; the green country rattling by on either
side, and the children in all the villages contemplating
him with envy and wonder? It is better fun, during the
holidays, to be the son of a travelling merchant, than son
20 and heir to the greatest cotton-spinner in creation. And
as for being a reigning prince — indeed I never saw one
if it was not Master Gilliard !
While M. Hector and the son of the house were putting
up the donkey, and getting all the valuables under lock
25 and key, the landlady warmed up the remains of our beef-
steak, and fried the cold potatoes in slices, and Madame
Gilliard set herself to waken the boy, who had come far
that day, and was peevish and dazzled by the light. He was
no sooner awake than he began to prepare himself for supper
Pont-sur-Sambre 41
by eating galette,' unripe pears, and cold potatoes — with,
so far as I could judge, positive benefit to his appetite.
The landlady, fired with motherly emulation, awoke
her own little girl ; and the two children were confronted.
Master Gilliard looked at her for a moment, very much s
as a dog looks at his own reflection in a mirror before he
turns away. He was at that time absorbed in the galette.
His mother seemed crestfallen that he should display so
little inclination towards the other sex ; and expressed
her disappointment with some candour and a very proper 10
reference to the influence of years.
Sure enough a time will come when he will pay more
attention to the girls, and think a great deal less of his
mother : let us hope she will like it as well as she seemed
to fancy. But it is odd enough; the very women who 15
profess most contempt for mankind as a sex, seem to find
even its ugliest particulars rather lively and high-minded
in their own sons.
The little girl looked longer and with more interest,
probably because she was in her own house, while he was ao
a traveller and accustomed to strange sights. And besides
there was no galette in the case with her.
All the time of supper, there was nothing spoken of but
my young lord. 'I'iie two parents were both absurdly fond
of their child. Monsieur kept insisting on his sagacity : 25
how he knew all the children at school by name; and
when this utterly failed on trial, how he was cautious and
exact to a strange degree, and if asked anything, he would
' Broa<i tl)iii cake.
42 Inland Voyage
sit and think — and think, and if he did not know it, " my
faith, he wouldn't tell you at all — 7na foi, il tie vous le dira
pas." Whichiscertainly a very high degree of caution. At
intervals, M. Hector would appeal to his wife, with his mouth
5 full of beef-steak, as to the little fellow's age at such or
such a time when he had said or done something memo-
rable ; and I noticed that Madame usually pooh-poohed
these inquiries. She herself was not boastful in her vein ;
but she never had her fill of caressing the child ; and she
lo seemed to take a gentle pleasure in recalling all that was
fortunate in his little existence. No schoolboy could
have talked more of the hoUdays which were just begin-
ning and less of the black school-time which must inevi-
tably follow after. She showed, with a pride perhaps
15 partly mercantile in origin, his pockets preposterously
swollen with tops and whistles and string. When she called
at a house in the way of business, it appeared he kept her
company ; and whenever a sale was made, received a sou
out of the profit. Indeed they spoiled him vastly, these
ao two good people. But they had an eye to his manners
for all that, and reproved him for some little faults in
breeding which occurred from time to time during supper.
On the whole, I was not much hurt at being taken for
a pedlar. 1 might think that I ate with greater delicacy,
25 or that my mistakes in French belonged to a different
order ; but it was plain that these distinctions would be
thrown away upon the landlady and the two labourers.
In all essential things, we and the Gilliards cut very much
the same figure in the ale-house kitchen. M. Hector
Pont-sur-Sambre 43
was more at home, indeed, and took a higher tone
with the world ; but that was exphcable on the ground
of his driving a donkey-cart, while we poor bodies
tramped afoot. I daresay, the rest of the company
thought us dying with envy, though in no ill sense, to be 5
as far up in the profession as the new arrival.
And of one thing I am sure : that everyone thawed
and became more humanized and conversable as soon as
these innocent people appeared upon the scene. I would
not very readily trust the travelling merchant with any 10
extravagant sum of money ; but I am sure his heart was
in the right place. In this mixed world, if you can find
one or two sensible places in a man, above all, if you
should find a whole family living together on such
pleasant terms, you may surely be satisfied, and take the 15
rest for granted ; or, what is a great deal better, boldly
make up your mind that you can do perfectly well without
the rest ; and that ten thousand bad traits cannot make
a single good one any the less good.
It was getting late. M. Hector lit a stable lantern and ao
went off to his cart for some arrangements ; and my
young gentleman proceede<l to divest himself (jf the
better part of his raiment, and play gymnastics on his
mother's lap, and tiicnce on to the floor, with ai ( 0111-
paniment of laughter. 35
" Are yoM going to sleep alone?" asked the servant lass.
"There's little fear of that," says Master Milliard.
"You sleep alone at school," objected his mother.
" Come, come, you must be a man."
44 Inland Voyage
But he protested that school was a different matter
from the hoHdays ; that there were dormitories at school ;
and silenced the discussion with kisses : his mother
smiling, no one better pleased than she.
5 There certainly was, as he phrased it, very little fear
that he should sleep alone ; for there was but one bed
for the trio. We, on our part, had firmly protested
against one man's accommodation for two ; and we had
a double-bedded pen in the loft of the house, furnished,
lo beside the beds, with exactly three hat pegs and one
table. There was not so much as a glass of water. But
the window would open, by good fortune.
Some time before I fell asleep the loft was full of the
sound of mighty snoring : the Gilliards, and the labourers,
IS and the people of the inn, all at it, I suppose, with one
consent. The young moon outside shone very clearly over
Pont-sur-Sambre, and down upon the ale-house where all
we pedlars were abed.
ON THE SAMBRE CANALIZED
To Landrecies
In the morning, when we came downstairs, the land-
20 lady pointed out to us two pails of water behind the
street-door. " Voila de Veau pourvous debarbouiller,'^ says
she. And so there we made a shift to wash ourselves, while
Madame Gilliard brushed the family boots on the outer
door-step, and M. Hector, whistling cheerily, arranged
On the Sambre Canalized 45
some small goods for the day's campaign in a portable
chest of drawers, which formed a part of his baggage.
Meanwhile the child was letting off Waterloo crackers all
over the floor.
I wonder, by-the-by, what they call Waterloo crackers 5
in France ; perhaps Austerlitz crackers. There is a great
deal in the point of view. Do you remember the French-
man who, travelling by way of Southampton, was put
down in Waterloo Station, and had to drive across Waterloo
bridge? He had a mind to go home again, it seems. 10
Pont itself is on the river, but whereas it is ten minutes'
walk from Quartes by dry land, it is six weary kilo-
metres ' by water. We left our bags at the inn, and walked
to our canoes through the wet orchards unencumbered.
Some of the children were there to see us off, but we 15
were no longer the mysterious beings of the night before.
A departure is much less romantic than an unexplained
arrival in the golden evening. Although we might be
greatly taken at a ghost's first appearance, we should
behold him vanish with comparative etpianimity. 20
The good folk of the inn at Pont, when wc called there
for the bags, were overcome with marvelling. At sight
of these two dainty little boats, with a fluttering Union
Jack on each, and all the varnish shining from the
sponge, they began to perceive that they had entertained as
angels unawares, 'i'he landlady stood upon the bridge,
probably lamenting she had charged so little ; the son
ran to and fro, and called out the neighbours to enjoy the
1 Nearly four miles.
46 Inland Voyage
sight ; and we paddled away from quite a crowd of wrapt
observers. These gentlemen pedlars, indeed ! Now you
see their quality too late.
The whole day was showery, with occasional drench-
5 ing plumps. We were soaked to the skin, then partially
dried in the sun, then soaked once more. But there
were some calm intervals, and one notably, when we
were skirting the forest of Mormal, a sinister name to the
ear, but a place most gratifying to sight and smell. It
10 looked solemn along the river side, drooping its boughs
into the water, and piling them up aloft into a wall of
leaves. What is a forest but a city of nature's own, full
of hardy and innocuous living things, where there is
nothing dead and nothing made with the hands, but the
15 citizens themselves are the houses and public monu-
ments? There is nothing so much alive, and yet so
quiet, as a woodland ; and a pair of people, swinging
past in canoes, feel very small and bustling by compari-
son.
20 And surely of all smells in the world, the smell of
many trees is the sweetest and most fortifying. The sea
has a rude, pistolling sort of odour, that takes you in the
nostrils like snuff, and carries with it a fine sentiment of
open water and tall ships ; but the smell of a forest,
25 which comes nearest to this in tonic quality, surpasses it
by many degrees in the quality of softness. Again, the
smell of the sea has little variety, but the smell of a
forest is infinitely changeful ; it varies with the hour of
the day not in strength merely, but in character ; and the
On the Sambre Canalized 47
different sorts of trees, as you go from one zone of the
wood to another,- seem to Hve among different kinds of
atmosphere. Usually the resin of the fir predominates.
But some woods are more coquettish in their habits ;
and the breath of the forest of Mormal, as it came aboard s
upon us that showery afternoon, was perfumed with
nothing less delicate than sweet-briar.
I wish our way had always lain among woods. Trees
are the most civil society. An old oak that has been
growing where he stands since before the Reformation, 10
taller than many spires, more stately than the greater
part of mountains, and yet a living thing, liable to
sicknesses and death, like you and me : is not that in
itself a speaking lesson in history? Hut acres on acres
full of such patriarchs contiguously rooted, their green 15
tops billowing in the wind, their stalwart younglings
pushing up about their knees : a whole forest, healthy
and beautiful, giving colour to the light, giving perfume
to the air : what is this but the most imi)osing piece in
nature's repertory? Heine wished to lie like Merlin under 20
the oaks of Broceliande. I should not be satisfied with
one tree ; but if the wood grew together like a banyan
grove, I would be buried under the tap-root of the
whole ; my parts should circulate from oak to oak ; and
my consciousness should be diffused abroad in all the as
forest, and give a common heart to that assembly of
green spires, so that it also might rejoice in its own
loveliness ancl dignity. I think 1 feel a thousanil
squirrels leaping from bough to bough in my vast mau-
48 Inland Voyage
soleum ; and the birds and tlic winds uicrrily coursing
over its uneven, leafy surface.
Alas ! the forest of Mormal is only a little bit of a
wood, and it was but for a little way that we skirted by
5 its boundaries. And the rest of the time the rain kept
coming in squirts and the wind in squalls, until one's
heart grew weary of such fitful, scolding weather. It was
odd how the showers began when we had to carry the
boats over a lock, and must expose our legs. They al-
io ways did. This is a sort of thing that readily begets a
personal feeling against nature. There seems no reason
why the shower should not come five minutes before or
five minutes after, unless you suppose an intention to
affront you. The Cigarette had a mackintosh which put
15 him more or less above these contrarieties. But I had
to bear the brunt uncovered. I began to remember that
nature was a woman. My companion, in a rosier temper,
listened with great satisfaction to my Jeremiads, and ironi-
cally concurred. He instanced, as a cognate matter, the
20 action of the tides, " Which," said he, " was altogether
designed for the confusion of canoeists, except in so far
as it was calculated to minister to a barren vanity on the
part of the moon. "
At the last lock, some little way out of Landrecies, I
25 refused to go any further ; and sat in a drift of rain by
the side of the bank, to have a reviving pipe. A vivacious
old man, whom I take to have been the devil, drew near
and questioned me about our journey. In the fulness of
my heart, I laid bare our plans before him. He said, it
On the Sambre Canalized 49
was the silliest enterprise that ever he heard of. Why,
did I not know, he asked me, that it was nothing but
locks, locks, locks, the whole way ? not to mention that,
at this season of the year, we should find the Oise quite
dry ? " Get into a train, my little young man," said he, s
" and go you away home to your parents." I was so
astounded at the man's malice, that I could only stare at
him in silence. A tree would never have spoken to me
like this. At last, I got out with some words. We had
come from Antwerp already, I told him, which was a 10
good long way ; and we should do the rest in spite of
him. Yes, I said, if there were no other reason, I would
do it now, just because he had dared to say we could not.
The pleasant old gentleman looked at me sneeringly,
made an allusion to my canoe, and marched off, wagging 15
his head.
I was still inwardly fuming, when up came a pair of
young fellows, who imagined I was the Cigarctte^s servant,
on a comparison, I su])pose, of my bare jersey with the
other's mackintosh, and asked me many (picstions about ao
my place and my master's character. I said he was a good
enough fellow, but had this absunl voyage on the head.
"O no, no," sai<l one, "you must not say that; it is
not absurd ; it is very courageous of him." I believe
these were a couple of angels sent to give me heart again. 25
It was truly fortifying to reproduce all the old man's in-
sinuations, as if they were original to me in my chararter
of a malcontent footman, and have them brushed away
like so many flies by these aihnirable young men.
^o Inland Voyage
When I recounted this affair to the Cigarette, " they
must have a curious idea of how Enghsh servants behave,"
says he, dryly, " for you treated me like a brute beast at
the lock."
5 I was a good deal mortified ; but my temper had suf-
fered, it is a fact.
AT LANDRECIES
At Landrecies the rain still fell and the wind still
blew; but we found a double-bedded room with plenty of
furniture, real water-jugs with real water in them, and
10 dinner : a real dinner, not innocent of real wine. After
having been a pedlar for one night, and a butt for the
elements during the whole of the next day, these com-
fortable circumstances fell on my heart like sunshine.
There was an English fruiterer at dinner, travelling with a
15 Belgian fruiterer ; in the evening at the cafe, we watched
our compatriot drop a good deal of money at corks ; and
I don't know why, but this pleased us.
It turned out we were to see more of Landrecies than
we expected ; for the weather next day was simply bed-
20 lamite. It is not the place one would have chosen for a
day's rest ; for it consists almost entirely of fortifications.
Within the ramparts, a few blocks of houses, a long row
of barracks, and a church figure, with what countenance
they may, as the town. There seems to be no trade ;
25 and a shopkeeper, from whom I bought a sixpenny flint
and steel, was so much affected, that he filled my pockets
with spare flints into the bargain. The only public build-
At Landrecies 51
ings that had any interest for us, were the hotel and the
(■(///'. But we visited the church. There hes Marshal
Clarke. But as neither of us had ever heard of that military
hero, we bore the associations of the spot with fortitude.
In all garrison towns, guard-calls, and reveilles, and 5
such like make a fine romantic interlude in civic business.
Bugles, and drums, and fifes are of themselves most excel-
lent things in nature ; and when they carry the mind to
marching armies, and the picturesque vicissitudes of war,
they stir up something proud in the heart. But in a ic
shadow of a town like Landrecies, with little else moving,
these points of war made a proportionate commotion.
Indeed, they were the only things to remember. It was
just the place to hear the round going by at night in the
darkness, with the solid tramp of men marching, and the 15
startling reverberations of the drum. It reminded you,
that even this place was a point in the great warfaring
system of Europe, and might on some future day be
ringed about with cannon smoke and thunder, and make
itself a name among strong towns. 20
The drum, at any rate, from its martial voice and nota-
ble physiological effect, nay even from its cum])rous and
comical shape, stanrls alone among the instruments of
noise. And if it be true, as I have heard it said, that
drums are covered with asses' skin, what a picturescjuc j.s
irony is there in that ! As if this long-suffering animal's
hide had not been sufficiently belaboured (hiring life,
now by Lyonnese costermongers,' now by presumptuous
' Pedlars of fruit and vegetables.
52 Inland V(3yage
Hebrew prophets, it must be stripped from his poor
hinder quarters after death, stretched on a drum, and
beaten night after night round the streets of every garri-
son town in Europe. And up the heights of Alma and
S Spicheren, and wherever death has his red flag a-flying,
and sounds his own potent tuck upon the cannons, there
also must the drummer boy, hurrying with white face over
fallen comrades, batter and bemaul this slip of skin from
the loins of peaceable donkeys.
lo Generally a man is never more uselessly employed than
when he is at this trick of bastinadoing asses' hide. We
know what effect it has in life, and how your dull ass will
not mend his pace with beating. But in this state of
mummy and melancholy survival of itself, when the hollow
IS skin reverberates to the drummer's wrist, and each dub-a-
dub goes direct to a man's heart, and puts madness there,
and that disposition of the pulses which we, in our big way
of talking, nickname Heroism : — is there not something
in the nature of a revenge upon the donkey's persecutors?
20 Of old, he might say, you drubbed me up hill and down
dale, and I must endure ; but now that I am dead, those
dull thwacks that were scarcely audible in country lanes,
have become stirring music in front of the brigade ; and
for every blow that you lay on my old great coat, you will
25 see a comrade stumble and fall.
Not long after the drums had passed the cafe, the Cig-
arette and the Arethusa began to grow sleepy, and set
out for the hotel which was only a door or two away. Rut
although we had been somewhat indifferent to Landrecies,
At Landrecies 53
Landrecics hail not been indifferent to lis. All day, we
learned, people had been running out between the squalls
to visit our two boats. Hundreds of persons, so said re-
port, although it fitted ill with our idea of the town —
hundreds of persons had inspected them where they 5
lay in a coal-shed. We were becoming lions in Lan-
drecies, who had been only pedlars the night before in
Pont.
And now, when we left the cafe, we were pursued and
overtaken at the hotel door by no less a person than the 10
Juge de Paix ; a functionary, as far as I can make out, of
the character of a Scotch Sheriff Substitute. He gave us
his card and invited us to sup with him on the spot, very
neatly, very gracefully, as Frenchmen can do these things.
It was for the credit of Landrecies, said he ; and although 15
we knew very well how little credit we could do the i)lace,
we must have been churlish fellows to refuse an invitation
so politely introduced.
The house of the Judge was close by ; it was a well-
appointed bachelor's establishment, with a curious collec- 30
tion of old brass warming-pans upon the walls. Some of
these were most elaborately carved. It seemed a jjictur-
esque idea for a collector. You could not Ixlp thinking
how many night-cai)s had wagged over these warming-
pans in past generations ; what jests may have l>een made 35
and kisses taken, while they were in service; and how
often they had been uselessly paraded in the bed of death.
If they could only speak, at what absurd, indecorous, and
tragical scenes had they not been present 1
^4 Inland Voyage
The wine was excellent. When we made the Judge
our compliments upon a bottle, "I do not give it you
as my worst," said he. I wonder when Englishmen will
learn these hospitable graces. They are worth learn-
5 ing ; they set off life, and make ordinary moments orna-
mental.
There were two other Landrecienses present. One was
the collector of something or other, I forget what ; the
other, we were told, was the principal notary of the place.
lo So it happened that we all five more or less followed the
law. At this rate the talk was pretty certain to become
technical. The Cigarette expounded the poor laws very
magisterially. And a litde later I found myself laying
down the Scotch Law of Illegitimacy, of which I am
IS glad to say I know nothing. The collector and the no-
tary, who were both married men, accused the Judge,
who was a bachelor, of having started the subject. He
deprecated the charge, with a conscious, pleased air, just
like all the men I have ever seen, be they French or Eng-
20 lish. How strange that we should all, in our unguarded
moments, rather like to be thought a bit of a rogue with
the women!
As the evening went on, the wine grew more to my
taste ; the spirits proved better than the wine ; the com-
2 5 pany was genial. This was the highest water mark of
popular favour on the whole cruise. After all, being in a
Judge's house, was there not something semi-official in
the tribute? And so, remembering what a great country
France is, we did full justice to our entertainment.
Sambre and Oise Canal 55
Landrecies had been a long while asleep before we re-
turned to the hotel ; and the sentries on the ramparts
were already looking for daybreak.
SAMBRE AND OISE CANAL
Canal-boats
Next day we made a late start in the rain. The Judge
politely escorted us to the end of the lock under an 5
umbrella. We had now brought ourselves to a pitch of
humility in the matter of weather not often attained ex-
cept in the Scotch Highlands. A rag of blue sky or a
glimpse of sunshine set our hearts singing ; and when the
rain was not heavy, we counted the day almost fair. ,0
Long lines of barges lay one after another along the
canal ; many of them looking mighty spruce and ship-
shape in their jerkin of Archangel tar picked out with
white and green. Some carried gay iron railings and
quite a parterre of flower-[)ots. Children played on the 15
decks, as heedless of the rain as if they had been brought
up on Loch Carron side ; men fished over the gunwale,
some of them untirr umbrellas ; women did tlieir wash-
ing ; nnd every Ixirge boasted its mongrel cur by way of
watch-dog. Each one barked furiously at the canoes, ao
running alongside until he had got lo the end of his own
ship, and so passing on the word to the dog aboard the
next. We must have seen sometliing like a hundred of
these embarkations in the course of that day's paddle,
56 Inland Voyage
ranged one after another like the houses in a street ;
and from not one of them were we disappointed of this
accompaniment. It was like visiting a menagerie, the
Cigarette remarked.
5 These little cities by the canal side had a very odd
effect upon the mind. They seemed, with their flower-
pots and smoking chimneys, their washings and dinners,
a rooted piece of nature in the scene ; and yet if only
the canal below were to open, one junk after another
10 would hoist sail or harness horses and swim away into all
parts of France ; and the impromptu hamlet would
separate, house by house, to the four winds. The chil-
dren who played together to-day by the Sambre and Oise
Canal, each at his own father's threshold, when and where
15 might they next meet?
For some time past the subject of barges had occupied
a great deal of our talk, and we had projected an
old age on the canals of Europe. It was to be the
most leisurely of progresses, now on a swift river at the
20 tail of a steam-boat, now waiting horses for days together
on some inconsiderable junction. We should be seen
pottering on deck in all the dignity of years, our white
beards falling into our laps. We were ever to be busied
among paint-pots ; so that there should be no white fresher,
25 and no green more emerald than ours, in all the navy of
the canals. There should be books in the cabin, and
tobacco-jars, and some old Burgundy as red as a Novem-
ber sunset and as odorous as a violet in April. There
should be a flageolet whence the Cigarette, with cunning
Sambre and Oise Canal 57
touch, should draw melting music under the stars ; or
l)erhaps, laying that aside, upraise his voice — somewhat
thinner than of yore, and with here and there a quaver,
or call it a natural grace note — in rich and solemn
I)salmody. .
All this simmering in my mind set me wishing to go
aboard one of these ideal houses of lounging. I had
l^lenty to choose from, as I coasted one after another,
and the dogs bayed at me for a vagrant. At last I saw a
nice old man and his wife looking at me with some interest, 10
so I gave them good day and pulled up alongside. I
began with a remark upon their dog, which had somewhat
the look of a pointer; thence I slid into a compliment
on Madame's flowers, and thence into a word in praise
of their way of life. ,
If you ventured on such an experiment in P^ngland you
would get a slap in the face at once. The life would be
shown to be a vile one, not without a side shot at your
better fortune. Now, what I like so much in France is
the clear unflinching recognition by everybody of his ao
own luck. They all know on which side their bread is
buttered, and take a pleasure in showing it to others,
which is surely the better jjarl of religion. And they
scorn to make a poor mouth over their poverty, whi< h
I take to be the better j)art of manliness. I have heard 35
a woman in quite a better jjosition at home, with a g(j()(l
bit of money in hand, refer to her own child with a
horrid whine as " a poor man's child." I would not say
such a thing to the Dtikc of Westminster. .And the
58 Inland Voyage
French are full of this spirit of independence. Perhaps
it is the result of republican institutions, as they call
them. Much more likely it is because there are so few
people really poor, that the whiners are not enough to
5 keep each other in countenance.
The people on the barge were delighted to hear that
I admired their state. They understood perfectly well,
they told me, how Monsieur envied them. Without
doubt Monsieur was rich ; and in that case he might
10 make a canal-boat as pretty as a villa — joli cointne un
chateau. And with that they invited me on board their
own water villa. They apologized for their cabin ; they
had not been rich enough to make it as it ought to be.
"The fire should have been here, at this side," ex-
15 plained the husband. " Then one might have a writing-
table in the middle — books — and " (comprehensively)
" all. It would be quite coquettish — ^a serai f tout-a-fait
coquet.'''' And he looked about him as though the im-
provements were already made. It was plainly not the
20 first time that he had thus beautified his cabin in imagina-
tion ; and when next he makes a hit, I should expect to
see the writing-table in the middle.
Madame had three birds in a cage. They were no
great thing, she explained. Fine birds were so dear.
25 They had sought to get a Hollandais last winter in Rouen
(Rouen? thought I ; and is this whole mansion, with its
dogs and birds and smoking chimneys, so far a traveller
as that? and as homely an object among the cliffs and
orchards of the Seine as on the green plains of Sambre?)
Sambre and Oise Canal 59
— they had sought to get a Hollandais last winter in
Rouen ; but these cost fifteen francs a-piece — picture it
— fifteen francs !
''Pour un tout petit oiseau — For quite a little bird," /
added the husband. 5
As I continued to admire, the apologetics died away,
and the good people began to brag of their barge, and
their happy condition in life, as if they had been Emperor
and F^mpress of the Indies. It was, in the Scotch phrase,
a good hearing, and put me in good humour with the 10
world. If people knew what an inspiriting thing it is to
hear a man boasting, so long as he boasts of what he really
has, I believe they would do it more freely and with a
better grace.
They began to ask about our voyage. You should have is
seen how they sympathized. They seemed half ready to
give up their barge and follow us. But these cana/ctti vlxq
only gipsies semi-domesticated. The semi-domestication
came out in rather a pretty form. .Suddenly .Madame's
brow darkened. " Crpemiant," she began, and then ao
stopped; and then )>egan again by asking me if I were
single?
"Yes," said I.
"And your friend who went by just now?"
He also was unmarried. as
O then — all was well. She could not have wives
left alone at home ; but since there were no wives in the
question, we were doing the best we could.
"To see about one in the world," saifl the husband,
6o Inland Voyage
*' il n'y a que ^a — there is nothing else worth while. A
man, look you, who sticks in his own village like a bear,"
he went on, " — very well, he sees nothing. And then
death is the end of all. And he has seen nothing."
5 Madame reminded her husband of an Englishman who
had come up this canal in a steamer.
" Perhaps Mr. Moens in the Ytene,'" I suggested.
"That's it," assented the husband. " He had his wife
and family with him, and servants. He came ashore at
lo all the locks and asked the name of the villages, whether
from boatmen or lock-keepers ; and then he wrote, wrote
them down. O he wrote enormously ! I suppose it was
a wager."
A wager was a common enough explanation for our own
IS exploits, but it seemed an original reason for taking
notes.
THE OISE IN FLOOD
Before nine next morning the two canoes were in-
stalled on a light country cart at Etreux : and we were
soon following them along the side of a pleasant valley
20 full of hop-gardens and poplars. Agreeable villages lay
here and there on the slope of the hill; notably, Tupigny,
with the hop-poles hanging their garlands in the very
street, and the houses clustered with grapes. There was
a faint enthusiasm on our passage ; weavers put their
25 heads to the windows ; children cried out in ecstasy at
sight of the two " boaties " — barquettes : and bloused
The Oise in Flood 6i
pedestrians, who were acquainted with our charioteer,
jested with him on the nature of his freight.
We had a shower or two, but light and flying. The
air was clean and sweet among all these green fields and
green things growing. There was not a touch of .autumn 5
in the weather. And when, at Vadencourt, we launched
from a little lawn opposite a mill, the sun broke forth
and set all the leaves shining in the valley of the Oise.
The river was swollen with the long rains. From
Vadencourt all the way to Origny, it ran with ever quick- 10
ening speed, taking fresh heart at each mile, and racing
as though it already smelt the sea. The water was yellow
and turbulent, swung with an angry eddy among half-sub-
merged willows, and made an angry clatter along stony
shores. The course kept turning and turning in a nar-is
row and well-timbered valley. Now, the river would
approach the side, and run gliding along the chalky base
of the hill, and show us a few open colza fields among
the trees. Now, it would skirt the garden-walls of houses,
where we might catch a glimi^se through a doorway, and ao
see a priest pacing in the riiequcred sunlight. .Ag^iin, the
foliage closed so thickly in front, that there seemed to be
no issue; only a thicket of willows, overtopped by elms
and poplars, under which the river ran flush and fleet,
and where a kingfisher flew past like a piece of the blue 25
sky. On these different manifesiations, the sun poured
its clear and catholic looks, 'i'he shadows lay as solid on
the swift surface of tlie stream as on the stable meadows.
The light sparkled golden in the dancing poplar leaves,
62 Jnland Voyage
and brought the hills into communion with our eyes.
And all the while the river never stopped running or took
breath ; and the reeds along the whole valley stood
shivering from top to toe.
5 There should be some myth (but if there is, I know it
not) founded on the shivering of the reeds. There are
not many things in nature more striking to man's eye. It
is such an eloquent pantomime of terror; and to see such
a number of terrified creatures taking sanctuary in every
10 nook along the shore, is enough to infect a silly human
with alarm. Perhaps they are only a- cold, and no won-
der, standing waist deep in the stream. Or perhaps they
have never got accustomed to the speed and fury of the
river's flux, or the miracle of its continuous body. Pan
IS once played upon their forefathers ; and so, by the hands
of his river, he still plays upon these later generations
down all the valley of the Oise ; and plays the same air,
both sweet and shrill, to tell us of the beauty and the
terror of the world.
2o The canoe was like a leaf in the current. It took it up
and shook it, and carried it masterfully away, like a Cen-
taur carrying off a nymph. To keep some command on our
direction required hard and diligent plying of the paddle.
The river was in such a hurry for the sea ! Every drop
3 5 of water ran in a panic, like as many people in a fright-
ened crowd. But what crowd was ever so numerous, or
so single-minded? All the objects of sight went by at a
dance measure ; the eyesight raced with the racing river ;
the exigencies of every moment kept the pegs screwed so
The Oise in Flood 6^
tight, that our being quivered hke a well-tuned instru-
ment ; and the blood shook off its lethargy, and trotted
through all the highways and by-ways of the veins and
arteries, and in and out of the heart, as if circulation were
but a holiday journey, and not the daily moil of three- s
score years and ten. The reeds might nod their heads
in warning, and with tremulous gestures tell how the
river was as cruel as it was strong and cold, and how
death lurked in the eddy underneath the willows. But
the reeds had to stand where they were ; and those who lo
stand still are always timid advisers. As for us, we could
have shouted aloud. If this lively and beautiful river
were, indeed, a thing of death's contrivance, the old
ashen rogue had famously outwitted himself with us. I
was living three to the minute. I was scoring points 15
against him every stroke of my paddle, every turn of the
stream. I have rarely had better profit of my life.
For I think we may look upon our little private war
with death somewhat in this light. If a man knows he
will sooner or later be robbed upon a journey, he will 20
have a bottle of the best in every inn, and look uj)on all
his extravagances as so much gained upon the thieves.
And above all, where instead of simply spending, he makes
a profitable investment for some of his money, when it
will be out of risk of loss. So every bit of brisk living, 3$
and above all when it is heallhfui, is just so much gained
upon the wholesale filcher, death. We shall have the less
in our pockets, the more in our stomnch, when he cries
stand and deliver. A swift stream is a favourite artifice
64 Inland Voyage
of his, and one that brings him in a comfortable thing
per annum ; but when he and I come to settle our ac-
counts, I shall whistle in his face for these hours upon the
upper Oise.
5 Towards afternoon we got fairly drunken with the sun-
shine and exhilaration of the pace. We could no longer
contain ourselves and our content. The canoes were too
small for us ; we must be out and stretch ourselves on
shore. And so in a green meadow we bestowed our limbs
10 on the grass, and smoked deifying tobacco and proclaimed
the world excellent. It was the last good hour of the day,
and I dwell upon it with extreme complacency.
On one side of the valley, high upon the chalky summit
of the hill, a ploughman with his team appeared and dis-
15 appeared at regular intervals. At each revelation he
stood still for a few seconds against the sky : for all the
world (as the Cigarette declared) like a toy Burns who
had just ploughed up the Mountain Daisy. He was the
only living thing within view, unless we are to count the
20 river.
On the other side of the valley a group of red roofs and
a belfry showed among the foliage. Thence some inspired
bell-ringer made the afternoon musical on a chime of bells.
There was something very sweet and taking in the air he
25 played ; and we thought we had never heard bells speak so
intelligibly, or sing so melodiously, as these. It must have
been to some such measure that the spinners and the young
maids sang, "Come away. Death," in the Shakespearian
lUyria. There is so often a threatening note, something
The Oise in Flood 6^
blatant and metallic, in the voice of bells, that I believe
we have fully more pain than pleasure from hearing them ;
but these, as they sounded abroad, now high, now low,
now with a plaintive cadence that caught the ear like the
burthen of a popular song, were always moderate and tun- 5
able, and seemed to fall in with the spirit of still, rustic
places, like the noise of a waterfall or the babble of a
rookery in spring. I could have asked the bell-ringer for
his blessing, good, sedate old man, who swung the rope
so gently to the time of his meditations. I could have 10/ — ^
blessed the priest or the heritors,' or whoever may be con-
cerned with such affairs in France, who had left these
sweet old bells to gladden the afternoon, and not held
meetings, and made collections, and had their names re-
peatedly printed in the local paper, to rig up a peal of 15
brand-new, brazen, Birmingham-hearted substitutes, who
should bombard their sides to the provocation of a brand-
new bell-ringer, and fill the echoes of the valley with terror
and riot.
At last the bells ceased, and with their note the sun 20
withdrew. The jjiece was at an end ; shadow and silence
possessed the valley of the Oise. We took to the paddle
with glad hearts, like peojjle who have sat out a noble
performance, anfl return to work. The river was more
dangerous here; it ran swifter, the eddies were morels
sudden and violent. .All the way down we had had our
fill of difficulties. Sometimes it was a weir* which could
' Proprietors or land owners in Scoll.iixl.
2 A <I.Tm for holding i)ack the walcr in a river.
66 Inland Voyage
be shot, sometimes one so shallow and full of stakes thai
we must withdraw the boats from the water and carry
them round. But the chief sort of obstacle was a con-
sequence of the late high winds. Every two or three
5 hundred yards a tree had fallen across the river and
usually involved more than another in its fall. Often
there was free water at the end, and we could steer
round the leafy promontory and hear the water sucking
and bubbling among the twigs. Often, again, when the
lo tree reached from bank to bank, there was room, by
lying close, to shoot through underneath, canoe and all.
Sometimes it was necessary to get out upon the trunk
itself and pull the boats across ; and sometimes, where
the stream was too impetuous for this, there was nothing
15 for it but to land and "carry over." This made a fine
series of accidents in the day's career, and kept us aware
of ourselves.
Shortly after our re-embarkation, while I was leading
by a long way, and still full of a noble, exulting spirit in
20 honour of the sun, the swift pace, and the church bells,
the river made one of its leonine pounces round a corner,
and I was aware of another fallen tree within a stone-cast.
I had my back-board down in a trice, and aimed for a
place where the trunk seemed high enough above the
25 water, and the branches not too thick to let me slip
below. When a man has just vowed eternal brotherhood
with the universe, he is not in a temper to take great
determinations coolly, and this, which might have been a
very important determination for me, had not been taken
The Oise in Flood 67
under a happy star. The tree caught me about the
chest, and while I was yet struggling to make less of
myself and get through, the river took the matter out of
my hands, and bereaved me of my boat. The Arethusa
swung round broadside on, leaned over, ejected so much 5
of me as still remained on board, and thus disencumbered,
whipped under the tree, righted, and went merrily away
down stream.
I do not know how long it was before I scrambled on
to the tree to which I was left clinging, but it was longer 10
than I cared about. My thoughts were of a grave and
almost sombre character, but I still clung to my paddle.
The stream ran away with my heels as fast as I could pull
up my shoulders, and I seemed, by the weight, to have
all the water of the Oise in my trousers pockets. You «5
can never know, till you try it, what a dead i)ull a river
makes against a man. Death himself had me by the
heels, for this was his last ambuscado, and he must now
join personally in the fray. And still I held to my
paddle. At last I dragged myself on to my stomach on 20
the trunk, and lay there a breathless sop, with a mingled
sense of humour and injustice. A poor figure I must
have presented to 15iirns upon the hill-top with his team.
But there was the parldle in my hand. On my tomb, if
ever I have one, I mean to get these words inscribed : 25
" He climg to his paddle."
The Cii^^atrtte had gone past awhile l)cforc ; for, as I
might have observed, if I had been a little less pleased
with the universe at tlic n)uinenl, there was a clear way
68 Inland Voyage
round the tree-top at the farther side. He had offered
his services to haul me out, but as I was then already on
my elbows, I had declined, and sent him down stream
after the truant Arethusa. The stream was too rapid for
5 a man to mount with one canoe, let alone two, upon his
hands. So I crawled along the trunk to shore, and pro-
ceeded down the meadows by the river side. I was so
cold that my heart was sore. I had now an idea of my
own, why the reeds so bitterly shivered. I could have
lo given any of them a lesson. The Cigarette remarked
facetiously, that he thought I was " taking exercise " as
I drew near, until he made out for certain that I was
only twittering with cold. I had a rub-down with a
towel, and donned a dry suit from the india-rubber bag.
IS But I was not my own man again for the rest of the voyage.
I had a queasy sense that I wore my last dry clothes
upon my body. The struggle had tired me ; and perhaps,
whether I knew it or not, I was a little dashed in spirit.
The devouring element in the universe had leaped out
20 against me, in this green valley quickened by a running
stream. The bells were all very pretty in their way, but
I had heard some of the hollow notes of Pan's music.
'Would the wicked river drag me down by the heels,
indeed? and look so beautiful all the time? Nature's
25 good-humour was only skin-deep after all.
There was still a long way to go by the winding course
of the stream, and darkness had fallen, and a late bell
was ringing in Origny Sainte-Benoite, when we arrived.
Origny Sainte-Benoite 6g
ORIGNY SAINTE-BENOITE
A Bv-DAY
The next day was Sunday, and the church bells had
little rest ; indeed I do not think I remember anywhere
else so great a choice of services as were here offered to
the devout. And while the bells made merry in the sun-
shine, all the world with his dog was out shooting among 5
the beets and colza.
In the morning a hawker and his wife went down the
street at a foot-pace, singing to a very slow, lamentable
music, "O France, vies amours.'' It brought everybody
to the door ; and when our landlady called in the man to 10
buy the words, he had not a copy of them left. Slie was
not the first nor the second who had been taken with the
song. There is something very pathetic in the love of the
French people, since the war, for dismal patriotic music-
making. I have watched a forester from Alsace while 15
some one was singing " Les via/lieiirs de la France,'^ at a
baptismal party in the neighbourhood of I'ontainebleau.
He arose from the table and took his son aside, close by
where I was standing. "Listen, listen," he said, bearing
on the boy's shoulder, " and remember this, my son." ao
A little after he went out into tl:e garden suddenly, and
I could hear him sobbing in the darkness. '
The htimilialion of their arms and the loss of Alsace
and T,()rrainc made a sore pull on the endurance of this
70 Inland Voyage
sensitive people ; and their hearts are still hot, not so
much against Germany as against the Empire. In what
other country will you find a patriotic ditty bring all the
world into the street? But affliction heightens love;
S and we shall never know we are Englishmen until we
have lost India. Independent America is still the cross
of my existence ; I cannot think of Farmer George with-
out abhorrence ; and I never feel more warmly to my
own land than when I see the stars and stripes, and re-
10 member what our empire miglit have been.
The hawker's little book, which I purchased, was a
curious mixture. Side by side with the flippant, rowdy
nonsense of the Paris music-halls, there were many pas-
toral pieces, not without a touch of poetry, I thought,
15 and instinct with the brave independence of the poorer
class in France. There you might read how the wood-
cutter gloried in his ax, and the gardener scorned to be
ashamed of his spade. It was not very well written, this
poetry of labour, but the pluck of the sentiment redeemed
20 what was weak or wordy in the expression. The martial
and the patriotic pieces, on the other hand, were tearful,
womanish productions one and all. The poet had passed
under the Caudine Forks ; he sang for an army visiting
the tomb of its old renown, with arms reversed ; and sang
25 not of victory, but of death. There was a number in the
hawker's collection called Consents Fran^ais, which may
rank among the most dissuasive war-lyrics on record. It
would not be possible to fight at all in such a spirit. The
bravest conscript would turn pale if such a ditty were
Origny Sainte-Benoite 71
struck up beside him on the morning of battle ; and
whole regiments would pile their arms to its tune.
If Fletcher of Saltoun is in the right about the influ-
• ence of national songs, you would say France was come
to a poor pass. But the thing will work its own cure, 5
and a sound-hearted and courageous people weary at
length of snivelling over their disasters. Already Paul
Deroulede has written some manly military verses. There
is not much of the trumpet note in them, perhaps, to stir
a man's heart in his bosom ; they lack the lyrical elation, "o
and move slowly ; but they are written in a grave honour-
able, stoical spirit, which should carry soldiers far in a
good cause. One feels as if one would like to trust
Deroulede with something. It will be happy if he can so
far inoculate his fellow-countrymen that they may be 15
trusted with their own future. And in the meantime, here
is an antidote to " French Conscripts " and much other
doleful versification.
We had left the boats overnight in the custody of one
whom we shall call Carnival. I did not properly catch 20
his name, and perhaj)s that was not unfortunate for him,
as I am not in a position to hand him down with honour
to posterity. To this person's prenjiscs we strcjllcd in
the course of the day, and found quite a little deputation
inspecting the canoes. There was a stout gentleman with as
a knowledge of the river, which 'ie seemed eager to iui-
part. There was a very elegant yoimg gentleman in a
black coat, with a smattering of F.nglish, who led the t.ilk
at once to the Oxforfl and Cambridge boat-race. And
72 Inland Voyage
then there were three handsome girls from fifteen to
twenty ; and an old gendeman in a blouse, with no teeth
to speak of, and a strong country accent. Quite the pick
of Origny, I should suppose.
5 The Cigarette had some mysteries to perform with his
rigging in the coach-house ; so I was left to do the parade
single-handed. I found myself very much of a hero
whether I would or not. The girls were full of little shud-
derings over the dangers of our journey. And I thought
10 it would be ungallant not to take my cue from the ladies.
My mishap of yesterday, told in an off-hand way, pro-
duced a deep sensation. It was Othello over again, with
no less than three Desdemonas and a sprinkling of sym-
pathetic senators in the background. Never were the
15 canoes more flattered, or flattered more adroitly.
"It is like a violin," cried one of the girls in an ecstasy.
" I thank you for the word, mademoiselle," said I.
" All the more since there are people who call out to me,
that it is like a coffin."
20 " O ! but it is really like a violin. It is finished like a
violin," she went on.
" And polished like a violin," added a senator.
" One has only to stretch the cords," concluded an-
other, "and then tum-tumty-tum " — he imitated the re-
25 suit with spirit.
Was not this a graceful litde ovation? Where this
people finds the secret of its pretty speeches, I cannot
imagine ; unless the secret should be no other than a
sincere desire to please? But then no disgrace is at-
Origny Sainte-Benoite 73
tached in France to saying a thing neatly ; whereas in
England, to talk like a book is to give in one's resignation
to society.
The old gentleman in the blouse stole into the coach-
house, and somewhat irrelevantly informed the Cigarette s
that he was the father of the three girls and four more :
quite an exploit for a Frenchman.
" You are very fortunate," answered the Cigarette
politely.
And the old gentleman, having apparently gained his 10
point, stole away again.
We all got very friendly together. The- girls proposed
to start with us on the morrow, if you please ! And jest-
ing apart, every one was anxious to know the hour of our
departure. Now, when you arc going to crawl into your 15
canoe from a bad launch, a crowd, however friendly, is
undesirable ; and so we told them not before t\velve, and
mentally determined to be off by ten at latest.
Towards evening, we went abroad again to post some
letters. It was cool and pleasant; the long village wasao
quite empty, except for one or two urchins who followed
us as they might have followed a menagerie ; the hills
and the tree-tops looked in from all sides through the
clear air ; and the bells were chiming for yet another
service. 'S
Suddenly, we sighted the three girls standing, with a
fourth sister, in front of a shoj) on the wide selvage of tlie
roadway. We had been very merry with them a little
while ago, to be sure. But what was the etiquette of
74 Inland Voyage
Origny? Had it been a country road, of course we
should have spoken to them ; but here, under the eyes
of all the gossips, ought we to do even as much as bow?
I consulted .the Cigarette.
5 " Look," said he.
I looked. There were the four girls on the same spot ;
but now four backs were turned to us, very upright and
conscious. Corporal Modesty had given the word of
command, and the well-disciplined picket had gone right-
lo about-face like a single person. They maintained this
formation all the while we were in sight ; but we heard
them tittering among themselves, and the girl whom we
had not met, laughed with open mouth, and even looked
over her shoulder at the enemy. I wonder was it alto-
15 gether modesty after all ? or in part a sort of country
provocation ?
As we were returning to the inn, we beheld something
floating in the ample field of golden evening sky, above
the chalk cliffs and the trees that grow along their summit.
20 It was too high up, too large, and too steady for a kite ;
and as it was dark, it could not be a star. For although
a star were as black as ink and as rugged as a walnut, so
amply does the sun bathe heaven with radiance, that it
would sparkle like a point of light for us. The village
25 was dotted with people with their heads in air ; and the
children were in a bustle all along the street and far up
the straight road that climbs the hill, where we could still
see them running in loose knots. It was a balloon, we
learned, which had left Saint Quentin at half-past five
Origny Sainte-Benoite 75
that evening. Mighty composedly the majority of the
grown people took it. But we were English, and were
soon running up the hill with the best. Being travellers
ourselves in a small way, we would fain have seen these
other travellers alight. 5
The spectacle was over by the time we gained the top
of the hill. All the gold had withered out of the sky, and
the balloon had disappeared. Whither? I ask myself;
caught up into the seventh heaven ? or come safely to
land somewhere in that blue uneven distance, into which 10
the roadway dipped and melted before our eyes? Prob-
ably the aeronauts were already warming themselves at
a farm chimney, for they say it is cold in these unhomely
regions of the air. The night fell swifdy. Roadside
trees and disappointed sightseers, returning through the 15
meadows, stood out in black against a margin of low red
sunset. It was cheerfuller to face the other, way, and so
down the hill we went, with a full moon, the colour of a
melon, swinging high above the wooded valley, and the
white cliffs behind us faintly reddened by the fire of the so
chalk kilns.
The lami)s were lighted, and the salads were being
made in Origny Sainte-Benoite by the river.
76 Inland Voyage
ORIGNY SAINTE-BENOITE
The Company at Table
Although we came late for dinner, the company at
table treated us to sparkling wine. " That is how we are
in France," said one. "Those who sit down with us are
our friends." And the rest applauded.
5 They were three altogether, and an odd trio to pass
the Sunday with.
Two of them were guests like ourselves, both men of
the north. One ruddy, and of a full habit of body, with
copious black hair and beard, the intrepid hunter of
10 France, who thought nothing so small, not even a lark or
a minnow, but he might vindicate his prowess by its cap-
ture. For such a great, healthy man, his hair flourishing
like Samson's, his arteries running buckets of red blood,
to boast of these infinitesimal exploits, produced a feel-
15 ing of disproportion in the world, as when a steam-
hammer is set to cracking nuts. The other was a quiet,
subdued person, blond and lymphatic and sad, with
something the look of a Dane : " Tristes tetes de DanoisT
as Gaston Lafenestre used to say.
20 I must not let that name go by without a word for the
best of all good fellows now gone down into the dust.
We shall never again see Gaston in his forest costume —
he was Gaston with all the world, in affection, not in dis-
respect — nor hear him wake the echoes of Fontainebleau
Origny Sainte-Benoite 77
with the woodland horn. Never again shall his kind
smile put peace among all races of artistic men, and
make the Englishman at home in France. Never more
shall the sheep, who were not more innocent at heart
than he, sit all unconsciously for his industrious pencil, s
He died too early, at the very moment when he was
beginning to put forth fresh sprouts, and blossom into
something worthy of himself; and yet none who knew
him will think he lived in vain. I never knew a man so
little, for whom yet I had so much affection ; and I find 10
it a good test of others, how much they had learned to
understand and value him. His was indeed a good in-
fluence in life while he was still among us; he had a
fresh laugh, it did you good to see him ; and however
sad he may have been at heart, he always bore a bold 15
and cheerful countenance, and took fortune's worst as it
were the showers of spring. Hut now his mother sits
alone by the side of Fontainebleau woods, where he
gathered mushrooms in his hardy and penurious youth.
Many of his pictures found their way across the 20
channel : besides those which were stolen, when a das-
tardly Yankee left him alone in London with two English
pence, and perhaps twice as many wf)rds of English. If
anyone who reads these lines should have a scene of
sheep, in the manner of Jacques, with this fine creature's as
signature, let him tell himself that one of the kindest and
l)ravcst of men has lent a hand to dcrorntc his loflging.
There may be better pictures in the National Cialk-ry ;
but not a painter among the generations had a better
y8 Inland Voyage
heart. Precious in the sight of the Lord of humanity,
the Psalms tell us, is the death of his saints. It had
need to be precious ; for it is very costly, when by the
stroke, a mother is left desolate, and the peacemaker,
5 and peace-looker, of a whole society is laid in the ground
with Caesar and the Twelve Apostles.
There is something lacking among the oaks of Fon-
tainebleau ; and when the dessert comes in at Barbizon,
people look to the door for a figure that is gone.
10 The third of our companions at Origny was no less a
person than the landlady's husband : not properly the
landlord, since he worked himself in a factory during the
day, and came to his own house at evening as a guest :
a man worn to skin and bone by perpetual excitement,
15 with baldish head, sharp features, and swift, shining eyes.
On Saturday, describing some paltry adventure at a
duck-hunt, he broke a plate into a score of fragments.
Whenever he made a remark, he would look all round
the table, with his chin raised, and a spark of green light
20 in either eye, seeking approval. His wife appeared now
and again in the doorway of the room, where she was
superintending dinner, with a " Henri, you forget your-
self," or a " Henri, you can surely talk without making
such a noise." Indeed, that was what the honest fellow
25 could not do. On the most trifling matter, his eyes kin-
dled, his fist visited the table, and his voice rolled abroad
in changeful thunder. I never saw such a petard of a
man ; I think the devil was in him. He had two favourite
expressions : " it is logical," or illogical as the case might
Origny Sainte-Benoite 79
be : and this other, thrown out with a certain bravado, as
a man might unfurl a banner, at the beginning of many
a long and sonorous story : " I am a proletarian, you
see." Indeed, we saw it very well. God forbid, that
ever I should find him handling a gun in Paris streets. 5
That will not be a good moment for the general
public.
I thought his two phrases very much represented the
good and evil of his class, and to some extent of his
country. It is a strong thing to say what one is, and not 10
be ashamed of it ; even although it be in doubtful taste
to repeat the statement too often in one evening. I should
not admire it in a duke, of course ; but as times go, the
trait is honourable in a workman. On the other hand, it
is not at all a strong thing to put one's reliance upon logic ; 15
and our own logic particularly, for it is generally wrong.
We never know where we are to end, if once wc begin
following words or doctors. There is an upright stock in
a man's own heart, that is trustier than any syllogism ; and
the eyes, and the sympathies and apjjetites, know a thing 20
or two that have never yet been stated in controversy.
Reasons are as plentiful as blackberries ; and like fisti-
cuffs, they serve impartially with all sides. Doctrines do
not stand or fall by their proofs, and arc only logical in
so far as they are cleverly put. An able controversialist '5
no more than an a!)le general tleinonstratcs the justice of
his cause. But France is all gone wandering after one
or two big words ; it will take some tinie before they can
be satisfied that they are no more than words, however
8o Inland Voyage
big ; and when once that is done, they will perhaps find
logic less diverting.
The conversation opened with details of the day's shoot-
ing. When all the sportsmen of a village shoot over the
5 village territory pro mdiviso, it is plain that many ques-
tions of etiquette and priority must arise.
" Here now," cried the landlord, brandishing a plate,
" here is a field of beet-root. Well. Here am I then.
I advance, do I not? Eh b'len ! sacristi," and the state-
10 ment, waxing louder, rolls off into a reverberation of oaths,
the speaker glaring about for sympathy, and everybody
y nodding his head to him in the name of peace.
The ruddy Northman told some tales of his own prow-
ess in keeping order : notably one of a Marquis.
IS "Marquis," I said, "if you take another step I fire
upon you. You have committed a dirtiness, Marquis."
Whereupon, it appeared, the Marquis touched his cap
and withdrew.
The landlord applauded noisily. " It was well done,"
20 he said. " He did all that he could. He admitted he
was wrong." And then oath upon oath. He was no
marquis-lover either, but he had a sense of justice in him,
this proletarian host of ours.
From the matter of hunting, the talk veered into a
25 general comparison of Paris and the country. The pro-
letarian beat the table like a drum in praise of Paris.
" What is Paris ? Paris is the cream of France. There
are no Parisians : it is you and I and everybody who are
Parisians. A man has eighty chances per cent, to get on
Origny Salnte-Benoite 8 1
in the world in Paris." And he drew a vivid sketch of
the workman in a den no bigger than a dog-hutch, making
articles that were to go all over the world. ''Eh bicn,
quoi, c'est magnifique, (a/" cried he.
The sad Northman interfered in praise of a peasant's 5
life ; he thought Paris bad for men and women ; " cen-
tralization," said he —
But the landlord was at his throat in a moment. It
was all logical, he showed him; and all magnificent.
" What a spectacle I What a glance for an eye ! " And lo
the dishes reeled upon the table under a cannonade of blows.
Seeking to make peace, I threw in a word in praise of
the liberty of opinion in PVance. I could hardly have
shot more amiss. There was an instant silence, and a
great wagging of significant heads. They did not fancy is
the subject, it was plain ; but they gave me to understand
that the sad Northman was a martyr on account of his
views. "Ask him a bit," said they. " Just ask him."
"Yes, sir," said he in his quiet way, answering me, al-
though I had not spoken, " I am afraid there is fess liberty ao
of opinion in France than you may imagine." And with
that he dropped his eyes, and seemed to consider the
subject at an end.
Our curiosity was mightily excited at this. How, or
why, or when, was this lymphatic bagman martyred ? We 25
concluded at once it was on some religious cjuestion, and
brushed up our memories of the Inquisition, which were
principally drawn from I'fie's horrid story, and the sermon
Tristram Shandy, I believe.
82 Inland Voyage
On the morrow we had an opportunity of going further
into the question ; for when we rose very early to avoid a
sympathizing deputation at our departure, we found the
hero up before us. He was breaking his fast on white
5 wine and raw onions, in order to keep up the character
of martyr, I conclude. We had a long conversation, and
made out what we wanted in spite of his reserve. But
here was a truly curious circumstance. It seems possible
for two Scotchmen and a Frenchman to discuss during a
lolong half hour, and each nationality have a different idea
in view throughout. It was not till the very end that we
discovered his heresy had been political, or that he sus-
pected our mistake. The terms and spirit in which he
spoke of his political beliefs were, in our eyes, suited to
IS religious beliefs. And vice versa.
Nothing could be more characteristic of the two coun-
tries. Politics are the religion of France ; as Nanty Ewart
would have said, "Ad — d bad religion;" while we, at
home, keep most of our bitterness for little differences
20 about a hymn-book, or a Hebrew word which, perhaps,
neither of the parties can translate. And perhaps the
misconception is typical of many others that may never
be cleared up : not only between people of different race,
but between those of different sex.
25 As for our friend's martyrdom, he was a Communist,
or perhaps only a Communard, which is a very different
thing ; and had lost one or more situations in consequence.
I think he had also been rejected in marriage ; but perhaps
he had a sentimental way of considering business which
Down the Oise : To Moy 83
deceived me. He was a mild, gentle creature, anyway ;
and I hope he has got a better situation, and married a
more suitable wife since then.
DOWN THE OISE : TO MOY
Carxh'al notoriously cheated us at first. Finding us
easy in our ways, he regretted having let us off so cheaply ; 5
and taking me aside, told me a cock-and-bull story with
the moral of another five francs for the narrator. The thing
was palpably absurd ; but I paid up, and at once dropped
all friendliness of manner, and kept him in his place as an
inferior with freezing British dignity. He saw in a mo- 'o
ment that he had gone too far, and killed a willing horse ;
his face fell ; I am sure he would have refunded if he
could only have thought of a decent pretext. He wished
me to drink with him, but I would none of his drinks. He
grew pathetically tender in his professions; but 1 walked 15
beside him in silence or answered him in stately courtesies ;
anrl when we got to the landing-jjlace, passed the word in
English slang to the Cigarette.
In spite of the false scent we had thrown out the day
before, there must have been fifty people about the 20
bridge. We were as pleasant as we could be with all but
Carnival. We sajfl good-bye, shaking hands willi the;
old gentleman who knew the river anri the young
gentleman who had a smattering of ICnglish ; but never a
word for Carnival. Poor (!arnival, here was a huinilia- ^i;
lion. He who had been so much identified with the
84 Inland Voyage
canoes, who had given orders in our name, who
had shown off the boats and even the boatmen
like a private exhibition of his own, to be now so
publicly shamed by the lions of his caravan ! I never
5 saw anybody look more crestfallen than he. He hung
in the background, coming timidly forward ever and
again as he thought he saw some symptom of a relenting
humour, and falling hurriedly back when he encountered
a cold stare. Let us hope it will be a lesson to him.
10 I would not have mentioned Carnival's peccadillo had
not the thing been so uncommon in France. This, for
instance, was the only case of dishonesty or even sharp
practice in our whole voyage. We talk very much about
our honesty in England. It is a good rule to be on your
15 guard wherever you hear great professions about a very
little piece of virtue. If the English could only hear how
they are spoken of abroad, they might confine themselves
for a while to remedying the fact ; and perhaps even
when that was done, give us fewer of their airs.
20 The young ladies, the graces of Origny, were not pres-
ent at our start, but when we got round to the second
bridge, behold it was black with sight-seers ! We were
loudly cheered, and for a good way below, young lads and
lasses ran along the bank still cheering. What with
25 current and paddling, we were flashing along like swal-
lows. It was no joke to keep up with us upon the woody
shore. But the girls picked up their skirts, as if they
were sure they had good ankles, and followed until their
breath was out. The last to weary were the three graces
Down the Oise : To Moy 85
and a couple of companions ; and just as they too had
had enough, the foremost of the three leaped upon a tree
stump and kissed her hand to the canoeists. Not Diana
herself, although this was more of a Venus after all, could
have done a graceful thing more gracefully. " Come back 5
again ! " she cried ; and all the others echoed her ; and
the hills about Origny repeated the words, " Come back."
But the river had us round an angle in a twinkling, and
we were alone with the green trees and running water.
Come back? There is no coming back, young ladies, 10
on the impetuous stream of life.
The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,
The ploughman from the sun his season takes.
And we must all set our pocket watches by the clock of
fate. There is a headlong, forthright tide, that bears 15
away man with his fancies like a straw, and runs fast in
time and space. It is full of curves like this, your wind-
ing river of the Oise ; and lingers and returns in pleasant
pastorals; and yet, rightly thought upon, never returns at
all. For though it should revisit the same acre of meadow ao
in the same hour, it will have made an ample sweep
between whiles ; many little streams will have fallen in ;
many exhalations risen towards the sun; and even al-
though it were the same acre, it will no more lie the same
river of Oise. And thus, O graces of Origny, although ».s
the wandering fortune of my life should carry me back
again to where you await death's whistle by the river,
86 Inland Voyage
that will not be the old I who walks the street ; and those
wives and mothers, say, will those be you?
There was never any mistake about the Oise, as a
matter of fact. In these upper reaches it was still in a
5 prodigious hurry for the sea. It ran so fast and merrily,
through all the windings of its channel, that I strained my
thumb, fighting with the rapids, and had to paddle all the
rest of the way with one hand turned up. Sometimes, it
had to serve mills ; and being still a little river, ran very
lo dry and shallow in the meanwhile. We had to put our
legs out of the boat, and shove ourselves off the sand of
the bottom with our feet. And still it went on its way
singing among the poplars, and making a green valley in
the world. After a good woman, and a good book, and
15 tobacco, there is nothing so agreeable on earth as a
river. I forgave it its attempt on my life ; which was after
all one part owing to the unruly winds of heaven that had
blown down the tree, one part to my own mismanage-
ment, and only a third part to the river itself, and that,
20 not out of malice, but from its great pre-occupation over
its business of getting to the sea. A difficult business,
too; for the detours it had to make are not to be
counted. The geographers seem to have given up the
attempt ; for I found no map represent the infinite con-
25 tortion of its course. A fact will say more than any of
them. After we had been some hours, three if I mistake
not, flitting by the trees at this smooth, breakneck gallop,
when we came upon a hamlet and asked where we were,
we had got no farther than four kilometres (say two
Down the Oise : To Moy 87
miles and a half) from Origny. If it were not for the
honour of the thing (in the Scotch saying), we might
almost as well have been standing still.
We lunched on a meadow inside a parallelogram of
poplars. The leaves danced and prattled in the wind all 5
round about us. The river hurried on meanwhile, and
seemed to chide at our delay. Little we cared. The
river knew where it was going ; not so we : the less our
hurry, where we found good quarters and a pleasant
theatre for a pipe. At that hour, stockbrokers were shout- 10
ing in Paris Bourse for two or three per cent. ; but we
minded them as little as the sliding stream, and sacrificed
a hecatomb of minutes to the gods of tobacco and diges-
tion. Hurry is the resource of the faithless. Where a
man can trust his own heart, and those of his friends, to- 15
morrow is as good as to-day. And if he die in the mean-
while, why then, there he dies, and the (juestion is solved.
We had to take to the canal in the course of the after-
noon ; because, where it crossed the river, there was, not
a bridge, but a siphon. If it had not been for an excited 20
fellow on the bank, we should have paddled right into
the siphon, and thenceforward not paddled any more.
We met a man, a gentleman, on the tow-path, who was
much interested in our cruise. And I was witness to a
strange seizure of lying suffered by the Cij^arcilc : who, as
because his knife came from Norway, narrated all sorts of
adventures in that country, where he has never been.
He was rpiite feverish at the end, and pleaded demonia-
cal possession.
88 Inland Voyage
Moy (pronounce Moy) was a pleasant little village,
gathered round a chateau in a moat. The air was per-
fumed with hemp from neighbouring fields. At the
Golden Sheep, we found excellent entertainment. German
5 shells from the siege of La Fere, Nurnberg figures, gold
fish in a bowl, and all manner of knick-knacks, embel-
lished the pubHc room. The landlady was a stout, plain,
short-sighted, motherly body, with something not far
short of a genius for cookery. She had a guess of her
10 excellence herself. After every dish was sent in, she
would come and look on at the dinner for a while, with
puckered, blinking eyes. "Cest bon, n'est-ce pas ?" she
would say ; and when she had received a proper answer,
she disappeared into the kitchen. That common French
IS dish, partridge and cabbages, became a new thing in my
eyes at the Golden Sheep ; and many subsequent dinners
have bitterly disappointed me in consequence. Sweet
was our rest in the Golden Sheep at Moy.
LA FERE OF CURSED MEMORY
We lingered in Moy a good part of the day, for we
zowere fond of being philosophical, and scorned long jour-
neys and early starts on principle. The place, moreover,
invited to repose. People in elaborate shooting costumes
sallied from the chateau with guns and game-bags ; and
this was a pleasure in itself, to remain behind while these
25 elegant pleasure-seekers took the first of the morning.
In this way, all the world may be an aristocrat, and play
La Fere of Cursed Memory 89
the duke among marquises, and the reigning monarch
among dukes, if he will only outvie them in tranquillity.
An imperturbable demeanour comes from perfect pa-
tience. Quiet minds cannot be perplexed or frightened,
but go on in fortune or misfortune at their own private 5
pace, like a clock during a thunder-storm.
We made a very short day of it to La F^re ; but the
dusk was falling, and a small rain had begun before we
stowed the boats. La F^re is a fortified town in a plain,
and has two belts of rampart. Between the first and the 10
second, extends a region of waste land and cultivated
patches. Here and there along the wayside were posters
forbidding trespass in the name of military engineering.
At last, a second gateway admitted us to the town itself.
Lighted windows looked gladsome, whiffs of comfortable 15
cookery came abroad upon the air. The town was full
of the military reserve, out for the French Autumn ma-
na'uvres, and the reservists walked speedily and wore their
formidable great-coats. It was a fine night to be within
doors over dinner, and hear the rain upon the windows. 20
The Cigarette and I could not sufficiently congratulate
each other on the prospect, for we had been told there
was a capital inn at La F6re. Such a dinner as we were
going to eat ! such beds as we were to sleep in ! — and all
the while the rain raining on houseless folk over allaj
the poplared country-side ! It made our mouths water. /
The inn bore the name of some woodland animal, stag,
or hart, or hind, I fr^rgct whifh. Hut I shall never forget
how spacious and how eminently habitable it looked as
go Inland Voyage
we drew near. The carriage entry was lighted up, not
by intention, but from the mere superfluity of fire and
candle in the house. A ratde of many dishes came to
our ears ; we sighted a great field of tablecloth ; the
5 kitchen glowed like a forge and smelt like a garden of
things to eat.
Into this, the inmost shrine, and physiological heart, of
a hostelry, with all its furnaces in action, and all its
dressers charged with viands, you are now to suppose us
10 making our triumphal entry, a pair of damp rag-and-bone
men, each with a limp india-rubber bag upon his arm.
I do not beUeve I have a sound view of that kitchen ; I
saw it through a sort of glory : but it seemed to me
crowded with the snowy caps of cookmen, who all turned
IS round from their saucepans and looked at us with surprise.
There was no doubt about the landlady, however : there
she was, heading her army, a flushed, angry woman, full
of affairs. Her I asked politely — too politely, thinks the
Cigarette — if we could have beds: she surveying us
20 coldly from head to foot.
"You will find beds in the suburb," she remarked.
" We are too busy for the like of you."
If we could make an entrance, change our clothes, and
order a bottle of wine, I felt sure we could put things
25 right ; so said I : "If we cannot sleep, we may at least
dine," — and was for depositing my bag.
What a terrible convulsion of nature was that which
followed in the landlady's face ! She made a run at us,
and stamped her foot.
La Fere of Cursed Memory 91
"Out with you — out of the door!" she screeched.
" Sortez ! sortez! sortcz par la pork I "
I do not know how it happened, but next moment we
were out in the rain and darkness, and I was cursing
before the carriage entry hke a disappointed mendicant. 5
Where were the boating men of Belgium? where the
Judge and his good wines? and where the graces of
Origny? Black, black was the night after the firelit
kitchen ; but what was that to the blackness in our hearts?
This was not the first time that I have been refused a 10
lodging. Often and often have I planned what I should
do if such a misadventure happened to me again. And
nothing is easier to plan. But to put in execution, with
the heart boiling at the indignity? Try it; try it only
once; and tell me what you did. 15
It is all very fine to talk about tramps and morality.
Six hours of police surveillance (such as I have had), or
one brutal rejection from an inn door, change your views
ujjon the subject like a course of lectures. As long as
you keep in the upper regions, with all the world bowing 20
to you as you go, social arrangements have a very hand-
some air ; but once get under the wheels, and you wish
society were at the devil. I will give most respectable
men a fortnight of such a life, and then I will ofler them
twopence for what remains of their morality. 35
For my part, when I was turned out of the Stag, or the
Tfind, or whatever it was, I would have set the temple of
l)iana on fire, if it had been handy. 'I'here was no
crime complete enough to express my disapj)roval of
92 Inland Voyage
human institutions. As for the Cigarette, I never knew a
man so altered. " We have been taken for pedlars again,"
said he. " Good God, what it must be to be a pedlar
in reality ! " He particularized a complaint for every joint
5 in the landlady's body. Timon was a philanthropist along-
side of him. And then, when he was at the top of his
maledictory bent, he would suddenly break away and be-
gin whimperingly to commiserate the poor. " I hope to
God," he said, — and I trust the prayer was answered, —
lo " that I shall never be uncivil to a pedlar." Was this the
imperturbable Cigarette? This, this was he. O change
beyond report, thought, or belief !
Meantime the heaven wept upon our heads ; and the
windows grew brighter as the night increased in darkness.
IS We trudged in and out of La Fere streets ; we saw shops,
and private houses where people were copiously dining ;
we saw stables where carters' nags had plenty of fodder
and clean straw ; we saw no end of reservists, who were
very sorry for themselves this wet night, I doubt not, and
20 yearned for their country homes ; but had they not each
man his place in La Fere barracks? And we, what had
we?
There seemed to be no other inn in the whole town.
People gave us directions, which we followed as best we
25 could, generally with the effect of bringing us out again
upon the scene of our disgrace. We were very sad people
indeed by the time we had gone all over La Fere ; and
the Cigarette had already made up his mind to lie under
a poplar and sup off a loaf of bread. But right at the
La Fere of Cursed Memory 93
other end, the house next the town gate was full of light
and bustle. " Bazin, aubergiste, loge a pied" was the
sign. "A la Croix de Malte." There were we received.
The room was full of noisy reservists drinking and smok-
ing ; and we were very glad indeed when the drums and s
bugles began to go about the streets, and one and all had
to snatch shakoes ^ and be off for the barracks.
Bazin was a tall man, running to fat : soft-spoken, with
a delicate, gentle face. We asked him to share our wine ;
but he excused himself, having pledged reservists all day 10
long. This was a very different type of the workman-
innkeeper from the bawling disputatious fellow at Origny.
He also loved Paris, where he had worked as a decora-
tive painter in his youth. There were such opportunities
for self-instruction there, he said. And if anyone has read 15
Zola's descrijjtion of the workman's marriage party visit-
ing the IvOuvre, they would do well to have heard 15azin
by way of antidote. He had delighted in the museums
in his youth. "One sees there little miracles of work,"
he said ; " that is what makes a good workman ; it kindles 20
a spark." We asked him how he managed in La F6rc. " I
am married," he said, "and I have my pretty children.
Hut frankly, it is no life at all. I'Vom morning to niglil
1 [)ledge a pack of good enough fellows wiio know noth-
ing." as
It faired as the night went on, and the moon came out
of the clouds. We sat in front of the door, talking softly
with T'a/.in. At the guard-hotisc opposite, the guard was
' MiliLiry taps.
94 Inland Voyage
being for ever turned out, as trains of field artillery kept
clanking in out of the night, or patrols of horsemen
trotted by in their cloaks. Madame Bazin came out
after a while ; she was tired with her day's work, I sup-
5 pose ; and she nestled up to her husband and laid her
head upon his breast. He had his arm about her and
kept gently patting her on the shoulder. I think Bazin
was right, and he was really married. Of how few people
can the same be said !
lo Little did the Bazins know how much they served us.
We were charged for candles, for food and drink, and for
the beds we slept in. But there was nothing in the bill
for the husband's pleasant talk ; nor for the pretty spec-
tacle of their married life. And there was yet another
IS item uncharged. For these people's politeness really set
us up again in our own esteem. We had a thirst for con-
sideration ; the sense of insult was still hot in our spirits ;
and civil usage seemed to restore us to our position in
the world.
20 How little we pay our way in life ! Although we have
our purses continually in our hand the better part of
service goes still unrewarded. But I like to fancy that a
grateful spirit gives as good as it gets. Perhaps the
Bazins knew how much I liked them? perhaps they also
25 were healed of some slights by the thanks that I gave
them in my manner?
Down the Oise 95
DOWN THE OISE
Through the Golden Valley
Below La Fere the river runs through a piece of open
pastoral country ; green, opulent, loved by breeders ;
called the Golden Valley. In wide sweeps, and with a
swift and equable gallop, the ceaseless stream of water
visits and makes green the fields. Kine, and horses, 5
and little humorous donkeys browse together in the
meadows, and come down in troops to the river side to
drink. They make a strange feature in the landscape ;
above all when startled, and you see them galloping to
and fro, with their incongruous forms and faces. It gives 10
a feeling as of great, unfenced pampas, and the herds of
wandering nations. There were hills in the distaru:e
upon either hand ; and on one side the river sometimes
bordered on the wooded spurs of Coucy and St. Gobain.
The artillery were practising at La Fere ; and soon the 15
cannon of heaven joined in that loud play. Two conti-
nents of cloud met and exchanged salvos overhead ; while
all round the horizon we could sec sunshine and clear air
upon the hills. What with the guns and the thunder, the
herds were all frighted in the Golden Valley. We could ao
see them tossing their heads, and rimning to and fro in
timorous indecision ; and when they had made up their
minds, and the donkey followed the horse, and the cow
was after the donkey, we could hear their hoofs thun-
dering abroad over tlic meadows. It had a martial sound, ^s
g6 Inland Voyage
like cavalry charges. And altogether, as far as the ears
are concerned, we had a very rousing battle-piece per-
formed for our amusement.
-^ At last the guns and the thunder dropped off; the sun
5 shone on the wet meadows ; the air was scented with the
breath of rejoicing trees and grass ; and the river kept
unweariedly carrying us on at its best pace. There was a
manufacturing district about Chauny ; and after that the
banks grew so high that they hid the adjacent country,
10 and we could see nothing but clay sides, and one willow
after another. Only, here and there, we passed by a vil-
lage or a ferry, and some wondering child upon the bank
would stare after us until we turned the corner. I dare-
say we continued to paddle in that child's dreams for many
IS a night after.
Sun and shower alternated like day and night, making
the hours longer by their variety. When the showers
were heavy I could feel each drop striking through my
jersey to my warm skin ; and the accumulation of small
20 shocks put me nearly beside myself. I decided I should
buy a mackintosh at Noyon. It is nothing to get wet ;
but the misery of these individual pricks of cold all over
my body at the same instant of time, made me flail the
water with my paddle like a madman. The Cigarette
25 was greatly amused by these ebullitions. It gave him
something else to look at, besides clay banks and willows.
All the time, the river stole away like a thief in straight
places, or swung round corners with an eddy ; the willows
nodded and were undermined all day long; the clay
Noyon Cathedral 97
banks tumbled in ; the Oise, which had been so many
centuries making the Golden Valley, seemed to have
changed its fancy, and be bent upon undoing its perform-
ance. AVhat a number of things a river does, by simply
following Gravity in the innocence of its heart ! 5
NOYON CATHEDRAL
Novox stands about a mile from the river, in a little
plain surrounded by wooded hills, and entirely covers an
eminence with its tile roofs, surmounted by a long, straight-
backed cathedral with two stiff towers. .As we got into
the town, the tile roofs seemed to tumble uphill one upon 10
another, in the oddest disorder ; but for all their scram-
bling, they (lid not attain above the knees of the cathedral,
which stood, upright and solemn, over all. As the streets
drew near to this presiding genius, through the market
place under the Hotel de Villc, they grew emptier and 15
more composed. Blank walls and shuttered windows
were turned to the great edifice, ami grass grew on the
white causeway. " I'lit off thy shoes from off thy feet, for
the place whereon thou standest is holy ground." The
I/(^trl dti Nord, nevertheless, lights its secular tapers 20
within a stone cast of the church ; and we had the superb
east-end before our eyes all morning from the window of
our bedroom. I have seldom looked on the east-end of
a church with more complete sympathy. .As it flanges
out in three wide terraces, and settles <lown broadly on it,
llie earth, it looks like the poop of some gnat olil hattle-
98 Inland Voyage
ship. Hollow-backed buttresses carry vases, which figure
for the stern lanterns. There is a roll in the ground, and
the towers just appear above the pitch of the roof, as
though the good ship were bowing lazily over an Atlantic
5 swell. At any moment it might be a hundred feet away
from you, climbing the next billow. At any moment a
window might open, and some old admiral thrust forth a
cocked hat, and proceed to take an observation. The old
admirals sail the sea no longer ; the old ships of battle
10 are all broken up, and live only in pictures; but this, that
was a church before ever they were thought upon, is still
a church, and makes as brave an appearance by the Oise.
The cathedral and the river are probably the two oldest
things for miles around ; and certainly they have both a
IS grand old age.
The sacristan ^ took us to the top of one of the towers,
and showed us the five bells hanging in their loft. From
above, the town was a tessellated pavement of roofs and
gardens ; the old line of rampart was plainly traceable ;
20 and the sacristan pointed out to us, far across the plain,
in a bit of gleaming sky between two clouds, the towers
of Chateau Coucy.
I find I never weary of great churches. It is my
favourite kind of mountain scenery. Mankind was never
25 so happily inspired as when it made a cathedral : a thing
as single and specious as a statue to the first glance,
and yet, on examination, as lively and interesting as a for-
est in detail. The height of spires cannot be taken by
1 Sexton.
Noyon Cathedral 99
trigonometry ; they measure absurdly short, but how tall
they are to the admiring eye ! And where we have so
many elegant proportions, growing one out of the other,
and all together into one, it seems as if proportion tran-
scended itself and became something different and more 5
imposing. I could never fathom how a man dares to
lift up his voice to preach in a cathedral. What is he to
say that will not be an anti-climax? For though I have
heard a considerable variety of sermons, I never yet heard
one that was so expressive as a cathedral. 'Tis the best 10
preacher itself, and preaches day and night ; not only
telling you of man's art and aspirations in the past, but con-
victing your own soul of ardent sympathies ; or rather, like
all good preachers, it sets you preaching to yourself ; — and ^
every man is his own doctor of divinity in the last resort. 15
As I sat outside of the hotel in the course of the after-
noon, the sweet groaning thunder of the organ floated
out of the church like a summons. I was not averse,
liking the theatre so well, to sit out an actor two of the
play, but I could never rightly make out the nature of the 2°
service I beheld. Four or five priests and as many chor-
isters were singing Miserere before the high altar when
I went in. There was no congregation but a few old
women on chairs and old men kneeling on the pavement.
After a while a long train of young girls, walking two and ».S
two, each with a lighted taper in her hand, and all dressed
in black with a white veil, came from behind the altar and
began to descend the nave ; the four first carrying a Vir-
gin and child upon a table. 'I'he priests an<l choristers
lOO Inland Voyage
arose from their knees and followed after singing " Ave
Mary " as they went. In this order they made the cir-
cuit of the cathedral, passing twice before me where I
leaned against a pillar. The priest who seemed of most
5 consequence was a strange, down-looking old man. He
kept mumbling prayers with his lips ; but as he looked
upon me darkling, it did not seem as if prayer were
uppermost in his heart. Two others, who bore the bur-
then of the chaunt, were stout, brutal, military-looking
lo men of forty, with bold, over-fed eyes ; they sang with
some lustiness, and trolled forth " Ave Mary " like a gar-
rison catch. The little girls were timid and grave. As
they footed slowly up the aisle, each one took a moment's
glance at the Englishman ; and the big nun who played
15 marshal fairly stared him out of countenance. As for the
choristers, from first to last they misbehaved as only boys
can misbehave ; and cruelly marred the performance
with their antics.
I understood a great deal of the spirit of what went on.
20 Indeed it would be difficult not to understand the Mise-
rere, which I take to be the composition of an atheist.
If it ever be a good thing to take such despondency to
heart, the Miserere is the right music and a cathedral a
fit scene. So far I am at one with the Catholics : — an
25 odd name for them, after all? But why, in God's name,
these holiday choristers? why these priests who steal
wandering looks about the congregation while they feign
to be at prayer? why this fat nun, who rudely arranges
her procession and shakes delinquent virgins by the
Noyon Cathedral loi
elbow? why this spitting, and snuffing, and forgetting of
keys, and the thousand and one little misadventures that
disturb a frame of mind, laboriously edified with chaunts
and organings? In any playhouse reverend fathers may
see what can be done with a little art, and how, to move 5
high sentiments, it is necessary to drill the supernumera-
ries and have every stool in its proper place.
One other circumstance distressed me. I could bear
a Miserere myself, having had a good deal of open air
exercise of late ; but I wished the old people somewhere 10
else. It was neither the right sort of music nor the right
sort of divinity for men and women who have come
through most accidents by this time, and probably have
an opinion of their own upon the tragic element in life.
A person up in years can generally do his own Miserere 15
for himself; although I notice that such an one often
prefers Jubilate Deo for his ordinary singing. On the
whole, the most religious exercise for the aged is prob-
ably to recall their own experience ; so many friends
dead, so many hopes disappointed, so many slips and ao
stumbles, and withal so many bright days and smiling
providences ; there is surely the matter of a very elo-
quent sermon in all this.
On the whole, I was greatly solemnized. In the little
pictorial map of our whole Inland Voyage, which my 25
fancy still preserves, and sometimes unrolls for the
amusement of odd moments, Noyon cathedral figures on
a most preposterous scale, and must be nearly as large as
a department. I can still see the faces of the i)riests as
I02 Inland Voyage
if they were at my elbow, and hear Ave Maria, ora pro
nobis sounding through the church. All Noyon is blotted
out for me by these superior memories ; and I do not
care to say more about the place. It was but a stack of
5 brown roofs at the best, where I believe people live very
reputably in a quiet way ; but the shadow of the church
falls upon it when the sun is low, and the five bells are
heard in all quarters, telling that the organ has begun.
If ever I join the church of Rome, I shall stipulate to be
10 Bishop of Noyon on the Oise.
DOWN THE OISE: TO COMPIEGNE
The most patient people grow weary at last with being
continually wetted with rain ; except of course in the
Scotch Highlands, where there are not enough fine
intervals to point the difference. That was like to be
1 5 our case, the day we left Noyon. I remember nothing
of the voyage ; it was nothing but clay banks and willows,
and rain ; incessant, pitiless, beating rain : until we
stopped to lunch at a little inn at Pimprez, where the
canal ran very near the river. We were so sadly drenched
20 that the landlady lit a few sticks in the chimney for our
comfort ; there we sat in a steam of vapour, lamenting
our concerns. The husband donned a game-bag and
strode out to shoot ; the wife sat in a far corner watching
us. I think we were worth looking at. We grumbled
25 over the misfortune of La Fere ; we forecast other La
Feres in the future ; — although things went better with
Down the Oise : To Complegne 103
the Cigarette for spokesman ; he had more aplomb
altogether than I ; and a dull, positive way of approach-
ing a landlady that carried off the india-rubber bags.
Talking of La Fere, put us talking of the reservists.
" Reservery," said he, " seems a pretty mean way to 5
spend one's autumn holiday."
" About as mean," returned I, dejectedly, " as canoeing."
"These gentlemen travel for their pleasure?" asked
the landlady, with unconscious irony.
It was too much. The scales fell from our eyes. An- 10
other wet day, it was determined, and we put the boats
into the train.
The weather took the hint. That was our last wetting.
The afternoon faired up : grand clouds still voyaged in the
sky, but now singly, and with a depth of blue around 15
their path ; and a sunset, in the daintiest rose and gold,
inaugurated a thick night of stars and a month of unbroken
weather. At the .same time, the river began to give us a
better outlook into the country. The banks were not so
high, the willows disappeared from along the margin, and »o
pleasant hills stood all along its course and marked their
profile on the sky.
In a little while, the canal, coming to its last lock, be-
gan to discharge its water-houses on the Oise ; so that we
had no lack of company to fear. 1 lere were all our old 25
friends ; the Deo Gratias of Condc and the Four Sons of
Aymon journeyed cheerily down stream along with us ;
we exchanged waterside plca.santrics with the steersman
perched among the lumber, or the driver hoarse with
I04 Inland Voyage
bawling to his horses ; and the children came and looked
over the side as we paddled by. We had never known
all this while how much we missed them ; but it gave us
a fillip to see the smoke from their chimneys.
5 A little below this junction, we made another meeting
of yet more account. For there we were joined by the
Aisne, already a far- travelled river and fresh out of
Champagne. Here ended the adolescence of the Oise ;
this was his marriage day ; thenceforward he had a stately,
lo brimming march, conscious of his own dignity and sundry
dams. He became a tranquil feature in the scene.
The trees and towns saw themselves in him, as in a mirror.
He carried the canoes lightly on his broad breast ; there
was no need to work hard against an eddy : but idleness
IS became the order of the day, and mere straightforward
dipping of the paddle, now on this side, now on that,
without intelligence or effort. Truly we were coming into
halcyon weather upon all accounts, and were floated tow-
ards the sea like gentlemen.
20 We made Compiegne as the sun was going down : a
fine profile of a town above the river. Over the bridge
a regiment was parading to the drum. People loitered
on the quay, some fishing, some looking idly at the stream.
And as the two boats shot in along the water, we could
25 see them pointing them out and speaking one to another.
We landed at a floating lavatory, where the washerwomen
were still beating the clothes.
At Compiegne 105
AT COMPIEGNE
We put up at a big, bustling hotel in Compiegne,
where nobody observed our presence.
Reservery and general militarismus (as the Germans
call it) was rampant. A camp of conical white tents
without the town looked like a leaf out of a picture Bible ; 5
sword-belts decorated the walls of the cafes; and the
streets kept sounding all day long with military music.
It was not possible to be an Englishman and avoid a
feeling of elation ; for the men who followed the drums
were small, and walked shabbily. Each man inclined at 10
his own angle, and jolted to his own convenience, as he
went. There was nothing of the superb gait with which
a regiment of tall Highlanders moves behind its music,
solemn and inevitable, like a natural phenomenon. Who,
that has seen it, can forget the drum-major pacing in 15
front, the drummers' tiger-skins, the pipers' swinging
plaids, the strange elastic rhythm of the whole regiment
footing it in time — and the bang of the drum, when the
brasses cease anfl the shrill pipes take up the martial
story in their [)larc? so
A girl at school in l-'rance began ti; describe one of
our regiments on parade, to her French schoolmates ;
and as she went on, she told me, the recollection grew so
vivid, she became so prcjiid to be the countrywoman of
such soldiers, and so sorry to be in another country, thai as
her voice failed her and she burst into tears. I li;ive
never forgotten that girl ; and I think she very nearly
io6 Inland Voyage
deserves a statue. To call her a young lady, with all its
niminy associations, would be to offer her an insult. She
may rest assured of one thing ; although she never should
marry a heroic general, never see any great or immediate
5 result of her life, she will not have lived in vain for her
native land.
But though French soldiers show to ill advantage on
parade, on the march they are gay, alert, and willing like
a troop of fox-hunters. I remember once seeing a com-
lo pany pass through the forest of Fontainebleau, on the
Chailly road, between the Bas Br^au and the Reine
Blanche. One fellow walked a little before the rest, and
sang a loud, audacious marching song. The rest bestirred
their feet, and even swung their muskets in time. A
15 young officer on horseback had hard ado to keep his
countenance at the words. You never saw anything so
cheerful and spontaneous as their gait ; schoolboys do
not look more eagerly at hare and hounds ; and you
would have thought it impossible to tire such willing
20 marchers.
My great delight in Compiegne was the town-hall. I
doted upon the town-hall. It is a monument of Gothic
insecurity, all turreted, and gargoyled, and slashed, and
bedizened with half a score of architectural fancies.
25 Some of the niches are gilt and painted; and in a great
square panel in the centre, in black relief on a gilt ground,
Louis XII rides upon a pacing horse, with hand on hip
and head thrown back. There is royal arrogance in every
line of him ; the stirrupped foot projects insolently from
At Compiegiie 107
the frame ; the eye is hard and proud ; the very horse
seems to be treadingwithgratificationover prostrate serfs,
and to have the breath of the trumpet in his nostrils. So
rides for ever, on the front of the town-hall, the good king
Louis XII, the father of his people. 5
Over the king's head, in the tall centre turret, appears
the dial of a clock ; and high above that three little
mechanical figures, each one with a hammer in his hand,
whose business it is to chime out the hours and halves and
quarters for the burgesses of Compiegne. The centre 10
figure has a gilt breast-plate; the two others wear gilt
trunk-hose ; and they all three have elegant, flapping hats
like cavaliers. As the quarter approaches, they turn their
heads and look knowingly one to the other ; and then,
kling go the three hammers on three little bells below. 15
The hour follows, deep and sonorous, from the interior of
the tower; and the gilded gentlemen rest from their
labours with contentment.
I had a great deal of healthy pleasure from their ma-
nceuvres, and took good care to miss as few performances ao
as possible ; and I found that even the Cit^aretle, while
he pretended to desjjise my enthusiasm, was more or less
a devotee himself. There is something highly absurd in
the exposition of such toys to the outrages of winter on a
house-top. They would be more in keeping in a glasses
case before a NQrnberg clock. Al)oveall, at night, when
the chilclren are abed, and even grown people are snor-
ing under cpiilts, does it not seem impertinent to leave
these gingerbread figures winking and tinkling to tlie
io8 Inland Voyage
stars and the rolling moon? The gargoyles may fitly
enough twist their ape-like heads ; fitly enough may the
potentate bestride his charger, like a centurion in an old
German print of the Via Dolorosa ; but the toys should
S be put away in a box among some cotton, until the sun
rises, and the children are abroad again to be amused.
In Compi^gne post-office, a great packet of letters
awaited us ; and the authorities were, for this occasion
only, so polite as to hand them over upon application.
lo In some way, our journey may be said to end with this
letter-bag at Compi6gne. The spell was broken. We had
partly come home from that moment.
No one should have any correspondence on a journey ;
it is bad enough to have to write ; but the receipt of letters
15 is the death of all holiday feeling,
" Out of my country and myself I go." I wish to take
a dive among new conditions for a while, as into another
element. I have nothing to do with my friends or my
affections for the time ; when I came away, I left my heart
20 at home in a desk, or sent it forward with my portmanteau
to await me at my destination. After my journey is over,
I shall not fail to read your admirable letters with the
attention they deserve. But I have paid all this money,
look you, and paddled all these strokes, for no other pur-
25 pose than to be abroad ; and yet you keep me at home
with your perpetual communications. You tug the string,
and I feel that I am a tethered bird. You pursue me all
over Europe with the little vexations that I came away to
avoid. There is no discharge in the war of life, I am
At Compiegne 109
well aware ; but shall there not be so much as a week's
furlough ?
We were up by six the day we were to leave. They
had taken so little note of us that I hardly thought they
would have condescended on a bill. But they did, with s
some smart particulars too ; and we paid in a civilized
manner to an uninterested clerk, and went out of that
hotel, with the india-rubber bags, unremarked. No one
cared to know about us. It is not possible to rise before a
village ; but Compiegne was so grown a town, that it took 10
its ease in the morning ; and we were up and away while
it was still in dressing-gown and slippers. The streets
were left to people washing door-steps ; noboily was in
full dress but the cavaliers upon the town-hall ; they were
all washed with dew, spruce in their gilding, and full of i.s
intelligence and a sense of professional responsibility,
Kling, went they on the bells for the half-past six, as we
went by. I took it kind of them to make me this parting
compliment ; they never were in better form, not even at
noon upon a Sunday. so
There was no one to see us off but the early washer-
women — early and late — who were already i)cating the
linen in their floating lavatory on the river. They were
very merry and matutinal in their ways ; plunged their
arms boldly in, an<l seemed not to feel the shock. It 75
would be dispiriting to me, this early beginning and first
cold dabble, of a most dispiriting day's work. I'.iil I lif-
lieve they would have been as unwilling to change days
with us, as we could be to change with them. They
iio Inland Voyage
crowded to the door to watch us paddle away into the
thin sunny mists upon the river; and shouted heartily
after us till we were through the bridge.
CHANGED TIMES
There is a sense in which those mists never rose from
5 off our journey ; and from that time forth they lie very
densely in my note-book. As long as the Oise was a small
rural river, it took us near by people's doors, and we could
hold a conversation with natives in the riparian fields. But
now that it had grown so wide, the life along shore passed
10 us by at a distance. It was the same difference as between
a great public highway and a country bypath that wanders
in and out of cottage gardens. We now lay in towns,
where nobody troubled us with questions ; we had floated
into civilized life, where people pass without salutation.
15 In sparsely inhabited places we make all we can of each
encounter ; but when it comes to a city, we keep to our-
selves, and never speak unless we have trodden on a man's
toes. In these waters we were no longer strange birds,
and nobody supposed we had travelled further than from
20 the last town. I remember, when we came into L'Isle
Adam, for instance, how we met dozens of pleasure-boats
outing it for the afternoon, and there was nothing to dis-
tinguish the true voyager from the amateur, except, perhaps,
the filthy condition of my sail. I'he company in one boat
25 actually thought they recognized me for a neighbour.
Was there ever anything more wounding? All the ro-
Changed Times 1 1 1
mance had come down to that. Now, on the upper Oise,
where nothing sailed as a general thing but fish, a pair of
canoeists could not be thus vulgarly explained away ; we
were strange and picturesque intruders ; and out of people's
wonder sprang a sort of light and passing intimacy all s
along our route. There is nothing but tit for tat in this
world, though sometimes it be a httle difficult to trace;
for the scores are older than we ourselves, and there has
never yet been a settling-day since things were. You get
entertainment pretty much in proportion as you give. As lo
long as we were a sort of odd wanderers, to be stared at
and followed like a quack doctor or a caravan, we had no
want of amusement in return ; but as soon as we sank
into commonplace ourselves, all whom we met were simi-
larly disenchanted. And here is one reason of a dozen '5
why the world is dull to dull i)ersons.
In our earlier adventures there was generally some-
thing to do, and that quickened us. Even the showers
of rain had a revivifying effect, and shook up the brain
from torpor. But now, when the river no longer ran in a 20
proper sense, only glided seaward with an even, outright,
but imperceptible speed, and when the sky smiled upon
us day after day without variety, we began to slip into
that golden doze of the mind which fcjilows upon much
exercise in the ojien air. I have stupefied myself in this 25
way more than once ; indeed, I dearly love the feeling ;
but I never had it to the same degree as when paddling
down the Oise. It was the apotheosis of stupidity.
We ceased reading entirely. Sometimes wIkii I foimd
1 12 Inland Voyage
a new paper, I took a particular pleasure in reading a
single number of the current novel ; but I never could
bear more than three instalments ; and even the second
was a disappointment. As soon as the tale became in
5 any way perspicuous, it lost all merit in my eyes ; only a
single scene, or, as is the way with these feuilletons, half
a scene, without antecedent or consequence, like a
piece of a dream, had the knack of fixing my interest.
The less I saw of the novel, the better I liked it : a
lo pregnant reflection. But for the most part, as I said,
we neither of us read anything in the world, and em-
ployed the very little while we were awake between bed
and dinner in poring upon maps. I have always been
fond of maps, and can voyage in an atlas with the great-
15 est enjoyment. The names of places are singularly invit-
ing ; the contour of coasts and rivers is enthralling to the
eye ; and to hit, in a map, upon some place you have
heard of before, makes history a new possession. But we
thumbed our charts, on these evenings, with the blankest
2o unconcern. We cared not a fraction for this place or
that. We stared at the sheet as children listen to their
rattle ; and read the names of towns or villages to forget
them again at once. We had no romance in the matter ;
there was nobody so fancy-free. If you had taken the
25 maps away while we were studying them most intently,
it is a fair bet whether we might not have continued to
study the table with the same delight.
About one thing we were mightily taken up, and that
was eating. I think I made a god of my belly. I re-
Changed Times 113
member dwelling in imagination upon this or that dish
till my mouth watered ; and long before we got in for the
night my appetite was a clamant, instant annoyance.
Sometimes we paddled alongside for a while and whetted
each other with gastronomical fancies as we went. Cake 5
and sherry, a homely refection, but not within reach upon
the Oise, trotted through my head for many a mile ; and
once, as we were approaching Verberie, the Ci^:;atctte
brought my heart into my mouth by the suggestion of
oyster patties and Sauterne. 10
I suppose none of us recognize the great part that is
played in life by eating and drinking. The appetite is so
imperious, that we can stomach the least interesting
viands, and pass off a dinner hour thankfully enough on
bread and water; just as there are men who must read 15
something, if it were only Bradshaui' s Guide. But there
is a romance about the matter after all. Probably the
table has more devotees than love ; and I am sure that
food is much more generally entertaining than scenery.
Do you give in, as Walt Whitman would say, that you arc ao
any the less immortal for that? 'J"hc true materialism is
to be ashamed of what we are. To detect the flavour of
an olive is no less a piece of human perfection than to
find beauty in the colours of the sunset.
Canoeing was easy work. To dip the paddle at the as
proper inclination, now ri.i,'lu, now left ; to kct'i) the head
down stream ; to empty the little pool that gathered in
the lap of the apron ; to screw tip the eyes against the
glittering sparkles of sim upon the water; or now and
114 Inland Voyage
again to pass below the whistling tow-rope of the Deo
Gratias of Cond^, or the Four Sons of Aymon — there
was not much art in that ; certain silly muscles managed
it between sleep and waking ; and meanwhile the brain
S had a whole holiday, and went to sleep. We took in, at
a glance, the larger features of the scene ; and beheld,
with half an eye, bloused fishers and dabbling washer-
women on the bank. Now and again we might be half
wakened by some church spire, by a leaping fish, or by a
10 trail of river grass that clung about the paddle and had to
be plucked off and thrown away. But these luminous
intervals were only partially luminous. A little more of
us was called into action, but never the whole. The
central bureau of nerves, what in some moods we call
15 Ourselves, enjoyed its holiday without disturbance, like a
Government Office. The great wheels of intelligence
turned idly in the head, like fly-wheels, grinding no grist. I
have gone on for half an hour at a time, counting my strokes
and forgetting the hundreds. I flatter myself the beasts
20 that perish could not underbid that, as a low form of con-
sciousness. And what a pleasure it was ! What a hearty,
tolerant temper did it bring about ! There is nothing
captious about a man who has attained to this, the one
possible apotheosis in life, the Apotheosis of Stupidity ;
25 and he begins to feel dignified and longaevous like a
tree.
There was one odd piece of practical metaphysics which
accompanied what I may call the depth, if I must not
caU it the intensity, of my abstraction. What philosophers
Changed Times 115
call me and not me, ego and non ego, preoccupied me
whether I would or no. There was less me and more not
me than I was accustomed to expect. I looked on upon
somebody else, who managed the paddling ; I was aware
of somebody else's feet against the stretcher ; my own s
body seemed to have no more intimate relation to me
than the canoe, or the river, or the river banks. Nor
this alone : something inside my mind, a part of my
brain, a province of my proper being, had thrown off
allegiance and set up for itself, or perhaps for the some- 10
body else who did the paddling. I had dwindled into
quite a little thing in a corner of myself. I was isolated
in my own skull. Thoughts presented themselves un-
bidden ; they were not ray thoughts, they were plainly
someone else's; and I considered them like a part of the 15
landscape. I take it, in short, that I was about as near
Nirvana as would be convenient in practical life; and if
this be so, I make the Buddhists my sincere compliments ;
'tis an agreeable state, not very consistent with mental
brilliancy, not exactly profitable in a money point of 20
view, but very calm, golden, and incurious, and one that
sets a man superior to alarms. It may be best figured by
supposing yourself to get dead drunk, and yet keep sober
to enjoy it. I have a notion that open air labourers must
spend a large portion of their days in this ecstatic stupor, 25
which explains their high composure and endurance. A
pity to go to the expense of laudantim, when here is a
better paradise for notliing !
This frame of mind was the great exploit of our voyage,
1 1 6 Inland Voyage
take it all in all. It was the farthest piece of travel ac-
complished. Indeed, it lies so far from beaten paths of
language, that I despair of getting the reader into sympa-
thy with the smiling, complacent idiocy of my condition ;
5 when ideas came and went Hke motes in a sunbeam ; when
trees and church spires along the bank surged up from
time to time into my notice, like solid objects through a
rolling cloudland ; when the rhythmical svvish of boat
and paddle in the water became a cradle-song to lull my
10 thoughts asleep ; when a piece of mud on the deck was
sometimes an intolerable eyesore, and sometimes quite a
companion for me, and the object of pleased considera-
tion ; — and all the time, with the river running and the
shores changing upon either hand, I kept counting my
IS strokes and forgetting the hundreds, the happiest animal
in France.
DOWN THE OISE: CHURCH INTERIORS
We made our first stage below Compi^gne to Pont Sainte
Maxence. I was abroad a little after six the next morn-
ing. The air was biting and smelt of frost. In an open
2o place, a score of women wrangled together over the day's
market ; and the noise of their negotiation sounded thin
and querulous like that of sparrows on a winter's morning.
The rare passengers blew into their hands, and shuffled
in their wooden shoes to set the blood agog. The streets
25 were full of icy shadow, although the chimneys were
smoking overhead in golden sunshine. If you wake early
Down the Oise : Church Interiors 117
enough at this season of the year, you may get up in De-
cember to break your fast in June.
I found my way to the church ; for there is always
something to see about a church, whether hving worship-
pers or dead men's tombs ; you find there the deadUest 5
earnest, and the hollowest deceit ; and even where it is
not a piece of history, it will be certain to leak out some
contemporary gossip. It was scarcely so cold in the
church as it was without, but it looked colder. The
white nave was positively arctic to the eye ; and the taw- 10
driness of a continental altar looked more forlorn than
usual in the solitude and the bleak air. Two priests sat
in the chancel, reading and waiting penitents ; and out
in the nave, one very old woman was engaged in her de-
votions. It was a wonder how she was able to pass her 15
beads when healthy young people were breathing in their
palms and slapping their chest ; but though this con-
cerned me, I was yet more disi)irited by the nature of
her exercises. She went from chair to chair, from altar
to altar, circumnavigating the church. To each shrine, 20
she dedicated an equal number of beads and an ecjual
length of time. Like a prudent capitalist with a some-
what cynical view of the commercial prospect, she desired to
place her snpjjlications in a great variety of heavenly secur-
ities. She would risk nothing on the credit of any single in- 25
tercessor. C)ut of the whole company of saints and angels,
not one but was to suppose himself her chamjjion elect
against the Great Assizes 1 I could only think of it as a dull,
transparent jugglery, based upon unconscious unbelief, y
ii8 Inland Voyage
She was as dead an old woman as ever I saw ; no more
than bone and parchment, curiously put together. Her
eyes, with which she interrogated mine, were vacant of
sense. It depends on what you call seeing, whether you
5 might not call her blind. Perhaps she had known love :
perhaps borne children, suckled them and given them
pet names. But now that was all gone by, and had left
her neither happier nor wiser ; and the best she could do
with her mornings was to come up here into the cold
lo church and juggle for a slice of heaven. It was not with-
out a gulp that I escaped into the streets and the keen
morning air. Morning? why, how tired of it she would
be before night ! and if she did not sleep, how then? It
is fortunate that not many of us are brought up publicly
15 to justify our lives at the bar of threescore years and ten ;
fortunate that such a number are knocked opportunely
on the head in what they call the flower of their years, and
go away to suffer for their foUies in private somewhere
else. Otherwise, between sick children and discon-
20 tented old folk, we might be put out of all conceit of
hfe.
I had need of all my cerebral hygiene during that
day's paddle : the old devotee stuck in my throat sorely.
But I was soon in the seventh heaven of stupidity; and
25 knew nothing but that somebody was paddling a canoe,
while I was counting his strokes and forgetting the
hundreds. I used sometimes to be afraid I should re-
member the hundreds ; which would have made a toil of
a pleasure ; but the terror was chimerical, they went out
Down the Oise : Church Interiors 1 19
of my mind by enchantment, and I knew no more than
the man in the moon about my only occupation.
At Creil, where we stopped to lunch, we left the canoes
in another floating lavatory, which, as it was high noon,
was packed with washerwomen, red-handed and loud- 5
voiced; and they and their broad jokes are about all
I remember of the place. I could look up my history
books, if you were very anxious, and tell you a date or
two; for it figured rather largely in the English wars.
But I prefer to mention a girls' boarding-school, which 10
had an interest for us because it was a girls' boarding-
school, and because we imagined we had rather an
interest for it. At least — there were the girls about the
garden ; and here were we on the river ; and there was
more than one handkerchief waved as we went by. It 15
caused quite a stir in my heart ; and yet how we should
have wearied and despised each other, these girls and I,
if we had been introduced at a croquet party ! But this
is a fashion I love : to kiss the hand or wave a handker-
chief to people I shall never see again, to play with 20
possibility, and knock in a peg for fancy to hang upon.
It gives the traveller a j(jg, reminds him that he is not a
traveller everywhere, and that his journey is no more
than a siesta by the way on the real march of life.
The church at Crcil was a nondescript place in the 25
inside, splashed with gaudy lights from the windows, and
picked out with medallions of the Dolorous Way. But
there was one oddity, in the way of an rx voio, wIh( h
pleased me hugely : a faithful model of a canal-boat,
I20 Inland Voyage
swung from the vault, with a written aspiration that God
should conduct the Saint Nicolas of Creil to a good
haven. The thing was neatly executed, and would have
made the delight of a party of boys on the waterside.
5 But what tickled me was the gravity of the peril to be
conjured. You might hang up the model of a sea-going
ship and welcome : one that is to plough a furrow round
the world, and visit the tropic or the frosty poles, runs
dangers that are well worth a candle and a mass. But
lo the Saint Nicolas of Creil, which was to be tugged for
some ten years by patient draught horses, in a weedy
canal, with the poplars chattering overhead, and the
skipper whistling at the tiller; which was to do all its
errands in green, inland places, and never got out of sight
IS of a village belfry in all its cruising; why, you would
have thought if anything could be done without the
intervention of Providence, it would be that ! But
perhaps the skipper was a humorist : or perhaps a
prophet, reminding people of the seriousness of life by
20 this preposterous token.
At Creil, as at Noyon, Saint Joseph seemed a favourite
saint on the score of punctuality. Day and hour can be
specified ; and grateful people do not fail to specify them
on a votive tablet, when prayers have been punctually
35 and neatly answered. Whenever time is a consideration,
Saint Joseph is the proper intermediary. I took a sort of
pleasure in observing the vogue he had in France, for
the good man plays a very small part in my religion at
home. Yet I could not help fearing that, where the
Down the Oise : Church Interiors 121
Saint is so much commended for exactitude, he will be
expected to be very grateful for his tablet.
This is foolishness to us Protestants ; and not of great
importance anyway. Whether people's gratitude for the
good gifts that come to them be wisely conceived or 5
dutifully expressed, is a secondary matter, after all, so
long as they feel gratitude. The true ignorance is when
a man does not know that he has received a good gift,
or begins to imagine that he has got it for himself. The
self-made man is the funniest windbag after all ! There 10
is a marked difference between decreeing light in chaos,
and lighting the gas in a metropolitan back-parlour with a
box of patent matches ; and do what we will, there is always
something made to our hand, if it were only our fingers.
But there was something worse than foolishness pla-15
carded in Creil Church. The Association of the Living
Rosary (of which I had never previously heard) is respon-
sible for that. This association was founded, according
to the printed advertisement, by a brief of Pope Gregory
Sixteenth, on the 17th of January, 1832 : according to a 20
coloured bas-relief, it seems to have been founded,
sometime or other, by the Virgin giving one rosary to
Saint Dominic, and the Infant Saviour giving another to 7
Saint Catherine of Sienna. Pope Gregory is not so
imposing, but he is nearer hand, I could not distinctly 25
make out whether the association was entirely devotional,
or had an eye to goofl works ; at least it is highly organ-
ized : the names of fourteen matrons and misses were
filled in for each week of the month as associates, with
122 Inland Voyage
one other, generally a married woman, at the top for
Zelatricc : the choragus of the band. Indulgences,
plenary and partial, follow on the performance of the
duties of the association. " The partial indulgences are
5 attached to the recitation of the rosary." On " the reci-
tation of the required disai/ie," a partial indulg.ence
promptly- follows. When people serve the kingdom of
Heaven with a pass-book in their hands, I should always
be afraid lest they should carry the same commercial
lo spirit into their dealings with their fellow-men, which
would make a sad and sordid business of this life.
There is one more article, however, of happier import.
" All these indulgences," it appeared, " are applicable to
souls in purgatory." For God's sake, ye ladies of Creil,
15 apply them all to the souls in purgatory without delay !
Burns would take no hire for his last songs, preferring to
serve his country out of unmixed love. Suppose you
were to imitate the exciseman, mesdames, and even if
the souls in purgatory were not greatly bettered, some
20 souls in Creil upon the Oise would find themselves
none the worse either here or hereafter.
I cannot help wondering, as I transcribe these notes,
whether a Protestant born and bred is in a fit state to
understand these signs, and do them what justice they
25 deserve ; and I cannot help answering that he is not. They
cannot look so merely ugly and mean to the faithful as
they do to me. I see that as clearly as a proposition in
Euclid. For these believers are neither weak nor wicked.
They can put up their tablet commending Saint Joseph
Precy and the Marionettes i 23
for his dispatch, as if he were still a village carpenter;
they can " recite the required dizaiiw,'" and metaphori-
cally pocket the indulgence, as if they had done a job for
heaven ; and then they can go out and look down un-
abashed upon this wonderful river flowing by, and up with- 5
out confusion at the pin-point stars, which are themselves
great worlds full of flowing rivers greater than the Oise.
I see it as plainly, I say, as a proposition in Euclid, that
my Protestant mind has missed the point, and that there
goes with these deformities some higher and more relig- 10
ious spirit than I dream.
I wonder if other people would make the same
allowances for me ? Like the ladies of Creil, having
recited my rosary of toleration, I look for'my indulgence
on the spot. 15
PRl^CY AND Till': MARION EITRS
Wk mafle PriJcy about sundown. The plain is rich with
tufts of poplar. In a wide, luminous curve, the Oise lay
under the hill-side. A faint mist began to rise and con-
found the different distances together. 'I'herc was not a
sound audible but that of the sheep-bells in some mead- .-.q
ows by the river, and the creaking of a cart down the
long roail that descends the hill. 'I'iic villis in tluir
gardens, the shops along the street, all seemed to have
been deserted tlie <lay before; and I felt inclined to walk
discreetly as one fetis in a silent fon-st. All of a sudden, as
we came roiuul a corner, anrl there, in a little green round
124 Inland Voyage
the church, was a bevy of girls in Parisian costumes play-
ing cro(]uet. Their laughter and the hollow sound of
ball and mallet made a cheery stir in the neighbourhood ;
and the look of these slim figures, all corseted and rib-
5 boned, produced an answerable disturbance in our hearts.
We were within sniff of Paris, it seemed. And here were
females of our own species playing croquet, just as if
Pr^cy had been a place in real life, instead of a stage in
the fairy land of travel. For, to be frank, the peasant
10 woman is scarcely to be counted as a woman at all, and after
having passed by such a succession of people in petticoats
digging and hoeing and making dinner, this company of
coquettes under arms made quite a surprising feature in
the landscape, and convinced us at once of being fallible
15 males.
The inn at Pr^cy is the worst inn in France. Not
even in Scotland have I found worse fare. It was kept
by a brother and sister, neither of whom was out of their
teens. The sister, so to speak, prepared a meal for us ;
20 and the brother, who had been tippling, came in and
brought with him a tipsy butcher, to entertain us as we
ate. We found pieces of loo-warm pork among the
salad, and pieces of unknown yielding substance in the
ragoiU. The butcher entertained us with pictures of
^5 Parisian life, with which he professed himself well ac-
quainted; the brother sitting the while on the edge of the
billiard table, toppling precariously, and sucking the
stump of a cigar. In the midst of these diversions, bang
went a drum past the house, and a hoarse voice began
Precy and the Marionettes 125
issuing a proclamation. It was a man with marionettes
announcing a performance for that evening.
He had set up his caravan and hghted his candles on
another part of the girls' croquet green, under one of
those open sheds which are so common in France to 5
shelter markets ; and he and his wife, by the time we
strolled up there, were trying to keep order with the
audience.
It was the most absurd contention. The show-people
had set out a certain number of benches ; and all who sat 10
upon them were to pay a couple of sons for the accom-
modation. They were always quite full — a bumper
house — as long as nothing was going forward ; but let
the show-woman appear with an eye to a collection, and
at the first rattle of her tambourine the audience slij^pcd 15
off the seats, and stood round on the outside with their
hands in their pockets. It certainly would have tried an
angel's temper. The showman roared from the pro-
scenium ; he had been all over France, and nowhere, no-
where, " not even on the borders of (icrmany," had he 20
met with such misconduct. Such thieves and rogues and
rascals, as he called them ! And every now and again
the wife issued on another round, and added her shrill
quota to the tirade. I remarked here, as elsewhere, how
far more copious is the female mind in the material of 25
insult. The aiidicnrc laughed in high good humour
over the man's declamations ; Injt they bridled and cried
aloud imdcr the woman's ptmgcnt sallies. She picked
out the sore points. She had the honour of the village
126 Inland Voyage
at her mercy. Voices answered her angrily out of the
crowd, and received a smarting retort for their trouble.
A couple of old ladies beside me, who had duly paid for
their seats, waxed very red and indignant, and dis-
5 coursed to each other audibly about the impudence of
these mountebanks ; but as soon as the show-woman caught
a whisper of this, she was down upon them with a swoop :
if mesdames could persuade their neighbours to act with
common honesty, the mountebanks, she assured them,
10 would be polite enough : mesdames had probably had
their bowl of soup, and perhaps a glass of wine that even-
ing ; the mountebanks also had a taste for soup, and did
not choose to have their little earnings stolen from them
before their eyes. Once, things came as far as a
IS brief personal encounter between the showman and some
lads, in which the former went down as readily as one
of his own marionettes to a peal of jeering laughter.
I was a good deal astonished at this scene, because I
am pretty well acquainted with the ways of French stroll-
2o ers, more or less artistic ; and have always found them
singularly pleasing. Any stroller must be dear to the
right-thinking heart ; if it were only as a living protest
against offices and the mercantile spirit, and as something
to remind us that life is not by necessity the kind of
25 thing we generally make it. Even a German band if you
see it leaving town in the early morning for a campaign
in country places, among trees and meadows, has a ro-
mantic flavour for the imagination. There is nobody, un-
der thirty, so dead but his heart will stir_ a little at sight
Precy and the Marionettes 127
of a gipsies' camp. "We are not cotton-spinners all;"
or, at least, not all through. There is some life in hu-
manity yet : and youth will now and again find a brave
word to say in dispraise of riches, and throw up a situation
to go strolling with a knapsack. 5
An Englishman has always special facilities for inter-
course with French gymnasts ; for England is the natural
home of gymnasts. This or that fellow, in his tights and
spangles, is sure to know a word or two of English, to
have drunk English off-n-aff, and perhaps performed in 10
an English music-hall. He is a countryman of mine by
profession. He leaps, like the Belgian boating men, to
the notion that I must be an athlete myself.
But the gymnast is not my favourite ; he has little or
no tincture of the artist in his composition; his soul is 15
small and pedestrian, for the most part, since his profes-
sion makes no call upon it, and does not accustom him to
high ideas. But if a man is only so much of an actor
that he can stumble through a farce, he is made free of a
new order of thoughts. He has something else to think 20
about beside the money-box. 1 Ic has a jiride of his own,
and, what is of far more importance, he has an aim be-
fore him that he can never (juitc attain. He has gone
upon a pilgrimage that will last him his life long, because
there is no end to it short of per''cction. He will better 25
upon himself a little day by day ; or even if he has given
up the attcm[)t, he will always remember that once upon
a time he had conceived this high ideal, that once upon
a time he had fallen in love with a star. " 'Tis better to
128 Inland Voyage
have loved and lost." Although the moon should have
nothing to say to Endymion, although he should settle
down with Audrey and feed pigs, do you not think he
would move with a better grace, and cherish higher
5 thoughts to the end? The louts he meets at church
never had a fancy above Audrey's snood ; but there is a
reminiscence in Endymion's heart that, like a spice, keeps
it fresh and haughty.
To be even one of the outskirters of art, leaves a fine
lo stamp on a man's countenance. I remember once dining
with a party in the inn at Chateau Landon. Most of
them were unmistakable bagmen ; others well-to-do peas-
antry ; but there was one young fellow in a blouse, whose
face stood out from among the rest surprisingly. It
1 5 looked more finished; more of the spirit looked out
through it ; it had a living, expressive air, and you could
see that his eyes took things in. My companion and
I wondered greatly who and what he could be. It was
fair time in Chateau Landon, and when we went along
20 to the booths, we had our question answered ; for there
was our friend busily fiddling for the peasants to caper
to. He was a wandering violinist.
A troop of strollers once came to the inn where I was
staying, in the department of Seine et Marne. There
25 was a father and mother; two daughters, brazen, blowsy
huzzies, who sang and acted, without an idea of how to
set about either ; and a dark young man, like a tutor, a
recalcitrant house-painter, who sang and acted not amiss.
The mother was the genius of the party, so far as genius
Precy and the Marionettes 129
can be spoken of with regard to such a pack of incompe-
tent humbugs ; and her husband could not find words to
express his admiration for her comic countryman. " You
should see my old woman," said he, and nodded his
beery countenance. One night, they performed in the 5
stable-yard, with flaring lamps : a wretched exhibition,
coldly looked upon by a village audience. Next night,
as soon as the lamps were lighted, there came a plump of
rain, and they had to sweep away their baggage as fast as
possible, and make off to the barn where they harboured, 10
cold, wet, and supperless. In the morning, a dear friend
of mine, who has as warm a heart for strollers as I have
myself, made a little collection, and sent it by my hands
to comfort them for their disappointment. I gave it to
the father; he thanked me cordially, and wc drank a cup 15
together in the kitchen, talking of roads, and audiences,
and hard times.
When I was going, up got my old stroller, and off with
his hat. " T am afraid," said he, " that Monsieur will
think me altogether a beggar; but 1 have another 20
demand to make upon him." I began to hate him on
the spot. " We play again to-night," he went on. " Of
course, I shall refuse to accept any more money from
Monsieur and his friends, who have l)ccn already so
liberal. Rut our programme of to-night is something as
truly creditable ; and I cling to the idea that Monsieur
will honour us with his jirescnrc." And then, with a
shrug and a smile : " Monsieur tmderstands — the vanity
of an artist ! " Save the mark ! The vanity of an artist !
I JO Inland Voyage
That is the kind of thing that reconciles me to life : a
ragged, tippling, incompetent old rogue, with the manners
of a gentleman, and the vanity of an artist, to keep up
his self-respect !
5 But the man after my own heart is M. de Vauversin.
It is nearly two years since I saw him first, and indeed I
hope I may see him often again. Here is his first pro-
gramme, as I found it on the breakfast table, and have
kept it ever since as a rehc of bright days : —
lo " Mesdames et Messieurs,
" Mademoiselle Ferrario et M. de Vauversin
auront Vhonneur de chanter ce soir les morceaux sui-
vants.
" Mademoiselle Ferrario chantera — Mignon — Oiseaux
1 5 Legers — France — Des Fran^ais dorment la — Le chateau
bleu — Oil voulez-vous alter ?
" M. de Vauversin — Madame Fontaine et M. Robinet
— Les plongeurs a cheval — Le Marl mecontent — Tais-
toi, gamin -r- Mon voisin V original — Heureux comme ga
20 — Comme on est trompe." .
They made a stage at one end of the salle-d-manger}
And what a sight it was to see M. de Vauversin, with a
cigarette in his mouth, twanging a guitar, and following
Mademoiselle Ferrario's eyes with the obedient, kindly
25 look of a dog ! The entertainment wound up with a
tombola, or auction of lottery tickets : an admirable
amusement, with all the excitement of gambling, and no
^ Dining-room.
Precy and the Marionettes 131
hope of gain to make you ashamed of your eagerness ;
for there, all is loss ; you make haste to be out of pocket ;
it is a competition who shall lose most money for the
benefit of M. de Vauversin and Mademoiselle Ferrario. /
M. de Vauversin is a small man, with a great head of S
black hair, a vivacious and engaging air, and a smile that
would be delightful if he had better teeth. He was once
an actor in the Chdiclet ; but he contracted a nervous
affection from the heat and glare of the footlights, which
unfitted him for the stage. At this crisis Mademoiselle 10
Ferrario, otherwise Mademoiselle Rita of the Alcazar,
agreed to share his wandering fortunes. " I could never
forget ihe generosity of that lady," said he. He wears
trousers so tight that it has long been a problem to all
who knew him how he manages to get in and out of 15
them. He sketches a little in water-colours ; he writes
verses ; he is the most patient of fishermen, and spent
long days at the bottom of the inn-garden fruitlessly dab-
bling a line in the clear river.
You should hear him recounting his experiences over a 20
bottle of wine ; such a pleasant vein of talk as he has, with
a rearly smile at his own mishaps, and every now and then
a sudden gravity, like a man who should hear tiie surf
roar while he was telling the perils of the deep. For it
was no longer ago than last night, perhaps, that the re- 25
ceiptsonly amounted to a franc and a half, to cover three
francs of railway fare and two of board and lodging, 'ihe
Maire,' a man worth a million of money, sat in the front
* Mayor.
132 Inland Voyage
seat, repeatedly applauding Mdlle. Ferrario, and yet gave
no more than three soi/s the whole evening. Local au-
thorities look with such an evil eye upon the strolling artist.
Alas ! I know it well, who have been myself taken for one,
5 and pitilessly incarcerated on the strength of the misap-
prehension. Once, M. de Vauversin visited a commis-
sary of police for permission to sing. The commissary,
who was smoking at his ease, politely doffed his hat upon
the singer's entrance. " Mr. Commissary," he began, '' I
10 am an artist." And on went the commissary's hat again.
No courtesy for the companions of Apollo ! " They are
as degraded as that," said M. de Vauversin, with a sweep
of his cigarette.
But what pleased me most was one outbreak of his,
15 when we had been talking all the evening of the rubs, indig-
nities, and pinchings of his wandering life. Someone said
it would be better to have a million of money down, and
Mdlle. Ferrario admitted that she would prefer that might-
ily. "Eh Men, mot 71011; — not I," cried de Vauversin,
20 striking the table with his hand. " If anyone is a failure
in the world, is it not I ? I had an art, in which I have
done things well — as well as some — better perhaps than
others ; and now it is closed against me. I must go about
the country gathering coppers and singing nonsense. Do
25 you think I regret my life? Do you think I would rather
be a fat burgess, like a calf ? Not I ! I have had mo-
ments when I have been applauded on the boards : I think
nothing of that ; but I have known in my own mind some-
times, when I had not a clap from the whole house, that I
Precy and the Marionettes 133
had found a true intonation, or an exact and speaking
gesture ; and then, messieurs, I have known what pleasure
was, what it was to do a thing well, what it was to be an
artist. And to know what art is, is to have an interest
for ever, such as no burgess can find in his petty concerns. 5
Tenez, messieurs, je vats votis le dire — it is like a reli-
gion."
Such, making some allowance for the tricks of memory
and the inaccuracies of translation, was the profession of
faith of M. de Vauversin. I have given him his own 10
name, lest any other wanderer should come across him,
with his guitar and cigarette, and Mademoiselle Ferrario !
for should not all the world delight to honour this un-
fortunate and loyal follower of the Muses? May Apollo
send him rimes hitherto undreamed of; may the river be 15
no longer scanty of her silver fishes to his lure ; may the
cold not pinch him on long winter rides nor the village
jack-in-office affront him with unseemly manners ; and
may he never miss Mademoiselle Ferrario from his side,
to follow with his dutiful eyes and accompany on the 20
guitar !
The marionettes made a very dismal entertainment.
They performed a piece called Pyramus and Thisbc, in
five mortal acts, and all written in Alexandrines fully as
long as the performers. One marionette was the king ; 25
another the wicked counsellor ; a third, credited with
exceptional beauty, represented Thisbe ; and then there
were guards, and obdurate fathers, and walking gentlemen.
Nothing particular took place during the two or three acts
134 Inland Voyage
that I sat out ; but you will be pleased to learn that the
unities were properly respected, and the whole piece, with
one exception, moved in harmony with classical rules.
That exception was the comic countryman, a lean mari-
5 onette in wooden shoes, who spoke in prose and in a broad
patois much appreciated by the audience. He took un-
constitutional liberties with the person of his sovereign ;
kicked his fellow marionettes in the mouth with his wooden
shoes, and whenever none of the versifying suitors were
10 about, made love to Thisbe on his own account in comic
prose.
This fellow's evolutions, and the little prologue, in
which the showman made a humorous eulogium of his
troop, praising their indifference to applause and hisses,
IS and their single devotion to their art, were the only cir-
cumstances in the whole affair that you could fancy
would so much as raise a smile. But the villagers of
Pr^cy seemed delighted. Indeed, so long as a thing is
an exhibition, and you pay to see it, it is nearly certain
20 to amuse. If we were charged so much a head for sun-
sets, or if God sent round a drum before the hawthorns
came in flower, what a work should we not make about
their beauty ! But these things, like good companions,
stupid people early cease to observe : and the Abstract
as Bagman tittups past in his spring gig, and is positively
not aware of the flowers along the lane, or the scenery
of the weather overhead.
Back to the World 135
BACK TO THE WORLD
Of the next two days' sail little remains in my mind,
and nothing whatever in my note-book. The river
streamed on steadily through pleasant riverside land-
scapes. Washerwomen in blue dresses, fishers in blue
blouses, diversified the green banks; and the relation of 5
the two colours was like that of the flower and the leaf in
the forget-me-not. A symphony in forget-me-not ; I
think Th^ophile Gautier might thus have characterized
that two days' panorama. The sky was blue and cloud-
less; and the sliding surface of the river held up, in 10
smooth places, a mirror to the heaven and the shores.
The washerwomen hailed us laughingly ; and the noise
of trees and water made an accompaniment to our doz-
ing thoughts, as we fleeted down the stream.
The great volume, the indefatigable purpose of the' 5
river, held the mind in chain. It seemed now so sure
of its end, so strong and easy in its gait, like a grown,
man full of determination. The surf was roaring for it ■
on the sands of Havre.
I''or my own jiart, slip])ing along this moving thorough- 20
fare in my fiddle-case of a canoe, I also was beginning to
grow aweary for my ocean. To the civilized man there
must come, sooner or later, a desire for civilization. I
was weary of dip])ing the patldlc ; I was weary of living
on the skirts of life; I wished to be in the thick of it 25
once more ; I wished to get to work ; I wished to meet
136 Inland Voyage
people who understood my own speech, and could meet
with me on equal terms, as a man, and no longer as a
curiosity.
And so a letter at Pontoise decided us, and we drew
5 up our keels for the last time out of that river of Oise
that had faithfully piloted them, through rain and sun-
shine, for so long. For so many miles had this fleet and
footless beast of burthen charioted our fortunes, that we
turned our back upon it with a sense of separation. We
10 had made a long detour out of the world, but now we
were back in the familiar places, where life itself makes
all the running, and we are carried to meet adventure
without a stroke of the paddle. Now we were to return,
like the voyager in the play, and see what rearrangements
IS fortune had perfected the while in our surroundings;
what surprises stood ready made for us at home ; and
whither and how far the world had voyaged in our
absence. You may paddle all daylong; but it is when
you come back at nightfall, and look in at the familiar
20 room, that you find Love or Death awaiting you beside
the stove ; and the most beautiful adventures are not
those we go to seek.
TRrW'KLS WITH A DONKEY
IX 'rill- CI'VRNNES
CONTENTS
Travels with a Donkey
Dedication
Map
Velay
The Donkey, the Pack, and the Packsaddle
The Green Donkey-driver
I have a Goad .
Upper Gevaudan
A Camp in the Dark
Cheylard and Luc
Ol'r Lady of the Snows
Father ApoUinaris .
The Monks
The Boarders .
Upper Gevaudan {Continued^)
Across the Goulet
A Night among the Pines
The Country ok the Ca.nhsaku^
Across the Lozere .
Pont (]e Montvert
In the Valley of the Tarn
Florae ....
In the Valley of the Mimente
The Heart of the Country
The Last Day .
Farewell, Modestine
Notes
ii
End of V
3
ID
20
28
40
46
60
68
7S
84
92
103
106
III
120
126
blume
DEDICATION
My dear Sidney Colvin,
The journey wliich this little book is to describe was very
agreeable and fortunate for me. After an uncouth beginning,
I had the best of luck to the end. But we are all travellers
in what John Bunyan calls the wilderness of this world — all,
too, travellers with a donkey ; and the best that we find in
our travels is an honest friend. He is a fortunate voyager
who finds many. We travel, indeed, to find them. They
are the end and the reward of life. They keep us worthy
of ourselves ; and when we are alone, we are only nearer to
the absent.
Every book i.s, in an intimate sense, a circular letter to the
friends of him who writes it. They alone take his meaning;
they find jjrivate messages, assurances of love, and expres-
sions of gratitude dropped for them in every corner. The
public is but a generous patron who defrays the postage.
Yet, though the letter is directed to all, wc have an old and
kindly custom of addressing it on the outside to one. Of
what shall a man be proud, if he is not proud of his friends?
And so, my dear Sidney Colvin, it is with pride that I sign
myself affectionately yours,
K. L. S.
Map to illustrate
TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY
liV
Kobert Louis Stcveiiion
Marseille?
GULF
O F
LYONS
VELAY
' Many are the mighty things,
and nought is more mighty
thatt wan. . . . //e masters
by his dez'ices the tenant of
the fields.^ — Sophocles.
' Who hath loosed the bands of
the wild ass ? ' — Job.
THE IXJNKKY, THE PACK, AM) THE
i'ACKSADDLE
In a little place called the Le Monastier, in a pleasant
highland valley fifteen miles from Ee Puy, I spent about
a month of fine days. Monastier is notable for the mak-
ing of lace, for drunkenness, for freedom of language, and
for unparalleled political dissension. There are adherents 5
of each of the four French parties — Legitimists, ( )rleanists,
Imperialists, and Republicans — in this little moun-
tain town ; and they all h.ite, loathe, decry, and calum-
niate each other. Ivxcept for business purposes, or to
give each other the lie in a tavern brawl, they have laid lo
aside even the civility of speech. ' Tis a mere mountain
Poland. In the midst of this Habylon I found myself a
rallying-point ; every one was anxious to be kind and
3
4 Travels with a Donkey
helpful to the stranger. This was not merely from the
natural hospitality of mountain people, nor even from the
surprise with which I was regarded as a man living of his
own free will in Le Monastier, when he might just as well
5 have lived anywhere else in this big world ; it arose a good
deal from my projected excursion southward through the
C^vennes. A traveller of my sort was a thing hitherto
unheard of in that district. I was looked upon with con-
tempt, like a man who should project a journey to the
10 moon, but yet with a respectful interest, like one setting
forth for the inclement Pole. All were ready to help in
my preparations ; a crowd of sympathizers supported me
at the critical moment of a bargain ; not a step was taken
but was heralded by glasses round and celebrated by a
IS dinner or a breakfast.
It was already hard upon October before I was ready
to set forth, and at the high altitudes over which my road
lay there was no Indian summer to be looked for. I was
determined, if not to camp out, at least to have the means
2o of camping out in my possession ; for there is nothing
more harassing to an easy mind than the necessity of
reaching shelter by dusk, and the hospitality of a village
inn is not always to be reckoned sure by those who trudge
on foot. A tent, above all for a solitary traveller, is
25 troublesome to pitch and troublesome to strike again ; and
even on the march it forms a conspicuous feature in your
baggage. A sleeping-sack, on the other hand, is always
ready — you have only to get into it ; it serves a double
purpose — a bed by night, a portmanteau by day ; and it
The Donkey, Pack, and Packsaddle 5
does not advertise your intention of camping out to every
curious passer-by. This is a huge point. If the camp is
not secret, it is but a troubled resting-place ; you become
a public character ; the convivial rustic visits your bedside
after an early supper; and you must sleep with one eye 5
open, and be up before the day. I decided on a sleeping-
sack ; and after repealed visits to Le Puy, and a deal of
high living for myself and my advisers, a sleeping-sack
was designed, constructed, and triumphally brought home.
This child of my invention was nearly six feet square, 10
exclusive of two triangular flaps to serve as a pillow by
night and as the top and bottom of the sack by day. I
call it ' the sack,' but it was never a sack by more than
courtesy : only a sort of lung roll or sausage, green water-
proof cart-cloth without and blue sheep's fur within. It 15
was commodious as a valise, warm and dry for a bed.
There was luxurious turning room for one ; and at a pinch
the thing might serve for two. I could bury myself in it
up to the neck ; for my head 1 trusted to a fur cap, with
a hood to fcJld down over my ears, and a band to pass 20
under my nose like a respirator ; and in case of heavy
rain I proposed to make myself a little tent, or tentlct,
with my waterproof coat, three stones, and a bent branch.
It will readily l)e conceived that I could not carry this
huge package on my own, merely human, shoulders. It 25
remained to choose a beast of burden. N(nv, a horse is
a fine lady among animals, flighty, timid, delicate in eating,
of tender health ; he is too valuable and too restive to
be left alone, so that you are chained to your brute as to a
6 Travels with a Donkey
fellow galley-slave ; a dangerous road puts him out of his
wits ; in short, he's an uncertain and exacting ally, and
adds thirty-fold to the troubles of the voyager. What I
required was something cheap and small and hardy, and
5 of a stolid and peaceful temper; and all these requisites
pointed to a donkey.
There dwelt an old man in Monastier, of rather unsound
intellect according to some, much followed by street-boys,
and known to fame as Father Adam. Father Adam had
10 a cart, and to draw the cart a diminutive she-ass, not much
bigger than a dog, the colour of a mouse, with a kindly eye
and a determined underjaw. There was something neat
and high-bred, a quakerish elegance, about the rogue that
hit my fancy on the spot. Our first interview was in
15 Monastier marlcet-place. To prove her good temper,
one child after another was set upon her back to ride,
and one after another went head over heels into the air ;
until a want of confidence began to reign in youthful
bosoms, and the experiment was discontinued from a
20 dearth of subjects. I was already backed by a deputa-
tion of my friends ; but as if this were not enough, all the
buyers and sellers came round and helped me in the bar-
gain ; and the ass and I and Father Adam were the cen-
tre of a hubbub for near half an hour. At length she
25 passed into my service for the consideration of sixty-five
francs and a glass of brandy. The sack had already cost
eighty francs and two glasses of beer ; so that Modestine,
as I instantly baptized her, was upon all accounts the
cheaper article. Indeed, that was as it should be ; for
The Donkey, Pack, and Packsaddle 7
she was only an appurtenance of my mattress, or self-
acting bedstead on four castors.
I had a last interview with Father Adam in a billiard-
room at the witching hour of dawn, when I administered
the brandy. He professed himself greatly touched by s
the separation, ami declared he had often bought white
bread for the donkey when he had been content with black
bread for himself ; but this, according to the best authori-
ties, must have been a flight of fancy. He had a name
in the village for brutally misusing the ass ; yet it is cer- 10
tain that he shed a tear, and the tear made a clean mark
down one cheek.
By the advice of a fallacious local saddler, a leather pad
was made for me with rings to fasten on my bundle ; and
I thoughtfully completed my kit and arranged my toilet. 15
By way of armoury and utensils, I took a revolver, a little
spirit-lamp and pan, a lantern and some halfpenny candles,
a jack-knife, and a large leather flask. The main cargo
consisted of two entire changes of warm clothing — be-
sides my travelling wear of country velveteen, pilot-coat, 20
and knitted spencer — some books, and my railway rug,
which, being also in the form of a bag, made me a double
castle for roUl nights. The permanent larder was repre-
sented by cakes f>r chocolate and tins of Bologna sausage.
.'Ml this, except what I carried about my person, was easily 25
stowed into the sheepskin bag ; and by good fortuni' 1
threw in my empty knapsack, rather for convenience of
carriage than from any thought that I should want it on
my journey. I'or more- immediate needs, 1 took a leg of
8 Travels with a Donkey
cold mutton, a bottle of Beaujolais, an enr/pty bottle to
carr)' milk, an egg-beater, and a considerable quantity of
black bread and white, like Father Adam, for myself and
donkey, only in my scheme of things the destinations were
s reversed.
Monastrians, of all shades of thought in polidcs, had
agreed in threatening me with many ludicrous misadven-
tures, and with sudden death in many surprising forms.
Cold, wolves, robbers, above all the nocturnal pracdcal
lo joker, were daily and eloquently forced on my attention.
Yet in these vaticinations,' the true, patent danger was
left out. Like Christian, it was from my pack I suffered
by the way. Before telling my own mishaps, let me, in
two words, relate the lesson of my experience. If the
IS pack is well strapped at the ends, and hung at full length
— not doubled, for your life — across the packsaddle, the
traveller is safe. The saddle will certainly not fit, such is
the imperfection of our transitory life; it will assuredly
topple and tend to overset ; but there are stones on every
20 roadside, and a man soon learns the art of correcting any
tendency to overbalance with a well-adjusted stone.
On the day of my departure I was up a little after five ;
by six, we began to load the donkey ; and ten minutes
after, my hopes were in the dust. The pad would not stay
25 on Modestine's back for half a moment. I returned it to
its maker, with whom I had so contumelious a passage
that the street outside was crowded from wall to wall
with gossips looking on and listening. The pad changed
1 Predictions.
The Donkey, Pack, and Packsaddle 9
hands with much vivacity ; perhaps it would be more
descriptive to say that we threw it at each other's heads ;
and, at any rate, we were very warm and unfriendly, and
spoke with a deal of freedom.
I had a common donkey packsaddle — a barde, ass
they call it — fitted upon Modestine ; and once more
loaded her with my effects. The doubled sack, my pilot-
coat (for it was warm, and I was to walk in my waist-
coat), a great bar of black bread, and an open basket
containing the white bread, the mutton, and the bottles, 10
were all corded together in a very elaborate system of
knots, and I looked on the result with fatuous content.
In such a monstrous deck-cargo, all poised above the don-
key's shoulders, with nothing below to balance, on a
brand-new packsaddle that had not yet been worn to 15
fit the animal, and fastened with brand-new girths that
might be expected to stretch and 'slacken by the way,
even a very careless traveller should have seen disaster
brewing. That elaborate system of knots, again, was
the work of too many sympathizers to be very artfully 20
designed. It is true they tightened the cords with a
will ; as many as three at a time would have a foot
against Modestine's quarters, and be hauling with clenched
teeth ; but I learned afterwards that one thoughtful per-
son, without any exercise of force, can make a more solid 25
job than half a dozen heated and enthusiastic grooms.
I was then but a novice ; even after the misadventure
of the pad nothing could disturb my security, and 1 went
forth from the stable-door as an ox goeth to the slaughter.
lO Travels with a Donkey
THE GREEN DONKEY-DRIVER
The bell of Monastier was just striking nine as I got
quit of these preliminary troubles and descended the hill
through the common. As long as I was within sight of
the windows, a secret shame and the fear of some laugh-
5 able defeat withheld me from tampering with Modestine.
She tripped along upon her four small hoofs with a sober
daintiness of gait ; from time to time she shook her ears
or her tail ; and she looked so small under the bundle
that my mind misgave me. We got across the ford with-
lo out difficulty — there was no doubt about the matter, she
was docility itself — and once on the other bank, where
the road begins to mount through pine-woods, I took in
my right hand the unhallowed staff, and with a quaking
spirit applied it to the donkey. Modestine brisked up her
15 pace for perhaps three steps, and then relapsed into her
former minuet. Another application had the same effect,
and so with the third. I am worthy the name of an Eng-
lishman, and it goes against my conscience to lay my hand
rudely on a female. I desisted, and looked her all over
20 from head to foot ; the poor brute's knees were trembling
and her breathing was distressed ; it was plain that she
could go no faster on a hill. God forbid, thought I, that
I should brutalize this innocent creature ; let her go at
her own pace, and let me patiently follow.
25 What that pace was, there is no word mean enough to
describe ; it was something as much slower than a walk
The Green Donkey-driver 1 1
as a walk is slower than a run ; it kept me hanging on
each foot for an incredible length of time ; in five minutes
it exhausted the spirit and set up a fever in all the muscles
of the leg. And yet I had to keep close at hand and
measure my advance exactly upon hers ; for if I dropped 5
a few yards into the rear, or went on a few yards ahead,
Modestine came instantly to a halt and began to browse.
The thought that this was to last from here to Alais nearly
broke my heart. Of all conceivable journeys, this prom-
ised to be the most tedious. I tried to tell myself it was 10
a lovely day ; I tried to charm my foreboding spirit with
tobacco ; but I had a vision ever present to me of the
long, long roads, up hill and down dale, and a pair of
figures ever infinitesimally moving, foot by foot, a yard to
the minute, and, like things enchanted in a nightmare, 15
approaching no nearer to the goal.
In the meantime there came up bcliind us a tall peas-
ant, perhaps forty years of age, of an ironical snuffy coun-
tenance, and arrayed in the green tail-coat of the country.
He overtook us hand over hand, and stopped to consider 20
our pitiful advance.
" Your donkey," says he, " is very old ? "
I told him I believed not.
Then, he sii|)poscd, we had conic far.
I told him wc had but newly left Monasticr. 25
" Etvous manhez commc (a f " cried-hc ; and, throwing
back his head, he laughed long and heartily. I wntrhcd
him, half prepared to feel offended, until he had satisfied
his mirth ; and then, " You must have no pity on these
12 Travels with a Donkey
animals," said he ; and, plucking a switch out of a thicket,
he began to lace Modestine about the sternworks, uttering
a cry. The rogue pricked up her ears and broke into a
good round pace, which she kept up without flagging, and
5 without exhibiting the least symptom of distress, as long
as the peasant kept beside us. Her former panting and
shaking had been, I regret to say, a piece of comedy.
y My dens ex tnachind, before he left me, supplied some
excellent, if inhumane, advice ; presented me with the
lo switch, which he declared she would feel more tenderly
than my cane ; and finally taught me the true cry or
masonic word of donkey-drivers, " Proot ! " All the time
he regarded me with a comical incredulous air, which was
embarrassing to confront ; and smiled over my donkey-
is driving, as T might have smiled over his orthography, or
his green tail-coat. But it was not my turn for the
moment.
I was proud of my new lore, and thought I had learned
the art to perfection. And certainly Modestine did won-
20 ders for the rest of the forenoon, and I had a breathing
space to look about me. It was Sabbath ; the mountain
fields were all vacant in the sunshine ; and as we came
down through SL Martin de Frugeres, the church was
crowded to the door, there were people kneeling without
25 upon the steps, and the sound of the priest's chanting
came forth out of. the dim interior. It gave me a home
feeling on the spot ; for I am a countryman of the Sab-
bath, so to speak, and all Sabbath observances, like a
Scotch accent, strike in me mixed feelings, grateful and
The Green Donkey-driver 13
the reverse. It is only a traveller, hurrying by like a
person from another planet, who can rightly enjoy the
peace and beauty of the great ascetic feast. The sight
of the resting country does his spirit good. There is
something better than music in the wide unusual silence ; 5
and it disposes him to amiable thoughts, like the sound
of a little river or the warmth of sunlight.
In this pleasant humour I came down the hill to where
Goudet stands in a green end of a valley, with Chateau
Beaufort opposite upon a rocky steep, and the stream, ic
as clear as crystal, lying in a deep pool between them.
Above and below, you may hear it wimpling over th^
stones, an amiable stripling of a river, which it seems
absurd to call the Loire. On all sides, Goudet is shut in
by mountains; rocky foot-paths, practicable at best for 15
donkeys, join it to the outer world of France ; and the
men and women drink and swear, in their green corner,
or look up at the snow-clad peaks in winter from the
threshold of their homes, in an isolation, you would think,
like that of Homer's Cyclops. I'.ut it is not so ; the post- 20
man reaches Goudet with the letter-bag; the aspiring
ycjuth of (iouflet are within a day's walk of the railway at
J^ Puy ; and here in the inn you may find an engraved
portrait of the host's nephew, Rc-gis Senac, " Professor of
Fencing and Champion of the two Americas," a distinc- 25
tion gained by him, along with the sum of five hundred
dollars, at Tammany Hall, New York, on the lotli .April
1 876.
I hurried over my midday meal, and was early forth
14 Travels with a Donkey
again. But, alas, as we climbed the interminable hill
upon the other side, " Proot ! " seemed to have lost its
virtue. I prooted like a lion, I prooted mellifluously like a
sucking-dove ; but Modestine would be neither softened
5 nor intimidated. She held doggedly to her pace ; noth-
ing but a blow would move her, and that only for a sec-
ond. I must follow at her heels, incessantly belabouring.
A moment's pause in this ignoble toil, and she relapsed
into her own private gait. I think I never heard of any one
10 in as mean a situation. I must reach the lake of Bouchet,
where I meant to camp, before sundown, and, to have
even a hope of this, I must instantly maltreat this uncom-
plaining animal. The sound of my own blows sickened
me. Once, when I looked at her, she had a faint resem-
15 blance to a lady of my acquaintance who formally loaded
me with kindness ; and this increased my horror of my
cruelty.
To make matters worse, we encountered another don-
key, ranging at will upon the roadside ; and this donkey
20 chanced to be a gentleman. He and Modestine met
nickering for joy, and I had to separate the pair and beat
down their young romance with a renewed and feverish
bastinado. If the other donkey had had the heart of a
male under his hide, he would have fallen upon me tooth
25 and hoof; and this was a kind of consolation — he was
plainly unworthy of Modestine's affection. But the inci-
dent saddened me, as did everything that spoke of my
donkey's sex.
It was blazing hot up the valley, windless, with vehe-
The Green Donkey-driver i 5
ment sun upon my shoulders ; and I had to labour so
consistently with my stick that the sweat ran into my eyes.
Every five minutes, too, the pack, the basket, and the
pilot-coat would take an ugly slew to one side or the
other ; and I had to stop Modestine, just when I had got s
her to a tolerable pace of about two miles an hour, to tug,
push, shoulder, and readjust the load. And at last, in the
village of Ussel, saddle and all, the whole hypothec turned
round and grovelled in the dust below the donkey's belly.
She, none better pleased, incontinently drew up and 10
seemed to smile ; and a party of one man, two women,
and two children came up, and, standing round me in a
half-circle, encouraged her by their example.
I had the devil's own trouble to get the thing righted ;
and the instant 1 had done so, without hesitation, it 15
toppled and fell down upon the other side. Judge if I
was hot ! And yet not a hand was offered to assist me.
The man, indeed, told me I ought to have a package of
a different shape. I suggested, if he knew nothing better
to the point in my predicament, he might hold his tongue. 20
.'\nd the good-natured dog agreed with me smilingly. It
was the most despicable fix. I must plainly content my-
self with the pack for Modestine, and take the following
items for my own share of the portage : a cane, a quart
flask, a pilot-jacket heavily weighted in the pockets, two 25
pounds of black bread, and an open basket full of meats
and bottles, I believe I may say I am not devoid of great-
ness of soul ; for I did not recoil from this infamous bur-
den. I disposed it, Heaven knows how, so as to be
1 6 Travels with a Donkey
mildly portable, and then proceeded to steer Modestine
through the village. She tried, as was indeed her invari-
able habit, to enter every house and every court-yard in
the whole length ; and, encumbered as I was, without a
5 hand to help myself, no words can render an idea of my
difficulties. A priest, with six or seven others, was ex-
amining a church in process of repair, and he and his
acolytes laughed loudly as they saw my plight. I remem-
bered having laughed myself when I had seen good men
10 struggling with adversity in the person of a jackass, and
the recollection filled me with penitence. That was in
my old light days, before this trouble came upon me.
God knows at least that I shall never laugh again, thought
I. But O, what a cruel thing is a farce to those engaged
IS in it !
A little out of the village, Modestine, filled with the
demon, set her heart upon a by-road, and positively re-
fused to leave it. I dropped all my bundles, and, I am
ashamed to say, struck the poor sinner twice across the
20 face. It was pitiful to see her lift up her head with sliut
eyes, as if waiting for another blow. I came very near
crying ; but I did a wiser thing than that, and sat squarely
down by the roadside to consider my situation under
the cheerful influence of tobacco and a nip of brandy.
25 Modestine, in the meanwhile, munched some black bread
with a contrite hypocritical air. It was plain that I must
make a sacrifice to the gods of shipwreck. I threw away
the empty bottle destined to carry milk ; I threw away
my own white bread, and, disdaining to act by general
The Green Donkey-driver 17
average, kept the black bread for Modestine ; lastly, I
threw away the cold leg of mutton and the egg-whisk, al-
though this last was dear to my heart. Thus I found
room for everything in the basket, and even stowed the
boating-coat on the top. By means of an end of cord I s
slung it under one arm ; and although the cord cut my
shoulder, and the jacket hung almost to the ground, it
was with a heart greatly lightened that I set forth again.
I had now an arm free to thrash Modestine, and cruelly
I chastised her. If I were to reach the lakeside before 10
dark, she must bestir her little shanks to some tune. Al-
ready the sun had gone down into a windy-looking mist ;
and although there were still a few streaks of gold far off
to the east on the hills and the black fir-woods, all was
cold and grey about our onward path. An infinity of 15
little country by-roads led hither and thither among the
fields. It was the most pointless labyrinth. I could see
my destination overhead, or rather the peak that domi-
nates it ; but choose as I i)leased, the roads always ended
by turning away from it, and sneaking back towards the 20
valley, or northward along the margin of the hills. The
failing light, the waning colour, the naked, unhomely,
stony country through which I was travelling, threw me
into some flespondcnry. I promise you, the stick was
not idle ; I think every decent step that Modestine took 25
must have cost me at least two emphatic blows. There
was not another sound in the neighbourhood but lli.it of
my unwearying bastinado.
Suddenly, in the midst of my toils, the load once more
TRAVELS WMTl A UONKKV — 2
1 8 Travels with a Donkey
bit the dust, and, as by enchantment, all the cords were
simultaneously loosened, and the road scattered with my
dear possessions. The packing was to begin again from
the beginning ; and as I had to invent a new and better
5 system, I do not doubt but I lost half an hour. It began
to be dusk in earnest as I reached a wilderness of turf
and stones. It had the air of being a road which should
lead everywhere at the same time ; and I was falling into
something not unlike despair when I saw two figures
lo stalking towards me over the stones. They walked one
behind the other like tramps, but their pace was remark-
able. The son led the way, a tall, ill-made, sombre,
Scotch-looking man ; the mother followed, all in her
Sunday's best, with an elegantly- embroidered ribbon to
15 her cap, and a new felt hat atop, and proffering, as she
strode along with kilted petticoats, a string of obscene
5*^' 'and blasphemous oaths.
I hailed the son and asked him my direction. He
pointed loosely west and northwest, muttered an inaudible
20 comment, and, without slacking his pace for an instant,
stalked on, as he was going, right athwart my path. The
mother followed without so much as raising her head. I
shouted and shouted after them, but they continued to
scale the hill-side, and turned a deaf ear to ray outcries.
25 At last, leaving Modestine by herself, I was constrained to
run after them, hailing the while. They stopped as I
drew near, the mother still cursing ; and I could see she
was a handsome, motherly, respectable-looking woman.
The son once more answered me roughly and inaudibly,
The Green Donkey-driver 19
and was for setting out again. But this tii^ie I simply
collared the mother, who was nearest me, and, apologizing
for my violence, declared that I could not let them go
until they had put me on my road. They were neither
of them offended — rather mollified than otherwise ; told 5
me I had only to follow them ; and then the mother asked
me what I wanted by the lake at such an hour. I replied,
in the Scotch manner, by inquiring if she had far to go
herself. She told me, with another oath, that she had an
hour and a halfs road before her. And then, without 10
salutation, the pair strode forward again up the hill-side
in the gathering dusk.
I returned for Modestine, pushed her briskly forward
and, after a sharp ascent of twenty minutes, reached the
edge of a plateau. The view, looking back on my day's 15
journey, was both wild and sad. Mount Mc'zenc and the
peaks beyond St. Julien stood out in trenchant gloom
against a cold glitter in the east ; and the intervening field
of hills had fallen together into one broad wash of shadow,
except here and there the outline of a wooded sugar-loaf in 20
black, here and there a white irregular i)atch to rei)resent
a cultivated farm, and here and there a blot where the
Loire, the Gazeille, or the Laussonne wandered in a gorge.
Soon we were on a high-road, and suri)rise seized on
my mind as I beheld a village of some magnitude close at 25
hand ; for I had been told that the neighbourhood of the
lake was uninhabited except by trout. The road smoked
in the twilight with cliildren driving home cattle from the
fields ; and a pair of mounted stride-legged women, hat
20 Travels with a Donkey
and cap and all, dashed past me at a hammering trot from
the canton where they had been to church and market.
I asked one of the children where I was. At Bouchet St.
Nicolas, he told me. Thither, about a mile south of my
5 destination, and on the other side of a respectable sum-
mit, had these confused roads and treacherous peasantry
conducted me. My shoulder was cut, so that it hurt
sharply ; my arm ached like toothache from perpetual
beating ; I gave up the lake and my design to camp, and
lo asked for the auberge}
X/ I HAVE A GOAD
The auberge of Bouchet St. Nicolas was among the
least pretentious I have ever visited ; but I saw many
more of the Uke upon my journey. Indeed, it was typical
15 of these French highlands. Imagine a cottage of two
stories, with a bench before the door ; the stable and
kitchen in a suite, so that Modestine and I could hear
each other dining ; furniture of the plainest, earthen
floors, a single bedchamber for travellers, and that without
20 any convenience but beds. In the kitchen cooking and
eating go forward side by side, and the family sleep at
night. Anyone who has a fancy to wash must do so in
public at the common table. The food is sometimes
spare ; hard fish and omelette have been my portion
25 more than once ; the wine is of the smallest, the brandy
abominable to man ; and the visit of a fat sow, grouting
lAn inn.
I have a Goad 2i
under the table and rubbing against your legs, is no im-
possible accomi)animent to dinner.
But the people of the inn, in nine cases out often, show
themselves friendly and considerate. As soon as you
cross the doors you cease to be a stranger ; and although 5
these peasantry are rude and forbidding on the highway,
they show a tincture of kind breeding when you share
their hearth. At Bouchet, for instance, I uncorked my
bottle of Beaujolais, and asked the host to join me. He
would take but little. 10
" I am an amateur of such wine, do you see ? " he
said, "and I am capable of leaving you not enough."
In these hedge-inns the traveller is expected to eat
with his own knife; unless he ask, no other will be sup-
plied : with a glass, a whang of bread, and an iron fork, 15
the table is completely laid. My knife was cordially
admired by the landlord of Bouchet, and the spring filled
him with wonder.
" I should never have guessed that," he said. " I
would bet," he added, weighing it in his hand, " that this 20
cost you not less than five francs."
When I told him it had cost me twenty, iiis jaw
dropped.
He was a mild, handsome, sensible, friendly old man,
astonishingly ignorant. His wife, who was not so pleas- as
ant in her manners, knew how to read, although 1 <1() not
suppose she ever did so. She had a share of brains and
spoke with a cutting cm[)hasis, like one who ruled the
roast.
22 Travels with a Donkey
" My man knows nothing," she said, with an angry
nod ; " he is Uke the beasts."
And the old gentleman signified acquiescence with his
head. There was no contempt on her part, and no
5 shame on his ; the facts were accepted loyally, and no
more about the matter.
I was tightly cross-examined about my journey ; and
the lady understood in a moment, and sketched out
what I should put into my book when I got home,
lo " Whether people harvest or not in such or such a place ;
if there were forests ; studies of manners ; what, for
example, I and the master of the house say to you ; the
beauties of Nature, and all that." And she interrogated
me with a look.
15 " It is just that," said I.
" You see," she added to her husband, " I understood
that."
They were both much interested by the story of my
misadventures.
20 " In the morning," said the husband, " I will make you
something better than your cane. Such a beast as that
feels nothing ; it is in the proverb — diir comme un dne ;
you might beat her insensible with a cudgel, and yet you
would arrive nowhere."
25 Something better ! I little knew what he was
offering.
The sleeping-room was furnished with two beds. I had
one ; and I will own I was a little abashed to find a
young man and his wife and child in the act of mounting
I have a Goad 23
into the other. This was my first experience of the sort;
and if I am ahvays to feel equally silly and extraneous, I
pray God it be my last as well. I kept my eyes to my-
self, and know nothing of the woman except that she
had beautiful arms, and seemed no whit abashed by 5
my appearance. As a matter of fact, the situation was
more trying to me than to the pair. A pair keep each
other in countenance ; it is the single gentleman who has
to blush. But I could not help attributing my sentiments
to the husband, and sought to conciliate his tolerance 10
with a cup of brandy from my flask. He told me that
he was a cooper of Alais travelling to St. Etienne in
search of work, and that in his spare moments he followed
the fatal calling of a maker of matches. Me he readily
enough divined to be a brandy merchant. 15
I was up first in the morning (Monday, September 23d),
and hastened my toilet guiltily, so as to leave a clear
field for madam, the cooper's wife. I drank a bowl of
milk, and set off to explore the neighbourhood of Bouchet.
It was perishing cold, a grey, windy, wintry morning ; 20
misty clouds flew fast and low ; the wind jiiped over the
naked platform ; and the only speck of colour was away
behind Mount Miizenc and the eastern hills, where the
sky still wore the orange of the dawn.
It was five in the morning, and four thousand feet 25
above the sea ; and I had to bury my hands in my
pockets and trot. People were trooi)ing out to the la-
bours of the field by twos and threes, and all turned round
to stare upon the stranger. I had seen thcin coming
24 Travels with a Donkey
back last night, I saw them going afield again ; and there
was the life of Bouchet in a nutshell.
When I came back to the inn for a bit of breakfast,
the landlady was in the kitchen combing out her daugh-
5 ter's hair ; and I made her my compliments upon its
beauty.
"O no," said the mother; "it is not so beautiful as it
ought to be. Look, it is too fine."
Thus does a wise peasantry console itself under adverse
lo physical circumstances, and, by a startling democratic pro-
cess, the defects of the majority decide the type of beauty.
"And where," said I, " is monsieur? "
" The master of the house is upstairs," she answered,
" making you a goad."
15 Blessed be the man who invented goads ! Blessed the
innkeeper of Bouchet St. Nicolas, who introduced me to
their use ! This plain wand, with an eighth of an inch
of pin, was indeed a sceptre when he put it in my hands.
Thenceforward Modestine was my slave. A prick, and she
20 passed the most inviting stable-door. A prick, and she
broke forth into a gallant little trotlet that devoured the
miles. It was not a remarkable speed, when all was said ;
and we took four hours to cover ten miles at the best of
it. But what a heavenly change since yesterday ! No
25 more wielding of the ugly cudgel ; no more flailing with
an aching arm ; no more broadsword exercise, but a dis-
creet and gentlemanly fence. And what although now
and then a drop of blood should appear on Modestine's
mouse-coloured wedge-like rump? I should have pre-
I have a Goad 25
ferred it otherwise, indeed ; but yesterday's exploits had
purged my heart of all humanity. The perverse little
devil, since she would not be taken with kindness, must
even go with pricking.
It was bleak and bitter cold, and, except a cavalcade 5
of stride-legged ladies and a pair of post-runners, the
road was dead solitary all the way to Pradelles. I scarce
remember an incident but one. A handsome foal with
a bell about his neck came charging up to us upon a
stretch of common, sniffed the air martially as one about 10
to do great deeds, and, suddenly thinking otherwise in
his green young heart, put about and galloped off as he
had come, the bell tinkling in the wind. For a long
while afterwards I saw his noble attitude as he drew up,
and heard the note of his bell; and when I struck the 15
high-road, the song of the telegraph wires seemed to con-
tinue the same music.
Pradelles stands on a hill-side, high above the Allier,
surrounded by rich meadows. They were cutting after-
math on all sides, which gave the neighbourhood, this 20
gusty autumn morning, an untimely smell of hay. On
the opposite bank of the Ailicr the land kept mounting
for miles to the horizon : a tanned and sallow aulumn
landscape, with black blots of fir-wood and white roads
wandering through the hills. Over all this the clouds 25
shed a uniform and purplish shadow, sad and somewhat
menacing, exaggerating height and distance, and throw-
ing into still higher rc-lief tlic twisted ribbons of the liigh-
way. It was a cheerless prospect, but one stimulating to
26 Travels with a Donkey
a traveller. For I was now upon the limit of Velay, and
all that I beheld lay in another country — wild G^vaudan,
mountainous, uncultivated, and but recently disforested
from terror of the wolves.
5 Wolves, alas, like bandits, seem to flee the traveller's ad-
vance ; and you may trudge through all our comfortable
Europe, and not meet with an adventure worth the name.
But here, if anywhere, a man was on the frontiers of hope.
For this was the land of the ever-memorable Beast,
lo the Napoleon Buonaparte of wolves. What a career was
his ! He lived ten months at free quarters in G^vaudan
and Vivarais; he ate women and children and " shepherd-
esses celebrated for their beauty " ; he pursued armed
horsemen ; he has been seen at broad noonday chasing a
15 post-chaise and outrider along the king's high-road, and
chaise and outrider fleeing before him at the gallop. He
was placarded like a political offender, and ten thousand
francs were offered for his head. And yet, when he was
shot and sent to Versailles, behold ! a common wolf, and
20 even small for that. " Though I could reach from pole
to pole," sang Alexander Pope ; the little corporal shook
Europe ; and if all wolves had been as this wolf, they
would have changed the history of man. M. Elie Ber-
thet has made him the hero of a novel, which I have read,
25 and do not wish to read again.
I hurried over my lunch, and was proof against the
landlady's desire that I should visit our Lady of Pradelles,
"who performed many miracles, although she was of
wood " ; and before three-quarters of an hour I was
I have a Goad 27
goading Modestine down the steep descent that leads to
Langogne on the Allier. On both sides of the road, in
big dusty fields, farmers were preparing for next spring.
Every fifty yards a yoke of great-necked stolid oxen were
patiently haling at the plough. I saw one of these mild 5
formidable servants of the glebe, who took a sudden in-
terest in Modestine and me. The furrow down which he
was journeying lay at an angle to the road, and his head
was solidly fixed to the yoke like those of caryatides be-
low a ponderous cornice ; but he screwed round his big 10
honest eyes and followed us with a ruminating look, until
his master bade him turn the plough and proceed to re-
ascend the field. From all these furrowing ploughshares,
from the feet of oxen, from a labourer here and there
who was breaking the dry clods with a hoe, the wind 15
carried away a thin dust like so much smoke. It was a
fine, busy, breathing, rustic landscape ; and as I continued
to descend, the highlands of G<ivaudan kept mounting
in front of me against the sky.
I had crossed the Loire the day before ; now I was to 20
cross' the Allier; so near, are these two confluents in
their youth. Just at the bridge of Langogne, as the long-
promi.sc(l rain was beginning to fall, a lassie of some
seven or eight addressed me in the sacramental |)hrase,
" D'oh 'st que vous venez ? " She did it with so high an 25
air that she set me laughing; and this cut her to the
quick. She was evidently one who reckoned on respect,
and stood looking after me in silent dudgeon, as I crossed
the bridge and entered the county of Gc-vaudan.
28 Travels with a Donkey
UPPER GEVAUDAN
' The way also here was very weari-
some through dirt and slabbi-
ness ; nor jvas there on all this
ground so much as one inn or
victualling-house wherein to
refresh the feebler sort!
— " Pilgrim's Progress."
A CAMP IN THE DARK
The next day (Tuesday, September 24th), it was two
o'clock in the afternoon before I got my journal written
up and my knapsack repaired, for I was determined to
carry my knapsack in the future and have no more ado
5 with baskets ; and half an hour afterwards I set out for
Le Cheylard I'Eveque, a place on the borders of the
forest of Mercoire. A man, I was toid, should walk there
in an hour and a half; and I thought it scarce too am-
bitious to suppose that a man encumbered with a donkey
10 might cover the same distance in four hours.
All the way up the long hill from Langogne it rained
and hailed alternately ; the wind kept freshening steadily,
although slowly ; plentiful hurrying clouds — some drag-
ging veils of straight rain-shower, others massed and
15 luminous as though promising snow — careered out of
the north and followed me along my way. I was soon
out of the cultivated basin of the AUier, and away from
A Camp in the Dark 29
the ploughing oxen, and such like sights of the country.
Moor, heathery marsh, tracts of rock and pines, woods of
birch all jewelled with the autumn yellow, here and there
a few naked cottages and bleak fields, — these were the
characters of the country. Hill and valley followed val- 5
ley and hill ; the little green and stony cattle-tracks
wandered in and out of one another, split into three or
four, died away in marshy hollows, and began again
sporadically on hill-sides or at the borders of a wood.
There was no direct road to C'heylard, and it was no 10
easy affair to make a passage in this uneven country and
through this intermittent labyrinth of tracks. It must
have been about four when I struck Sagnerousse, and
went on my way rejoicing in a sure point of departure.
Two hours afterwards, the dusk rapidly falling, in a lull of 15
the wind, I issued from a fir-wood where I had long been
wandering, and found, not the looked-for village, but an-
other marish bottom among rough-and-tumble hills. For
some time past I had heard the ringing of cattle-bells
ahead ; and now, as I came out of the skirts of the 20
wood, I saw near upon a dozen cows and perhajjs as
many more black figures, which I conjectured to be
children, although tiie mist had almost unrecognizably
exaggerated their forms. These were all silently following
each other round and round in a circle, now taking hands, 25
now breaking up with chains and reverences. A dance
of children appeals to very innocent and lively thoughts ;
but, at nightfall on the marshes, the thing was eerie and
fantastic to behold. Even I, who am well enough read
JO Travels with a Donkey
in Herbert Spencer, felt a sort of silence fall for an instant
on my mind. The next, I was pricking Modestine for-
ward, and guiding her like an unruly ship through the
open. In a path, she went doggedly ahead of her own
5 accord, as before a fair wind ; but once on the turf or
among heather, and the brute became demented. The
tendency of lost travellers to go round in a circle was de-
veloped in her to the degree of passion, and it took all the
steering I had in me to keep even a decently straight
10 course through a single field.
While I was thus desperately tacking through the bog,
children and cattle began to disperse, until only a pair of
girls remained behind. From these I sought direction on
my path. The peasantry in general were but little dis-
15 posed to counsel a wayfarer. One old devil simply re-
tired into his house, and barricaded the door on my
approach ; and I might beat and shout myself hoarse, he
turned a deaf ear. Another, having given me a direction
which, as I. found afterwards, I had misunderstood, com-
20 placently watched me going wrong without adding a sign.
He did not care a stalk of parsley if I wandered all night
upon the hills ! As for these two girls, they were a pair
of impudent sly sluts, with not a thought but mischief.
One put out her tongue at me, the other bade me follow
25 the cows ; and they both giggled and jogged each other's
elbows. The Beast of G^vaudan ate about a hundred
children of this district ; I began to think of him with
sympathy.
Leaving the girls, I pushed on through the bog, and
A Camp in the Dark 31
got into another wood and upon a well-marked road. It
grew darker and darker. Modestine, suddenly beginning
to smell mischief, bettered the pace of her own accord,
and from chat time forward gave me no trouble. It was
the first sign of intelligence I had occasion to remark in 5
her. At the same time, the wind freshened into half a
gale, and another heavy discharge of rain came flying up
out of the north. At the other side of the wood I sighted
some red windows in the dusk. This was the hamlet of
Fouzilhic; three houses on a hill-side, near a wood of 10
birches. Here I found a delightful old man, who came a
little way with me in the rain to put me safely on the
road for Cheylard. He would hear of no reward ; but
shook his hands above his head almost as if in menace,
and refused volubly and shrilly, in unmitigated patois. 15
All seemed right at last. My thoughts began to turn
upon dinner and a fireside, and my heart was agreeably
softened in my bosom. Alas, and I was on the brink of
new and greater miseries ! Suddenly, at a single swoop,
the night fell. I have been abroad in many a black 20
night, but never in a blacker. A glimmer of rocks, a
glimmer of the track where it was well beaten, a certain
fleecy density, or night within night, for a tree, — this was
all that I could discriminate. The sky was simply dark-
ness overhead ; even the flying clouds pursued their way 25
invisibly to human eyesight. I could not fiistinguish my
hand at arm's length from tin- track, nor my goad, at the
same distance, from the meadows or the sky.
Soon the road that I was following split, after the
32 Travels with a Donkey
fashion of the country, into three or four in a piece of
rocky meadow. Since Modestine had shown such a fancy
for beaten roads, I tried her instinct in this predicament.
But the instinct of an ass is what might be expected from
5 the name ; in half a minute she was clambering round
and round among some boulders, as lost a donkey as you
would wish to see. I should have camped long before
had I been properly provided ; but as this was to be so
short a stage, I had brought no wine, no bread for myself
10 and little over a pound for my lady-friend. Add to this,
that I and Modestine were both handsomely wetted by
the showers. But now, if I could have found some
water, I should have camped at once in spite of all.
Water, however, being entirely absent, except in the form
15 of rain, I determined to return to Fouzilhic, and ask a
guide a little further on my way — "ahttle farther lend
thy guiding hand."
The thing was easy to decide, hard to accomplish. In
this sensible roaring blackness I was sure of nothing but
20 the direction of the wind. To this I set my face, the
road had disappeared, and I went across country, now in
marshy opens, now baffled by walls unscalable to Modes-
tine, until I came once more in sight of some red
windows. This time they were differently disposed. It
25 was not Fouzilhic, but Fouzilhac, a hamlet little distant
from the other in space, but worlds away in the spirit of
its inhabitants. I tied Modestine to a gate, and groped
forward, stumbling among rocks, plunging mid-leg in
bog, until I gained the entrance of the village. In the
A Camp in the Dark ^3
first lighted house there was a woman who would not open
to me. She could do nothing, she cried to me through
the door, being alone and lame ; but if I would apply at
the next house, there was a man who could help me if he
had a mind. -
They came to the next door in force, a man, two
women, and a girl, and brought a pair of lanterns to ex-
amine the wayfarer. The man was not ill-looking, but
had a shifty smile. He leaned against the door-post, and
heard me state my case. All I asked was a guide as far lo
as Cheylard.
" CVj/ (/ue, voycz-voiis, il fait Jioir," said he.
I told him that was just my reason for requiring
help.
"I understand that," said he, looking uncomfortable ; 15
" mais — c'fsi — (/e la peine ^
I was willing to pay, I said. He shook his head. I
rose as high as ten francs ; but he continued to shake his
head. " Name your own price, then," said I.
" Ce li* est pas (a,^' he said at length, and with evident 20
difficulty ; " but I am not going to cross the door — mais
je nr sortirai pas de la ported
I grew a liillc warm, and asked him what he proposed
that I should do.
"Where arc you going beyond ('hcylard ? " he asked 23
by way of answer.
"That is no affair of yours," I returned, for I was not
going to indulge his bestial curiosity ; " it changes nothing
in my present predicament."
TRAVELS WITH A DONKKV — 3
34 Travels with a Donkey
" Cest vrai, ga,'^ he acknowledged, with a laugh ;
" oui, c'est vrai. Et d^oii venez vous ? "
A better man than I might have felt nettled.
"O," said I, " I am not going to answer any of your
5 questions, so you may spare yourself the trouble of putting
them. I am late enough already ; I want help. If you
will not guide me yourself, at least help me to find some
one else who will."
" Hold on," he cried suddenly. " Was it not you who
10 passed in the meadow while it was still day? "
^^' " Yes, yes," said the girl, whom I had not hitherto rec-
ognized ; " it was monsieur ; I told him to follow the cow."
" As for you, mademoiselle," said I, " you are a
farceuseT ^
IS " And," added the man, " what the devil have you done
to be still here?"
What the devil, indeed 1 But there I was. " The
great thing," said I, " is to make an end of it ; " and
once more proposed that he should help me to find a
2o guide.
" O est que ^'' he said again, "c'est que — il fait noir"
"Very well," said I ; "take one of your lanterns."
" No," he cried, drawing a thought backward, and again
intrenching himself behind' one of his former phrases;
25 " I will not cross the door."
I looked at him. I saw unaffected terror struggling on
his face with unaffected shame ; he was smiling pitifully
and wetting his hp with his tongue, like a detected school-
1 A joker.
A Camp in the Dark 35
boy. I drew a brief picture of my state, and asked him
what I was to do.
" I don't know," he said ; " I will not cross the door."
Here was the Beast of G^vaudan, and no mistake.
" Sir," said I, with my most commanding manners, 5
" you are a coward."
And with that I turned my back upon the family party,
who hastened to retire within their fortifications ; and
the famous door was closed again, but not till I had over-
heard the sound of laughter. Filia barbara pater bar- 10
barior. Let me say it in the plural : the Beasts of
G^vaudan.
The lanterns had somewhat dazzled me, and I ploughed
distressfully among stones and rubbish-hea[)s. All the
other houses in the village were both dark and silent; 15
and though I knocked at here and there a door, my
knocking was unanswered. It was a bad business ; I gave
up Fouzilhac with my curses. The rain had stopped, and
the wind, which still kept rising, began to dry my coat
and trousers. " Very well," thought I, " water or no 20
water, I must camp." But the first thing was to return
to Modestine. I am pretty sure I was twenty minutes
groping for my lady in the dark ; and if il liad not been
for the unkindly services of the bog, into which I once
more stumbled, I might have still been groping for her at 25
the dawn. My next business was to gain the shelter of a
wood, for the wind was cold as well as boisterous. How,
in this well-wooded distri<;t, I should have been so long
in finding one, is another of the insoluble mysteries of
^6 Travels with a Donkey
this (lay's adventures ; but I will take my oath that I put
near an hour to the discovery.
At last black trees began to show upon my left, and,
suddenly crossing the road, made a cave of unmitigated
5 blackness right in front. I call it a cave without exag-
geration; to pass below that arch of leaves was like
entering a dungeon. I felt about until my hand encoun-
tered a stout branch, and to this I tied Modestine, a
haggard, drenched, desponding donkey. Then I low-
loered my pack, laid it along the wall on the margin of
the road, and unbuckled the straps. I knew well enough
where the lantern was ; but where were the candles ? I
groped and groped among the tumbled articles^ and,
while I was thus groping, suddenly I touched the spirit-
15 lamp. Salvation ! This would serve my turn as well.
The wind roared un weary ingly among the trees : I
could hear the boughs tossing and the leaves churning
through half a mile of forest ; yet the scene of my en-
campment was not only as black as the pit, but admir-
20 ably sheltered. At the second match the wick caught
flame. The light was both livid and shifting ; but it cut
me off from the universe, and doubled the darkness of
the surrounding night.
I tied Modestine more conveniently for herself, and
25 broke up half the black bread for her supper, reserving the
other half against the morning. Then I gathered what
I should want within reach, took off my wet boots and
gaiters, which I wrapped in my waterproof, arranged my
knapsack for a pillow under the flap of my sleeping-bag.
A Camp in the Dark 37
insinuated my limbs into the interior, and buckled my-
self in like a bambino. I opened a tin of Bologna
sausage and broke a cake of chocolate, and that was all
I had to eat. It may sound offensive, but I ate them
together, bite by bite, by way of bread and meat. All 1 5
had to wash down this revolting mixture was neat brandy :
a revolting beverage in itself. But I was rare and
hungry ; ate well, and smoked one of the best cigarettes
in my experience. Then I put a stone in my straw hat,
pulled the flap of my fur cap over my neck and eyes, 10
put my revolver ready to my hand, and snuggled well
down among the sheepskins.
I questioned at first if I were sleepy, for I felt my
heart beating faster than usual, as if with an agreeable
excitement to which my min<l remained a stranger. But 15
as soon as my eyelids touched, that subtle glue leaped be-
tween them, and they would no more come separate. The
wind among the trees was my lullaby. Sometimes it
sounded for minutes together with a steady even rush,
not rising nor abating ; and again it would swell and burst 20
like a great crashing breaker, and the trees would patter
me all over with big drops from the rain of the afternoon.
Night after night, in my own bctlroom in the country, I
have given ear to this perturbing concert of the wind
among the woods ; but whether it was a difference in the 25
trees, or the lie of the ground, or because I was myself
outside and in the midst of it, the fact remains that the
wind sang to a different tune among these woods of
G«ivaudan. I hearkened and hearkened ; and mean-
38 Travels with a Donkey
while sleep took gradual possession of my body and
subdued my thoughts and senses ; but still my last wak-
ing effort was to listen and distinguish, and my last con-
scious state was one of wonder at the foreign clamour in
5 my ears.
Twice in the course of the dark hours — once
when a stone galled me underneath the sack, and again
when the poor patient Modestine, growing angry, pawed
and stamped upon the road — I was recalled for a brief
10 while to consciousness, and saw a star or two overhead,
and the lace-like edge of the foliage against the sky. When
I awoke for the third time (Wednesday, September 25 th),
the world was flooded with a blue light, the mother of the
dawn. I saw the leaves labouring in the wind and the rib-
15 bon of the road ; and, on turning my head, there was Mo-
destine tied to a beech, and standing half across the path in
an attitude of inimitable patience. I closed my eyes again,
and set to thinking over the experience of the night. I
was surprised to find how easy and pleasant it had been,
20 even in this tempestuous weather. The stone which
annoyed me would not have been there, had I not been
forced to camp blindfold in the opaque night ; and I had
felt no other inconvenience except when my feet encoun-
tered the lantern or the second volume of Peyrat's Pas-
25 tors of the Desert among the mixed contents of my
sleeping-bag j nay more, I had felt not a touch of cold,
and awakened with unusually lightsome and clear
sensations.
With that, I shook myself, got once more into my boots
A Camp in the Dark 39
and gaiters, and breaking up the rest of the bread for
Modestine, strolled about to see in what part of the world
I had awakened. Ulysses, left on Ithaca, and with a mind
unsettled by the goddess, was not more pleasantly astray.
I have been after an adventure all my life, a pure dispas- s
sionate adventure, such as befell early and heroic voyag-
ers ; and thus to be found by morning in a random wood-
side nook in G^vaudan — not knowing north from south,
as strange to my surroundings as the first man upon the
earth, an inland castaway — was to find a fraction of my 10
day-dreams realized. I was on the skirts of a little wood
of birch, sprinkled with a few beeches ; behind, it ad-
joined another wood of fir ; and in front it broke up
and went down in open order into a shallow and meadowy
dale. All around there were bare hill-tops, some near, 15
some far away, as the perspective closed or opened, but
none apparently much higher than the rest. The wind
huddled the trees. The golden specks of autumn in the
birches tossed shiveringly. Overhead the sky was full of
strings and shreds of vapour, flying, vanishing, reappear- 20
ing, and turning about an axis like tumblers, as the wind
hounded them thnjugh heaven. It was wild weather and
famishing cold. I ate some chocolate, swallowed a mouth-
ful of brandy, and smoked a cigarette before the cold
should have time to disable my fingers. And by the time 25
I had got all this done, and had made my pack and bound
it on the packsaddle, the day was tiptoe on the threshold
of the east. We hafl not gone many steps along the lane,
before the sun, still invisible to me, sent a glow of gold
40 Travels with a Donkey
over some cloud mountains that lay ranged along the
eastern sky.
The wind had us on the stern, and hurried us bitingly
forward. I buttoned myself into my coat, and walked on
5 in a pleasant frame of mind with all men, when suddenly,
at a corner, there was Fouzilhic once more in front of me.
Nor only that, but there was the old gentleman who had
escorted me so far the night before, running out of his
house at sight of me, with hands upraised in horror,
lo "My poor boy! " he cried, "what does this mean?"
I told him what had happened. He beat his old hands
like clappers in a mill, to think how lightly he had let me
go ; but when he heard of the man of Fouzilhac, anger
and depression seized upon his mind.
15 "This time, at least," said he, "there shall be no mis-
take."
And he Hmped along, for he was very rheumatic, for
about half a mile, and until I was almost within sight of
Cheylard, the destination I had hunted for so long.
-^l
CHEYLARD AND LUC
20 Candidly, it seemed little worthy of all this searching.
A few broken ends of village, with no particular street,
but a succession of open places heaped with logs and
fagots ; a couple of tilted crosses, a shrine to our Lady
of all Graces on the summit of a little hill ; and all this,
25 upon a rattling highland river, in the corner of a naked
valley. What went ye out for to see ? thought I to my-
Cheylard and Luc 41
self. But the place had a life of its own. I found a board
commemorating the liberalities of Cheylard for the past
year, hung up, like a banner, in the diminutive and tottering
church. In 1877, it appeared, the inhabitants subscribed
forty-eight francs ten centimes for the " Work of the Prop- 5
agation of the Faith." Some of this, I could not help
hoping, would be applied to my native land. Cheylard
scrapes together halfpence for the darkened souls in
Edinburgh ; while Balquiddcr and Dunrossness bemoan
the ignorance of Rome. Thus, to the high entertainment 10
of the angels, do we pelt each other with evangelists, like
schoolboys bickering in the snow.
The inn was again singularly unpretentious. The whole
furniture of a not ill-to-do family was in the kitchen : the
beds, the cradle, the clothes, the plate-rack, the meal- 15
chest, and the photograph of the parish priest. There
were five children, one of whom was set to its morning
prayers at the stair-foot soon after my arrival, and a sixth
would erelong be forthcoming. I was kindly received by
these good folk. They were much interested in my mis- 20
adventure. The wood in which I had slept belonged to
them ; the man of Fouzilhac they thought a monster of
initpiity, and coimselled me warmly to summon him at
law — " because I might have died." The good wife was
horror-stricken to see me drink over a i)int of uncreamed 25
milk.
" You will do yourself an evil," she said. " I'lTinit me
to boil it for you."
After I had begun the morning on this delightful
42 Travels with a Donkey
liquor, she having an infinity of things to arrange, I was
permitted, nay requested, to make a bowl of chocolate
for myself. My boots and gaiters were hung up to dry,
and, seeing me trying to write my journal on my knee,
5 the eldest daughter let down a hinged table in the chim-
ney-corner for my convenience. Here I wrote, drank my
chocolate, and finally ate an omelette before I left. The
table was thick with dust ; for, as they explained, it was
not used except in winter weather. I had a clear look
10 up the vent, through brown agglomerations of soot and
blue vapour, to the sky ; and whenever a handful of twigs
was thrown on to the fire, my legs were scorched by the
blaze.
The husband had begun life as a muleteer, and when I
IS came to charge Modestine showed himself full of the
prudence of his art. " You will have to change this pack-
age," said he ; " it ought to be in two parts, and then you
might have double the weight."
I explained that I wanted no more weight ; and for no
2o donkey hitherto created would I cut my sleeping-bag in
two.
" It fatigues her, however," said the innkeeper ; " it
fatigues her greatly on the march. Look."
Alas, there were her two forelegs no better then raw
25 beef on the inside, and blood was running from under her
tail. They told me when I left, and I was ready to believe
it, that before a few days I should come to love Modestine
like a dog. Three days had passed, we had shared some
misadventures, and my heart was still as cold as a potato
Cheylard and Luc 43
towards my beast of burden. She was pretty enough to
look at ; but then she had given proof of dead stupicHty,
redeemed indeed by patience, but aggravated by flashes
of sorry and ill-judged light-heartedness. And I own
this new discovery seemed another point against her. 5
What the devil was the good of a she-ass if she could not
carry a sleeping-bag and a few necessaries? I saw the
end of the fable rapidly approaching, when I siiould have
to carry Modestine. .-l^'sop was the man to know the
world ! I assure you 1 set out with heavy thoughts upon 10
my short day's march.
It was not only heavy thoughts about Modestine that
weighted me upon the way ; it was a leaden business al-
together. P'or first, the wind blew so rudely that I had
to hold on the pack with one hand from Cheylard to 15
Luc J and second, my road lay through one of the most
beggarly countries in the world. It was like the worst
of the Scotch Highlands, only worse; cold, naked, and
ignoble, scant of wood, scant of heather, scant of life.
A road and some fences broke the unvarying waste, and 20
the line of the road was marked by upright pillars, to
sen'C in time of snow.
Why anyone should desire to visit eitlicr I-uc or Chey-
lard is more than my much-inventing spirit can suppose.
Kor my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. 1 25
travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move ; to feel
the neefjs and hitches u( our life more nearly ; to come
ilown off this feather-bed ()( civilization, and find the
globe granite underfoot and strewn with cutting flints.
44 Travels with a Donkey
Alas, as we get up in life, and are more preoccupied
with our affairs, even a holiday is a thing that must be
worked for. To hold a pack upon a packsaddle against
a gale out of the freezing north is no high industry, but it
5 is one that serves to occupy and compose the mind.
And when the present is so exacting, who can annoy him-
self about the future ?
^ , \ I came out at length above the Allien A more un-
~^^ sightly prospect at this season of the year it would be
lo hard to fancy. Shelving hills rose round it on all sides,
here dabbled with wood and fields, there rising to peaks
alternately naked and hairy with pines. The colour
throughout was black or ashen, and came to a point in
the ruins of the castle of Luc, which pricked up impu-
isdently from below my feet, carrying on a pinnacle a tall
white statue of Our Lady, which, I heard with interest,
weighed fifty quintals,' and was to be dedicated on the
6th of October. Through this sorry landscape trickled
the Allier and a tributary of nearly equal size, which
2o came down to join it through a broad nude valley in
Vivarais. The weather had somewhat lightened, and
the clouds massed in squadron ; but the fierce wind still
hunted them through heaven, and cast great ungainly
^^plashes of shadow and sunlight over the scene.
*25 Luc itself was a straggling double file of houses wedged
between hill and river. It had no beauty, nor was there
any notable feature, save the old castle overhead with its
fifty (quintals of brand-new Madonna. But the inn was
1 A modem French quintal is 220 pounds.
Cheylard and Luc 45
clean and large. The kitchen, with its two box-beds
hung with clean check curtains, with its wide stone chim-
ney, its chimney-shelf four yards long and garnished with
lanterns and religious statuettes, its array of chests and
pair of ticking clocks, was the very model of what a 5
kitchen ought to be ; a melodrama kitchen, suitable for
bandits or noblemen in disguise. Nor was the scene
disgraced by the landlady, a handsome, silent, dark old
woman, clothed and hooded in black like a nun. Even
the public bedroom had n character of its own, with the 10
long deal tables and benches, where fifty might have
dined, set out as for a harvest-home, and the three box-
beds along the wall. In one of these, lying on straw and
covered with a pair of table-napkins, did I do penance
all night long in goose-flesh and chattering teeth, and'S
sigh from time to time as I awakened fur my sheepskin
sack and the lee of some great wood.
46 Trjavels with a Donkey
OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS
« / behold
The House, the Brotherhood austere —
And what am I, that I atn here ? '
— Matthew Arnold.
FATHER APOLLINARIS
Next morning (Thursday, 26th September) I took the
road in a new order. The sack was no longer doubled,
but hung at full length across the saddle, a green sausage
six feet long with a tuft of blue wool hanging out of either
5 end. It was more picturesque, it spared the donkey, and,
as I began to see, it would insure stability, blow high,
blow low. But it was not without a pang that I had so
decided. For although I had purchased a new cord, and
made all as fast as I was able, I was yet jealously uneasy
10 lest the flaps should tumble out and scatter my effects
along the line of march.
My way lay up the bald valley of the river, along the
march of Vivarais and G^vaudan. The hills of Gevaudan
on the right were a little more naked, if anything, than
15 those of Vivarais upon the left, and the former had a
monopoly of a low dotty underwood that grew thickly in
the gorges and died out in solitary burrs upon the shoulders
and the summits. Black bricks of fir-wood were plastered
here and there upon both sides, and here and there were
Father ApoUinaris 47
cultivated fields. A railway ran beside the river ; the
only bit of railway in Gevaudan, although there are many
proposals afoot and surveys being made, and even, as
they tell me, a station standing ready built in Mende. A
year or two hence and this may be another world. The 5
desert is beleaguered. Now may some Languedocian
Wordsworth turn the sonnet into patois: " Mountains and
vales and floods, heard vk that whistle?"
At a place called La Bastide I was directed to leave the
river, and follow a road that mounted on the left among 10
the hills of Vivarais, the modern Ardeche ; for I was now
come within a little way of my strange destination, the
Trappist monastery of our Lady of the Snows. The sun
came out as I left the shelter of a pine-wood, and I be-
held suddenly a fine wild landscape to the south. High 15
rocky hills, as blue as sapphire, closed the view, and be-
tween these lay ridge upon ridge, heathery, craggy, the
sun glittering on veins of rock, the underwood clambering
in the hollows, as rude as God made them at the first.
There was not a sign of man's hand in all the prospect ; 20
and indeed not a trace of his passage, save whore genera-
tion after generation had walked in twisted foot-paths, in
and out among the beeches, and up and down u|)on the
channelled slopes. The mists, which had hitherto beset
me, were now brf)kcn into clouds, and fled swiftly and 25
shone l)rightly in the sun. I drew a long breath. It was
grateful to come, after so long, u|)on a scene of some at-
traction for the human heart. I own I like definite form
in what my eyes arc to rest u|)f)n ; and if landscapes were
48 Travels with a Donkey
sold, like the sheets of characters of my boyhood, one
penny plain and twopence coloured, I should go the
length of twopence every day of my life.
But if things had grown better to the south, it was still
5 desolate and inclement near at hand. A spidery cross on
every hill-top marked the neighbourhood of a religious
house ; and a quarter of a mile beyond, the outlook south-
ward opening out and growing bolder with every step, a
white statue of the Virgin at the corner of a young plan-
10 tation directed the traveller to our Lady of the Snows.
Here, then, I struck leftward, and pursued my way, driv-
ing my secular donkey before me, and creaking in my
secular boots and gaiters, towards the asylum of silence.
I had not gone very far ere the wind brought to me the
15 clanging of a bell, and somehow, I can scarce tell why,
my heart sank within me at the sound. I have rarely ap-
proached anything with more unaffected terror than the
monastery of our Lady of the Snows. This it is to have
had a Protestant education. And suddenly, on turning
20 a corner, fear took hold on me from head to foot — slavish
superstitious fear ; and though I did not stop in my ad-
vance, yet I went on slowly, Hke a man who should have
passed a bourne unnoticed, and strayed into the country
of the dead. For there upon the narrow new-made road,
25 between the stripling pines, was a mediaeval friar, fighting
with a barrowful of turfs. Every Sunday of my childhood
I used to study the Hermits of Marco Sadeler — enchant-
ing prints, full of wood and field and mediaeval landscapes,
as large as a county, for the imagination to go a travelling
Father Apollinaris 49
in ; and here, sure enough, was one of Marco Sadeler's
heroes. He was robed in white hke any spectre, and
the hood falling back, in the instancy of his contention
with the barrow, disclosed a pate as bald and yellow as a
skull. He might have been buried any time these thou- 5
sand years, and all the lively parts of him resolved into
earth and broken up with the farmer's harrow.
I was troubled besides in my mind as to etiquette.
Durst I address a person who was under a vow of
silence? Clearly not. But drawing near, I doffed my 10
cap to him with a far-away superstitious reverence. He
nodded back, and cheerfully addressed me. Was I
going to the monastery? Who was I? An English-
man? Ah, an Irishman, then?
" No," I said, " a Scotsman." 15
A Scotsman? .\h, he had never seen a Scotsman
before. And he looked inc all over, his good, honest,
brawny countenance shining with interest, as a boy might
look u[)on a lion or an alligator. From him I learned
with disgust that I couhi not be received at our Lady of ac
the Snows; I might get a meal, perhai)s, but that was
all. And then, as our talk ran on, and it turned out that
I was not a pedlar, but a literary man. wlio drew land-
scapes and was going to write a book, he changed his
manner of thinking as to my reception (for I fc.ir they 25
respect persons even in a 'rr.i|)pist monastery), and told
me I must be sure to ask for the l''alher Prior, and state
my rase to him in full. On second thoughts he deter-
mined to go down with me himself ; he thought he could
TRAVELS WITH A IKJNKKY — 4
50 Travels with a Donkey
manage for me better. Might he say that I was a geog-
rapher?
No ; I thought, in the interests of truth, he positively
might not.
5 "Very well, then " (with disappointment), " an author."
It appeared he had been in a seminary with six young
Irishmen, all priests long since, who had received news-
papers and kept him informed of the state of ecclesias-
tical affairs in England. And he asked me eagerly after
10 Dr. Pusey, for whose conversion the good man had
continued ever since to pray night and morning.
" I thought he was very near the truth," he said ; " and
he will reach it yet ; there is so much virtue in prayer."
He must be a stiff ungodly Protestant who can take
IS anything but pleasure in this kind and hopeful story.
While he was thus near, the subject, the good father asked
me if I were a Christian ; and when he found I was not,
or not after his way, he glossed it over with great
goodwill.
20 The road which we were following, and which this
stalwart father had made with his own two hands within
the space of a year, came to a corner, and showed us
some white buildings a little further on beyond the wood.
At the same time, the bell once more sounded abroad.
25 We were hard upon the monastery. Father Apollinaris
(for that was my companion's name) stopped me.
" I must not speak to you down there," he said. " Ask
for the Brother Porter, and all will be well. But try to
see me as you go out again through the wood, where I
The Monks 51
may speak to you. I am charmed to have made your
acquaintance."
And then suddenly raising his arms, flapping his
fingers, and crying out twice, " I must not speak, I must
not speak ! " he ran away in front of me and disappeared 5
into the monastery door.
I own this somewhat ghastly eccentricity went a good
way to revive my terrors. But where one was so good and
simple, why should not all be alike ? I took heart of grace,
and went forward to the gate as fast as Modestine, who 10
seemed to have a disaffection for monasteries, would per-
mit. It was the first door, in my acquaintance of her,
which she had not shown an indecent haste to enter. I
summoned the place in form, though with a quaking heart.
Father Michael, the Father Hospitaller, and a pair of 15
brown-robed brothers came to the gate and spoke with me
awhile. I think my sack was the great attraction ; it had
already beguiled the heart of poor ApoUinaris, who hnd
charged me on my life to show it to the Father Prior.
I'lUt whether it was my address, or the sack, or the idea 20
speedily published among that part of the brotherhood
who attend on strangers tliat I was not a i)cdlar after all,
I found no difficulty as to my recejjtion. Modestine was
led away by a layman tf) the stables, and I and my pack
were received into our Lady of the Snows. 'S
THK MONKS
Father Micmai.i., a jjieasant, fresh-fared, smiling man,
perhaps of tiiirty-fivc, took me to the pantry, and gave
52 Travels with a Donkey
me a glass of liqueur to stay me until dinner. We had
some talk, or rather I should say he listened to my prattle
indulgently enough, but with an abstracted air, like a
spirit with a thing'of clay. And truly when I remembered
5 that I descanted principally on my appetite, and that it
must have been by that time more than eighteen hours
since Father Miqhael had so much as broken bread, I
can well understand that he would find an earthly savour
in my conversation. But his manner, though superior,
10 was exquisitely gracious; and I find I have a lurking
curiosity as to Father Michael's past.
The whet administered, I was left alone for a little in the
monastery garden. This is no more than the main court,
laid out in sandy paths and beds of parti-coloured dahlias,
15 and with a fountain and a black statue of the Virgin in the
centre. The buildings stand around it four-square, bleak,
as yet unseasoned by the years and weather, and with no
other features than a belfry and a pair of slated gables.
Brothers in white, brothers in brown, passed silently along
20 the sanded alleys ; and when I first came out, three
hooded monks were kneeling on the terrace at their
prayers. A naked hill commands the monastery upon
one side, and the wood commands it on the other. It
Hes exposed to wind ; the snow falls off and on from Oc-
25 tober to May and sometimes lies six weeks on end ; but if
they stood in Eden, with a climate like heaven's, the
buildings themselves would offer the same wintry and
cheerless aspect ; and for my part, on this wild September
day, before I was called to dinner, I felt chilly in and out.
The Monks S3
When I had eaten well and heartily, Brother Ambrose,
a hearty conversable Frenchman (for all those who wait
on strangers have the liberty to speak), led me to a little
room in that part of the building which is set apart for
MM. les retraitanis. It was clean and whitewashed, and s
furnished with strict necessaries, a crucifix, a bust of
the late Pope, the Imitation in French, a book of religious
meditations, and the Life of Elizabeth Seton, evangelist, it
would appear, of North America and of New England in
particular. As far as my experience goes, there is a fair »o
field for some more evangelization in these quarters ; but
think of Cotton Mather ! I should like to give him a
reading of this little work in heaven, where I hope he
dwells ; but perhaps he knows all that already, and much
more; and perhaps he and Mrs. Seton are the dearest 15
friends, and gladly unite their voices in the everlasting
psalm. Over the table, to conclude the inventory of the
room, hung a set of regulations for MM. les retraitants :
what services they should attend, when they were to tell
their beads or meditate, and when they were to rise and 20
go to rest. At the foot was a notable N.H. : " Lc temps
libre est employe a Fexamen de eonseience, a la confession,
afairede bonnes resolutions, &c." To make good resolu-
tions, indeed ! You might talk as fruitfully of making
the hair grow on your head. 25
I had scarce explored my niche when Brother Ambrose
returned. An English boanlc-r, it appeared, would like
to speak with me. I i)rofcssed my willingness, and the
friar ushered in a fresh, young, little Irishman of fifty, a
54 Travels with a Donkey
deacon of the Church, arrayed in strict canonicals, and
wearing on his head what, in default of knowledge, I can
only call the ecclesiastical shako.^ He had lived seven
years in retreat at a convent of nuns in Belgium, and now
5 five at our Lady of the Snows ; he never saw an English
newspaper ; he spoke French imperfectly, and had he
spoken it like a native, there was not much chance of
conversation where he dwelt. With this, he was a man
eminently sociable, greedy of news, and simple-minded
10 like a child. If I was pleased to have a guide about the
monastery, he was no less delighted to see an English
face and hear an English tongue.
He showed me his own room, where he passed his
time among breviaries, Hebrew bibles, and the Waverley
IS novels. Thence he led me to the cloisters, into the
chapter-house, through the vestry, where the brothers'
gowns and broad straw hats were hanging up, each with
his religious name upon a board, — names full of legen-
dary suavity and interest, such as Basil, Hilarion, Raphael,
2o or Pacifique ; into the library, where were all the works of
Veuillot and Chateaubriand, and the Odes et Ballades,
if you please, and even Moliere, to say nothing of in-
numerable fathers and a great variety of local and general
historians. Thence my good Irishman took me round
25 the workshops, where brothers bake bread, and make
cartwheels, and take photographs ; where one superin-
tends a collection of curiosities, and another a gallery
of rabbits. For in a Trappist monastery each monk has
1 A military cap.
The Monks 55
an occupation of his own choice, apart from his religious
duties and the general labours of the house. Each must
sing in the choir, if he has a voice and ear, and join in
the haymaking if he has a hand to stir ; but in his private
hours, although he must be occupied, he may be occupied 5
on what he likes. Thus I was told that one brother
was engaged with literature ; while Father Apollinaris
busies himself in making roads, and the Abbot employs
himself in binding books. It is not so long since this
Abbot was consecrated, by the way ; and on that occa- 10
sion, by a special grace, his mother was permitted to enter
the chapel and witness the ceremony of consecration. A
proud day for her to have a son a mitred abbot ; it makes
you glad to think they let her in.
In all these joumeyings to and fro, many silent fathers 15
and brethren fell in our way. Usually they paid no more
regard to our passage than if we had been a cloud ; but
sometimes the good deacon had a permission to ask of
them, and it was granted by a jieculiar movement of the
hands, almost like that of a dog's paws in swimming, or 20
refused by the usual negative signs, and in either case
with lowered eyelids and a certain air of contrition, as of
a man who was steering very close to evil.
The monks, by special grace of their Abbot, were still
taking two meals a day ; but it was already time for their 25
grand fast, which begins somewhere in September and
lasts till Kaster, and during which they eat but once in
the twenty-fours, and that at two in the afternoon, twelve
hours after they have begun the toil and vigil of the day.
^6 Travels with a Donkey
Their meals are scanty, but even of these they eat spar-
ingly ; and though each is allowed a small carafe of wine,
many refrain from this indulgence. Without doubt, the
most of mankind grossly overeat themselves ; our meals
5 serve not only for support, but as a hearty and natural
diversion from the labour of life. Although excess
may be hurtful, I should have thought this Trappist regi-
men defective. And I am astonished, as I look back,
at the freshness of face and cheerfulness of manner of all
10 whom I beheld. A happier nor a healthier company I
should scarce suppose that I have ever seen. As a
matter of fact, on this bleak upland, and with the inces-
sant occupation of the monks, life is of an uncertain
tenure, and death no infrequent visitor, at our Lady of
15 the Snows. This, at least, was what was told me. But
if they die easily, they must live healthily in the mean-
time, for they seemed all firm of flesh and high in colour ;
and the only morbid sign that I could observe, an unusual
brilliancy of eye, was one that served rather to increase
20 the general impression of vivacity and strength.
Those with whom I spoke were singularly sweet tem-
pered, with what I can only call a holy cheerfulness in
air and conversation. There is a note, in the direction to
visitors, telling them not to be offended at the curt speech
25 of those who wait upon them, since it is proper to monks
to speak little. The note might have been spared ; to a
man the hospitallers were all brimming with innocent talk,
and, in my experience of the monastery, it was easier to
begin than to break off a conversation. With the excep-
The Monks 57
tion of Father Michael, who was a man of the world, they
showed themselves full of kind and healthy interest in all
sorts of subjects — in politics, in voyages, in my sleeping-
sack — and not without a certain pleasure in the sound
of their own voices. 5
As for those who are restricted to silence, I can only
wonder how they bear their solemn and cheerless isola-
tion. .And yet, apart from any view of mortification, I
can see a certain policy, not only in the exclusion of
women, but in this vow of silence. I have had some ex- 10
perience of lay phalansteries,' of an artistic, not to say a
bacchanalian, character; and seen more than one associ-
ation easily formed and yet more easily dispersed. With
a Cistercian rule, perhaps they might have lasted longer.
In the neighbourhood of women it is but a touch-and-go 15
association that can be formed among defenceless men ;
the stronger electricity is sure to triumph ; the dreams of
IxDyhood, the schemes of youth, are abandoned after an
interview of ten minutes, and the arts and sciences, and
professional male jollity, deserted at once for two sweet 20
eyes and a caressing accent. And next after this, the
tongue is the great divider.
I am almost ashamed to pursue this wordly criticism of
a religious rule ; but there is yet another point in which
the Trappist order appeals to me as a model of wisdom. 25
V>y two in the morning the clapper goes upon the bell, and
so on, hour by hour, and sometimes quarter by fjuarter,
till eiglit, the hour of rest; so infinitesimally is the day
' Co-operative associatiuns where membcra live in tuiiiinon.
58 Travels with a Donkey
divided among different occupations. The man who
keeps rabbits, for example, hurries from his hutches to the
chapel, the chapter-room, or the refectory, all day long :
every hour he has an office to sing, a duty to perform ;
5 from two, when he rises in the dark, till eight, when he
returns to receive the comfortable gift of sleep, he is upon
his feet and occupied with manifold and changing busi-
ness. I know many persons, worth several thousands in
the year, who are not so fortunate in the disposal of their
10 lives. Into how many houses would not the note of the
monastery bell, dividing the day into manageable portions,
bring peace of mind and healthful activity of body ? We
speak of hardships, but the true hardship is to be a dull
fool, and permitted to mismanage life in our own dull and
IS foolish manner.
From this point of view, we may perhaps better under-
stand the monk's existence. A long novitiate and every
proof of constancy of mind and strength of body is re-
quired before admission to the order ; but I could not
20 find that many were discouraged. In the photographer's
studio, which figures so strangely among the outbuildings,
my eye was attracted by the portrait of a young fellow in
the uniform of a private of foot. This was one of the
novices, who came of the age for service, and marched
25 and drilled and mounted guard for the proper time among
the garrison of Algiers. Here was a man who had surely
seen both sides of life before deciding ; yet as soon as he
was set free from service he returned to finish his
novitiate.
The Monks 59
This austere rule entitles a man to heaven as by right.
When the Trappist sickens, he quits not his habit ; he
lies in the bed of death as he has prayed and laboured in
his frugal and silent existence ; and when the Liberator
comes, at the very moment, even before they have carried 5
him in his robe to lie his little last in the chapel among
continual chantings, joy-bells break forth, as if for a
marriage, from the slated belfry, and proclaim through-
out the neighbourhood that another soul has gone to God.
.\t night, under the conduct of my kind Irishman, I 10
took my place in the gallery to hear compline and Salve
Regina, with which the Cistercians bring every day to a
conclusion. There were none of those circumstances
which strike the Protestant as childish or as tawdry in
the public offices of Rome. A stern simplicity, height- 15
ened by the romance of the surroundings, spoke directly
to the heart. I recall the whitewashed chapel, the
hooded figures in the choir, the lights alternately oc-
cluded and revealed, the strong manly singing, the silence
that ensued, the sight of cowled heads i)Owed in i)rayer, 20
and then the clear trenchant beating of the bell, breaking
in to show that the la.st office was over and the hour of
sleep had come ; and when I remember, I am not sur-
prised that I made my escape into the court with some-
what whirling fancies, and stood like a man bewildered 25
in the windy starry night.
But I was weary ; and when I had fjuicted my spirits
with Elizabeth Scton's memoirs — a dull work — the cold
and the raving of the wind among the i)ines — for my
6o Travels with a Donkey
room was on that side of the monastery which adjoins
the woods — disposed me readily to slumber, I was
wakened at black midnight, as it seemed, though it was
really two in the morning, by the first stroke upon the
5 bell. All the brothers were then hurrying to the chapel ;
the dead in life, at this untimely hour, were already be-
ginning the uncomforted labours of their day. The dead
in life — there was a chill reflection. And the words of
a French song came back into my memory, telling of the
to best of our mixed existence :
" Que t'as de belles filles,
Girofle !
Girofla !
Que t'as de belles filles,
IS V Amour les compter a ! "
And I blessed God that I was free to wander, free to
hope, and free to love.
^ THE BOARDERS
But there was another side to my residence at our
Lady of the Snows. At this late season there were not
20 many boarders ; and yet I was not alone in the public
part of the monastery. This itself is hard by the gate,
with a small dining-room on the ground-floor, and a
whole corridor of cells similar to mine upstairs. I have
stupidly forgotten the board for a regular retraiiant; but
25 it was somewhere between three and five francs a day.
The Boarders 6i
and I think most probably the first. Chance visitors
like myself might give what they chose as a free-will offer-
ing, but nothing was demanded. I may mention that
when I was going away, Father Michael" refused twenty
francs as excessive. I explained the reasoning which led 5
me to offer him so much ; but even then, from a curious
point of honour, he would not accept it with his own
hand. " I have no right to refuse for the monastery," he
explained, " but I should prefer if you would give it to
one of the brothers." lo
I had dined alone, because I arrived late ; but at supper
I found two other guests. One was a country parish
priest, who had walked over that morning from the seat
of his cure near Mende to enjoy four days of solitude and
prayer. He was a grenadier in person, with the hale 15
colour and circular wrinkles of a peasant ; and as he com-
l)lained much of how he had been impeded by his skirts
upon the march, I have a vivid fancy portrait of liiin,
striding along, upright, big-boned, with kilted cassock,
through the bleak hills of (Ic-vaudan. The other was a 20
short, grizzling, thick-set man, from forty-five to fifty,
dressed in tweed with a knitted spencer, and the red ribbon
of a decoration in his button-hole. This last was a hard
person to classify. He was an old soldier, who had seen
service and risen to the rank of commandant ; and he 25
retained some of the brisk decisive manners of tlie camp.
On the other hand, as soon as his resignation was accepted,
he had coine to our Lady of the Snows as a boarder, and,
after a brief experience of its ways, had decided to remain
62 Travels with a Donkey
as a novice. Already the new life was beginning to
modify his appearance ; already he had acquired somewhat
of the quiet and smiling air of the brethren ; and he was
as yet neither an officer nor a Trappist, but partook of the
5 character of each. And certainly here was a man in an
interesting nick of life. Out of the noise of cannon and
trumpets, he was in the act of passing into this still country
bordering on the grave, where men sleep nightly in their
grave-clothes, and, like phantoms, communicate by signs.
lo At supper we talked politics. I make it my business,
when I am in France, to preach political goodwill and
moderation, and to dwell on the example of Poland, much
as some alarmists in England dwell on the example of
Carthage. The priest and the Commandant assured me
15 of their sympathy with all I said, and made a heavy sigh-
ing over the bitterness of contemporary feeling.
"Why, you cannot say anything to a man with which
he does not absolutely agree," said I, " but he flies up at
you in a temper."
20 They both declared that such a state of things was anti-
christian.
While we were thus agreeing, what should my tongue
stumble upon but a word in praise of Gambetta's modera-
tion. The old soldier's countenance was instantly suffused
25 with blood ; with the palms of his hands he beat the table
like a naughty child.
^^ Comment, monsieur?" he shouted. " Comtneiit?
Gambetta moderate? Will you dare to justify these
words?"
The Boarders 63
But the priest had not forgotten the tenor of our talk.
And suddenly, in the height of his fury, the old soldier
found a warning look directed on his face ; the absurdity
of his behaviour was brought home to him in a flash ;
and the storm came to an abrupt end, without another 5
word.
It was only in the morning, over our coffee (Friday,
September 2 7th), that this couple found out I was a heretic.
I suppose I had misled them by some admiring expres-
sions as to the monastic life around us ; and it was only 10
by a point-blank question that the truth came out. I had
been tolerantly used, both by simple Father Apollinaris
and astute Father Michael ; and the good Irish deacon,
when he heard of my religious weakness, had only patted
me upon the shoulder and said, "You must be a Catholic 15
and come to heaven." But I was now among a different
sect of orthodox. These two men were bitter and upright
and narrow, like the worst of Scotsmen, and indeed, upon
my heart, I fancy they were worse. The priest snorted
aloiul like a battle-horse. 20
" £/ %'ous prctniikz nuuirir dam ccttc csplcf t/c croy-
ancc?'' he demanded; and there is no type used by
mortal printers large enough to ([ualify his accent.
I humbly indicated that I had no design of changing.
Hut he could not away with such a monstrous attitude. 25
" No, no," he cried; " you must change. You have come
here, Ood has led you here, and you must embrace
the opportunity."
I made a slip in policy ; I appealed to the family affec-
64 Travels with a Donkey
tions, though I was speaking to a priest and a soldier,
two classes of men circumstantially divorced from the
kind and homely ties of life.
"Your father and mother?" cried the priest. "Very
S well ; you will convert them in their turn when you go
home."
I think I see my father's face ! I would rather tackle
the Gsetuhan lion in his den than embark on such an
enterprise against the family theologian.
10 But now the hunt was up ; priest and soldier were in
full cry for my conversion ; and the Work of the Propa-
gation of the Faith, for which the people of Cheylard
subscribed forty-eight francs ten centimes during 1877,
was being gallantly pursued against myself. It was an
IS odd but most effective proselytizing. They never sought
to convince me in argument, where I might have at-
tempted some defence ; but took it for granted that I was
both ashamed and terrified at my position, and urged me
solely on the point of time. Now, they said, when God
20 had led me to our Lady of the Snows, now was the appointed
hour.
" Do not be withheld by false shame," observed the
priest, for my encouragement.
For one who feels very similarly to all sects of religion,
25 and who has never been able, even for a moment, to weigh
seriously the merit of this or that creed on the eternal
side of things, however much he may see to praise or
blame upon the secular and temporal side, the situation
thus created was both unfair and painful. I committed
The Boarders 65
my second fault in tact, and tried to plead that it was all
the same thing in the end, and we were all drawing near
by different sides to the same kind and undiscriminating
Friend and Father. That, as it seems to lay-spirits,
would be the only gospel worthy of the name. But 5
different men think differently ; and this revolutionary
aspiration brought down the priest with all the terrors of
the law. He launched into harrowing details of hell.
The damned, he said — on the authority of a little book
which he had read not a week before, and which, to add 10
conviction to conviction, he had fully intended to bring
along with him in his pocket — were to occupy the same
attitude through all eternity in the midst of dismal tortures.
And as he thus expatiated, he grew in nobility of aspect
with his enthusiasm. 'S
As a result the pair concluded that I should seek out
the Prior, since the Abbot was from home, and lay my
case immediately before him.
" Cest mon conseil comme ancicn mi/iiaire" observed
the Commandant ; " fi celui tie monsieur comvic 20
prHre:'
" Oiii" added the cure, scntcntiously nodding ; " comme
aricien mililaire — et comme prNre''
.At this moment, whilst I was somewhat embarrassed
how to answer, in came one of the monks, a liltlc brown 25
fellow, as lively as a grig," and with an Italian accent, who
threw himself at once into the contention, but in a milder
and more persuasive vein, as befiilcd one of these pleasant
' Cricket.
TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY — 5
66 Travels with a Donkey
brethren. Look at /u'm, he said. The rule was very
hard ; he would have dearly liked to stay in his own
country, Italy — it was well known how beautiful it was,
the beautiful Italy ; but then there were no Trappists in
5 Italy ; and he had a soul to save ; and here he was.
I am afraid I must be at bottom, what a cheerful
Indian critic has dubbed me, " a faddling hedonist " ; for
this description of the brother's motives gave me some-
what of a shock. I should have preferred to think he had
lo chosen the life for its own sake, and not for ulterior
purposes ; and this shows how profoundly I was out of
sympathy with these good Trappists, even when I was
doing my best to sympathize. But to the cure the argu-
ment seemed decisive.
15 "Hear that!" he cried. "And I have seen a
marquis here, a marquis, a marquis " — he repeated
the holy word three times over — " and other
persons high in society ; and generals. And here,
at your side, is this gentleman, who has been so many
20 years in armies — decorated, an old warrior. And here
he is, ready to dedicate himself to God."
I was by this time so thoroughly embarrassed that I
pleaded cold feet, and made my escape from the apart-
ment. It was a furious windy morning, with a sky much
25 cleared, and long and potent intervals of sunshine ; and I
wandered until dinner in the wild country towards the
east, sorely staggered and beaten upon by the gale, but
rewarded with some striking views.
At dinner the Work of the Propagation of the Faith
The Boarders 67
was recommenced, and on this occasion still more dis-
tastefully to me. The priest asked me many questions as
to the contemptible faith of my fathers, and received my
replies with a kind of ecclesiastical titter.
" Your sect," he said once ; " for I think you will admit 5
it would be doing it too much honour to call it a
religion."
" As you please, monsieur," said I. " La parole est a
vous."
At length I grew annoyed beyond endurance; and 10
although he was on his own ground and, what is more to
the purpose, an old man, and so holding a claim upon
my toleration, I could not avoid a protest against this
uncivil usage. He was sadly discountenanced.
"I assure you," he said, "I have no inclination to 15
laugh in my heart. I have no other feeling but interest
in your soul."
And there ended my conversion. Honest man ! he
was no dangerous deceiver ; but a country parson, full of
zeal and faith. Long may he tread Oil-vaudan with his 20
kilted skirts — a mm strong to walk and strong to com-
fort his parishioners in death ! I daresay lie would beat
bravely through a snowstorm where his duty called him ;
and it is not always the most faithful believer who makes
the cunningest apostle. "S
68 Travels with a Donkey
UPPER GEVAUDAN {continued)
"The bed 7V(TS made, the room was fit,
By punctual eve tlie stars ivere lit ;
The air was sweet, the ivater ran ;
N^o need loas there for maid or man.
When we put up, my ass and I,
At God'' s green ca7-avanserai.'"
— Old Play.
ACROSS THE GOULET
The wind fell during dinner, and the sky remained
clear ; so it was under better auspices that I loaded
Modestine before the monastery gate. My Irish friend
accompanied me so far on the way. As we came through
5 the wood, there was Pfere Apollinaire hauling his barrow ;
and he too quitted his labours to go with me for perhaps
a hundred yards, holding my hand between both of his in
front of him. I parted first from one and then from the
other with unfeigned regret, but yet with the glee of the
lo traveller who shakes off the dust of one stage before hurry-
ing forth upon another. Then Modestine arid I mounted
the course of the AUier, which here led us back into
G^vaudari towards its sources in the forest of Mercoire. It
was but an inconsiderable burn before we left its guid-
15 ance. Thence, over a hill, our way lay through a naked
plateau, until we reached Chasserades at sundown.
The company in the inn-kitchen that night were all
Across the Goulet 69
men employed in survey for one of the projected rail-
ways. They were intelligent and conversable, and we
decided the future of France over hot wine, until the
state of the clock frightened us to rest. There were four
beds in the little upstairs room ; and we slept six. But 5
I had a bed to myself, and persuaded them to leave the
window open.
" He, bourgeois ; il est cinq heures /" was the cry that
wakened me in the morning (Saturday, September 28th).
The room was full of a transparent darkness, which dimly 10
showed me the other three beds and the five different
nightcaps on the pillows. But out of the window the
dawn was growing ruddy in a long belt over the hill-tops,
and day was about to flood the plateau. The hour was
inspiriting ; and there seemed a promise of calm weather, 15
which was perfectly fulfilled. I was soon under way with
Modestine, The road lay for a while over the plateau, and
then descended through a precipitous village into the
valley of the Chassezac. This stream ran among green
meadows, well hidden from the world by its steep banks ; 20
the broom was in flower, and here and there was a ham-
let sending up its smoke.
At last the path crossed the Chassezac upon a bridge,
and, forsaking this deep hollow, set itself to cross the
mountain of I -a (loulet. It wound up through Lestampes 25
by upland fields and woods of beech anfl birch, and with
every corner brought me into an acfjuaintance with some
new interest. Kvcn in the gully of the Chassezac my
ear had been struck by a noise like that of a great bass
yo Travels with a Donkey
bell ringing at the distance of many miles ; but this, as I
continued to mount and draw nearer to it, seemed to
change in character, and I found at length that it came
from some one leading flocks afield to the note of a
5 rural horn. The narrow street of Lestampes stood full of
sheep, from wall to wall — black sheep and white, bleat-
ing like the birds in spring, and each one accompanying
himself upon the sheep-bell round his neck. It made
a pathetic concert, all in treble. A little higher, and
10 I passed a pair of men in a tree with pruning-hooks,
and one of them was singing the music of a bourree}
Still further, and when I was already threading the
birches, the crowing of cocks came cheerfully up to
my ears, and along with that the voice of a flute dis-
15 coursing a deliberate and plaintive air from one of the
upland villages. I pictured to myself some grizzled,
apple-cheeked, country schoolmaster fluting in his bit of
a garden in the clear autumn sunshine. All these beauti-
ful and interesting sounds filled my heart with an un-
20 wonted expectation ; and it appeared to me that, once
past this range which I was mounting, I should descend
into the garden of the world. Nor was I deceived, for I
was now done with rains and winds and a bleak country.
The first part of my journey ended here ; and this was
25 like an induction of sweet sounds into the other and
more beautiful.
There are other degrees oi feynt%%^ as of punishment,
besides the capital ; and I was now led by my good
1 A country dance. 2 gtate of being doomed.
Across the Goulet 71
spirits into an adventure which I relate in the interest of
future donkey-drivers. The road zigzagged so widely on
the hill-side that I chose a short cut by map and com-
pass, and struck through the dwarf woods to catch the
road again upon a higher level. It was my one serious 5
conflict with Modestine. She would none of my short
cut ; she turned in my face, she backed, she reared ; she,
whom I had hitherto imagined to be dumb, actually
brayed with a loud hoarse flourish, like a cock crowing
for the dawn. I plied the goad with one hand ; with 10
the other, so steep was the ascent, I had to hold on the
packsaddle. Half a dozen times she was nearly over
backwards on the top of me ; half a dozen times, from
sheer weariness of spirit, I was nearly giving it up, and
leading her down again to follow the road, liut I took 15
the thing as a wager, and fought it through. I was
surprised, as I went on my way again, by what appeared
to be chill raindrops falling on my hand, and more than
once looked up in wonder at the cloudless sky. But it
was only sweat which came dropping from my brow. 20
Over the summit of the (loulct there was no marked
road — only upright stones posted from space to space
to guide the drovers. The turf underfoot was springy
and well scented. I had no company but a lark or two,
anfl met but one bullock-cart between lycstampes and 25
Ulcymard. In front of me I saw a shallow valley, and
beyond that the range of the I^)zere, sparsely wooded
and well enough modelled in the flanks, but straight and
(lull in outline. There was scarce a sign of culture;
72 Travels with a Donkey-
only about Bleymard, the white high-road from Villefort
to Mende traversed a range of meadows, set with spiry
poplars, and sounding from side to side with the bells of
flocks and herds.
A NIGHT AMONG THE PINES
5 From Bleymard after dinner, although it was already
late, I set out to scale a portion of the Lozere. An ill-
marked stony drove-road guided me forward ; and I met
nearly half-a-dozen bullock-carts descending from the
woods, each laden with a whole pine-tree for the winter's
lo firing. At the top of the woods, which do not climb very
high upon this cold ridge, I struck leftward by a path
among the pines, until I hit on a dell of green turf, where a
streamlet made a littlespout over some stones to serve me
for a water-tap. " In a more sacred or sequestered bower
15 . . . nor nymph, nor faunus, haunted." The trees were not
old, but they grew thickly round the glade : there was no
outlook, except northeastward upon distant hill-tops, or
straight upward to the sky ; and the encampment felt se-
cure and private like a room. By the time I had made my
20 arrangements and fed Modestine, the day was already be-
ginning to decline. I buckled myself to the knees into
my sack and made a hearty meal ; and as soon as the sun
went down, I pulled my cap over my eyes and fell asleep.
Night is a dead monotonous period under a roof; but
25 in the open world it passes lightly, with its stars and dews
and perfumes, and the hours are marked by changes in the
A Night among the Pines 73
face of Nature. What seems a kind of temporal death to
people choked between walls and curtains, is only a light
and living slumber to the man who sleeps afield. All
night long he can hear Nature breathing deeply and freely ;
even as she takes her rest, she turns and smiles ; and there s
is one stirring hour unknown to those who dwell in houses,
when a wakeful influence goes abroad over the sleeping
hemisphere, and all the outdoor world are on their feet.
It is then that the cock first crows, not this time to an-
nounce the dawn, but like a cheerful watchman speeding 10
the course of night. Cattle awake on the meadows ; sheep
break their fast on dewy hill-sides, and change to a new
lair among the ferns ; and houseless men, who have lain
down with the fowls, open their dim eyes and behold the
beauty of tiic night. 15
At what inaudible summons, at what gentle touch of
Nature, are all these sleepers thus recalled in the same
hour to life? Do the stars rain down an influence, or do
we share some thrill of mother earth below our resting
bodies ? Even shepherds and old country-folk, who are the 20
deepest read in these arcana,' have not a guess as to the
means or purpose of this nightly resurrection. Towards
two in the morning they declare the thing takes .place;
and neither know nor inquire further. And at least it is a
pleasant incident. We arc disturbed in our slumber only, 25
like the luxurious Montaigne, " that we may the better
and more sensibly relish it." We have a moment to look
upon the stars, and there is a s|)ecial pleasure for some
' Secrets.
74 Travels with a Donkey
minds in the reflection that we share the impulse with all
outdoor creatures in our neighbourhood, that we have
escaped out of the Bastille of civilization, and are become,
for the time being, a mere kindly animal and a sheep of
5 Nature's flock.
When that hour came to me among the pines, I wak-
ened thirsty. My tin was standing by me half full of water.
I emptied it at a draught ; and feeling broad awake after
this internal cold aspersion, sat upright to make a cigarette.
10 The stars were clear, coloured, and jewel-like, but not
frosty. A faint silvery vapour stood for the Milky Way.
All around me the black fir-points stood upright and stock-
still. By the whiteness of the packsaddle, I could see
Modestine walking round and round at the length of her
15 tether ; I could hear her steadily munching at the sward ;
but there was not another sound, save the indescribable
quiet talk of the runnel over the stones. I lay lazily
smoking and studying the colour of the sky, as we call the
void of space, from where it showed a reddish grey be-
20 hind the pines to where it showed a glossy blue-black
between the stars. As if to be more like a pedlar, I wear
a silver ring. This I could see faintly shining as I raised
or lowered the cigarette ; and at each whiff the inside of
my hand was illuminated, and became for a second the
25 highest light in the landscape.
A faint wind, more like a moving coolness than a stream
of air, passed down the glade from time to time ; so that
even in my great chamber the air was being renewed all
night long. I thought with horror of the inn at Chasse-
A Night among the Pines 75
rades and the congregated nightcaps ; with horror of the
nocturnal prowesses of clerks and students, of hot theatres
and pass-keys and close rooms. I have not often enjoyed
a more serene possession of myself, nor felt more inde-
pendent of material aids. The outer world, from which 5
we cower into our houses, seemed after all a gentle habit-
able place ; and night after night a man's bed, it seemed,
was laid and waiting for him in the fields, where God
keeps an open house. I thought I had rediscovered one
of those truths which are revealed to savages and hid from 10
jjolitical economists : at the least, I had discovered a new
jileasure for myself. And yet even while I was exulting
in my solitude I became aware of a strange lack. I wished
a companion to lie near me in the starlight, silent and not
moving, but ever within touch. For there is a fellowship 15
more quiet even tlian solitude, and which, rightly under-
stood, is solitude made perfect. And to live out of doors
with the woman a man loves is of all lives the most com-
plete and free.
As I thus lay, between content and longing, a faint noise 20
stole towards mc through the [)incs. 1 thought, at first,
it was the crowing of cocks or the barking of dogs at some
very distant farm ; I)Ut steadily and gradually it took ar-
ticulate shape in my ears, until I became aware that a
I)assenger was going by upon the high-road in the valley, 25
and singing loudly as he went. 'F'hcre was more of good-
will than grace in his performance ; but he troIK-d with
am|)le limgs ; and the sound of his voice took hold upon
the hill-side and set the air shaking in the leafy glens.
76 Travels with a Donkey
I have heard people passing by night in sleeping cities ;
some of them sang ; one, I remember, played loudly on
the bagpipes. I have heard the ratde of a cart or carriage
spring up suddenly after hours of stillness, and pass, for
5 some minutes, within the range of my hearing as I lay
abed. There is a romance about all who are abroad in
the black hours, and with something of a thrill we try to
guess their business. But here the romance was double :
first^ this glad passenger, lit internally with wine, who sent
10 up his voice in music through the night ; and then I, on
the other hand, buckled into my sack, and smoking alone
in the pine-woods between four and five thousand feet
towards the stars.
When I awoke again (Sunday, 29th September), many
IS of the stars had disappeared ; only the stronger companions
of the night still burned visibly overhead ; and away tow-
ards the east I saw a faint haze of light upon the horizon,
such as had been the Milky Way when I was last awake.
Day was at hand. I lit my lantern, and by its glow-worm
20 light put on my boots and gaiters ; then I broke up some
bread for Modestine, filled my can at the water-tap, and
lit my spirit-lamp to boil myself some chocolate. The
blue darkness lay long in the glade where I had so sweetly
slumbered ; but soon there was a broad streak of orange
25 melting into gold along the mountain tops of Vivarais.
A solemn glee possessed my mind at this gradual and
lovely coming in of day. I heard the runnel with delight ;
I looked round me for something beautiful and un-
expected; but the still black pine-trees, the hollow glade,
A Night among the Pines 77
the munching ass, remained unchanged in figure. Noth-
ing had altered but the Hght, and that, indeed, shed over
all a spirit of life and of breathing peace, and moved me
to a strange exhilaration.
I drank my water chocolate, which was hot if it was not s
rich, and strolled here and there, and up and down about
the glade. While I was thus delaying, a gush of steady
wind, as long as a heavy sigh, poured direct out of the
quarter of the morning. It was cold, and set me sneezing.
The trees near at hand tossed their black plumes in its lo
passage ; and I could see the thin distant spires of pine
along the edge of the hill rock slightly to and fro against
the golden east. Ten minutes after, the sunlight spread
at a gallop along the hill-side, scattering shadows and
sparkles, and the day had come completely. 15
I hastened to prejjare my pack, and tackle the steep
ascent that lay before mc ; but I had something on my
mind. It was only a fancy ; yet a fancy will sometimes
be importunate. I had been most hosi)itably received
and punctua:lly served in my green caravanserai. The 20
room was airy, the water excellent, and the dawn had
called me to a moment. I say nothing of the tapestries
or the inimitable ceiling, nor yet of the view which I
commanded from tiie windows ; but I felt I was in some
one's debt for all this liberal entertainment. And no it 25
pleased me, in a half- laughing way, to leave pieces of
money on the turf as I went along, until I had left enough
for my night's lodging. I trust they did not fall to some
rich and churlish drover.
78 Travels with a Donkey
THE COUNTRY OF THE
CAMISARDS
' We travelled in (he print of olden wars;
1 'et all the land was green ;
And love we found, and peace,
Where fire and war had been.
They pass and s/nile, the children of the sword —
1X0 more the sivord they wield ;
And O, how deep the corn
Along the battlefield I *
— W. P. Bannatyne.
ACROSS THE LOZERE
The track that I had followed in the evening soon died
out, and I continued to follow over a bald turf ascent a
row of stone pillars, such as had conducted me across the
Goulet. It was already warm. I tied my jacket on the
5 pack, and walked in my knitted waistcoat. Modestine
herself was in high spirits, and broke of her own accord,
for the first time in my experience, into a jolting trot that
set the oats swashing in the pocket of my coat. The
view, back upon the northern G^vaudan, extended with
10 every step ; scarce a tree, scarce a house, appeared upon
the fields of wild hill that ran north, east, and west, all
blue and gold in the haze and sunlight of the morning.
A multitude of little birds kept sweeping and twittering
Across the Lozere 79
about my path ; they perched on the stone pillars, they
pecked and strutted on the turf, and I saw them circle
in volleys in the blue air, and show, from time to time,
translucent flickering wings between the sun and me.
Almost from the first moment of my march, a faint 5
large noise, like a distant surf, had filled my ears. Some-
times I was tempted to think it the voice of a neighbour-
ing waterfall, and sometimes a subjective result of the
utter stillness of the hill. But as I continued to advance,
the noise increased and became like the hissing of an 10
enormous tea-urn, and at the same time breaths of cool
air began to reach me from the direction of the summit.
At length I understood. It was blowing stifily from the
south upon the other slope of the Ix)zcre, and every step
that I took I was drawing nearer to the wind. 15
Although it had been long desired, it was quite unex-
pectedly at last that my eyes rose above the summit. A
step that seemed no way more decisive than many other
steps that had preceded it — and, " like stout Cortez when,
with eagle eyes, he stared on the Pacific," I took posses-' 20
sion, in my own name, of a new qtiarter of the world.
For behold, instead of the gross turf ram])art 1 had been
mounting for so long, a view into the hazy air of heaven,
and a land of intricate blue hills below my feet.
The Lozere lies nearly east and we?t, cutting (Itl-vaudan-as
into two unequal parts; its highest |)oint, this l*i( dc
Finiels, on which 1 was then standing, rises upwards of
five thoiisand six himdrcd feet al)f)ve the sea, and in dear
weather commands a view over all lower Languedoc to
8o Travels with a Donkey
the Mediterranean Sea. I have spoken with people who
either pretended or believed that they had seen, from the
Pic de P'iniels, white ships sailing by MontpcUier and
Cette. Behind was the upland northern country through
5 which my way had lain, peopled by a dull race, without
wood, without much grandeur of hill-form, and famous in
the past for little beside wolves. But in front of me, half
veiled in sunny haze, lay a new G6vaudan,rich, picturesque,
illustrious for stirring events. Speaking largely, I was in
10 the C^vennes at Monastier, and during all my journey ;
but there is a strict and local sense in which only this
confused and shaggy country at my feet has any title to
the name, and in this sense the peasantry employ the
word. These are the C^vennes with an emphasis : the
isC^vennes of the C^vennes. In that undecipherable
labyrinth of hills, a war of bandits, a war of wild beasts,
raged for two years between the Grand Monarch with all
his troops and marshals on the one hand, and a few thou-
sand Protestant mountaineers upon the other. A hundred
2o-and eighty years ago, the Camisards held a station even
on the Lozere, where I stood ; they had an organization,
arsenals, a military and religious hierarchy ; their affairs
were " the discourse of every coffee-house " in London ;
England sent fleets in their support ; their leaders prophe-
25sied and murderec^; with colours and drums, an*d the
singing of old French psalms, their bands sometimes
affronted daylight, marched before walled cities, and
dispersed the generals of the king ; and sometimes at
night, or in masquerade, possessed themselves of strong
Across the Lozere 8 1
castles, and avenged treachery upon their allies and
cruelty upon their foes. There, a hundred and eighty
years ago, was the chivalrous Roland, " Count and Lord
Roland, generalissimo of the Protestants in France,"
grave, silent, imperious, pock-marked ex-dragoon, whom s
a lady followed in his wanderings out of love. There was
Cavalier, a baker's apprentice with a genius for war,
elected brigadier of Camisards at seventeen, to die at
fifty-five the English governor of Jersey. There again
was Castanet, a partisan leader in a voluminous peruke lo
and with a taste for controversial divinity. Strange gen-
erals, who moved apart to take counsel with the God of
Hosts, and fled or offered batde, set sentinels or slept in
an unguarded camp, as the Spirit whispered to their
hearts ! And there, to f(jllow these and other leaders, was 15
the rank and file of prophets and disciples, bold, patient,
indefatigable, hardy to run upon the mountains, cheering
their rough life with psalms, eager to fight, eager to pray,
listening devoutly to the oracles of brainsick children,
and mystically putting a grain of wheat among the pewter 20
balls with which they charged their muskets.
I had travelled hitherto through a dull district, and in
the track of nothing more notable than the child-eating
IJeast of G^vaudan, the Napoleon Buonaparte of wolves,
r.ut now I was to go down into the scene of a romantic 25
chapter — or, better, a romantic footnote — in the his-
tory of the world. What was left of all this bygone dnst
and heroism? I was l(jld that I'rcjlestantism still surviverl
in this hcail seat of Protestant resistance ; so much the
TKAVliLS Willi A DUNKKY — 6
82 Travels with a Donkey
priest himself had told me in the monastery parlour. But
I had yet to learn if it were a bare survival, or a lively
and generous tradition. Again, if in the northern C6-
vennes the people are narrow in religious judgements, and
5 more filled with zeal than charity, what was I to look for
in this land of persecution and reprisal — in a land where
the tyranny of the Church produced the Camisard rebel-
lion, and the terror of the Camisards threw the Catholic
peasantry into legahzed revolt upon the other side, so that
lo Camisard and Florentin skulked for each other's lives
among the mountains ?
Just on the brow of the hill, where I paused to look
before me, the series of stone pillars came abruptly to an
end ; and only a little below, a sort of track appeared and
15 began to go down a breakneck slope, turning like a cork-
screw as it went. It led into a valley between falhng hills,
stubbly with rocks like a reaped field of corn, and floored
further down with green meadows. I followed the track
with precipitation ; the steepness of the slope, the con-
20 tinual agile turning of the line of descent, and the old un-
wearied hope of finding something new in a new country,
all conspired to lend me wings. Yet a little lower and
a stream began, collecting itself together out of many
fountains, and soon making a glad noise among the hills.
25 Sometimes it would cross the track in a bit of waterfall,
with a pool, in which Modestine refreshed her feet.
The whole descent is like a dream to me, so rapidly
was it accomplished. I had scarcely left the summit ere
the valley had closed round my path, and the sun beat
Across the Lozere 83
upon me, walking in a stagnant lowland atmosphere.
The track became a road, and went up and down in easy
undulations. I passed cabin after cabin, but all seemed
deserted ; and I saw not a human creature, nor heard
any sound except that of the stream. I was, however, 5
in a different country from the day before. The stony
skeleton of the world was here vigorously displayed to
sun and air. The slopes were steep and changeful. Oak-
trees clung along the hills, well grown, wealthy in leaf,
and touched by the autumn with strong and luminous 10
colours. Here and there another stream would fall in
from the right or the left, down a gorge of snow-white and
tumultuary boulders. The river in the bottom (for it
was rapidly growing a river, collecting on all hands as it
trotted on its way) here foamed awhile in desperate rapids, 15
and there lay in pools of the most enchanting sea-green
shot with watery browns. As far as I have gone, I have
never seen a river of so changeful and delicate a hue ;
crystal was not more clear, the meadows were not by half
so green ; and at every pool I saw I felt a thrill of longing 20
to be out of these hot, dusty, and material garments, and
bathe my naked body in the moimtain air and water. All
the time as I went on I never forgot it was the Sabbath ;
the stillness was a perpetual reminder ; and I heard in
spirit the church-bells clamouring all over ICurope, and 35
the psalms of a thousand churches.
At length a human sound struck upon my ear — a
cry strangely modulated between pathos and derision ;
and looking across the valley, I saw a little urchin sitting
84 Travels with a Donkey
in a meadow, with his hands about his knees, and dwarfed
to ahnost comical smallness by the distance. But the
rogue liad picked me out as I went down the road, from
oak-wood on to oak-wood, driving Modestine ; and he
5 made me the compHments of the new country in this trem-
ulous high-pitched salutation. And as all noises are lovely
and natural at a sufficient distance, this also, coming
through so much clean hill air and crossing all the green
valley, sounded pleasant to my ear, and seemed a thing
10 rustic, like the oaks or the river.
A little after, the stream that I was following fell into
the Tarn, at Pont de Montvert of bloody memory.
PONT DE MONTVERT
One of the first things I encountered in Pont de Mont-
vert was, if I remember righdy, the Protestant temple ;
IS but this was but the type of other novelties. A subtle
atmosphere distinguishes a town in England from a town
in France, or even in Scotland. At Carlisle you can see
you are in one country ; at Dumfries, thirty miles away,
you are as sure that you are in the other. I should find
20 it difficult to tell in what particulars Pont de Montvert
differed from Monastier or Langogne, or even Bleymard ;
but the difference existed, and spoke eloquently to the
eyes. The place, with its houses, its lanes, its glaring
river-bed, wore an indescribable air of the South.
25 All was Sunday bustle in the streets and in the public-
house, as all had been Sabbath peace among the moun-
Pont de Montvert 85
tains. There must have been near a score of us at dinner
by eleven before noon ; and after I had eaten and
drunken, and sat writing up my journal, I suppose as
many more came dropping in one after another, or by
twos and threes. In crossing the Lozere I had not only 5
come among new natural features, but moved into the
territory of a different race. These people, as they hur-
riedly dispatched their viands in an intricate sword-play
of knives, questioned and answered me with a degree of
intelligence which excelled all that I had met, except 10
among the railway folk at Chasserades. They had open
telling faces, and were lively both in speech and manner.
They not only entered thoroughly into the spirit of my
little trip, but more than one declared, if he were rich
enough, he would like to set forth on such another. 15
Even physically there was a pleasant change. I had
not seen a pretty woman since I left Monastier, and there
but one. Now of the three who sat down with me to
dinner, one was certainly not beautiful- -a poor timid
thing of forty, quite troubled at this roaring tahlr (Vlu)te, 20
whom I squired and helped to wine, and pledged and
tried generally to encourage, with (jiiitc a contrary effect ;
but the other two, both married, were both more hand-
some than the average of women. And Clarisse?
What shall I say of Clarisse ? She waited the table with 25
a heavy placable nonchalance, like a performing cow ;
her great grey eyes were steejjed in amorous languor ;
her features, although fleshy, were of an original and ac-
curate design ; her mouth had a curl; her nostril spoke
86 Travels with a Donkey
of dainty pride ; her cheek fell into strange and interest-
ing lines. It was a face capable of strong emotion, and,
with training, it offered the promise of delicate senti-
ment. It seemed pitiful to see so good a model left to
5 country admirers and a country way of thought. Beauty
should at least have touched society ; then, in a moment,
it throws off a weight that lay upon it, it becomes con-
scious of itself, it puts on an elegance, learns a gait and a
carriage of the head, and, in a moment, paict dea. Be-
lo fore I left I assured Clarisse of my hearty admiration.
She took it Hke milk, without embarrassment or wonder,
merely looking at me steadily with her great eyes ; and I
own the result upon myself was some confusion. If
Clarisse could read English, I should not dare to add
15 that her figure was unworthy of her face. Hers was a
case for stays ; but that may perhaps grow better as she
gets up in years.
Pont de Montvert, or Greenhill Bridge, as we might
say at home, is a place memorable in the story of the
zoCamisards. It was here that the war broke out; here
that those southern Covenanters slew their Archbishop
Sharpe. The persecution on the one hand, the febrile
enthusiasm on the other, are almost equally difficult to
understand in these quiet modern days, and with our
25 easy modern beliefs and disbeliefs. The Protestants
were one and all beside their right minds with zeal and
sorrow. They were all prophets and prophetesses.
Children at the breast would exhort their parents to good
works. "A child of fifteen months at Quissac spoke
Pont de Montvert 87
from its mother's arms, agitated and sobbing, distinctly
and with a loud voice." Marshal Villars has seen a
town where all the women " seemed possessed by the
devil," and had trembling fits, and uttered prophecies
publicly upon the streets. A prophetess of Vivarais was s
hanged at Montpellier because blood flowed from her
eyes and nose, and she declared that she was weeping
tears of blood for the misfortunes of the Protestants.
And it was not only women and children. Stalwart dan-
gerous fellows, used to swing the sickle or to wield the 10
forest ax, were likewise shaken with strange paroxysms,
and spoke oracles with sobs and streaming tears. A
persecution unsurpassed in violence had lasted near a
score of years, and this was the result upon the perse-
cuted ; hanging, burning, breaking on the wheel, had 15
been in vain ; the dragoons had left their hoof-marks
over all the country-side ; there were men rowing in the
galleys, and women pining in the prisons of the Church ;
and not a thought was changed in the heart of any up-
right Protestant. »o
Now the head and forefront of the persecution — after
Lamoignon de P.aville — Francois de Langlade du Chayla
Cpronounced Chcila), Archpriest of the Cevennes and In-
spector of Missions in the same country, had a house in
which he sometimes dwelt in the town of Pont de Mont- 3$
vert. He was a conscientious person, who seems to have
been intended by nature for a pirate, and now fifty-five,
an age by which a man has learned all the moderation of
which he is capable. A missionary in his youth in China,
88 Travels with a Donkey
he there suffered martyrdom, was left for dead, and only
succoured and brought back to life by the charity of a
pariah.^ We must suppose the pariah devoid of second
sight, and not purposely malicious in this act. Such an
5 experience, it might be thought, would have cured a man
of the desire to persecute ; but the human spirit is a thing
strangely put together ; and, having been a Christian
martyr, Du Chayla became a Christian persecutor. The
Work of the Propagation of the Faith went roundly for-
10 ward in his hands. His house in Pont de Montvert
served him as a prison. There he plucked out the hairs
of the beard, and closed the hands of his prisoners upon
live coals, to convince tliem that they were deceived in
their opinions. And yet had not he himself tried and
1 5 proved the inefficacy of these carnal arguments among the
Buddhists in China?
Not only was life made intolerable in Languedoc, but
flight was rigidly forbidden. One Massip, a muleteer,
and well acquainted with the mountain paths, had already
20 guided several troops of fugitives in safety to Geneva ;
and on him, with another convoy, consisting mostly of
women dressed as men, Du Chayla, in an evil hour for
himself, laid his hands. The Sunday following, there
was a conventicle of Protestants in the woods of Altefage
25 upon Mount Boughs ; where there stood up one Siguier
— Spirit Siguier, as his companions called him — a wool-
carder, tall, black-faced, and toothless, but a man full of
1 A man of the lowest class in India and much despised by those
above him, hence an outcast.
Pont de Montvert 89
prophecy. He declared, in the name of God, that the
time for submission had gone by, and they must betake
themselves to arms for the deliverance of their brethren
and the destruction of the priests.
The next night, 24th July, 1702, a sound disturbed the s
Inspector of Missions as he sat in his prison-house at
Pont de Montvert ; the voices of many men upraised in
psalmody drew nearer and nearer through the town. It
was ten at night ; he had his court about him, priests,
soldiers, and servants, to the number of twelve or fifteen, 10
and now dreading the insolence of a conventicle below
his very windows, he ordered forth his soldiers to report.
But the psalm-singers were already at his door, fifty strong,
led by the inspired S(iguier, and breathing death. To
their summons, the archpriest made answer like a stout 15
old persecutor, anrl bade his garrison fire upon the mob.
One Camisard (for, according to some, it was in this night's
work that they came by the name) fell at this discharge ;
his comrades burst in the door with hatchets and a beam
of wood, overran the lower story of the house, set free 20
the prisoners, and finding one of them in the vine, a sort
of Scavenger's Daughter of the i)lacc and period, re-
doubled in fury against l)u Chayla, and sought by re-
peated assaults to carry the upper Hoors. I5ut he, on his
side, had given absolution to his men, and they bravely s.s
held the staircase.
" Children of God," cried the prophet, " hold your
hands. Let us burn the house, with the ])riest and the
satellites of liaal."
go Travels with a Donkey
The fire caught readily. Out of an upper window Du
Chayla and his men lowered themselves into the garden
by means of knotted sheets ; some escaped across the
river under the bullets of the insurgents ; but the arch-
5 priest himself fell, broke his thigh, and could only crawl
into the hedge. What were his reflections as this second
martyrdom drew near? A poor, brave, besotted, hateful
man, who had done his duty resolutely according to his
light both in the C^vennes and China. He found at least
10 one telling word to say in his defence ; for when the roof
fell in and the upbursting flames discovered his retreat,
and they came and dragged him to the public place of the
town, raging and calling him damned — " If I be damned,"
said he, " why should you also damn yourselves? "
IS Here was a good reason for the last ; but in the course
of his inspectorship he had given many stronger which all
told in a contrary direction ; and these he was now to
hear. One by one, Siguier first, the Camisards drew near
and stabbed him. "This," they said, " is for my father
20 broken on the wheel. This for my brother in the galleys.
That for my mother or my sister imprisoned in your
cursed convents." Each gave his blow and his reason ;
and then all kneeled and sang psalms around the body till
the dawn. With the dawn, still singing, they defiled
25 away towards Frugferes, further up the Tarn, to pursue
the work of vengeance, leaving Du Chayla's prison-house
in ruins, and his body pierced with two-and-fifty wounds
upon the public place.
'Tis a wild night's work, with its accompaniment of
Pont de Montvert 91
psalms ; and it seems as if a psalm must always have a
sound of threatening in that town upon the Tarn. But
the story does not end, even so far as concerns Pont de
Montvert, with the departure of the Camisards. The
career of Siguier was brief and bloody. Two more priests 5
and a whole family at Ladev^ze, from the father to the
servants, fell by his hand or by his orders ; and yet he
was but a day or two at large, and restrained all the time
by the presence of the soldiery. Taken at length by a
famous soldier of fortune, Captain Poul, he appeared 10
unmoved before his judges.
"Your name?" they asked.
" Pierre Siguier."
" Why are you called Spirit ? "
" Because the Spirit of the Lord is with me." 15
" Your domicile? "
" lately in the desert, and soon in heaven."
" Have you no remorse for your crimes? "
" I have committed none. My soul is like a garden
full of shelter amiof founiainsy 20
At Pont de Montvert, on the 1 2th of August, he had
his right hanfl stricken from his body, was burned alive.
And his soul was like a garden? So perhaps was the
soul of I)u Chayla, the Christian martyr. And perhaps
if you could read in my soul, or I could read in yours, 25
our own composure might seem little less surprising.
Du Chayla's house still stands, with a new roof, beside
one of the bridges of the town ; and if you are curious
you may sec the terrace-garden into which he dropped.
92 Travels with a Donkey
IN THE VALLEY OF THE TARN
A NEW road leads from Pont de Montvert to Florae by
the valley of the Tarn ; a smooth sandy ledge, it runs
about half-way between the summit of the cliffs and the
river in the bottom of the valley ; and I went in and out,
S as I followed it, from bays of shadow into promontories
of afternoon sun. This was a pass like tliat of Killie-
crankie ; a deep turning gully in the hills, with the Tarn
making a wonderful hoarse uproar far below, and craggy
summits standing in the sunshine high above. A thin
10 fringe of ash-trees ran about the hill-tops, like ivy on a
ruin ; but on the lower slopes, and far up every glen, the
Spanish chestnut-trees stood each four-square to heaven
under its tented foliage. Some were planted, each on its
own terrace no larger than a bed ; some, trusting in their
15 roots, found strength to grow and prosper and be straight
and large upon the rapid slopes of the valley ; others,
where there was a margin to the river, stood marshalled
in a line and mighty like cedars of Lebanon. Yet even
where they grew most thickly they were not to be thought
20 of as a wood, but as a herd of stalwart individuals ; and
the dome of each tree stood forth separate and large,
and as it were a little hill, from among the domes of its
companions. They gave forth a faint sweet perfume
which pervaded the air of the afternoon ; autumn had
25 put tints of gold and tarnish in the green; and the sun
so shone through and kindled the broad foliage, that
each chestnut was relieved against another, not in shadow.
In the Valley of the Tarn 93
but in light. A humble sketcher here laid down his
pencil in despair.
I wish I could convey a notion of the growth of these
noble trees ; of how they strike out boughs like the oak,
and trail sprays of drooping foliage like the willow ; of 5
how they stand on upright fluted columns like the pillars
of a church ; or like the olive, from the most shattered
bole can put out smooth and youthful shoots, and begin
a new life upon the ruins of the old. Thus they partake
of the nature of many different trees; and even their 10
prickly top-knots, seen near at hand against the sky, have
a certain palm-like air that impresses the imagination.
But their individuality, although compounded of so many
elements, is but the richer and the more original. And
to look down upon a level filled with these knolls of 15
foliage, or to see a clan of old unconquerable chestnuts
cluster "like herded elephants" upon the spur of a
mountain, is to rise to higher thoughts of the powers that
arc in Nature.
Ik'tween Modestine's laggard humour and llie Ijcaulyio
of the scene, we made little progress all that afternoon ;
and at last finding the sun, although still far from setting,
was already beginning to desert the narrow valley of the
Tarn, I began to cast about for a place to camp in.
This was not easy to find ; the terraces were too narrow, 25
and the ground, where it was unterraced, was usually too
steep for a man to lie upon. I should have slipped all
night, and awakened towards morning with my feet or
my head in the river.
94 Travels with a Donkey
After perhaps a mile, I saw, some sixty feet above the
road, a little plateau large enough to hold my sack, and
securely parapeted by the trunk of an aged and enormous
chestnut. Thither, with infinite trouble, I goaded and
s kicked the reluctant Modestine, and there I hastened to
unload her. There was only room for myself upon the
plateau, and I had to go nearly as high again before I
found so much as standing room for the ass. It was on
a heap of rolling stones, on an artificial terrace, certainly
10 not five feet square in all. Here I tied her to a chestnut,
and having given her corn and bread and made a pile of
chestnut-leaves, of which I found her greedy, I descended
once more to my own encampment.
The position was unpleasantly exposed. One or two
15 carts went by upon the road ; and as long as daylight
lasted I concealed myself, for all the world like a hunted
Camisard, behind my fortification of vast chestnut trunk ;
for I was passionately afraid of discovery and the visit of
jocular persons in the night. Moreover, I saw that I
20 must be early awake ; for these chestnut gardens had
been the scene of industry no farther gone than on the
day before. The slope was strewn with lopped branches,
and here and there a great package of leaves was propped
against a trunk ; for even the leaves are serviceable, and
25 the peasants use them in winter by way of fodder for
their animals. I picked a meal in fear and trembling,
half lying down to hide myself from the road ; and I
daresay I was as much concerned as if I had been a scout
from Joani 's band above upon the Lozere, or from
In the Valley of the Tarn 95
Salomon's across the Tarn, in the old times of psalm-
singing and blood. Or, indeed, perhaps more ; for the
Camisards had a remarkable confidence in God ; and a
tale comes back into my memory of how the Count of
G^vaudan, riding with a party of dragoons and a notary 5
at his saddlebow to enforce the oath of fidelity in all the
country hamlets, entered a valley in the woods, and
found Cavalier and his men at dinner, gaily seated on
the grass, and their hats crowned with box-tree garlands,
while fifteen women washed their linen in the stream. 10
Such was a field festival in 1 703 ; at that date Antony
Watteau would be painting similar subjects.
This was a very different camp from that of the night
before in the cool and silent pine-woods. It was warm
and even stifling in the valley. The shrill song of frogs, 15
like the tremolo note of a whistle with a pea in it, rang
up from the river side before the sun was down. In the
growing dusk, faint rustlings began to run to and fro
among the fallen leaves ; from time to time a faint chirp-
ing or cheeping noise wouhl fall upon my ear; and from ao
time to time I thought I could sec the movenunt of
something swift and indistinct between the chestnuts. A
profiision of large ants swarmed upon the ground ; bats
whisked by, and mosquitoes droned overhead. The long
boughs with their bunches of leaves htmg against the sky as
like garlands ; anfl those immediately above and around
me had somewhat the air of a trellis which should have
been wrecked and half overthrown in a gale of wind.
Sleep for a long time fled my eyelids ; and just as I
96 Travels with a Donkey-
was beginning to feel quiet stealing over my limbs, and
settling densely on my mind, a noise at my head startled
me broad awake again, and, I will frankly confess it, brought
my heart into my mouth. It was such a noise as a per-
S son would make scratching loudly with a finger-nail, it
came from under the knapsack which served me for a
pillow, and it was thrice repeated before I had time to sit
up and turn about. Nothing was to be seen, nothing more
was to be heard, but a few of these mysterious rustlings
10 far and near, and the ceaseless accompaniment of the
river and the frogs. I learned next day that the chest-
nut gardens are infested by rats ; rustUng, chirping, and
scraping were probably all due to these ; but the puzzle,
for the moment, was insoluble, and I had to compose
15 myself for sleep, as best I could, in wondering uncertainty
about my neighbours.
I was wakened in the grey of the morning (Monday,
30th September) by the sound of footsteps not far off
upon the stones, and opening my eyes, I beheld a peasant
20 going by among the chestnuts by a foot-path that I had
not hitherto observed. He turned his head neither to
the right nor to the left, and disappeared in a few strides
among the foliage. Here was an escape 1 But it was
plainly more than time to be moving. The peasantry
25 were abroad ; scarce less terrible to me in my non-
descript position than the soldiers of Captain Poul to an
undaunted Camisard. I fed Modestine with what haste
I could ; but as I was returning to my sack, I saw a man
and a boy come down the hill-side in a direction crossing
In the Valley of the Tarn 97
mine. They unintelligibly hailed me, and I replied with
inarticulate but cheerful sounds, and hurried forward to
get into my gaiters.
The pair, who seemed to be father and son, came
slowly up to the plateau, and stood close beside me for s
some time in silence. The bed was open, and I saw
with regret my revolver lying patently disclosed on the
blue wool. At last, after they had looked me all over,
and the silence had grown laughably embarrassing, the
man demanded in what seemed unfriendly tones : — 10
"You have slept here? "
"Yes," said I. "As you see."
"Why?" he asked.
" My faith," I answered lightly, " I was tired,"
He next inquired where I was going and what I had 15
had for dinner ; and then, without the least transition,
" C'est bien, " he added, " come along." And he and
his son, without another word, turned off to the next
chestnut-tree but one, which they set to pruning. The
thing had passed off more sim|)ly than I hojjed. He was jo
a grave, respectable man ; and his unfricndl) voice did
not imply that he thought he was speaking to a criminal,
btit merely to an inferior.
I was soon on the road, nibbling a cake of chocolate
and seriously occupied with a case of conscience. Was I as
to pay for my night's lodging? I had slept ill, the l)ed
was full of fleas in the shape of ants, there was no water
in the room, the very dawn had neglected to call me in
the morning. I might have missed a train, had there
TKAVKI.S Willi A DONKKV — 7
98 Travels with a Donkey
been any in the neighbourhood to catch. Clearly, I was
dissatisfied with my entertainment ; and I decided I
should not pay unless I met a beggar.
The valley looked even lovelier by morning ; and soon
S the road descended to the level of the river. Here, in a
place where many straight and prosperous chestnuts
stood together, making an aisle upon a swarded terrace,
I made my morning toilet in the water of the Tarn. It
was marvellously clear, thrillingly cool ; the soapsuds dis-
10 appeared as if by magic in the swift current, and the
white boulders gave one a model for cleanliness. To wash
in one of God's rivers in the open air seems to me a sort
of cheerful solemnity or semi-pagan act of worship. To
dabble among dishes in a bedroom may perhaps make
IS clean the body ; but the imagination takes no share in
such a cleansing. I went on with a light and peaceful
heart, and sang psalms to the spiritual ear as I advanced.
Suddenly up came an old woman, who point-blank de-
manded alms.
20 " Good," thought I ; " here comes the waiter with the bill."
And I paid for my night's lodging on the spot. Take
it how you please, but this was the first and the last
beggar that I met with during all my tour.
A step or two farther I was overtaken by an old man in
35 a brown nightcap, clear-eyed, weather-beaten, with a faint-
excited smile. A little girl followed him, driving two
sheep and a goat ; l)ut she kept in our wake, while the
old man walked beside me and talked about the morn-
ing and the valley. It was not much past six ; and for
In the Valley of the Tarn 99
healthy people who have slept enough, that is an hour of
expansion and of open and trustful talk.
" Connaissez-vous le Seigneur i " he said at length.
I asked him what Seigneur he meant ; but he only re-
peated the question with more emphasis and a look in his 5
eyes denoting hope and interest.
" Ah ! " said I, pointing upwards, " I understand you
now. Yes, I know Him ; He is the best of acquaint-
ances."
The old man said he was delighted. " Hold," he 10
added, striking his bosom; "it makes me happy here."
There were a few who knew the Lord in these valleys, he
went on to tell me ; not many, but a few. " Many are
called," he quoted, " and few chosen."
" My father," said I, " it is not easy to say who know the i.s
Lord ; and it is none of our business. Protestants and
Catholics, and even those who worshi)) stones, may know
Him and be known by Him ; for He has made all."
I did not know I was so good a preacher.
The old man assured me he thought as I did, and ao
repeated his expressions of j)leasure at meeting me.
"We are so few," he said. "They call us Moravians
here ; but down in the department of Gard, where there
are also a good number, they are called Derbists, after
an English pastor." ».■;
I began to understand that I was figuring, in question-
able taste, as a member of some sect to me unknown ;
but I was more pleased with tlic pleasure of my com-
panion than embarrassed by my own equivocal position.
100 Travels with a Donkey
Indeed I can see no dishonesty in not avowing a differ-
ence ; and especially in these high matters, where we
have all a sufficient assurance that, whoever may be in
the wrong, we ourselves are not completely in the right.
5 The truth is much talked about ; but this old man in a
brown nightcap showed himself so simple, sweet, and
friendly that I am not unwilling to profess myself his
convert. He was, as a matter of fact, a Plymouth
Brother. Of what that involves in the way of doctrine
lo I have no idea nor the time to inform myself; but I
know right well that we are all embarked upon a trouble-
some world, the children of one Father, striving in many
essential points to do and to become the same. And al-
though it was somewhat in a mistake that he shook hands
15 with me so often and showed himself so ready to receive
my words, that was a mistake of the truth-finding sort.
For charity begins blindfold ; and only through a series
of similar misapprehensions rises at length into a settled
principle of love and patience, and a firm belief in all
20 our fellow-men. If I deceived this good old man, in the
like manner I would willingly go on to deceive others.
And if ever at length, out of our separate and sad ways, we
should all come together into one common house, I have a
hope, to which I cling dearly, that my mountain Plymouth
25 Brother will hasten to shake hands with me again.
Thus, talking like Christian and Faithful by the way,
he and I came down upon a hamlet by the Tarn. It
was but a humble place, called La Vernfede, with less than
a dozen houses, and a Protestant chapel on a knoll.
In the Valley of the Tarn loi
Here he dwelt ; and here, at the inn, I ordered my
breakfast. The inn was kept by an agreeable young man,
a stonebreaker on the road, and his sister, a pretty and
engaging girl. The village schoolmaster dropped in to
speak with the stranger. And these were all Protestants 5
— a fact which pleased me more than I should have ex-
pected ; and, what pleased me still more, they seemed
all upright and simple people. The Plymouth Brother
hung round me with a sort of yearning interest, and
returned at least thrice to make sure I was enjoying my 10
meal. His behaviour touched me deeply at the time,
and even now moves me in recollection. He feared to
intrude, but he would not willingly forego one moment of
my society ; and he seemed never weary of shaking me
by the hand. 15
When all the rest had drifted off to their day's work,
1 sat for near half an hour with the young mistress of
the house, who talked pleasantly over her seam of the
chestnut harvest, and the beauties of the Tarn, and old
family affections, broken up when young folk go from jo
home, yet still subsisting. Hers, I am sure, was a sweet
nature, with a country ])lainne.ss and nnich delicacy un-
derneath ; and he who takes her to his heart will doubtless
be a fortunate young man.
The valley below La Vernedc pleased me more and .»s
more as I went forward. Now the hills approached
from cither hand, nakefl and crumbling, and walled in
the river between cliffs ; and now the valley widened and
became green. The road led me past the old castle of
I02 Travels with a Donkey
Miral on a steep ; past a battlemented monastery, long
since broken up and turned into a church and parson-
age ; and past a cluster of black roofs, the village of
Cocur^s, sitting among vineyards and meadows and
5 orchards thick with red apples, and where, along the
highway, they were knocking down walnuts from the
roadside trees, and gathering them in sacks and baskets.
The hills, however much the vale might open, were still
tall and bare, with cliffy battlements and here and there a
lo pointed summit ; and the Tarn still rattled through the
stones with a mountain noise. I had been led, by bag-
men of a picturesque turn of mind, to expect a horrific
country after the heart of Byron ; but to my Scotch eyes
it seemed smiling and plentiful, as the v^^eather still gave
1 5 an impression of high summer to my Scotch body; al-
though the chestnuts were already picked out by the au-
tumn, and the poplars, that here began to mingle with them,
had turned into pale gold against the approach of winter.
There was something in this landscape, smiling although
20 wild, that explained to me the spirit of the Southern Cov-
enanters. Those who took to the hills for conscience'
sake in Scotland had all gloomy and bedevilled thoughts ;
for once that they received God's comfort they would be
twice engaged with Satan ; but the Camisards had only
25 bright and supporting visions. They dealt much more
in blood, both given and taken ; yet I find no obsession
of the Evil One in their records. With a light conscience,
they pursued their life in these rough .times and circum-
stances. The soul of Siguier, let us not forget, was like
Florae 1 03
a garden. They knew they were on God's side, with a
knowledge that has no parallel among the Scots ; for the
Scots, although they might be certain of the cause, could
never rest confident of the person.
" We flew," says one old Camisard, " when we heard 5
the sound of psalm-singing, we flew as if with wings. We
felt within us an animating ardour, a transporting desire.
The feeling cannot be expressed in words. It is a thing
that must have been experienced to be understood. How-
ever weary we might be, we thought no more of our weari- 10
ness and grew light, so soon as the psalms fell upon our
ears."
The valley of the Tarn and the people whom I met at
La Vern^de not only explain to me this passage, but the
twenty years of suffering which those who were so stifl'15
and so bloody when once they betook themselves to war,
endured with the meekness of children and the constancy
of saints and peasants.
ILORAC
O.v a branch of the Tarn stands Florae, the seat of a
siibprefecture, with an old castle, an alley of planes, many 20
(luaint street-corners, and a live fountain welling from the
hill. It is notable, besides, for handsome women, and as
one of the two capitals, Alais being the other, of the
country of the Camisards.
The landlord of tin- inn took me, after I had eaten, to as
an adjoining cafe, where I, or rather my journey, became
the topic of the afternoon. Everyone had some sugges-
104 Travels with a Donkey
tion for my guidance ; and the subprefectorial map was
fetched from the subprefecture^ itself, and much thumbed
among coffee-cups and glasses of liqueur. Most of these
kind advisers were Protestant, though I observed that
5 Protestant and Catholic intermingled in a very easy man-
ner ; and it surprised me to see what a lively memory
still subsisted of the religious war. Among the hills of
the southwest, by Mauchline, Cumnock, or Carsphairn,
in isolated farms or in the manse, serious Presbyterian
10 people still recall the days of the great persecution, and
the graves of local martyrs are still piously regarded.
But in towns and among the so-called better classes, I
fear that these old doings have become an idle tale. If
you met a mixed company in the King's Arms at Wigtown,
15 it is not likely that the talk would run on Covenanters.
Nay, at Muirkirk of Glenluce, I found the beadle's wife
had not so much as heard of Prophet Peden. But these
Cdvenols were proud of their ancestors in quite another
sense ; the war was their chosen topic ; its exploits were
20 their own patent of nobility ; and where a man or a race
has had but one adventure, and that heroic, we must ex-
pect and pardon some prolixity of reference. They told
me the country was still full of legends hitherto uncol-
lected ; I heard from them about Cavalier's descendants
25 — not direct descendants, be it understood, but only
cousins or nephews — who were still prosperous people
in the scene of the boy-general's exploits ; and one farmer
had seen the bones of old combatants dug up into the air
1 The office of the subprefect, the official of the place.
Florae 105
of an afternoon in the nineteenth century, in a field where
the ancestors had fought, and the great-grandchildren
were peaceably ditching.
Later in the day one of the Protestant pastors was so
good as to visit me : a young man, intelligent and polite, 5
with whom I passed an hour or two in talk. Florae, he
told me, is part Protestant, part Catholic ; and the differ-
ence in religion is usually doubled by a difference in
politics. You may judge of my surprise, coming as I did
from such a babbling purgatorial Poland of a place as 10
Monastier, when I learned that the population lived to-
gether on very quiet terms ; and there was even an ex-
change of hospitalities between households thus doubly
separated. Black Camisard and White Camisard, militia-
man and Miquelet and dragoon, Protestant prophet and 15
Catholic cadet of the White Cross, they had all been
sabring and shooting, burning, pillaging, and murdering,
their hearts hot with indignant passion ; and here, after
a hundred and seventy years, Protestant is still Protestant,
Catholic still Catholic, in mutual toleration and mild 20
amity of life. But the race of man, like that indomitable
nature whence it sprang, has medicating virtues of its
own; the years and seasons bring various harvests; the
sun returns after the rain; and mankind outlives secular
animosities, as a single man awakens fn^m the passions 35
of a day. We judge our ancestors from a more divine
position ; and the dust being a little laid with several
centuries, we can see both sides adornctl with human
virtues and fighting with a show of right.
io6 Travels with a Donkey
I have never thought it easy to be just, and find it
daily even harder than I thought. I own I met these
Protestants with dehght and a sense of coming home.
I was accustomed to speak their language, in another and
5 deeper sense of the word tlian that which distinguishes
between French and EngHsh; for the true babel is a
divergence upon morals. And hence I could hold more
free communication with the Protestants, and judge them
more justly, than the Catholics. Father Apollinaris may
10 pair off with my mountain Plymouth Brother as two guile-
less and devout old men ; yet I ask myself if I had as
ready a feeling for the virtues of the Trappist ; or had I
been a Catholic, if I should have felt so warmly to the
dissenter of La Vern^de. With the first I was on terms
IS of mere forbearance ; but with the other, although only
on a misunderstanding and by keeping on selected points,
it was still possible to hold converse and exchange some
honest thoughts. In this world of imperfection we gladly
welcome even partial intimacies. And if we find but one
20 to whom we can speak out of our heart freely, with whom
we can walk in love and simplicity without dissimulation,
we have no ground of quarrel with the world or God.
IN THE VALLEY OF THE MIMENTE
On Tuesday, ist October, we left Florae late in the
afternoon, a tired donkey and tired donkey-driver. A
25 little way up the Tarnon, a covered bridge of wood in-
troduced us into the valley of the Mimente. Steep rocky
red mountains overhung the stream; great oaks and
In the \'alley of the Mimente 107
chestnuts grew upon the slopes or in stony terraces;
here and there was a red field of millet or a few apple-
trees studded with red apples; and the road passed hard
by two black hamlets, one with an old castle atop to
please the heart of the tourist. 5
It was difficult here again to find a spot fit for my en-
campment. Even under the oaks and chestnuts the
ground had not only a very rapid slope, but was heaped
with loose stones ; and where there was no timber the hills
descended to the stream in a red precipice tufted with 10
heather. The sun had left the highest peak in front of
me, and the valley was full of the lowing sountl of herds-
men's horns as they recalled the flocks into the stable,
when I spied a bight of meadow some way below the
roadway in an angle of the river. 'I'hither I descended, 15
and, tying Modestine provisionally to a tree, proceeded
to investigate the neighbourhood. A grey pearly even-
ing shadow filled the glen; objects at a little distance
grew indistinct and melted bafflingly into each other ; and
the darkness was rising steadily like an exhalation. I jo
approached a great oak which grew in the meadow, hard
by the river's brink ; when to my disgust the voices of
chilflren fell upon my ear, and 1 beheld a house round
the angle on the other bank. I had half a mintl to pack
and be gone again, but the growing darkness moved me js
to remain. I had only to make no noise until the night
was fairly come, and trust to the dawn to call me early
in the morning. But it was hard to be annoyed by
neighbours in such a great hotel.
io8 Travels with a Donkey
A hollow underneath the oak was my bed. Before I
had fed Modestine and arranged my sack, three stars were
already brightly shining, and the others were beginning
dimly to appear. I slipped down to the river, which
5 looked very black among its rocks, to fill my can ; and
dined with a good appetite in the dark, for I scrupled to
light a lantern while so near a house. The moon, which
I had seen, a pallid crescent, all afternoon, faintly illumi-
nated the summit of the hills, but not a ray fell into the
10 bottom of the glen where I was lying. The oak rose be-
fore me like a pillar of darkness ; and overhead the heart-
some stars were set in the face of night. No one knows
the stars who has not slept, as the French happily put it,
a la belle eioile. He may know all their names and dis-
15 tances and magnitudes, and yet be ignorant of what alone
concerns mankind, their serene and gladsome influence on
the mind. The greater part of poetry is about the stars ;
and very justly, for they are themselves the most classical
of poets. These same far-away worlds, sprinkled like
20 tapers or shaken together like a diamond dust upon the
sky, had looked not otherwise to Roland or Cavalier, when,
in the words of the latter, they had "no other tent but the
sky, and no other bed than my .mother earth."
All night a strong wind blew up the valley, and the
25 acorns fell pattering over me from the oak. Yet, on this
first night of October, the air was as mild as May, and I
slept with the fur thrown back.
I was much disturbed by the barking of a dog, an animal
that I fear more than any wolf. A dog is vastly braver,
In the Valley of the Mimente 109
and is besides supported by the sense of duty. If you
kill a wolf, you meet with encouragement and praise ; but
if you kill a dog, the sacred rights of property and the
domestic affections come clamouring rounii you for redress.
At the end of a fagging day, the sharp, cruel note of a tlog's 5
bark is in itself a keen annoyance ; and to a tramp like
myself, he represents the sedentary and respectable world
in its most hostile form. There is something of the clergy-
man or the lawyer about this engaging animal ; and if he
were not amenable to stones, the boldest man would shrink 10
from travelling afoot. I respect dogs much in the do-
mestic circle ; but on the highway or sleeping afield, I
both detest and fear them.
I was wakened next morning (Wednesday, October 2d)
by the same dog — for I knew his bark — making a charge 15
down the bank, and then, seeing me sit up, retreating
again with great alacrity. The stars were not yet quite
extinguished. The heaven was of that enchanting mild
grey-blue of the early morn. A still clear light began to
fall, and the trees on the hill-side were outlined shari>ly jo
against the sky. The wind had veered more to the north,
and no longer reached me in the glen ; but a.s I was going
on with my jjreparations, it drove a white cloud very
swiftly over the hill-top ; and looking up, I was surprised
to sec the cloud dyed with gold. In these high regions 25
of the air, the sun was already shining as at noon. If
only the clouds travelled high enough, we should see the
same thing all night long. For it is always daylight in the
fields of space.
no Travels with a Donkey
As I began to go up the valley, a draught of wind came
down it out of the seat of the sunrise, although the clouds
continued to run overhead in an almost contrary direction.
A few steps farther, and I saw a whole hill-side gilded with
5 the sun ; and still a little beyond, between two peaks, a
centre of dazzling brilliancy appeared floating in the sky,
and I was once more face to face with the big bonfire
that occupies the kernel of our system.
I met but one human being that forenoon, a dark
lo military-looking wayfarer, who carried a game-bag on a
baldric ; but he made a remark that seems worthy of
record. For when I asked him if he were Protestant or
Catholic —
"O," said he, "I make no shame of my religion. I
15 am a Catholic."
He made no shame of it ! The phrase is a piece of
natural statistics ; for it is the language of one in a mi-
nority. I thought with a smile of Baville and his dragoons,
and how you may ride rough-shod over a religion for a
20 century, and leave it only the more lively for the friction.
Ireland is still Catholic ; the C^vennes still Protestant.
It is not a basketful of law-papers, nor the hoofs and
pistol-butts of a regiment of horse, that can change one
tittle of a ploughman's thoughts. Outdoor rustic people
25 have not many ideas, but such as they have are hardy
plants and thrive flourishingly in persecution. One who
has grown a long while in the sweat of laborious noons,
and under the stars at night, a frequenter of hills and
forests, an old honest countryman, has, in the end, a
The Heart of the Country 1 1 1
sense of communion with the powers of the universe, and
amicable relations towards his God. Like my mountain
Plymouth Brother, he knows the Lord. His religion does
not repose upon a choice of logic ; it is the poetry of the
man's experience, the philosophy of the history of his life. 5
God, like a great power, like a great shining sun, has ap-
peared to this simple fellow in the course of years, and
become the ground and essence of his least reflections;
and you may change creeds and dogmas by authority, or
proclaim a new religion with the sound of trumpets, if 10
you will ; but here is a man who has his own thoughts,
and will stubbornly adhere to them in good and evil. He
is a Catholic, a Protestant, or a Plymouth Brother, in the
same indefeasible sense that a man is not a woman, or a
woman not a man. For he could not vary from his faith, 15
unless he could eradicate all memory of the i)ast, and, in a
strict and not a conventional meaning, change his mind.
THE IlLART OF 'Fill': COUNTRY
I WAS now drawing near to Cassagnas, a cluster of black
roofs upon the hill-side, in this wild valley, am(;ng chest-
nut gardens, and looked upon in the clear air by many jo
rocky peaks. 'Fhc road along the Mimentc is yet new,
nor have the mountaineers recovered their surprise when
the first cart arrived at Cassagnas. I'.iit although it lay
thus apart from the current of men's business, this hamlet
had already made a figure in the history of France, aj
Hard by, in caverns of the mountain, was one of the five
112 Travels with a Donkey
arsenals of the Camisards ; where they laid up clothes
and corn and arms against necessity, forged bayonets and
sabres, and made themselves gunpowder with willow char-
coal and saltpetre boiled in kettles. To the same caves,
5 amid this multifarious industry, the sick and wounded
were brought up to heal ; and there they were visited by
the two surgeons, Chabrier and Tavan, and secretly
nursed by women of the neighbourhood.
Of the five legions into which the Camisards were divided,
lo it was the oldest and the most obscure that had its maga-
zines by Cassagnas. This was the band of Spirit Si^guier ;
men who had joined their voices with his in the 68th
Psalm as they marched down by night on the archpriest
of the C^vennes. Siguier, promoted to heaven, was
IS succeeded by Salomon Couderc, whom Cavalier treats in
his memoirs as chaplain-general to the whole army of the
Camisards. He was a prophet ; a great reader of the
heart, who admitted people to the sacrament or refused
them by " intentively viewing every man " between the
2o eyes ; and had the most of the Scriptures off by rote.
And this was surely happy ; since in a surprise in August
1 703, he lost his mule, his portfolios, and his Bible. It
is only strange that they were not surprised more often
and more effectually ; for this legion of Cassagnas was
25 truly patriarchal in its theory of war, and camped without
sentries, leaving that duty to the angels of the God for
whom they fought. This is a token, not only of their
faith, but of the trackless country where they harboured.
M. de Caladon taking a stroll one fine day, walked with-
The Heart of the Country 113
out warning into their midst, as he might have walked
into " a flock of sheep in a plain," and found some asleep
and some awake and psalm-singing. A traitor had need
of no recommendation to insinuate himself among their
ranks, beyond " his faculty of singing psalms " ; and even s
the prophet Salomon " took him into a particular friend-
ship." Thus, among their intricate hills, the rustic troop
subsisted ; and history can attribute few exploits to them
but sacraments and ecstasies.
People of this tough and simple stock will not, as 1 10
have just been saying, prove variable in religion ; nor will
they get nearer to apostasy than a mere external conform-
ity like that of Naaman in the house of Rimmon. When
Louis XVI, in the words of the edict, " convinced by the
uselessness of a century of persecutions, and rather from is
necessity than sympathy," granted at last a royal grace of
toleration, Cassagnas was still Protestant ; and to a man,
it is so to this day. There is, indeed, one family that is
not Protestant, but neither is it Catholic. It is that of
a Catholic cure in revolt, who has taken to his bosom a 20
schoolmistress. And his conduct, it's worth noting, is
disapproved by the Protestant villagers.
" It is a bad idea for a man," said one, " to go back
from his engagements."
The villagers whom I saw seemed intelligent after a 25
countrified fashion, and were all jilain and dignified in
manner. As a Protestant myself, I was well looked upon,
and my acquaintance with history gained me farther
respect. For we had something not unlike a religious
INLAND VOYAGE — 8
114 Travels with a Donkey
controversy at table, a gendarme and a merchant with
whom I dined being both strangers to the place and Catho-
lics. The young men of the house stood round and
supported me ; and the whole discussion was tolerantly
5 conducted, and surprised a man brought up among the
infinitesimal and contentious differences of Scotland.
The merchant, indeed, grew a little warm, and was far less
pleased than some others with my historical acquirements.
But the gendarme was mighty easy over it all.
10 " It's a bad idea for a man to change," said he ; and
the remark was generally applauded.
That was not the opinion of the priest and soldier at
our Lady of the Snows. But this is a different race ; and
perhaps the same great-heartedness that upheld them to
15 resist, now enables them to differ in a kind spirit. For
courage respects courage ; but where a faith has been
trodden out, we may look for a mean and narrow popula-
tion. The true work of Bruce and Wallace was the union
of the nations ; not that they should stand apart awhile
20 longer, skirmishing upon their borders ; but that, when
the time came, they might unite with self-respect.
The merchant was much interested in my journey, and
thought it dangerous to sleep afield.
"There are the wolves," said he; "and then it is
25 known you are an Englishman. The English have always
long purses, and it might very well enter into some one's
head to deal you an ill blow some night."
I told him I was not much afraid of such accidents ;
and at any rate judged it unwise to dwell upon alarms or
The Heart of the Country 115
consider small perils in the arrangement of life. Life
itself, I submitted, was a far too risky business as a whole
to make each additional particular of danger worth regard.
" Something," said I, " might burst in your inside any day
of the week, and there would be an end of you, if you 5
were locked into your room with three turns of the key."
" Cependant,'" said he, " coucher dehors! "
" God," said I, " is everywhere."
" Cependant, coucher dehors ! " he repeated, and his
voice was eloquent of terror. 10
He was the only person, in all my voyage, who saw
anything hardy in so simple a proceeding; although
many considered it superfluous. Only one, on the other
hand, professed much delight in the idea ; and that was
my Plymouth Brother, who cried out, when I told him I 15
sometimes preferred sleeping under the stars to a close
and noisy ale-house, " Now I see that you know the Lord ! "
The merchant asked me for one of my cards as I was
leaving, for he said I should be something to talk of in
the future, and desired me to make a note of his request 20
and reason ; a desire with which I have thus comjilied.
A little after two I struck across the Mimenle, and took
a rugged path southward up a hill-side covered with loose
stones and tufts of heather. At the top, as is the habit of
the coimtry, the path disai)pearefl ; and I left my she-ass 25
munching heather, and went forward alone to seek a road.
I was now on the separation of two vast watersheds ;
behind me all the streams were bound for the Garonne
and the Western Ocean ; before me was the basin of the
ii6 Travels with a Donkey
Rhone. Hence, as from the Loz^re, you can see in clear
weather the shining of the Gulf of Lyons ; and perhaps
from here the soldiers of Salomon may have watched for
the topsails of Sir Cloudesley Shovel, and the long-prom-
5 ised aid from England. You may take this ridge as lying
in the heart of the country of the Camisards ; four of the
five legions camped all round it and almost within view —
Salomon and Joani to the north, Castanet and Roland to
the south ; and when Julien had finished his famous work,
10 the devastation of the High C^vennes, which lasted all
through October and November, 1703, and during which
four hundred and sixty villages and hamlets were, with
fire and pickax, utterly subverted, a man standing on
this eminence would have looked forth upon a silent,
15 smokeless, and dispeopled land. Time and man's activity
have now repaired these ruins ; Cassagnas is once more
roofed and sending up domestic smoke ; and in the
chestnut gardens, in low and leafy corners, many a pros-
perous farmer returns, when the day's work is done, to
20 his children and bright hearth. And still it was perhaps
the wildest view of all my journey. Peak upon peak,
chain upon chain of hills ran surging southward, channelled
and sculptured by the winter streams, feathered from
head to foot with chestnuts, and here and there breaking
25 out into a coronal of cliffs. The sun, which was still far
from setting, sent adrift of misty gold across the hill-tops,
but the valleys were already plunged in a profound and
quiet shadow.
A very old shepherd, hobbling on a pair of sticks, and
The Heart of the Country 117
wearing a black cap of liberty, as if in honour of his near-
ness to the grave, directed me to the road for St. Ger-
main de Calberte. There was something solemn in the
isolation of this infirm and ancient creature. Where he
dwelt, how he got upon this high ridge, or how he pro- 5
posed to get down again, were more than I could fancy.
Not far off upon my right was the famous Plan de Font
Morte, where Poul with his Armenian sabre slashed down
the Camisards of Siguier. This, methought, might be
some Rip van Winkle of the war, who had lost his com- 10
rades, fleeing before Poul, and wandered ever since upon
the mountains. It might be news to him that Cavalier had
surrendered, or Roland had fallen fighting with his back
against an olive. .Xnd while I was thus working on my
fancy, I heard him hailing in broken tones, and saw him 15
waving me to come back with one of his two sticks. I
had already got some way past him ; but, leaving Mo-
destine once more, retraced my steps.
Alas, it was a very commonplace affair. The old
gentleman had forgot to ask the pedlar what he sold, and 20
wished to remedy this neglect.
I told him sternly, " Nothing."
"Nothing ?" cried he.
I repeated " Nothing," and made off.
It's odd to think of, but perha])s I thus became as in- 25
explicable to the old man as he had been to nic.
The road lay under chcstntits, and though I saw a ham-
let or two below me in the vale, and many lone houses of
the chestnut farmers, it was a very solitary march all
ii8 Travels with a Donkey
afternoon ; and the evening began early underneath the
trees. But I heard the voice of a woman singing some
sad, old, endless ballad not far off. It seemed to be
about love and a bclamoureux, her handsome sweetheart ;
5 and I wished I could have taken up the strain and an-
swered her, as I went on upon my invisible woodland
way, weaving, like Pippa in the poem, my own thoughts
with hers. What could I have told her? Little enough ;
and yet all the heart requires. How the world gives and
lo takes away, and brings sweethearts near, only to separate
them again into distant and strange lands ; but to love is
the great amulet which makes the world a garden ; and
" hope, which comes to all," outwears the accidents of
life, and reaches with tremulous hand beyond the grave
IS and death. Easy to say : yea, but also, by God's mercy,
both easy and grateful to believe !
We struck at last into a wide white high-road, carpeted
with noiseless dust. The night had come ; the moon
had been shining for a long while upon the opposite
20 mountain; when on turning a corner my donkey and I
issued ourselves into her light. I had emptied out my
brandy at Florae, for I could bear the stuff no longer, and
replaced it with some generous and scented Volnay ; and
now I drank to the moon's sacred majesty upon the road.
25 It was but a couple of mouthfuls ; yet I became thence-
forth unconscious of my limbs, and my blood flowed with
luxury. Even Modestine was inspired by this purified
nocturnal sunshine, and bestirred her little hoofs as to a
livelier measure. The road wound and descended swiftly
The Heart of the Country 119
among masses of chestnuts. Hot dust rose from our feet
and flowed away. Our two shadows — mine deformed
with the knapsack, hers comically bestridden by the pack
— now lay before us clearly outlined on the road, and
now, as we turned a corner, went off into the ghostly dis- 5
tance, and sailed along the mountain like clouds. From
time to time a warm wind rustled down the valley, and
set all the chestnuts dangling their bunches of foliage and
fruit ; the ear was filled with whispering music, and the
shadows danced in tune. And next moment the breeze 10
had gone by, and in all the valley nothing moved except
our travelling feet. On the opposite slope, the monstrous
ribs and gullies of the mountain were faintly designed in
the moonshine ; and high overhead, in some lone house,
there burned one lighted window, one sfjuare spark of red 15
in the huge field of sad nocturnal colouring.
At a certain point, as I went downward, turning many
acute angles, the moon disai)peared behind the hill ; and
I pursued my way in great darkness, until another turning
shot me without preparation into St. Oermain de Calberte. 20
The place was asleep and silent, and buried in opaciue
night. Only from a single open door, some lamplight
escajjcd upon the road to show me that I was come
among men's habitations. The two last gossips of the
evening, still talking by a garden wall, directed me to 25
the inn. The landlady was getting her chicks to bed ; the
fire was already out, and had, not wiihcnit grumbling, to
be rekindled ; half an hour later, and I nmst have gone
supperless to roost.
I20 Travels with a Donkey
THE LAST DAY
When I awoke (Thursday, 2d October), and, hearing
a great flourishing of cocks and chuckling of contented
hens, betook me to the window of the clean and comfort-
able room where I had slept the night, I looked forth on
5 a sunshiny morning in a deep vale of chestnut gardens.
It was still early, and the cock-crows, and the slanting
lights, and the long shadows encouraged me to be out and
look round me.
St. Germain de Calberte is a great parish nine leagues
10 round about. At the period of the wars, and immediately
before the devastation, it was inhabited by two hundred
and seventy-five families, of which only nine were Catho-
lic ; and it took the cure seventeen September days to go
from house to house on horseback for a census. But the
15 place itself, although capital of a canton, is scarce larger
than a hamlet. It lies terraced across a steep slope in the
midst of mighty chestnuts. The Protestant chapel stands
below upon a shoulder ; in the midst of the town is the
quaint old Catholic church.
20 It was here that poor Du Chayla, the Christian martyr,
kept his library and held a court of missionaries ; here he
had built his tomb, thinking to lie among a grateful popu-
lation whom he had redeemed from error ; and hither on
the morrow of his death they brought the body, pierced
25 with two-and-fifty wounds, to be interred. Clad in his
priestly robes, he was laid out in state in the church. The
cure, taking his text from Second Samuel, twentieth chapter
The Last Day 121
and twelfth verse, "And Amasa wallowed in his blood in
the highway," preached a rousing sermon, and exhorted
his brethren to die each at his post, like their unhappy
and illustrious superior. In the midst of this eloquence
there came a breeze that Spirit Siguier was near at hand; 5
and behold ! all the assembly took to their horses' heels,
some east, some west, and the cure himself as far as
Alais.
Strange was the position of this little Catholic metrop-
olis, a thimbleful of Rome, in such a wild and contrary 10
neighbourhood. On the one hand, the legion of Salomon
overlooked it from Cassagnas ; on the other, it was cut
off from assistance by the legion of Roland at Mialet.
The cure, Louvrelenil, although he took a panic at the
archpriest's funeral, and so hurriedly decamped to Alais, 15
stood well by his isolated pulpit, and thence utteretl ful-
minations against the crimes of the Protestants. Salomon
besieged the village for an hour and a half, but was beat
back. The militiamen, on guard before the cure's door,
could be heard, in the black hours, singing Protestant 20
psalms and holding friendly talk with the insurgents. And
in the morning, although not a shot had been fired, there
would not be a round of powder in their flasks. Wiiere
was it gone ? All handed over to the Camisards for a
consideration. Untrusty guardians for an isolated priest! 25
That these continual stirs were once busy in St. Ger-
main de Calbcrte, the imagination with difificulty receives;
all is now so quiet, the pulse of* human life now beats so
low and still in this hamlet of the mountains. Boys fol-
122 Travels with a Donkey
lowed me a great way off, like a timid sort of lion-hunters ;
and people turned round to have a second look, or came
out of their houses, as I went by. My passage was the
first event, you would have fancied, since the Camisards.
5 There was nothing rude or forward in this observation ; it
was but a pleased and wondering scrutiny, like that of
oxen or the human infant ; yet it wearied my spirits, and
soon drove me from the street.
I took refuge on the terraces, which are here greenly
lo carpeted with sward, and tried to imitate with a pencil
the inimitable attitudes of the chestnuts as they bear up
their canopy of leaves. Ever and again a little wind went
by, and the nuts dropped all around me, with a light and
dull sound, upon the sward. The noise was as of a thin
IS fall of great hailstones ; but there went with it a cheerful
human sentiment of an approaching harvest and farmers
rejoicing in their gains. Looking up, I could see the
brown nut peering through the husk, which was already
gaping ; and between the stems the eye embraced an
20 amphitheatre of hill, sunlit and green with leaves.
I have not often enjoyed a place more deeply. I
moved in an atmosphere of pleasure, and felt light and
quiet and content. But perhaps it was not the place
alone that so disposed my spirit. Perhaps some one was
25 thinking of me in another country ; or perhaps some
thought of my own had come and gone unnoticed, and
yet done me good. For some thoughts, which sure
would be the most beautiful, vanish before we can rightly
scan their features ; as though a god, travelling by our
The Last Day 123
green highways, should but ope the door, give one smiling
look into the house, and go again for ever. Was it
Apollo, or Mercury, or Love with folded wings? Who
shall say ? But we go the lighter about our business, and
feel peace and pleasure in our hearts. 5
I dined with a pair of Catholics. They agreed in the
Condemnation of a young man, a Catholic, who had
married a Protestant girl and gone over to the religion of
his wife. A Protestant born they could understand and
respect; indeed they seemed to be of the mind of an old 10
Catholic woman, who told me that same day there was
no difference between the two sects, save that, " wrong
was more wrong for the Catholic," who had more light
and guidance ; but this of a man's desertion filled them
with contempt. 15
" It is a bad idea for a man to change," said one.
It may have been accidental, but you see how this
phrase pursued me ; and for myself, I believe it is the
current philosophy in these parts. I have some difficulty
in imagining a better. It's not only a great flight of con- 20
fidcncc for a man to change his creed and go out of his
family for heaven's sake; but the odds are — nay, and
tlie hope is — that, with all this great transition in the eyes
of man, he has not changed himself a hair's-breadth to the
eyes of lied. I lonour to lliose who do so, for the wrench 25
is sore. P.ut it argues something narrow, whether of
strength or weakness, whether of the projjliel or tlie fool,
in those who can take a sufficient interest in such infini-
tesimal and human operations, or who can quit a friend-
124 Travels with a Donkey
ship for a doubtful process of the mind. And I think
I should not leave my old creed for another, changing
only words for other words ; but by some brave reading,
embrace it in spirit and truth, and find wrong as wrong
S for me as for the best of other communions.
Th.e phyiioxera^ was in the neighbourhood ; and instead
of wine we drank at dinner a more economical juice o\
the grape — /a Parisienne, they call it. It is made by
putting the fruit whole into a cask with water ; one by
lo one the berries ferment and burst ; what is drunk during
the day is supplied at night in water ; so, with ever another
pitcher from the well, and ever another grape exploding
and giving out its strength, one cask of Parisienne may
last a family till spring. It is, as the reader will anticipate,
15 a feeble beverage, but very pleasant to the taste.
What with dinner and coffee, it was long past three be-
fore I left St. Germain de Calberte. I went down beside
the Gardon of Mialet, a great glaring watercourse devoid
of water, and through St. Etienne de Valine Frangaise,
20 or Val Francesque, as they used to call it ; and towards
evening began to ascend the hill of St, Pierre. It was a
long and steep ascent. Behind me an empty carriage
returning to St. Jean du Gard kept hard upon my tracks,
and near the summit overtook me. The driver, like the
25 rest of the world, was sure I was a pedlar ; but, unlike
others, he was sure of what I had to sell. He had noticed
the blue wool which hung out of my pack at either end ;
and from this he had decided, beyond my power to alter
1 An insect that attacks and injures the grape-vine.
The Last Day 125
his decision, that I dealt in blue-wool collars, such as deco-
rate the neck of the French draught-horse.
I had hurried to the topmost powers of Modestine, for I
dearly desired to see the view upon the other side before
the day had faded. But it was night when I reached the 5
summit; the moon was riding high and clear; and only
a few grey streaks of twilight lingered in the west. A
yawning valley, gulfed in blackness, lay like a hole in
created nature at my feet ; but the outline of the hills was
sharp against the sky. There was Mount Aigoal, the 10
stronghold of Castanet. And Castanet, not only as an
active undertaking leader, deserves some mention among
Camisards ; for there is a spray of rose among his laurel ;
and he showed how, even in a public tragedy, love will
have its way. In the high tide of war he married, in his 15
mountain citadel, a young and i)retty lass called Mariette.
There were great rejoicings ; and the bridegroom released
five-and-twenty jirisoners in honour of the glad event.
Seven months afterwards Mariette, the Princess of the
('evennes, as they called her in derision, fell into the hands 20
of the authorities, where it was like to have gone hard
with her. Hut Castanet was a man of execution, and
loved his wife. He fell on Valleraugue, and got a lady
there for a hostage ; and for the first and last time in that
war there was an exchange of i)risoners. Their dauglUer, 25
pledge of some starry night upon Mount Aigoal, has left
descendants to this day.
Modestine and I — it was our last meal together — had
a snack upon the top of St. Pierre, I on a heap of stones.
126 Travels with a Donkey
she standing by me in the moonlight and decorously eat-
ing bread out of my hand. The poor brute would eat
more heartily in this manner ; for she had a sort of affec-
tion for me, which I was soon to betray.
5 It was a long descent upon St. Jean du Gard, and we
met no one but a carter, visible afar off by the glint of the
moon on his extinguished lantern.
Before ten o'clock we had got in and were at supper;
fifteen miles and a stiff hill in little beyond six hours !
FAREWELL, MODESTINE
lo On examination, on the morning of October 3d, Modes-
tine was pronounced unfit for travel. She would need at
least two days' repose according to the ostler ; but I was
now eager to reach Alais for my letters ; and, being in a
civilized country of stage-coaches, I determined to sell
15 my lady-friend and be off by the diligence that afternoon.
Our yesterday's march, with the testimony of the driver
who had pursued us up the long hill of St. Pierre, spread
a favourable notion of my donkey's capabilities. Intend-
ing purchasers were aware of an unrivalled opportunity.
20 Before ten I had an offer of twenty-five francs ; and
before noon, after a desperate engagement, I sold her,
saddle and all, for five-and-thirty. The pecuniary gain
is not obvious, but I had bought freedom into the
bargain.
25 St. Jean du Gard is a large place and largely Protestant.
The niaire, a Protestant, asked me to help him in a small
Farewell, Modestine 127
matter which is itself characteristic of the country. The
young women of the C^vennes profit by the common
religion and the difference of the language to go largely
as governesses into England ; and here was one, a native
of Mialet, struggling with English circulars from two differ- 5
ent agencies in London. I gave what help I could ; and
volunteered some advice, which struck me as being ex-
cellent.
One thing more I note. The phylloxera has ravaged
the vineyards in this neighbourhood ; and in the early 10
morning, under some chestnuts by the river, I found a
party of men working with a cider-press. I could not at
first make out what they were after, and asked one fellow
to explain.
" Making cider," he said. " Oui, c'est comme (a. 15
Comme dans le tionlf "
There was a ring of sarcasm in his voice : the country
was going to the devil.
It was not until I was fairly seated by the driver, and
rattling through a rocky valley wilii dwarf olives, that 1 20
became aware of my bereavement. I had lost Modestine.
Up to that moment I had thouglit I hated her; but now
she was gone,
" And, O,
The difference to me! " 35
For twelve days we had been fast companions; wc hail
travelled upwards of a hundred and twenty miles, crossed
several respectable ridges, and jogged along with our six legs
by many a rocky and many a bf)ggy by-road. After the first
128 Travels with a Donkey
day, although sometimes I was hurt and distant in manner,
I still kept my patience ; and as for her, poor soul ! she had
come to regard me as a god. She loved to eat out of my
hand. She was patient, elegant in form, the colour of an
5 ideal mouse, and inimitably small. Her faults were those
of her race and sex ; her virtues were her own. Farewell,
and if for ever —
Father Adam wept when he sold her to me ; after I
had sold her in my turn, I was tempted to follow his
10 example ; and being alone with a stage-driver and four or
five agreeable young men, I did not hesitate to yield to
my emotion.
NOTES
/VN INLAND VOYAGE
[The heavy figures arc for the page, and the lighter ones for the line.]
The canoe trip of which " An Inland Voyage " is an account was
taken in the autumn of 1876 with Sir Walter Simpson, an enthusi-
astic canoeist, and from their university days a warm personal
friend of Stevenson. They had canoed before along the inlets of
the Scottish coast, and while they were different in temperament,
they were alike at least in their love for the sea. This journey can
be traced from Antwerp up the Scheldt and the Rupcl rivers to
Boom ; thence by the Willcbroek Canal to Brussels ; and thence
by train, by river, by canal, and on foot to Pontoise, where the
canoes, the Cigarette and the Arethiisa, were left. What became
of them may be learned from the letter to Sir Walter Simpson,
given on page 3 of this book. From the trip Stevenson derived
health and happiness, and for his account of the voyage here pub-
lished he received twenty jxiuiids.
5 : 22. Tied my sheet. It is somewhat risky to sail a canoe at
all. If, however, a canoeist docs wish to sail he holds the rope so
that he can most easily let out the sail when the gusts of wind
come. To tic the rope would make a dangerous sport more dan-
gerous.
g : 3. Miss Howe or Miss Harlowe. Characters in Samuel Rich-
ardson's novel, C/«//w(j JliirUmc. — S. Anthony, rnibahly a ref-
erence to .Saint Anlh<iny of Thebes, who S(j1(I his pos.sessions, gave
the proceeds to the poor, and then went into the desert, where he
spent the most of his life as a hermit, lie is called the father of
monastic asceticism. — 1 1 . Gymnosophist. A philosopher of a
i
ii Inland Voyage
sect said to have been founded by Alexander the Great. The mem-
bers renounced all bodily pleasures.
lo: i8. "C'est vite, mais c'est long." "It is rapid, but
it is long," i.e. you are going fast but you have a long journey.
— 21. Tillers. The levers by which the rudders are turned and
the boats guided. — 23. Dingy. The smallest boat of a ship.
12 : 27. Like a squire's avenue. An avenue through the estate
of a country gentleman.
14:17. Sterlings. Piles driven close together. — 23. Tre-
panned. A trepan is a saw used by a surgeon in operating on a
skull. The verb means to perform an operation on the skull.
15 : 22. Allee Verte. Green Walk. A walk between double
rows of lime trees leading from Brussels in the direction of Laeken.
16:28. Huguenots. A name given to French Protestants be-
fore the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.
17:24. Entrefreres. Among brothers. — 26. " En Angleterre,"
etc. "In England you use sliding seats, do you not ? " — 29. Voyez-
vous, nous sommes serieux. But in the evening " you see, we are
serious."
19: 12. Mammon. Paradise Lost, Book i, 678-683.
21:3. To drive the coursers of the sun against Apollo. See
the myth of Phaethon, who attempted to drive the chariot of the
sun.
22 : 12. Murray. One of the leading guide books so called from
its editor and publisher. — 16. He is cast . . . into noisome dun
geons. See Att Epilogue to an Inland Voyage in Across the
Plains for an instance of Stevenson's arrest as a suspicious character.
25 : 26. He who can sit squarest on a three-legged stool. He
who devotes himself most closely to office work. Stevenson
scorned the humdrum life of an office clerk.
30 : 27. Hainaulters. Ilainaut or Ilainault is a district in south-
western Belgium and northeastern France.
32:12. Trousered. Coloured by tobacco stain. — 22. Amphora.
A Greek word for a two-handled vessel used for wine, oil, etc.
Notes ill
34 . 5. Jove. See Hawthorne's story of Baucis and Philemon
in The Wonder Book, "The Miraculous Pitcher."
35:16. Rag-and-bone men. Ragpickers.
36:6. Auberge. An inn.
37: 13. Bread-berry, A food for invalids made by pouring
boiling water on toasted bread and seasoning with sugar. —
15. Swipes. English slang for poor weak beer.
38 : 6. The Lucretian maxim. Stevenson evidently refers to
such a saying as, " Wc find our own bread sweeter when we know
that others have less than we."
39 : 10. Landau. See the dictionary to note the distinguishing
features of this carriage and why the word is spelled with a capi-
tal letter. — 12. Molidre's farce. Moliere was a great French
dramatist of the seventeenth century. The farce referred to is Les
Precieuses Ridiailes.
40 : 4. He adhered ... to the masculine gender. All his ad-
jectives and pronouns were masculine witliout regard to the gender
of the nouns with which they should have agreed. — 6. Fancy
futures. Opinions concerning the rise and fall of prices in the
market. — 9. K6pi. Cap.
44:21. " Voilll de I'eau," etc. "Hereissomewaterforwasliing
yourselves."
45 = 3- Waterloo. .\ town in Belgium famous for the final defeat
of Napoleon. — 6. Austerlitz. A town in Austria famous for a
great victory of Xajjolcon.
46:8. Mormal, a sinister name to the ear. A word used to
signify an old sore.
47 : 20. Merlin under the oaks of Broceliande. Merlin, a magi-
cian of King Arthur's time, is said to have been left sjiell-bound in
a hollow oak in the woods of Broceliande. See Tennyson's " Mer-
lin and Vivian " in The Idylls of the h'ini^. — 22. Banyan. The
banyan tree sends out shoots from its branches that take root and be-
come additional trunks. One tree may thus enlarge itself until it
covers a large area, frequently as much as too yards in diameter.
iv Inland Voyage
48: 18. Jeremiads. Tales of sorrow or complaint, so called
from Jeremiah, the Hebrew prophet, and writer oi Lamentations.
50: 19. Bedlamite. A madman, an inmate of a lunatic asylum.
The word Bedlam is a corruption of Bethlehem and was applied
to the Hospital of St. Mary of Bethlehem in London, which was
founded in 1247 and later became a hospital for the insane.
51 : 14. Round. The officer and his attendants who make the
round of the garrison to see that all is well. — 28. Presumptuous
Hebrew prophets. See the story of Balaam and his ass, Numbers
xxii. 21-35.
52 : 4. Alma and Spicheren. Alma is a river in the Crimea,
where the Allies won a victory over Russia in the Crimean "War.
Spicheren is a place in Lorraine, Germany, the scene of a German
victory over the French in the Franco-Prussian War.
55:13. Jerkin. A short coat. — Archangel. A place in
Russia where tar is obtained. — 15. Parterre. An ornamental
arrangement of flower beds or plots. — 1 7. Loch Carron. An inlet
on the west coast of Scotland well known to Stevenson.
59:20, "Cependant." "However."
60 : 7. Mr. Moens. An English writer who had a short time
before made a trip similar to Stevenson's in the steam yacht Ytene.
61: 18. Colza. A variety of cabbage cultivated for the seeds,
which yield a valuable oil.
62 : 14. Pan. Creek god of shepherds, who is said to have used
a reed for his flute. — 21. Centaur. A Greek mythological being,
half man, half horse.
64: 17. Burns. See Burns's poem, To a Mountain Daisy. —
28. "Come away. Death." See Shakespeare's Twelfth Night,
ii. 4.
69 : 9. "0 France, mes amours." " O France, my loves." —
16. "Lesmalheursde la France.' "The misfortunes of France."
— 23. Alsace and Lorraine. Districts in Germany that belonged
to France until after the Franco-Prussian War of 1 870-1 871.
70:7. Farmer George. George HI; "so called because he
Notes V
was like a farmer in dress, manners, and tastes. Also called ' The
Farmer King.' " Brewer, The Reader's Handbook. — 23. Caudine
Forks. Two narrow passes in Italy where the Romans were de-
feated in 321 B.C.
71 : 3. Fletcher of Saltoun. Andrew Fletcher, a Scotch patriot
who made himself famous by saying: " If a man were permitted to
make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws
of a nation."
72:12. Othello. Othello, in Shakespeare's play, won the heart
of Desdemuna by telling the story of his adventures.
76 : 18. " Tristes tetes de Danois 1 " " Sad Danish heads !"—
19. Gaston Lafenestre. A French painter of Stevenson's ac-
quaintance. — 24. Fontainebleau. A town thirty-five miles from
Paris and a forest said to be the most beautiful in France. Tliis
region was the haunt of artists and was well known to Stevenson.
See Stevenson's essay, Fontainebleau.
77 : 25. Jacques. Another French painter of Stevenson's time.
78 : 8. Barbizon. A village on the outskirts of the forest of Fon-
tainebleau especially frequented by Stevenson and his artist friends.
79 : 3. Proletarian. A term from Roman antiquity which
meant the lowest class of citizens.
80:5. Pro indiviso. All together.
81 : 3. "Eh bien, quoi, cest magnifique, (ja!" "Well, now, it
is magnificent indeed." — 28. Poe's horrid story. The Pit and the
Pendulum. — 29. Tristram Shandy. A mncl of tiie eighteenth
century, by I^urencc Sterne.
82:17. Nanty Ewart. See Scott's Redf^auntlet, Chap. xv. —
25. Communist, Communard. A communist believes that all
means of production should be held in commtm by all the peoi)le.
A communard believes in government by communes independent
f)f one another, 'i'he two words are sometimes useil synonymously.
87:20. Siphon. A conduit that takes the water of the river
under the canal. — 28. Demoniacal possession. See Luke iv,
33-36.
vi Inland Voyage
88 : 5. La F§re. One of the places besieged by the Prussians
in the Franco-Prussian War. — Niirnberg figures. Statuettes,
etc., made at Niirnberg (or Nuremburg) in Bavaria. — 12. "C'est
bon, n'est-ce pas ? " " It is good, is it not ?"
92:5. Timon. A Greek of the time of the Peloponnesian War
and the cynical hero of Shakespeare's Timoti of Athens, He was
called "The Misanthrope" from his attitude of disgust toward peo-
ple in general.
93 : 2. " Bazin, aubergiste, loge a pied." "Innkeeper, lodging
for pedestrians. At the sign of the Maltese cross."— 16. Zola's
description of the marriage party. See Zola's VAssojuinoir,
Chap. iii.
97:15. Hotel de Ville. A town-hall.
99: 22. Miserere. The chant in the Roman Catholic service be-
ginning, "Miserere mei Domine." Pity me, Lord.
loi : 17. Jubilate Deo. The chant beginning "Jubilate Deo."
Shout for joy unto the Lord. — 29. A department. One of the
sections into which France is divided for government.
103 : 26. Deo Gratias and Four Sons of Aymon. The names of
canal-boats seen a day or two before on the canal.
106 : 23. Gargoyled. Decorated with gargoyles, water-spouts
carved to represent the heads of strange and hideous beasts. —
27. Louis XII. King of France, 1498-1515.
108:4. Via Dolorosa. The Dolorous Way, the street along
which Jesus Christ passed to his crucifixion.
112 : 6. Feuilletons. A portion of a French newspaper devoted
to light literature, or, as here, articles in this part of the paper.
113 : 16. Bradshaw's Guide. The Fnglish railway guide, named
from its originator. — 20. Walt Whitman. American poet,
1819-1892.
115: 17. Nirvana. In the Buddhist system of religion Nirvana
is the final saving of the soul from transmigration, and hence the
happy freedom from all the evils of worldly existence.
117:28. Great Assizes. The assizes in England are sessions of
1
Notes vii
the county or circuit court, hence the Great Assizes means the last
judgement.
119 : 28. Ex voto. As a votive offering.
122:2. Zelatrice. A zealous person. The term is often used
for a nun who is put in charge of the younger women in a con-
vent. — 6. Dizaine. Ten prayers. — 18. The exciseman. Burns.
— 28. Euclid. The Greeic geometrician who wrote the first trea-
tise on geometry. The term, Euclid, is used in general for geome-
try.
125: I. Marionettes. Puppets moved by strings as in a Punch
and Judy show.
127 : 29. " 'Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all."
— Tennyson, In iMemoriam, xxvii.
128 : 2. Endymion. A mythological youth with wliom Diana fell
in love. — 3. Audrey. A country maiden in Shakespeare's As
You Like ft. — 6. Snood. A rilihon which binds the hair of a
young unmarried Scotchwoman. — 11. Chateau Landon. A vil-
lage near l''ontaineblcau. — 24. Seine et Marne. The department
in which is the forest <jf l-'ontaineijleau.
130 : 10. Mesdames et Messieurs, etc. " Toadies and gentlemen.
Mademoiselle Kerrario and Monsieur de Vauversin will have the
honor <jf singing this evening the following selections. Mademoi-
selle Fcrrario will sing ' Mignon,' 'Swift liirds,' 'France,' 'French-
men sleep there,' 'The IJluc Caslle,' 'Where are you going?'
Monsieur dc Vauversin will sing ' Madame Fontaine and Monsieur
Robinct,"The Divers on Horsel)ack,' ' Tlie I )issalisried Husband,'
'Keep silent, my boy,' 'My Queer Neighbour,' ' Happy as it is,'
' llow one is fleccivcd.' "
133:6. Tenez, messieurs, etc. \ow, gentlemen, I will tell
you what it is. — 25. Pyramus and Thisbe. For a humorous
performance of the old story of Pyramus and Thisbe, sec MiJsumiuer
NiqhCs Dream.
viii Inland Voyage
134:1. The unities. Aristotle laid down the laws long observed
by writers of drama that every play should observe unity of time,
i.e. keep the time of the play within the limits of one day ; unity
of place, i.e. that there should be no change of place ; and unity
of action, i.e. that the action or story should be constantly followed.
135 : 8. Theophile Gautier. A French poet and critic of the
nineteenth century.
NOTES
TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY
[The heavy figures are for the page, and the lighter ones for the line.]
Robert Louis Stevenson and Sir Walter Simpson, after the re-
turn from their " inland voyage," were so enthusiastic that they
straightway planned another trip, a tramping trip among the moun-
tains. Sir Walter, however, was not a good walker, and after some
delays finally gave up the plan ; but Stevenson, to whose romantic
nature the thought of walking through an unfamiliar country and
spending the night by the roadside in his sleeping-bag appealed
strongly, purchased a donkey and set out from Monastier on the 23d
of September, 1878. His account of the twelve days' trip, written
from the journal that he kept from day to day, is full of romantic
and human interest. As liefore, he gained health and experience,
on the whole happy, and received twenty pounds for his story.
3:1. Le Monastier. For a longer account of this mountain village
sec Stevenson's A Mountain Town in France. — 6. Legitimists,
etc. The Legitimists favoured the old line of Bourbon kings ; the
Orleanists, the Prince of Orleans ; the Imperialists, the son of Louis
Napolecjn ; and the Republicans, the republic established after the
Kranco-I'russian War of 1870. — 12. Poland. Since its partition,
I'uland has been the seat of fierce political dissensions.
5:21. Respirator. An instrument for lircathing through, used
by persons with weak lungs or by those employed where tliere is
dust, smoke, or gas.
6 : 25. Sixty-five francs. A franc is e(|ual to about twenty cents.
— 27. Modestine. A fanciful name suggesting small si/.e and
modest s\avs.
8:12. Christian. The traveller in I'.unyan's Piltp-ini^s Progress.
i
ii Travels with a Donkey
ri:26. "Et vous marchez comme^a!" "And you go like
that ! "
12 : 8. Deus ex machina. " A god from the machine," i.e. from
a theatrical contrivance by which a deity is made to appear on the
scene to help or protect his favourites. — 27. A countryman of
the Sabbath. The Sabbath is observed in Scotland v/ith unusual
strictness.
13 : 20. Homer's Cyclops. A rude and lawless people living on
the tops of lofty hills and in hollovk^ caves. See The Odyssey,
Book ix.
15 : 8. Hypothec. A Scottish legal term for a landlord's right
over the property of his tenant in security for debt. Here then it
means the whole property.
16 : 8. Acolytes. Those who have been ordained to the highest
of the four minor orders in the Roman Catholic church. Assistant
clergymen.
22:22. Dur comme un ine. Tough as a donkey.
26: 10. Napoleon Buonaparte of wolves. A famous wolf that
ranged certain districts of France for some years and was the sub-
ject of wildly extravagant tales. When it was killed in 1787, it
was found to be of ordinary size. — 21. Alexander Pope. A poet
of the eighteenth century, 1 688-1 744. — The little corporal. A
nickname for Napoleon. — 23. M. Elie Berthet. Author of Bele
du Gevaudan (Beast of Gevaudan), 1815-1891.
27 : 9. Caryatides. Draped female figures used in ornate build-
ings in place of plain pillars, so called from Caryae, a village in
Greece where there was a temple of Diana. — 25. "D'OU 'st que
vous venez ? " " Where do you come from ? "
30:1. Herbert Spencer. An English philosopher and writer,
1 820- 1 903. Stevenson implies that a student of philosophy should
be above a belief in ghosts and fairies.
32 : 16. "A little farther," etc. See Milton's Samson Agonistes,
1. I.
33 : 12. "C'est que, voyez-vous, 11 fait noir." "But then, you
Notes iii
see, it is dark." — i6. "Mais — c'est — de la peine." "But it
is troublesome." — 2o. " Ce n'est pas 9a." "That isn't it." —
21. "Mais je ne sortirai pas de la porte." "But I am not going
to cross the door."
34 : 1. "C'est vrai, 9a." "That is true." — 2. "Oui, c'est vrai.
Et d'oii venez-vous?" "Yes, tliat is true, and whence have you
c(jme ? " — 21. " C'est que, c'est que — il fait noir." " But then,
but then, it is dark."
35 : 10. Filia barbara pater barbarior. The daughter barbar-
ous, the father ipore barljaruus.
37:6. Neat brandy. Brandy pure, unadulterated; specifically,
not mixed with water, undiluted.
38 : 24. Pastors of the Desert. A history of the Protestant per-
secution in France, especially interesting to one about to go into
the country of the Camisards.
39 : 3- Ulysses, left on Ithaca. See The Odyssey, Book xiii, for
the return of L'lysses to his home in Ithaca while he was asleep,
and for his surprise on waking.
40 : 23. Lady of all Graces. The Virgin Mary.
41:9. Balquidder and Dunrossness. Remote Protestant par-
ishes in Scotlaml and ihc Shetland Islands.
43 : 9. .£sop. The famous (Ircek writer of fables. Look up the
fable of the man who carried his donkey.
47:7. Wordsworth. An Knglish poet, 1770-1850. See his
sonnet called, rrnuU -vere ye mouulitins, when in time of old.
— 13. Trappist. The Trappists are a monastic body, a branch of the
Cistercian order, so caller! fr<im the village of Saligny-la-Trappe in
France, where the abbey of La Trappc was founded in 1140, The
rules of the order are very severe as will be seen from Stevenson's
account. There arc two liranchcs of the order in the United States;
the Abbey of flcthscniani- in I'<nnsylvania, and one at Melleray,
Iowa. — 13. Our Lady of the Snows. A monastery so nameil
from its position among the hills in the region of snow.
48:1. Sheets of characters. I'icturcs sold in sheets. See " A
Iv Travels with a Donkey
Penny Plain and Two-pence Coloured " in Stevenson's Memories and
Portraits.
50 : 10. Dr. Pusey. An English clergyman who advocated the
return to doctrines and forms of worship like those of the Roman
Catholic church. Some of his associates joined the church of
Rome, but Dr. Pusey remained in the English church.
51 : 15. Father Hospitaller. The monk appointed to receive
strangers.
53 : 5. MM. les retraitants. Persons who have retired to the
monastery for a short time for rest and meditati(^, but who have
not joined the order. Stevenson refers to them later as boarders.
— 7. The Imitation. 7'he Imitation of Christ, a religious book by
Thomas a Kempis, a German abbot (1380-1471). — 8. Elizabeth
Seton. An American protestant who joined the church of Rome
in 1805 and founded the Sisters of Charity. — 12. Cotton Mather.
A Puritan theologian of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries
who was a leader of religious thought in Massachusetts. — 21. "Le
temps libra," etc. "Their free time is to be used for inward
thought, for confession, and for forming good resolutions. "
54:19. Basil, Hilarion, Raphael, Pacifique. Famous monks of
different times and countries. — 21. Veuillot and Chateaubriand.
French authors of comparatively recent time. — 22. Moliere. The
great French dramatist of the seventeenth century. Stevenson
expresses his surprise that dramas, poetry, and modern French
literature should be found here where attention was given so
exclusively to things religious.
57 : 8. Mortification. Subduing the passions and appetites by
abstinence and severities inflicted on the body. — 14. Cistercian.
The Cistercian monks were an old order bound together by severe
rules and intense devotion to religion.
58 : 3. Chapter-room. The room where the monks of the order
fthe chapter) meet for business. — 3. The refectory. The dining-
hall. — 4. Office. A prescribed service of the church.
59:11. Compline. The religious exercise which closes the ser-
Notes V
vices of the clay. — II. Salve Regina. A hvmn to the N'irgin
Mary in the Roman Catholic breviary.
60: II. "Que t'as de belles filles." French song.
" What beautiful daughters you have,
Girofle, Girofla,
What beautiful daughters you have,
Love will number them."
62:23. Gambetta. A French statesman prominent after the
Franco-Prussian War. — 27. "Comment, monsieur?" "How is
that, sir ? How is that ? "
63 : 21. " Et V0U3 pr^tendez mourir," etc. " And you expect to
die in that sort of belief."
64 : 8. Gaetulian Lion. Gaetulia was a district in ancient times
in northwestern Africa, now included in Morocco.
65: 19. "C'est men conseil comme," etc. "That is my advice
as a former soldier and this gentleman's as a priest." — 22. "Oui,
comme ancien," etc. "Yes, as an old soldier and a priest."
66:7. "A faddling hedonist." Hedonists were philosophers
who exalted the gralilicali(m of the senses, or put ])leasure first.
67:8. "La parole est k vous." This phrase means, "It is
your turn to speak." Hut ])robably what Stevenson intended to
say was wo/ — ■" it is your word."
69:8. "HS, bourgeois; il est cinq heures." " Hey, citi/en, it
is live o'clock."
73:26. Montaigne. A French essayist, 1 533-1 592.
74 : 3. Bastille. The famous prison in Paris that fell at the
time of the 1' r(n< h Revolution.
79 : 14. The Lozdre. A mountain in the Cevcnnes in a district
also callc'l I.ozere.
80:3. Montpellier and Cette. Towns in France on the shore
of the Mediterranean. — 17. Grand Monarch. I.ouis XI\'. —
20. The Camisards. The Protestants of the Cevcnnes who rose
in 1702 in an insurrection against the persecutions of Louis
vi Travels with a Donkey
XIV. The insurrection lasted three years and ended with or
soon after the death of their leader, Roland Laporte, mentioned
here as Roland.
8i : 9. Jersey. An island in the English Channel.
82: 10. Florentin. A band of Roman Catholics, so called from
St. Florent, a small town where they organized.
84:17. Carlisle. An English town near the Scotch border. —
18. Dumfries. A Scotch town near the English border, made
famous as the residence and burial place of Robert Burns.
86:9. Patet dea. Appears as a goddess. — 21. Archbishop
Sharpe. James Sharpe, Archbishop of St. Andrews, was killed in
1679 by the Covenanters, a company of Scotch who fought fiercely
to maintain their Presbyterian form of worship when England tried
to force the forms of the English church upon them. See Scott's
Old Mortality, for a vivid picture of the time. It is not strange
that this young Scotchman should draw comparisons between the
Covenanters and the Camisards.
87 : 2. Marshal Villars. The French general who put down the
Camisard insurrection. — 18. Galleys. Ancient seagoing vessels
propelled by oars. The labor of rowing was often performed by
slaves or prisoners of war. In France criminals were commonly
condemned to this service.
89 : 22. Scavenger's Daughter. Corruption of Skevington's
daughter. " An instrument of torture, invented by Sir Wm. Skev-
ington, which so compressed the body as to force the blood to
flow from the nostrils and sometimes from the hands and feet."
Am. Cyc. — 29. Baal. Chief god of the Canaanites. See i Kings
xviii. 17-40.
92 : 6. Killiecrankie. A pass in the Grampian mountains of
Scotland, where Claverhouse, the persecutor of the Scotch Cove-
nanters, fell in 1689.
94 : 29. Joani and Salomon. Camisard leaders.
95: II. Antony Watteau. A French painter of the early eight-
eenth century.
Notes vii
99:3. " Connaissez-vous le Seigneur?" "Do you know the
Lord?" — 22. Moravians. A small but thoroughly devoted sect
that have made themselves well known both in Europe and America
by their simplicity of life and remarkable missionary zeal. They
are best known in this country in Pennsylvania.
100 : 26. Christian and Faithful. Two of the characters in Ban-
yan's Pilgrim^ s Progress.
102 : 21. Those who took to the hills, etc. This gloomy trait
of character so ajiparent in the Scotch Covenanters is most clearly
illustrated in the character of Balfour of Burley, in Scott's Old
Mortality.
104 : 8. Mauchline, etc. In the country districts of Scotland,
especially among the unlettered, they still remember the Cove-
nanters, but in towns the people have largely forgotten these con-
tests for a free religion. Stevenson, therefore, takes special notice
of a different condition existing in Southern France.
108: 14. A la belle 6toile. Literally, under the beautiful star;
in the open air.
113:13. Naaman. Fur the beautiful story of Naaman, see 2
Kings v.
114:18. Bruce and Wallace. The greatest military heroes of
Scotland.
115:7. "Cependant, coucher dehors 1" " However, to sleep out
of doors ! "
116:4. Sir Cloudesley Shovel. A I'.riiish admiral on the
Mediterranean with a lleet at the lime of the Camisard insurrection.
118:7. Pippa. In the poem /';//(/ /V7,r.r«, by Robert Browning.
127:15, "Oui.c'est comme^a. Commedans le nord ! " "Yes,
that is the way it is. Just a.s in the North." — 24.
•' And, 0.
The difierence to me ! "
Sec Wordsworth's poem beginning, "She dwell among the untrod-
den ways."
TEACHERS' OUTLINES
FOR STUDIES IN ENGLISH
Based on the Requirements for Admission to College
By GILBERT SYKES BLAKELY, A.M., Instructor in
English in the Morris High School, New York City.
50.50
THIS litde book is intended to present to teachers
plans for the study of the English texts required for
admission to college. These Oudines are full of
inspiradon and suggestion, and will be welcomed by every
live teacher who hitherto, in order to avoid ruts, has been
obliged to compare notes with other teachers, visit classes,
and note methods. The volume aims not at a discussion of
the principles of teaching, but at an application of certain
principles to the teaching of some of the books most
generally read in schools.
^ The references by page and line to the book under
discussion are to the texts of the Gateway Series; but the
Outlines can be used with any series of English classics.
^[ Certain brief plans of study are developed for the
general teaching of the novel, narrative poetry, lyric
poetry, the drama, and the essay. The suggestions are
those of a practical teacher, and follow a definite scheme
in each work to be studied. There are discussions of
methods, topics for compositions, and questions for review.
The lists of questions are by no means exhaustive, but
those that are given are suggestive and typical.
^ The appendix contains twenty examinations in English,
for admission to college, recently set by different colleges
in both the East and the West.
AMERIQAN BOOK COMPANY
<S87)
A HISTORY OF ENGLISH
LITERATURE
By REUBEN POST HALLECK, M.A. (Yale),
Louisville Male High School. Price, ^1.25
HALLECK'S HISTORY OF ENGLISH LIT-
ERATURE traces the development of that litera-
ture from the earliest times to the present in a
concise, interesting, and stimulating manner. Although the
subject is presented so clearly that it can be readily com-
prehended by high school pupils, the treatment is sufficiently
philosophic and suggestive for any student beginning the
study.
^i The book is a history of literature, and not a mere col-
lection of biographical sketches. Only enough of the facts
of an author's life are given to make students interested in
him as a personality, and to show how his environment
affected his work. Each author's productions, their rela-
tions to the age, and the reasons why they hold a position
in literature, receive adequate treatment.
^1 One of the most striking features of the work consists in
the way in which literary movements are clearly outlined at
the beginning of each chapter. Special attention is given to
the essential qualities which differentiate one period from
another, and to the animating spirit of each age. The author
shows that each period has contributed something definite
to the literature of England.
^f At the end of each chapter a carefully prepared list of
books is given to direct the student in studying the original
works of the authors treated. He is told not only what to
read, but also where to find it at the least cost. The book
contains a special litcriirv map of l'"i))'!ancl in ( olors.
AMKRICAN BOOK C(JIV1PANY
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INTRODUCTION TO
AMERICAN LITERATURE
By BRANDER MATTHEWS, A.M., LL.B., Profes-
sor of Literature, Columbia University. Price, $i.oo
EX-PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT, in a most ap-
preciative review in The Bookman, says : "The
boolc is a piece of work as good of its kind as any
American scholar has ever had in his hands. It is just
the kind of book that should be given to a beginner, be-
cause it will give him a clear idea of what to read, and of
the relative importance of the authors he is to read ; yet it
is much more than merely a book for beginners. Any
student of the subject who wishes to do good work here-
after must not only read Mr. Matthews' book, but must
largely adopt Mr. Matthews' way of looking at things,
for these simply written, unpretentious chapters are worth
many times as much as the ponderous tomes which con-
tain what usually passes for criticism ; and the principles
upon which I\Ir. Matthews insists with such quiet force
and good taste are those which must be adopted, not
only by every student of American writings, but by every
American writer, if he is going to do what is really worth
doing. ... In short, Mr. Matthews has produced
an admirable book, both in manner and matter, and has
made a distinct addition to the very literature of which he
writes."
^[ The book is amply provided with pedagogical features.
Each chapter includes questions for review, bibliograph-
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at the end of the volume is a brief chronology of American
literature.
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY
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COMPOSITION-RHETORIC
By STRATTON D. BROOKS, Superintendent of
Schools, Boston, Mass., and MARIETTA HUB-
BARD, formerly English Department, High School,
La Salle, 111. Price, Si-oo
THE fundamental aim of this volume is to enable pupils
to express their thoughts freely, clearly, and forcibly.
At the same time it is designed to cultivate literary
appreciation, and to develop some knowledge of rhetorical
theory. The work follows closely the requirements of the
College Entrance Examination Board, and of the New
York State Education Department.
^[ In Part One are given the elements ot description, narra-
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treatment of the four forms of discourse already discussed is
furnished in Part Two. In each partis presented a series of
themes covering these subjects, the purpose being to give the
pupil inspiration, and that confidence in himself which comes
from the frequent repetition of an act. A single new princi-
ple is introduced into each theme, and this is developed ii:
the text, and illustrated by carefully selected examples.
^[ The pupils are taught how to correct their own errors,
and also how to get the main thought in preparing their
lessons. Careful coordination with the study of literature
and with other school studies is made throughout the book.
^[ The modern character of the illustrative extracts can not
fail to interest every boy and girl. Concise summaries are
given followingthctreatmcntofthcvariousforms of discourse,
and toward the end of the book there is a very comprehensive
and compact summary of grammatical principles. More than
usual attention is devoted to the treatment of argument.
AMERICAN BOOK COMl^ANY
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NINETEENTH CENTURY
ENGLISH PROSE
Critical Essays
Edited with Introductions and Notes by THOMAS H.
DICKINSON, Ph.D., and FREDERICK W. ROE,
A.M., Assistant Professors of English, University ot
Wisconsin. Price, ^l-oo-
THIS book for college classes presents a series of ten
selected essays, which are intended to trace the
development of English criticism in the nineteenth
century. The essays cover a definite period, and exhibit
the individuality of each author's method of criticism. In
each case they are those most typical of the author's crit-
ical principles, and at the same time representative of the
critical tendencies of his age. The subject-matter provides
interesting material for intensive study and class room dis-
cussion, and each essay is an example of excellent, though
varying, style.
•[y They represent not only the authors who write, but
the authors who are treated. The essays provide the
best things that have been said by England's critics on Swift,
on Scott, on Macaulay, and on Emerson.
^ The introductions and notes provide the necessary bio-
graphical matter, suggestive points for the use of the teacher
in stimulating discussion of the form or content of the essays,
and such aids as will eliminate those matters of detail that
might prove stumbling blocks to the student. Though the
essays are in chronological order, they may be treated at
random according to the purposes of the teacher.
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY
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ESSENTIALS IN HISTORY
ESSENTIALS IN ANCIENT HISTORY . ^1.50
From the earliest records to Charlemagne. By
ARTHUR MAYER WOLFSON, Ph.D., First
Assistant in History, DeWitt Clinton High School,
New York
ESSENTIALS IN MEDIEVAL AND MODERN
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From Charlemagne to the present day. By SAMUEL
BANNISTER HARDING, Ph.D , Professor of
European History, Indiana University
ESSENTIALS IN ENGLISH HISTORY . $1.50
From the earliest records to the present day. By
ALBERT PERRY WALKER, A.M., Master in
History, English High School, Boston
ESSENTIALS IN AMERICAN HISTORY. ^1.50
From the discovery to the present day. By ALBERT
BUSHNELL HART, LL.D., Professor of History,
Harvard University
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Each of the writers is a trained historical scholar, familiar
with the conditions and needs of secondary schools.
^1 The effort has been to deal only with the things which
are typical and characteristic; to avoid names and details
which have small significance, in order to deal more justly
with the forces which have really directed and governed
mankind. Especial attention is paid to social hi.story.
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AMKRICAN BOOK COMPANY
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THE MASTERY OF BOOKS
By HARRY LYMAN KOOPMAN, A.M., Librarian
of Brown University. Price, 90 cents
IN this book Mr. Koopman, whose experience and
reputation as a librarian give him unusual qualifications
as an adviser, presents to the student at the outset the
advantages of reading, and the great field of literature
open to the reader's choice. He takes counsel with the
student as to his purpose, capacities, and opportunities in
reading, and aims to assist him in following such methods
and in turning to such classes of books as will further the
attainment of his object.
^ Pains are taken to provide the young student from the
beginning with a knowledge, often lacking in older readers,
of the simplest literary tools — reference books and cata-
logues. An entire chapter is given to the discussion of
the nature and value of that form of printed matter which
forms the chief reading of the modern world — periodical
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^ One of the most valuable chapters in the volume to
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AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY
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INTRODUCTORY COURSE
IN EXPOSITION
By FRANCES M. PERRY, Associate Professor of
Rhetoric and Composition, Wellesley College.
J5I.OO
EXPOSITION is generally admitted to be the most
commonly used form of discourse, and its successful
practice develops keen observation, deliberation,
sound critical judgment, and clear and concise expression.
Unfortunately, however, expository courses often fail to
justify the prevailing estimate of the value of exposition,
because the subject has been presented in an unsystem-
atized manner without variety or movement.
^[ The aim of this book is to provide a systematized
course in the theory and practice of expository writing.
The student will acquire from its study a clear under-
standing of exposition — its nature ; its two processes,
definition and analysis ; its three functions impersonal
presentation or transcript, interpretation, and interpretative
presentation ; and the special application of exposition in
literary criticism. He will also gain, through the practice
required by the course, facility in writing in a clear and
attractive way the various types of exposition. The
volume includes an interesting section on literary criticism.
^1 The method used is direct exposition, amply reinforced
by examples and exercises. The illustrative matter is
taken from many and varied sources, but much of it is
necessarily modern. The book meets the needs of
students in the final years of secondary schools, or the
first years of collc^'c.
AMERICAN \U)()K COMPANY
DESCRIPTIVE
CATALOGUE OF HIGH
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TEXTBOOKS
Published Complete and in Sections
WE issue a Catalogue of High School and College
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