Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

Go to bed; and should you bathe your feet beforehand--which if you are of our faction you will do--walk over the tiled floor of the inn bed-room, that you may have a fit opportunity of abusing tiled floors, and of relieving yourself of all the spleen in your nature before the next morning. Then, if both your mood and the day be favourably disposed, sally forth to the eastern corner of the town, and you will have a fair view over one of the loveliest valleys that nature's profuse hand ever gifted with beauty; the soft clear stream of the Vire too, is there, winding sweetly along between the green sloping hills and the rich woods, and the fields and chateaux, and hamlets, and the sunshine catching upon all its meanderings, and the birds singing it their song of love, as its calm waters roll bountifully by them. Look upon it, and you will not find it difficult to imagine how the soul, even of an obscure artisan in a remote age, warmed into poetry and music in the bosom of that valley, and by the side of that stream.

It, then, in that beautiful Vale of Vire, not many years agone at Francois Lormier went out to take his last May walk with Mariette Duval, ere the relentless conscription called him from his happy home, his sweet valleys, and his early love. It was a sad walk, as may well be imagined; for though the morning was bright, and nature, to her shame be it spoken, had put on her gayest smiles as if to mock their sorrow, yet the sunshine of the scene could not find its way to their hearts, and all seemed darkened and clouded around them. They talked a great deal, and they talked a long time; but far be it from me to betray their private conversation. I would not, for all the world--especially as I know not one word about it--except, indeed, that François Lormier vowed the image of Marietta should remain with him for ever; should inspire him in the battle, and cheer him in the bivouac; and that Mariette protested she would never marry anybody except François Lormier, even if rich old Monsieur Latoussefort, the great Foulan, were to lay himself and fortune at her feet; and in short, that when his "seven long years were out," François would find her still a spinster, and very much at his service.

"Mais si je perdais une jambe?" said François Lormier.--"Qu'est ce que c'a fait?" replied Mariette.

They parted--and first to follow the lady. Mariette wept a great deal, but soon after got calm again, went about her ordinary work, sang her song, danced at the village fête, talked with the talkers, laughed with the laughers, and won the hearts of all the youths in the place, by her unadorned beauty and her native grace. But still she did not forget François Lormier; and when any one came to ask her in marriage, the good dame her mother referred them directly to Mariette, who had always her answer ready, and with a kind word and gentle look sent them away refused, but not offended. At length good old Monsieur Latoussefort presented himself with all his money-bags, declaring that his only wish was to enrich his _gentile_ Mariette; but Mariette was steady, and so touchingly did she talk to him about poor François Lormier, that the old man went away with the tears in his eyes. Six months afterwards he died, when, to the wonder of the whole place, he left his large fortune to Mariette Duval!

In the mean while François joined the army, and, from a light handsome conscript, he soon became a brave, steady soldier. Attached to the great Northern army, he underwent all the hardships of the campaigns in Poland and Russia, but still he never lost his cheerfulness, for the thought of Mariette kept his heart warm, and even a Russian winter could not freeze him. All through that miserable retreat, he made the best of every thing. As long as he had a good tender piece of saddle, he did not want a dinner; and when he met with a comfortable dead horse to creep into, he found board and lodging combined. His courage and his powers of endurance called upon him, from the first, the eyes of one whose best quality was the impartiality of his recompense. François was rewarded as well as he could be rewarded; but at length, in one of those unfortunate battles by which Napoleon strove in vain to retrieve his fortunes, the young soldier, in the midst of his gallant daring, was desperately wounded in the arm. The star of Napoleon went down, and foreign armies trod the heart of France.

Pass we over the rest.--Mutilated, sick, weary, and ragged, François approached his native valley, and doubtful of his reception--for misery makes sad misanthropes--he sought the cottage of Madame Duval. The cottage was gone; and on inquiring for Madame Duval, he was directed to a fine farm-house by the banks of the stream. He thought there must be some mistake, but yet he dragged his heavy limbs thither, and knocked timidly against the door.

"Entrez!" cried the good-humoured voice of the old dame. François entered, and unbidden tottered to a chair. Madame Duval gazed on him for a moment, and then rushing to the stairs called loudly, "Come down, Marlette, come down, here is François returned!" Like lightning, Mariette darted down the stairs, saw the soldier's old great-coat, and flew towards it--stopped--gazed on his haggard face, and empty sleeve, and, gasping, fixed her eyes upon his countenance. 'Twas but for a moment she gaz12ed on him thus in silence; but there was no forgetfulness, nor coldness, nor pride about her heart--there was sorrow, and joy, and love, and memory in her very glance.

"Oh François, François!" cried she, at length, casting her arms round his neck, "how thou hast suffered!" As she did so, the old great-coat fell back, and on his breast appeared the golden cross of the legion of honour. "_N'importe!_" cried she, as she saw it, "_Voilà ta récompense_." He pressed her fondly to his bosom. "My recompense is here," said he, "my recompense is here!"

THE PAINTINGS.

A painter must raise his ideas beyond what he sees, and form a model of perfection in his own mind, which is not to be found in reality, but yet such a one as is probable and rational.--RICHARDSON.

When I was a child, nothing pleased me so much as the woodcuts in Gay's fables, and my nurse could do any thing with me if she promised me a pretty picture. The taste has grown up with me, and I have as much difficulty in passing a printseller's window without looking in, as some people have in passing a book-stall. In returning from our ramble, we fell upon a shop of the kind; but that which most amused us was an engraving of the departure of Louis XVIII., on the return of Napoleon from Elba. In truth, there was little to be represented, except the good old king getting into his carriage in a great fright. But the object of the painter was to represent the sorrow of the people of Paris; and for this purpose he has drawn the two sentinels in tears, one hiding his eyes with his hand, and the other on his knees, not a little embarrassed with his musket, while a great many other tragic attitudes were expended in the background. Frenchmen in many of their undertakings seem striving to do better than nature, and, consequently, nine times out of ten they caricature what they attempt. Their most glaring efforts of this kind are in painting and engraving, and there they appear to have totally forgotten that the _beau ideal_ does not consist in generating what nature never produced, but in assembling the most beautiful objects which naturally harmonize together.

Painting is one of the most purely imitative of the arts, and the utmost licence which its greatest masters have allowed it, is simply the power of choosing and combining what is pleasing to the eye, and rejecting all that can offend it. This, however, does not content the present school of painting in France. They must have something such as never was, and never will be, and in their colouring especially they have succeeded to a miracle.

David's naked Spartans are brilliant instances of how far art can go beyond nature; for certainly never was any thing seen under heaven like the skins of those polished gentlemen. Take away the shields and helmets, and a very slight alteration would convert the three hundred arming for Thermopylæ, into Diana and her nymphs bathing; and even then they would be somewhat too pretty, for without doubt the goddess's hunting-parties, gave her a much more russet tint than David has thought proper to bestow upon the hardy warriors of Greece.

Perhaps the great corrector of all things, time, may deprive these pictures of their adventitious glare of colouring; but even then, though they may be admired for their fine bold outline, one violent defect can never be banished, the forced and extravagant attitudes of some of the principal figures. David had certainly a strange penchant for sans-culotteism; he never missed an opportunity of leaving his heroes without any apparel except a helmet, which sits rather preposterously on a naked man.

The grand and dignified simplicity of the ancient masters forms a most striking contrast with the laboured and overcharged productions of the present French school. A modern painter, certainly possessing very great talent, has attempted a picture of the deluge. He has crowded into it great many horrors, all very horrible; but the principal group will be sufficient. It consists of a family vainly endeavouring to escape from the surrounding destruction by climbing a rock in the foreground. The agonies of such a moment might have been expressed most touchingly, had the artist chosen to keep within the bounds of moderation: but no, he must out-herod Herod; and, consequently, he has contrived to make one of the most dreadful situations the human mind can conceive actually ludicrous.

The principal figure is that of a man, who, like pious Æneas, carries his father on his back, certainly not in the most elegant or picturesque attitude possible, while with one hand he pulls his wife up after him rather unceremoniously. The wife for her part suffers considerable inconvenience from a young gentleman behind, who, having a mortal aversion to being drowned, has got his mother fast hold by the hair, by means of which he almost pulls her head off her shoulders.

The whole family are certainly not very comfortably situated; and, in fact, the old gentleman who is riding on his son's shoulders is the only one at all at his ease, and he appears to have a very good seat, and not to care much about it. Yet I have heard this picture lauded to the skies both in France and England.

Poussin painted a picture on the same subject. It scarcely could be surpassed. The scene is a wild mountainous desert, which the ever-rising waters have nearly covered. The ark is seen floating in the distance, and a solitary flash of lightning, shown dimly through the thick rain, breaks across the lurid clouds in the background. Amongst the dull bleak rocks in front, a monstrous serpent winds its way slowly up, to avoid the growing waves. The sky lowers upon the earth, and the earth looks heavily back to the sky: all is wild, silent, and solemn; one awful gloom, and mighty desolation.

In every art but that of music, and perhaps even there in a degree, nature furnishes us with a standard by which to regulate our taste. In judging of what is most beautiful in nature herself, there may be many opinions; but that which is out of nature altogether must always be in bad taste. The same Being which formed every thing in this beautiful world formed equally our minds to enjoy and admire it. He made nature for man, and man for nature, with perfect harmony between his soul and all that surrounds it; and the least deviation from those forms, to which the great Artist restrained his work is discord to the human mind. Whenever we see any thing distorted from its original shape, or represented in circumstances in which it could not have been placed, without thinking, of why, our taste revolts as from something impossible and untrue.

With respect to engraving I can say but little, as I have no knowledge of the art; but it strikes me that in modern French prints, at least, there is hardness without force, and feebleness without softness; nor have I ever seen the beautiful roundness of flesh well represented.

A French, artist of some merit assured me, one morning, that the arts had now migrated from Italy to receive their highest degree of perfection in France. In that point, I believe, every other nation on the face of the earth will be found to differ from this favoured people.

But there is, however, one observation to be made, not only with respect to painting, but to all other arts. They are far more generally diffused in France than in England. The French have always conceived perfection in the arts to be a part of the national glory. Their king and statesmen have thought the encouragement of arts and sciences at home, to be as much a part of their duty, as the defence of their country in the field, or the maintenance of its interests in the cabinet; and the wise spirit which has actuated them of course has produced its result upon the minds of the people. The taste for what is beautiful--one great step to the taste for what is good--is general throughout France, and every one strives to gratify it in its degree. Amongst us it is the wealthy and the great alone, who have the inclination to seek, or the power to patronize, the arts; and paintings or statues are found almost solely in their collections. In France, every second person is taught to draw, whether he succeeds or not. Every little town has its gallery and museum; all the world are admitted to study if they like, and improve if they can; and the chimney-sweep and the peer stand side by side to criticise or admire.

THE LOVER'S LEAP.

Hei milli quod nullis amor est medicabilis herbis.

A walk through a strange town after dark possesses fully as much interest as a walk in the day-time, if it be but well timed and properly conducted. There is a pleasure in the very act of exploring, which can never be so fully enjoyed as when we find our way through any unknown place half hidden in the obscurity of night. But it is necessary that it should not be all darkness. We should choose our time when the greater part of the people have shaken off the load of cares which weigh them down in the light, and when national character walks forth freed from the bonds of daily drudgery: yet it should be long before man has extinguished his mimicry of heaven's best gift, and whilst most of the shops are lighted up, shining out like diamonds in the gloom around.

I had been preaching this doctrine to my friend after dinner, till I fairly persuaded him to turn theory into practice, and try a night ramble in the town of Dieppe; though our landlord, Monsieur Petit, who, looking upon us as true Englishmen, doubtless counted upon our drinking another bottle if we stayed at home, informed us that there was absolutely _nothing_ to be seen in Dieppe, for that the _theatre_ was closed.

However, forth we sallied, like the Knight of La Mancha and his Squire, in quest of adventures. At first we tumbled over some posts, and then hid nearly fallen into the basin; but after this we found our way into some of the principal streets, which were all filled with a sauntering do-nothing crowd, and ringing with the idle merry laugh which always springs from the careless heart of a Frenchman as soon as he is free from labour or pain. There is no medium with him; merriment or melancholy, and as much of the first with as little of the last as Heaven chooses to send.

At the bottom of one of the streets was a low Gothic archway, with a swinging door, which we saw move backwards and forwards to admit several persons of a more serious demeanour than the rest. After considering whether it was love or religion made them look so grave, we concluded that it was the latter, and determined to attempt, in person, the adventure of the swinging door, which soon admitted us into a long high aisle. All was darkness except, where, at the further extremity, appeared an illuminated shrine, from which sundry rays found their way down the far obscurity of the church, catching, more and more faintly, as they came upon the tall columns and the groins of the arches, and throwing out the dark figures of the devotees who knelt before the altar. The side aisles and more remote parts of the building were scarcely at all affected by the light; but passing up in the shadow of the arches to the right, we came suddenly upon a young couple engaged in earnest conversation. Probably two of the many whose open communion is barred by the hand of circumstance, and who had chosen that spot to tell the feelings they were forced elsewhere to hide.

The facility which the ceremonies of the Roman Catholic religion lend to intrigue, requires no comment. But too often the ever-open churches on the Continent are made a place of rendezvous; frequently with thoughts which such a sacred spot should scare, but often also for more pardonable purposes.

I remember a circumstance of the kind which happened under my own eyes; but ere I begin to tell it or any other story, let me premise that, as most of my tales are true tales, and as many of the people who figure in them are still acting their part upon life's busy stage, I must bargain for one concealment throughout, and take care not to give the name of the particular person who played this or that part on this or that occasion. Indeed, most frequently, I shall not even put down, with any degree of accuracy, the name of the town or place in which the various events occurred, for this very simple reason; that, making no pretensions to novelty or invention, and all that I relate being simple matter of fact, well known in the place where it occurred, the anecdotes I relate would be easily attached to those who were the principal actors therein.

Under this discreet view of the case, then, the distinctive appellation of the town, city, or burgh, in which the following circumstances occurred, shall be as tightly sealed up in silent secrecy as a bottle of Hervey's sauce, Ball's patent mustard, or any other savoury thing which it is difficult to open. However, though I do not give the name, I may at least give the description, which, indeed, is necessary to the right understanding of my story.

In a part of France, not a hundred miles from the fine port of St. Malo, stands a town containing some eight thousand inhabitants; anciently a fortified place of considerable strength. It is pitched on the pinnacle of a high hill, with its antique battlements, covered with time's livery, the green ivy and the yellow lichen, still frowning over the peaceful valleys around, and crowning the rocky ridge which confines the river Rance. That valley of the Rance is as lovely as any in Europe; now spreading out for miles, it offers a wide basin for the river, which, extending in proportion; looks like a broad lake; now contracting to a narrow gorge, it confines the stream between gigantic rocks that rise abruptly from its edge, and sombre woods that dip their very branches in its waters. But it is where the town, which I have just mentioned, first bursts upon the sight, that the scenery is peculiarly picturesque. Winding through a deep defile of rocks, which cut off the neighbouring view and throw a dark shadow over the river, the stream suddenly turns a projecting point of its shores, and a landscape of unequalled beauty opens on the sight. Rich wooded valleys, with soft green slopy sides, broken with crags, and diversified with hamlets, are seen diverging in every direction, with the Rance winding forward in the midst of them; while high in air, lording it over all around, rises the stately rock on which the town is placed, with wall and battlement and tower hanging over its extreme verge. In front, and apparently immediately under the town, though in reality at about two miles distant from it, lies a high craggy piece of ground, which the water would completely encircle were it not for a narrow sort of isthmus which joins it to its parent chain of hills. This is called the _Courbúre_, from the turn which the river makes round it; and I notice it more particularly from being the exact scene of my story's catastrophe.

In the town which I have above described, lived, sometime ago, a very pretty girl, whom I shall designate by the name of Laure. Her mother was well to do in the world; that is to say, as things go in Brittany, where people can live splendidly for nothing at all, and do very well for half as much. However, _Madame_ could always have her _pot au feu_ and her _poulet à la broche_, kept two nice country lasses, one as cook and the other as _fille de chamber_, and had once a-year the new fashions from Paris to demonstrate her gentility. Laure's father, too, had left the young lady a little property of her own, amounting to about eighty pounds per annum; so that, being both a fortune and a belle, all the youth of the place, according to the old Scotch song, were

Wooing at her,
Pu'ing at her,
Wanting her but could nae get her.

However, there was something about Laure which some called pride, and others coldness; but which, in truth, was nothing more nor less than shyness, that served for some time as a complete safeguard to her maiden heart. At length the angel, who arranges all those sort of things, singled out a young man at Rennes, called Charles ---- and gave him a kick with his foot, which sent him all the way from Rennes to the town in which Laure abode. It is but thirty miles, and angels can kick much farther, if we may believe the Normans. (I cannot stop for it now; but some other time, when the reader is in the mood, I may relate that Breton story of Saint Michael and the Fiend, and you shall hear how the saint kicked him from hill to hill for forty leagues or more.)

However, Charles's aunt lived not far from Laure's mother, and many a time had she vaunted the graces of her nephew's person. According to her account he was as tall and as straight as a gas-lamp-post, as rosy as a Ribston pippin; with eyes as brilliant as a red-hot poker, teeth as white as the inside of a turnip, and his hair curling like the leaves of a Savoy cabbage; in short, he was an Adonis, after her idea of the thing: and Laure, having heard all this, began to feel a sort of anxious palpitating sort of sensation when his coming was talked of, together with sundry other symptoms of wishing very much to fall in love.

At length his arrival was announced, and Madame ---- and Mademoiselle Laure were invited to a _soirée_ at the house of Charles's aunt. Laure got ready in a very great hurry, resolving, _primo_, to be frightened out of her wits at him; and, _secondo_, not to speak a word to him. However, the time came, and when she got into the room, she found Monsieur Charles quite as handsome as his aunt had represented: but, to her great surprise, she found him to be quite as timid as herself into the bargain. So Laure took courage upon the strength of his bashfulness; for though it might be very well for _one_, she saw plainly it would never do for _two_. The evening passed off gaily, and Laure, as she had determined from the first, went away over head and ears in love, and left the poor young man in quite as uncomfortable a condition.

I need not conduct the reader through all the turnings and windings of their passion. Suffice it to say, that both being very active, and loving each other very hard, they had got on so far in six weeks, that their friends judged it would be necessary to marry them. Upon this Laure's mother and Charles's aunt met in form to discuss preliminaries. They began a few compliments, went on to arrange the money matters, proceeded to differ upon some trivial points, grew a little warm upon the subject, turned up their noses at each other, quarrelled like Turks, and abused each other like pickpockets. Charles's aunt called Laure's mother an old cat, or something equivalent! and Laure's mother vowed that Charles should never have her daughter, "she'd be hanged if he should!"

The two young people were in despair. Laure received a maternal injunction never to speak to that vile young man again: together with a threat of being locked up if she were restive. However, the Sunday after Pâques, Laure's mother was laid up with a bad cold, and from what cause does not appear, but Laure never felt so devout as on that particular day. She would not have staid away from mass for all the world. So to church she went, when, to her surprise and astonishment, she beheld Charles standing in the little chapel of the left aisle. "Laure," said he, as soon as he saw her, "ma chère Laure, let us get out of the town by the back street, and take a walk in the fields."

Laure felt a good deal too much agitated to say her prayers properly, and, looking about the church, she perceived that, as she had come half an hour before the time, there was nobody there, so slipping her arm through that of her lover, she tripped nimbly along with him down the back street, under the Gothic arch and high towers of the old town gate, and in five minutes was walking with him in the fields unobserved.

Now what a long sad pastoral dialogue could one produce between Laure and Charles as they walked along, setting forth, in the language of Florian, and almost in the language of Estelle, the poetical sorrows of disappointed love. It would be too long, however; and the summary of the matter is, that they determined that they were very unhappy--the most miserable people in existence--now that they were separated from each other, there was nothing left in life worth living for. So Laure began to cry, and Charles vowed he would drown himself. Laure thought it was a very good idea, and declared that she would drown herself too. For she had been reading all Saturday a German romance, which taught such things; and she thought what a delightful tale it would make, if she and Charles drowned themselves together; and how all the young ladies would cry when they read it, and what a pretty tomb they would have, with "Ci gissent Charles et Laure, deux amans malheureux!" written upon it in large black letters; and, in short, she arranged it all so comfortably in her own mind, that she resolved she would not wait a minute.

As ill luck would have it, they had just arrived at that rocky point which I have before described, called the _Courbúre_, when Charles and Laure had worked each other up to the necessary pitch of excitement and despair. The water was before them, and the only question was, who should jump in first, for the little landing-place from which they were to leap would hold but one at a time. Charles declared that he would set the example. Laure vowed it should be no one but herself: Charles insisted, but Laure, being nearest the water, gained the contested point and plunged over.

At that moment the thought of what he was going to do came over Charles's mind with a sad qualm of conscience, and he paused for an instant on the brink. But what could he do? He could not stand by and see the girl he loved drowned before his face, like an intruding rat or a supernumerary kitten. Forbid it heaven! Forbid it love! So in he went too--not at all with the intention of drowning himself, but with that of bringing Laure out; and, being a tolerable swimmer he got hold of her in a minute.

By this time Laure had discovered that drowning was both cold and wet, and by no means so agreeable as she had anticipated, so that when Charles approached, she caught such a firm hold of him as to deprive him of the power of saving her. It is probable that under these circumstances, her very decided efforts to demonstrate her change of opinion might have effected her original intention, and drowned them both, had not a boat come round the _Courbure_ at that very moment. The boatman soon extricated them from their danger, and carried them both hone, exhausted and dripping, to the house of Laure's mother. At first the good lady was terrified out of her wits, and then furiously angry; but ended, however, by declaring, that if ever they drowned themselves again, it should not be for love, and so she married them out of hand.

THE CHÂTEAU.

A naked subject to the weeping clouds,
And waste for churlish Winter's tyranny.
--King Henry IV. _Second Part_.

We intended to proceed on our journey the following morning, but our valet-de-place, who had a longing for more five-franc pieces, put in the claims of the old château of Arques, and we went to visit it next day.

I am fond of ruins and old buildings in general, not alone for their picturesque beauty, but for the various trains of thought they excite in the mind. Every ruin has its thousand histories; and could the walls but speak, what tales would they not tell of those antique times to which age has given an airy interest, like the misty softness with which distance robes every far object.

No one ought to pass by Dieppe, without visiting the old castle and town of Arques. It is but a short ride, and the road is far from uninteresting. The fields are rich, highly cultivated, and decked with a thousand flowers, and at some distance before reaching Arques, the ruin is seen on the height above, standing in the solitary pride of desolation.

A ruin ought always to be separate from other buildings. Its beauties are not those which gain by contrast. The proximity of human habitations takes from its grandeur. It seems as if it leant on them for support in its age. But when it stands by itself in silence and in solitude, there is a dignity in its loneliness, and a majesty even in its decay.

Passing through Arques, the château is at some distance, on the height which domineers the town. The hand of man has injured it more than that of time. Many of the peasants' houses are built of the stone which once formed its walls; and the government has, on more than one occasion, sanctioned this gradual sort of destruction.

What remains of it has, I believe, been either sold or granted to some one in the town: but, however, a gate has been placed, and some other precautions taken to prevent its further dilapidation.

A pale interesting boy, with large blue Norman eyes, brought the keys and admitted us within the outer walls; but a weak castellan for those gates which once resisted armies! for in truth he could scarcely push them open. A few more years, and the château d'Arques will be nothing. It, is, however, still an interesting sight, and so many remembrances hang by it, that one is forced to dream. Memory is like the ivy which clothes the old ruin with a verdure not its own.

The county of Talou, of which Arques was the capital, was given by William the Conqueror to his uncle, in order to attach him more sincerely to the crown, but the gift had not that effect. Revolt against his benefactor was the first project that entered into his head, and he built the castle of Arques, in order to fortify himself in his new possessions. There he for some time resisted the forces of the king, and yielded not until his troops were little better than skeletons with hunger and fatigue.

William revenged himself by clemency, and again loaded his ungrateful uncle with favours, wishing, as his historians say, rather to attach him by benefits, than to pursue him as a rebel.

It was here also that the faithful Helie de Saint Saen resisted the endeavours of Henry I. to carry off the young heir of Normandy, and from hence he fled with his protégé, demanding from the neighbouring powers assistance for the child of his dead benefactor.

During the various wars of England and France, sieges and battles innumerable passed by the château d'Arques, like waves beating against a rock. But the last most splendid deed it looked on before its ruin, was the defeat of the armies of the Ligue by Henry IV. of France, the last chevalier. In the life, in the words, in the actions, even in the faults of Henry IV., there is the grand generosity of a bright and ardent spirit, that mingling of great and amiable qualities which excites interest as well as admiration.

The Ligueurs were ten to one, but; as he said, he had God and his good right, and he conquered. The same free spirit that bore him through the battle dictated the manner in which he announced it to his friend in the well-known words: "Pends toi, brave Crillon, nous avons combattu à Arques; et tu n'y étais pas!" Had he written pages he could not have expressed half so much!

One of those same happy speeches of Henry IV. would appear to have been dexterously borrowed by an Italian poet. In those days of peril, when no regal distance could exist between the king and his subjects, Bassompierre's bed lay next to that of the monarch, and Aubigny's next to him--and both fancied that Henry slept. "Our master is ungrateful," said Bassompierre; "he casts all good things at the feet of the Ligueurs, and we, who have served him with our fortunes and our blood, are in absolute want."

"What say ye, there?" cried the king. "Do you not know that I am obliged to _buy_ these Ligueurs? but you are my own."

"Pardon, pardon, Sire!" exclaimed Bassompierre, alarmed for the effects of his indiscretion.

"Parle donc! parle donc!" replied Henry. "Le roi dort, c'est un ami qui t'écoute."

Very nearly the same idea is expressed by Metastasio, in the Clemenza di Tito--

_Tito_-- Odimi! O Sesto!
Siam soli i. Il tuo Sovrano,
Non è presente. Apri il tuo core a Tito,
Confedati all' amico. Io ti prometto,
Che Augusto nol saprâ.

It is possible, however, that Metastasio never thought of Henry IV. when he made Titus speak thus; add, even if he did, the idea was well adapted, for both in the character of Henry and that of Sully, there is an antique simplicity which seems essential to grandeur of mind. I know not how it is, but one naturally looks upon Sully as a Roman. He too fought at Arques by the side of his master; and it is impossible to gaze over the plain without feeling that it is a place where great deeds might be well performed.

From the edge of the hill, about a hundred yards from the château, is seen the whole field of battle. It is a beautiful scene, with the wide plain, below, and the river meandering through it; the heights of St. Étienne, beyond, and the valley narrowing towards Dieppe. On the other hand rises a high woody hill, with a road winding down to the town, and the ruins of the castle standing solitary in the midst.

It was at a beautiful time, too, that I saw it. One of those bright autumn days when the clouds, and the sunshine, and the blue sky seem all interwoven together. A heavy black storm came sweeping upon the wind, and for a minute or two involved every thing in mist and in darkness, and then passed away, leaving behind a rich rainbow, and nature more beautiful for her tears, and the sun shining out on the gray ruin, seeming to smile at the decay of man's fabrics, while the works of Heaven remain unchanged and ever new.

LA GALETTE.

Hunger, that most domineering of all tyrants, took advantage of our ramble to bully us sadly; and though we had not neglected to satisfy his morning demands, before we set out from Dieppe, he contrived to force us into a dirty little cottage at Arques, which the people called "l'Auberge!" It was the strangest combination of kitchen, and pig-sty, and hen-roost, that ever I saw.

Cooking and cackling and grunting were all going on at once when we arrived, and some of the joint produce was offered for our luncheon, in form of a dish of eggs and onions, swimming together in lard. The people of the house seemed to consider this mess as the acme of cookery; but in spite of sundry epithets bestowed upon it, such as _charmant_, _délicieux_, etc., we had bad taste enough to prefer some plain boiled eggs, whose friendly shells had kept them from all contamination.

I suppose that particular dishes become as it were national property, because they are so nasty that no one can eat them, except those who are brought up to it; but certainly when our mouths have been seasoned to any of these national messes in our youth, every thing else seems flat, stale, and unprofitable. They are so intimately combined with all our early recollections, that, in after years, they form no small link in that bright chain of memory which binds our affection so strongly to the days of our infancy.

It is all very bathotic and gross, I know; but, nevertheless, salt salmon and peas to a Fleming, gruyere to a Swiss, or barley broth and oatmeal porridge to a Scot, will do more to call up old and sweet remembrances of home and happiness, and early days, than the most elaborate description. But all this is nothing to the power which a _galette_ has morally and physically upon a native of Brittany.

I do not mean to speak any thing profanely, but had Eve been a Bretonne, Satan might have offered her an apple to all eternity. She would not have said _thank you_ for it. Nay, had it been a whole apple-pie, she would but have turned up her nose, and we might all have been in Paradise up to this present one thousand eight hundred and twenty-seven. He might have prated about knowledge too, as long as he liked; it would not have made any difference, for the Bretonnes have seen no bluestockings since Madame de Sévigné's time, and I never could find ten of them that knew the difference between London and Pekin, or that wished to know it. But if the tempter had offered her a _galette_, good bye Paradise! She could never have withstood it. She would but have bargained for a little milk, and a piece of butter, and gone out as quietly as my fire is doing at this moment.

But it may be necessary to explain what sort of a thing a _galette_ is; the receipt is as follows:

Take a pint of milk or a pint of water, as the case may be, put it into a dirty earthen pan, which has never been washed out since it was made; add a handful of oatmeal, and stir the whole round with your hand, pouring in meal till it be of the consistency of hog-wash. Let the mess stand till next morning, then pour it out as you would do a pancake upon a flat plate of heated iron, called a _galettier_; ascertain that it be not too hot, by any process you may think fit. In Brittany they spit upon it. This, being placed over a smoky wood fire, will produce a sort of tough cake called a _galette_, which nothing but a Breton or an ostrich can digest.

In this consists the happiness of a Breton, and all his ideas somehow turn upon this. If you ask a labouring man where he is going, he answers, "Manger de la galette;" If it rains after a drought, they tell you, "Il pleut de la galette;" and the height of hospitality is to ask you in "pour manger de la galette."

I remember a curious exemplification of what I have said above, which occurred to, me, during a former residence in Brittany. All orders of monks, except that of La Trappe, having been long abolished in France, it is very rare ever to meet with any, except when some solitary old devotee is seen crossing the country upon a pilgrimage, and then he is always distinguished by the "cockle hat and staff," under which insignia he passes unquestioned; being considered _in bond_, as mercantile folks would say. However, as I was passing one day through Evran, I was surprised to see a regular Capuchin, walking leisurely through the streets without any symptoms of pilgrimage about him. He was a very reverend-looking personage, clad in his long dark robes, with his cowl thrown back upon, his shoulders, and his high forehead and bald head meeting the sun unshrinkingly, as an old friend whom they had been accustomed to encounter every day for many a year. His long beard was as white as snow, and a single lock of hair on his forehead marking where the tonsure had ended, made him look like an old Father Time turned Capuchin.

He was a native of Brittany, I learnt, and had quitted his convent during the revolution; not, indeed; with any intention of breaking the vow he had taken, or of abandoning the mode of life he had chosen: but it was in order to seek an asylum in some foreign country for himself and his expelled brethren. This he found in Italy, and now, after a thirty years' absence, he had returned under a regular passport to sojourn for a while in his own land.

The motives for such a man's return puzzled me not a little. The ties between him, and the world were broken. Memory and early affections, I thought, could but have small hold on him: or was it because the past was so contrasted with the present, that it had become still dearer to remembrance?

It was not long before I found means to introduce myself to him, and discovered him to be both an amiable and intelligent man. After some conversation, my curiosity soon led me to the point. "It is a long way to travel hither from Italy, father," said I, "and on foot."

"I have made longer journeys, and for a less object," replied he.

"True," I went on, "this is your native land, and whither will not the love of our country lead us."

The Capuchin smiled. "I did not come for that," said he.

"Probably you had relations or friends whom you remembered with affection," I added; my curiosity more excited than ever.

"None that I know of," replied the monk.

"You think me very inquisitive," said I.

"Not in the least," he answered; "I am very willing to satisfy you."

"Then let me ask you," I continued, "if you came hither for some great religious object."

"Alas! no, my son," he replied. "You give me credit for more zeal or more influence than I possess."

"Yet, surely, you had some motive for coming all this way on foot," said I, putting it half as a question, half as an established position.

"Oh, certainly," he replied, "I had a motive for my journey, and one that is all-sufficient to a native of Brittany. But it was not from any great religious or any great political motive; nor was it either to see my country, my family, or my friends."

"Then for what, in the name of heaven, did you come?" exclaimed I.

"Pour manger de la galette," replied the monk.

ENGLISH TRAVELLERS ON THE CONTINENT.

C[oe]lum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt.--HORACE.

It was late ere we returned to Dieppe, and we were sauntering quietly up stairs towards our own apartments, when a waiter, carrying in a portion of the evening meal to some guests in the public room, showed just sufficient of the well-lighted _salon_, to tempt us in. On entering we learned that the table d'hôte supper was over, but we found seated at the hospitable board of Monsieur Petit, who never suffered any one to go away empty who was inclined to eat, an English traveller, who, like ourselves, had arrived too late. A man who wishes to make any thing of travelling ought to put all his prejudices in the lumber-room before he sets out, and if he finds them musty when he comes back, so much the better. On the road they are the most inconvenient part of his baggage, never useful, and always in the way. There are few people who adhere to their prejudices more strongly than the English. We are insular in more than geographical situation, and amongst the multitude of our countrymen, with the multitude of their feelings, character, and pursuits, one out of a thousand is not to be met with on the continent, who is not just as prejudiced as when he set out--perhaps more so, for finding a strong confirmation of many of his pre-conceived ideas, he takes it as a confirmation of _all_, and intrenches himself the more firmly in his original opinions.

It may seem like heresy to say it, but, after having visited many countries, I am still inclined to think that France in its various parts, notwithstanding its proximity to our own country, retains more points of interest, more of the _couleur locale_, than any other land. But an Englishman, who travels to see France and French people, ought always to dine at the table d'hôte, wherever he finds one. The higher classes of all nations are too nearly alike to offer any very striking points of difference to a casual observer, for the general principle of all is to conceal what they feel and what they think, at least in public; but the mixture of a table d'hôte affords almost always something worth studying. It is in such circumstances that we find the most legible pages in the book of human nature. The classes of Englishmen travelling in France are somewhat altered since Sterne's time. The economical traveller is not so simple as he was then: there are also travellers who go for luxury; there are travellers for novelty; there are travellers for information; and there are travellers who journey forth into the world from the mere necessity of locomotion. These last are very numerous amongst the English. One of this class, finding the disease coming on violently, builds himself a low carriage, with very substantial wheels, and plenty of room for his feet. He furnishes it with all the peculiar luxuries of London, strews the left-hand seat with novels, and, placing himself in the interior, with his servant behind, draws up the windows, and fancies he is travelling through Europe. The profound meditations which he enjoys in the inside of his painted box are seldom if ever interrupted, except when the carriage stops, and he asks, "John, where am I?" The servant holds open the door, touches his hat, and replies, "At Rome, sir!" and the traveller, yawning, walks into the inn.

There are several varieties of this class merging into others. One morning a party of them came into the aisle, when I was in the cathedral at Rouen (a very beautiful specimen of Gothic building, let criticism say what it will). The only attention they gave it was one vacant stare, which wandered heedlessly over the rich ornaments and the most magnificent combination of arches that architecture can produce--swore it was _fine_, _very fine_, and walked out. I asked the valet-de-place who accompanied us, how long English travellers staid in general, when they visited the cathedral. He said, "About five minutes; but if they staid longer at all, they generally made it nearly as long as we had been."

I am not particularly given to cathedral hunting, nor am I fond of what Forsyth calls "picking the bare bone of antiquity," but when I meet with any thing either beautiful in itself, or which awakens in my mind a pleasing train of ideas, I am apt to give it more than five minutes.

At ---- I met with another traveller, still more decidedly locomotive. He was a very gentlemanly young man, and I think might have been something better, but habit had given his mind a sad twist. I asked him what he thought of the Pyrenees, from whence he had just arrived. He replied that "the roads were very fine;" he had gone nine miles an hour up and down hill. I inquired if he had been at Bagnères de Luchon. "Oh, yes," answered he, "I rode there from Bagnères de Bigorre in six hours." Such seemed to have been the amount of his observations on one of the most beautiful countries of Europe. He was travelling against time.

Many who travel for health, without the command of a very large fortune, lose, I am convinced, as much by the want of those comforts they are accustomed to at home, as they gain by change of air. However, I am equally certain that the mind has far greater power over the body than we generally imagine; and that the mere rapid change of scene and incident acts as powerfully as any medicine in the Pharmacop[oe]ia.

Those who come abroad for economy may certainly now find it either in France or Germany. In almost all parts of Italy they will find themselves deceived. There is one thing, however, to be observed, which is, that English people on the continent do not save by the cheapness of the country only, but they economize by living as foreigners do.

There is another class of travellers who come abroad to procure greater luxuries than they can in England on the same income. I should be sorry to censure a large portion of my countrymen, but I think that those are scarcely excusable, who have neither curiosity nor desire of information, nor limited means, nor ill-health to plead, but who, with sufficient to maintain their rank in society at home, habitually spend their fortune in a foreign country. Their virtue at all events is not patriotism.

DIEPPE--THE EVENING.

Certes he was a most engaging wight,
Of social glee and wit humane tho' keen,
Turning the night to day and day to night.
CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

The traveller we met at Dieppe could be included in none of the classes I have just mentioned. He was a young officer of artillery returning from the Ionian Isles. He had travelled much in Italy and Greece, had a great deal of information, was willing to communicate it, and communicated it well.

I feel myself under a debt to every one who gives me an agreeable half-hour; and certainly the evening we spent in his society left a very pleasant impression behind it. For the first few days after we have quitted our native land, we feel a certain degree of loneliness, which makes us creep closer to any stray countryman we may happen to meet, than our national reserve would permit us to do under any other circumstance. On our part, therefore, there was no backwardness, and our young officer had been travelling so long, that I dare say he never remembered what the word _stranger_ meant. In a foreign country, knowing no one, we were thrown upon each other for amusement, and we were not long in finding it. Each told his anecdote and his tale. We peopled the little salon at Dieppe with characters from every quarter of the globe. We forgot the place, and the time, and more than one hour had waned after midnight before we retired to rest.

Much of what passed is gone from my recollection, but, amongst other questions, I remember asking what was the state of a college which had been founded in a distant country, by a noble countryman of ours?