The humiliation of their arms and the loss of Alsace and Lorraine
made a sore pull on the endurance of this 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; 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 without abhorrence; and I never feel
more warmly to my own land than when I see the Stars and Stripes,
and remember what our empire might 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 pastoral pieces, not without a touch of
poetry, I thought, and instinct with the brave independence of the
poorer class in France.  There you might read how the wood-cutter
gloried in his axe, 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 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 not of
victory, but of death.  There was a number in the hawker's
collection called 'Conscrits Francais,' 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 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 influence of
national songs, you would say France was come to a poor pass.  But
the thing will work its own cure, 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, and
move slowly; but they are written in a grave, honourable, 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 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 over-night in the custody of one whom we
shall call Carnival.  I did not properly catch his name, and
perhaps 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
premises we strolled in the course of the day, and found quite a
little deputation inspecting the canoes.  There was a stout
gentleman with a knowledge of the river, which he seemed eager to
impart.  There was a very elegant young gentleman in a black coat,
with a smattering of English, who led the talk at once to the
Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race.  And then there were three handsome
girls from fifteen to twenty; and an old gentleman in a blouse,
with no teeth to speak of, and a strong country accent.  Quite the
pick of Origny, I should suppose.

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 shudderings over the dangers of our journey.  And I
thought it would be ungallant not to take my cue from the ladies.
My mishap of yesterday, told in an off-hand way, produced a deep
sensation.  It was Othello over again, with no less than three
Desdemonas and a sprinkling of sympathetic senators in the
background.  Never were the 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.'

'Oh! 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 another, 'and then
tum-tumty-tum'--he imitated the result with spirit.

Was not this a graceful little 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 attached 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 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 point, stole
away again.

We all got very friendly together.  The girls proposed to start
with us on the morrow, if you please!  And, jesting apart, every
one was anxious to know the hour of our departure.  Now, when you
are going to crawl into your canoe from a bad launch, a crowd,
however friendly, is undesirable; and so we told them not before
twelve, 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 was 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.

Suddenly we sighted the three girls standing, with a fourth sister,
in front of a shop on the wide selvage of the roadway.  We had been
very merry with them a little while ago, to be sure.  But what was
the etiquette of 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.

'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-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 altogether 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.  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 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 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.

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 the roadway dipped and melted before our eyes?
Probably 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 swiftly.  Roadside trees and disappointed
sightseers, returning through the 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 chalk
kilns.

The lamps were lighted, and the salads were being made in Origny
Sainte-Benoite by the river.



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.

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 France, who thought nothing so small,
not even a lark or a minnow, but he might vindicate his prowess by
its capture.  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 feeling 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 Danois!' as Gaston Lafenestre used to say.

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 disrespect--nor hear him wake the echoes of
Fontainebleau 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.  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 it a good test of others, how much
they had learned to understand and value him.  His was indeed a
good influence 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 and cheerful countenance, and took
fortune's worst as it were the showers of spring.  But 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 Channel:  besides
those which were stolen, when a dastardly Yankee left him alone in
London with two English pence, and perhaps twice as many words of
English.  If any one who reads these lines should have a scene of
sheep, in the manner of Jacques, with this fine creature's
signature, let him tell himself that one of the kindest and bravest
of men has lent a hand to decorate his lodging.  There may be
better pictures in the National Gallery; but not a painter among
the generations had a better 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 peace-maker, 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 Fontainebleau; and
when the dessert comes in at Barbizon, people look to the door for
a figure that is gone.

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, 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 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 yourself,' or
a 'Henri, you can surely talk without making such a noise.'
Indeed, that was what the honest fellow could not do.  On the most
trifling matter his eyes kindled, 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 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!  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 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; and our
own logic particularly, for it is generally wrong.  We never know
where we are to end, if once we 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 appetites,
know a thing or two that have never yet been stated in controversy.
Reasons are as plentiful as blackberries; and, like fisticuffs,
they serve impartially with all sides.  Doctrines do not stand or
fall by their proofs, and are only logical in so far as they are
cleverly put.  An able controversialist no more than an able
general demonstrates the justice of his cause.  But France is all
gone wandering after one or two big words; it will take some time
before they can be satisfied that they are no more than words,
however big; and when once that is done, they will perhaps find
logic less diverting.

The conversation opened with details of the day's shooting.  When
all the sportsmen of a village shoot over the village territory pro
indiviso, it is plain that many questions 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 bien! sacristi,' and the statement, waxing louder, rolls off
into a reverberation of oaths, the speaker glaring about for
sympathy, and everybody nodding his head to him in the name of
peace.

The ruddy Northman told some tales of his own prowess in keeping
order:  notably one of a Marquis.

'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,' 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 general
comparison of Paris and the country.  The proletarian 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 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 bien, quoi, c'est magnifique,
ca!' cried he.

The sad Northman interfered in praise of a peasant's life; he
thought Paris bad for men and women; 'centralisation,' 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!
What a glance for an eye!'  And 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 France.  I could hardly have shot more amiss.  There
was an instant silence, and a great wagging of significant heads.
They did not fancy 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, although I had
not spoken, 'I am afraid there is less liberty 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 concluded at once it was on
some religious question, and brushed up our memories of the
Inquisition, which were principally drawn from Poe's horrid story,
and the sermon in Tristram Shandy, I believe.

On the morrow we had an opportunity of going further into the
question; for when we rose very early to avoid a sympathising
deputation at our departure, we found the hero up before us.  He
was breaking his fast on white 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 Scotsmen and a Frenchman to discuss during a long 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 suspected our mistake.  The terms and spirit
in which he spoke of his political beliefs were, in our eyes,
suited to religious beliefs.  And vice versa.

Nothing could be more characteristic of the two countries.
Politics are the religion of France; as Nanty Ewart would have
said, 'A d-d bad religion'; while we, at home, keep most of our
bitterness for little differences 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.

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 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


Carnival notoriously cheated us at first.  Finding us easy in our
ways, he regretted having let us off so cheaply; 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 moment 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 I walked beside him in silence or answered him in
stately courtesies; and when we got to the landing-place, 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 bridge.  We were as pleasant
as we could be with all but Carnival.  We said good-bye, shaking
hands with the old gentleman who knew the river and the young
gentleman who had a smattering of English; but never a word for
Carnival.  Poor Carnival! here was a humiliation.  He who had been
so much identified with the 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 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.

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 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.

The young ladies, the graces of Origny, were not present at our
start, but when we got round to the second bridge, behold, it was
black with sightseers!  We were loudly cheered, and for a good way
below, young lads and lasses ran along the bank still cheering.
What with current and paddling, we were flashing along like
swallows.  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 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 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, 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 away man with his
fancies like a straw, and runs fast in time and space.  It is full
of curves like this, your winding 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 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 although it were the
same acre, it will no more be the same river of Oise.  And thus, O
graces of Origny, although the wandering fortune of my life should
carry me back again to where you await death's whistle by the
river, 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 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 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 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 mismanagement, and only a
third part to the river itself, and that not out of malice, but
from its great preoccupation 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 contortion 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, break-neck gallop, when we came upon a hamlet and
asked where we were, we had got no farther than four kilometres
(say two miles and a half) from Origny.  If it were not for the
honour of the thing (in the Scots 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 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 shouting 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 digestion.  Hurry is the resource of the
faithless.  Where a man can trust his own heart, and those of his
friends, to-morrow is as good as to-day.  And if he die in the
meanwhile, why then, there he dies, and the question is solved.

We had to take to the canal in the course of the afternoon;
because, where it crossed the river, there was, not a bridge, but a
siphon.  If it had not been for an excited 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 Cigarette:  who, because his knife
came from Norway, narrated all sorts of adventures in that country,
where he has never been.  He was quite feverish at the end, and
pleaded demoniacal possession.

Moy (pronounce Moy) was a pleasant little village, gathered round a
chateau in a moat.  The air was perfumed with hemp from
neighbouring fields.  At the Golden Sheep we found excellent
entertainment.  German shells from the siege of La Fere, Nurnberg
figures, gold-fish in a bowl, and all manner of knick-knacks,
embellished the public 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 excellence herself.
After every dish was sent in, she would come and look on at the
dinner for a while, with puckered, blinking eyes.  'C'est bon,
n'est-ce pas?' she would say; and when she had received a proper
answer, she disappeared into the kitchen.  That common French 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 were fond of
being philosophical, and scorned long journeys 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 elegant pleasure-seekers took the first of the morning.
In this way, all the world may be an aristocrat, and play the duke
among marquises, and the reigning monarch among dukes, if he will
only outvie them in tranquillity.  An imperturbable demeanour comes
from perfect patience.  Quiet minds cannot be perplexed or
frightened, but go on in fortune or misfortune at their own private
pace, like a clock during a thunderstorm.

We made a very short day of it to La Fere; but the dusk was
falling, and a small rain had begun before we stowed the boats.  La
Fere is a fortified town in a plain, and has two belts of rampart.
Between the first and the 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 cookery came abroad upon the
air.  The town was full of the military reserve, out for the French
Autumn Manoeuvres, 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.

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
Fere.  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 all the poplared countryside!  It made our mouths water.  The
inn bore the name of some woodland animal, stag, or hart, or hind,
I forget which.  But I shall never forget how spacious and how
eminently habitable it looked as 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 rattle of many dishes came to our
ears; we sighted a great field of table-cloth; the 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 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 believe 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 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 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 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.

'Out with you--out of the door!' she screeched.  'Sortez! sortez!
sortez par la porte!'

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 like
a disappointed mendicant.  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 heart?  This was not the first time
that I have been refused a 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.

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 upon the subject like
a course of lectures.  As long as you keep in the upper regions,
with all the world bowing to you as you go, social arrangements
have a very handsome 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 offer them twopence for
what remains of their morality.

For my part, when I was turned out of the Stag, or the Hind, or
whatever it was, I would have set the temple of Diana on fire, if
it had been handy.  There was no crime complete enough to express
my disapproval of 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 particularised a complaint for every joint in the
landlady's body.  Timon was a philanthropist alongside of him.  And
then, when he was at the top of his maledictory bent, he would
suddenly break away and begin whimperingly to commiserate the poor.
'I hope to God,' he said,--and I trust the prayer was answered,--
'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.  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
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 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 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 smoking; and we
were very glad indeed when the drums and 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 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 decorative painter in his youth.  There were such
opportunities for self-instruction there, he said.  And if any one
has read Zola's description of the workman's marriage-party
visiting the Louvre, they would do well to have heard Bazin 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 a spark.'  We asked him how he managed in
La Fere.  'I am married,' he said, 'and I have my pretty children.
But frankly, it is no life at all.  From morning to night I pledge
a pack of good enough fellows who know nothing.'

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 Bazin.
At the guard-house opposite, the guard was 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
suppose; 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!

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 spectacle of their married life.  And
there was yet another item unchanged.  For these people's
politeness really set us up again in our own esteem.  We had a
thirst for consideration; the sense of insult was still hot in our
spirits; and civil usage seemed to restore us to our position in
the world.

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 were healed of some slights by the thanks that I
gave them in my manner?




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, 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 they are
startled, and you see them galloping to and fro with their
incongruous forms and faces.  It gives a feeling as of great,
unfenced pampas, and the herds of wandering nations.  There were
hills in the distance 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 cannon of
heaven joined in that loud play.  Two continents of cloud met and
exchanged salvos overhead; while all round the horizon we could see
sunshine and clear air upon the hills.  What with the guns and the
thunder, the herds were all frightened in the Golden Valley.  We
could see them tossing their heads, and running 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 hooves thundering abroad over the meadows.  It had
a martial sound, like cavalry charges.  And altogether, as far as
the ears are concerned, we had a very rousing battle-piece
performed for our amusement.

At last the guns and the thunder dropped off; the sun 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, and we could see nothing but clay sides, and one willow
after another.  Only, here and there, we passed by a village or a
ferry, and some wondering child upon the bank would stare after us
until we turned the corner.  I daresay we continued to paddle in
that child's dreams for many 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 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 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 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 performance.  What
a number of things a river does, by simply following Gravity in the
innocence of its heart!



NOYON CATHEDRAL



Noyon 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 another, in the oddest disorder;
but for all their scrambling, they did 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 Ville, they grew emptier and more
composed.  Blank walls and shuttered windows were turned to the
great edifice, and grass grew on the white causeway.  'Put off thy
shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is
holy ground.'  The Hotel du Nord, nevertheless, lights its secular
tapers 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 down broadly on the earth, it looks like the poop of
some great old battle-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 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 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 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 tesselated pavement of roofs and gardens; the old line of rampart
was plainly traceable; 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 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 forest in detail.  The height of spires cannot be
taken by 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 transcended itself, and became
something different and more 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 preacher itself, and
preaches day and night; not only telling you of man's art and
aspirations in the past, but convicting 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.

As I sat outside of the hotel in the course of the afternoon, 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 act or two of the play, but I could never rightly make out
the nature of the service I beheld.  Four or five priests and as
many choristers 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 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 Virgin and child upon a table.  The priests and
choristers arose from their knees and followed after, singing 'Ave
Mary' as they went.  In this order they made the circuit of the
cathedral, passing twice before me where I leaned against a pillar.
The priest who seemed of most 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 burthen of the
chaunt, were stout, brutal, military-looking men of forty, with
bold, over-fed eyes; they sang with some lustiness, and trolled
forth 'Ave Mary' like a garrison 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
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.  Indeed it
would be difficult not to understand the Miserere, 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 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 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 play-house reverend fathers may see
what can be done with a little art, and how, to move high
sentiments, it is necessary to drill the supernumeraries 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 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 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
probably to recall their own experience; so many friends dead, so
many hopes disappointed, so many slips and stumbles, and withal so
many bright days and smiling providences; there is surely the
matter of a very eloquent sermon in all this.

On the whole, I was greatly solemnised.  In the little pictorial
map of our whole Inland Voyage, which my 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 priests as 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 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 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 Scottish Highlands, where
there are not enough fine intervals to point the difference.  That
was like to be 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 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 over the misfortune of La Fere;
we forecast other La Feres in the future;--although things went
better with the Cigarette for spokesman; he had more aplomb
altogether than I; and a dull, positive way of approaching 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 spend ones autumn
holiday.'

'About as mean,' returned I dejectedly, 'as canoeing.'

'These gentlemen travel for their pleasure?' asked the landlady,
with unconscious irony.