Percy Fitzgerald - A Day\'s Tour
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Percy Fitzgerald >> A Day\'s Tour
[Illustration: PRICE ONE SHILLING.
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY.]
[Illustration]
A DAY'S TOUR
A Journey through France and Belgium
BY
_CALAIS, TOURNAY, ORCHIES, DOUAI, ARRAS, BETHUNE,
LILLE, COMINES, YPRES, HAZEBROUCK,
BERGUES, AND ST. OMER_
WITH A FEW SKETCHES
BY
PERCY FITZGERALD
[Illustration]
London
CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1887
PREFACE.
This trifle is intended as an illustration of the little story in
'Evenings at Home' called 'Eyes and No Eyes,' where the prudent boy
saw so much during his walk, and his companion nothing at all.
Travelling has become so serious a business from its labours and
accompaniments, that the result often seems to fall short of what was
expected, and the means seem to overpower the end. On the other hand,
a visit to unpretending places in an unpretending way often produces
unexpected entertainment for the contemplative man. Some such
experiment was the following, where everything was a surprise because
little was expected. The epicurean tourist will be facetious on the
loss of sleep and comfort, money, etc.; but to a person in good health
and spirits these are but trifling inconveniences.
ATHENAEUM CLUB,
_August, 1887_.
CONTENTS.
I. IN TOWN
II. DOVER
III. THE PACKET
IV. CALAIS
V. TOURNAY
VI. DOUAI
VII. ARRAS
VIII. LILLE
IX. YPRES
X. BERGUES
XI. ST. OMER
XII. ST. PIERRE LES CALAIS
A DAY'S TOUR.
I.
_IN TOWN._
It is London, of a bright sultry August day, when the flags seem
scorching to the feet, and the sun beats down fiercely. It has yet a
certain inviting attraction. There is a general air of bustle, and the
provincial, trundled along in his cab, his trunks over his head, looks
out with a certain awe and sense of delight, noting, as he skirts the
Park, the gay colours glistening among the dusty trees, the figures
flitting past, the riders, the carriages, all suggesting a foreign
capital. The great city never looks so brilliant or so stately as on
one of these 'broiling' days. One calls up with a sort of wistfulness
the great and picturesque cities abroad, with their grand streets and
palaces, ever a delightful novelty. We long to be away, to be crossing
over that night--enjoying a cool fresh passage, all troubles and
monotony left behind.
On one such day this year--a Wednesday--these mixed impressions and
longings presented themselves with unwonted force and iteration. So
wistful and sudden a craving for snapping all ties and hurrying away
was after all spasmodic, perhaps whimsical; but it was quickened by
that sultry, melting air of the parks and the tropical look of the
streets. The pavements seemed to glare fiercely like furnaces; there
was an air of languid Eastern enjoyment. The very dogs 'snoozed'
pleasantly in shady corners, and all seemed happy as if enjoying a
holiday.
How delightful and enviable those families--the father, mother, and
fair daughters, now setting off gaily with their huge boxes--who
to-morrow would be beside the ever-delightful Rhine, posting on to
Cologne and Coblentz. What a welcome ring in those names! Stale,
hackneyed as it is, there comes a thrill as we get the first glimpse
of the silvery placid waters and their majestic windings. Even the
hotels, the bustle, and the people, holiday and festive, all seem
novel and gay. With some people this fairy look of things foreign
never 'stales,' even with repetition. It is as with the illusions of
the stage, which in some natures will triumph over the rudest,
coarsest shocks.
Well, that sweltering day stole by. The very cabmen on their 'stands'
nodded in blissful dreams. The motley colours in the Park--a stray
cardinal-coloured parasol or two added to the effect--glinted behind
the trees. The image of the happy tourists in the foreign streets grew
more vivid. The restlessness increased every hour, and was not to be
'laid.'
Living within a stone's-throw of Victoria Station, I find a strange
and ever new sensation in seeing the night express and its passengers
starting for foreign lands--some wistful and anxious, others supremely
happy. It is next in interest to the play. The carriages are marked
'CALAIS,' 'PARIS,' etc. It is even curious to think that, within three
hours or so, they will be on foreign soil, among the French spires,
sabots, blouses, gendarmes, etc. These are trivial and fanciful
notions, but help to fortify what one has of the little faiths of
life, and what one wise man, at least, has said: that it is the
smaller unpretending things of life that make up its pleasures,
particularly those that come unexpectedly, and from which we hope but
little.
When all these thoughts were thus tumultuously busy, an odd _bizarre_
idea presented itself. By an unusual concatenation, there was before
me but a strictly-tightened space of leisure that could not be
expanded. Friday must be spent at home. This was Wednesday, already
three-quarters spent; but there was the coming night and the whole of
Thursday. But Friday morning imperatively required that the traveller
should be found back at home again. The whole span, the _irreducible
maximum_, not to be stretched by any contrivance beyond about thirty
hours. Something could be done, but not much. As I thought of the
strict and narrow limits, it seemed that these were some precious
golden hours, and never to recur again; the opportunity must be
seized, or lost for ever! As I walked the sunshiny streets, images
rose of the bright streets abroad, their quaint old towers, and
town-halls, and marketplaces, and churches, red-capped fisherwomen--all
this scenery was 'set,'--properties and decorations--and the foreign
play seemed to open before my eyes and invite me.
There is an Eastern story of a man who dipped his head into a tub of
water, and who there and then mysteriously passed through a long
series of events: was married, had children, saw them grow up, was
taken prisoner by barbarians, confined long in gaol, was finally
tried, sentenced, and led out to execution, with the scimitar about to
descend, when of a sudden--he drew his head out of the water. And lo!
all these marvels had passed in a second! What if there were to be
magically crowded into those few hours all that could possibly be
seen--sea and land, old towns in different countries, strange people,
cathedrals, town-halls, streets, etc.? It would be like some wild,
fitful dream. And on the Friday I would draw my head, as it were, out
of the tub. But it would need the nicest balancing and calculation,
not a minute to be lost, everything to be measured and jointed
together beforehand.
There was something piquant in this notion. Was not life short? and
precious hours were too often wasted carelessly and dawdled away. It
might even be worth while to see how much could be seen in these few
hours. In a few moments the resolution was taken, and I was walking
down to Victoria, and in two hours was in Snargate Street, Dover.
II.
_DOVER._
Dover has an old-fashioned dignity of its own; the town, harbour,
ports, and people seem, as it were, consecrated to packets. There is
an antique and reverend grayness in its old inns, old streets, old
houses, all clustered and huddled into the little sheltered
amphitheatre, as if trying to get down close by their pride, the
packets. For centuries it has been the threshold, the _hall-door_, of
England. It is the last inn, as it were, from which we depart to see
foreign lands. History, too, comes back on us: we think of 'expresses'
in fast sloops or fishing-boats; of landings at Dover, and taking post
for London in war-time; how kings have embarked, princesses
disembarked--all in that awkward, yet snug harbour. A most curious
element in this feeling is the faint French flavour reaching
across--by day the white hills yonder, by night the glimmering lights
on the opposite coast. The inns, too, have a nautical, seaport air,
running along the beach, as they should do, and some of the older ones
having a bulging stern-post look about their lower windows. Even the
frowning, fortress-like coloured pile, the Lord Warden, thrusts its
shoulders forward on the right, and advances well out into the sea, as
if to be the first to attract the arrivals. There is a quaint relish,
too, in the dingy, old-fashioned marine terrace of dirty tawny brick,
its green verandas and _jalousies_, which lend quite a tropical air.
Behind them, in shelter, are little dark squares, of a darker stone,
with glimpses of the sea and packets just at the corners. Indeed, at
every point wherever there is a slit or crevice, a mast or some
cordage is sure to show itself, reminding us how much we are of the
packet, packety. Ports of this kind, with all their people and
incidents, seem to be devised for travellers; with their flaring
lights, _up-all-night_ hotels, the railway winding through the narrow
streets, the piers, the stormy waters, the packets lying by all the
piers and filling every convenient space. The old Dover of Turner's
well-known picture, or indeed of twenty years ago, with its 'dumpy'
steamers, its little harbour, and rude appliances for travel, was a
very different Dover from what it is now. There was then no rolling
down in luxurious trains to an Admiralty Pier. The stoutest heart
might shrink, or at least feel dismally uncomfortable, as he found
himself discharged from the station near midnight of a blowy,
tempestuous night, and saw his effects shouldered by a porter, whom he
was invited to follow down to the pier, where the funnel of the
'Horsetend' or Calais boat is moaning dismally. Few lights were
twinkling in the winding old-fashioned streets; but the near vicinity
of ocean was felt uncomfortably in harsh blasts and whistling sounds.
The little old harbour, like that of some fishing-place, offered
scarcely any room. The much-buffeted steamer lay bobbing and springing
at its moorings, while a dingy oil-lamp marked the gangway. A
comforting welcome awaited us from some old salt, who uttered the
cheering announcement that it was 'agoin' to be a roughish night.'
On this night there was an entertainment announced at the 'Rooms,' and
to pass away the time I looked in. It was an elocutionist one,
entitled 'Merry-Making Moments, or, Spanker's Wallet of Varieties,'
with a portrait of Spanker on the bills opening the wallet with an
expression of delight or surprise. This was his 'Grand Competition
Night,' when a 'magnificent goblet' was competed for by all comers,
which I had already seen in a shop window, a blue ribbon reposing in
_degage_ fashion across it. If a tumbler of the precious metal could
be called a magnificent goblet--it was scarcely bigger--it deserved
the title. The poor operator was declaiming as I entered, in
unmistakable Scotch, the history of 'Little Breeches,' and giving it
with due pathos. I am bound to say that a sort of balcony which hung
out at the end was well filled by the unwashed takers, or at least
donees, of sixpenny tickets. There was a purpose in this, as will be
seen. After being taken through 'The Raven,' and 'The Dying Burglar,'
the competition began. This was certainly the most diverting portion
of the entertainment, from its genuineness, the eagerness of the
competitors, and their ill-disguised jealousy. There were four
candidates. A doctor-looking man with a beard, and who had the air
either of reading familiar prayers to his household with good parsonic
effect, or of having tried the stage, uttered his lines with a very
superior air, as though the thing were not in doubt. Better than he,
however, was one, probably a draper's assistant, who competed with a
wild and panting fashion, tossing his arms, now raising, now dropping
his voice, and every _h_, too. But a shabby man, who looked as if he
had once practised tailoring, next stepped on the platform, and at
once revealed himself as the local poet. Encouraged by the generous
applause, he announced that he would recite some lines 'he 'ad wrote
on the great storm which committed such 'avoc on hour pier.' There
were local descriptions, and local names, which always touched the
true chord. Notably an allusion to a virtuous magnate then, I believe,
at rest:
'Amongst the var'ous noble works,
It should be widely known,
'Twas WILLIAM BROWN' _(applause)_ 'that gave _this_ town
The Dover's Sailors' 'OME!' _(applause)_.
Need I say that when the votes came to be taken, this poet received
the cup? His joy and mantling smiles I shall not forget, though the
donor gave it to him with unconcealed disgust; it showed what
universal suffrage led to. The doctor and the other defeated
candidates, who had been asked to retire to a private room during the
process of decision, were now obliged to emerge in mortified
procession, there being no other mode of egress. The doctor's face was
a study. The second part was to follow. But it was now growing late,
and time and mail-packets wait for no man.
III.
_THE PACKET._
As I come forth from the Elocution Contest, I find that night has
closed in. Not a ripple is on the far-stretching blue waste. From the
high cliffs that overhang the town and its amphitheatre can be seen
the faintly outlined harbour, where the white-chimneyed packet snoozes
as it were, the smoke curling upwards, almost straight. The sea-air
blows fresh and welcome, though it does not beat on a 'fevered brow.'
There is a busy hum and clatter in the streets, filled with soldiers
and sailors and chattering sojourners. Now do the lamps begin to
twinkle lazily. There is hardly a breath stirring, and the great
chalk-cliffs gleam out in a ghostly fashion, like mammoth wave-crests.
As it draws on to ten o'clock, the path to the Admiralty Pier begins
to darken with flitting figures hurrying down past the fortress-like
Lord Warden, now ablaze and getting ready its hospice for the night;
the town shows itself an amphitheatre of dotted lights--while down
below white vapours issue walrus-like from the sonorous
'scrannel-pipes' of the steamer. Gradually the bustle increases, and
more shadowy figures come hurrying down, walking behind their baggage
trundled before them. Now a faint scream, from afar off inland, behind
the cliffs, gives token that the trains, which have been tearing
headlong down from town since eight o'clock, are nearing us; while the
railway-gates fast closed, and porters on the watch with green lamps,
show that the expresses are due. It is a rather impressive sight to
wait at the closed gates of the pier and watch these two outward-bound
expresses arrive. After a shriek, prolonged and sustained, the great
trains from Victoria and Ludgate, which met on the way and became one,
come thundering on, the enormous and powerful engine glaring fiercely,
flashing its lamps, and making the pier tremble. Compartment after
compartment of first-class carriages flit by, each lit up so
refulgently as to show the crowded passengers, with their rugs and
bundles dispersed about them. It is a curious change to see the
solitary pier, jutting out into the waves, all of a sudden thus
populated with grand company, flashing lights, and saloon-like
splendour--ambassadors, it may be, generals for the seat of war, great
merchants like the Rothschilds, great singers or actors, princes,
dukes, millionnaires, orators, writers, 'beauties,' brides and
bridegrooms, all ranged side by side in those cells, or _vis-a-vis_.
That face under the old-fashioned travelling-cap may be that of a
prime minister, and that other gentlemanly person a swindling
bank-director flying from justice.
During the more crowded time of the travelling season it is not
undramatic, and certainly entertaining, to stand on the deck of the
little boat, looking up at the vast pier and platform some twenty or
thirty feet above one's head, and see the flood of passengers
descending in ceaseless procession; and more wonderful still, the
baggage being hurled down the 'shoots.' On nights of pressure this may
take nearly an hour, and yet not a second appears to be lost. One
gazes in wonder at the vast brass-bound chests swooping down and
caught so deftly by the nimble mariners; the great black-domed ladies'
dress-baskets and boxes; American and French trunks, each with its
national mark on it. Every instant the pile is growing. It seems like
building a mansion with vast blocks of stone piled up on each other.
Hat-boxes and light leather cases are sent bounding down like
footballs, gradually and by slow degrees forming the mountain.
What secrets in these chests! what tales associated with them! Bridal
trousseaux, jewels, letters, relics of those loved and gone; here the
stately paraphernalia of a family assumed to be rich and prosperous,
who in truth are in flight, hurrying away with their goods. Here,
again, the newly bought 'box' of the bride, with her initials gaudily
emblazoned; and the showy, glittering chests of the Americans.
There is a physiognomy in luggage, distinct as in clothes; and a
strange variety, not uninteresting. How significant, for instance, of
the owner is the weather-beaten, battered old portmanteau of the
travelling bachelor, embrowned with age, out of shape, yet still
strong and serviceable!--a business-like receptacle, which, like him,
has travelled thousands of miles, been rudely knocked about, weighed,
carried hither and thither, encrusted with the badges of hotels as an
old vessel is with barnacles, grim and reserved like its master, and
never lost or gone astray.
Now the engines and their trains glide away home. The shadowy figures
stand round in crowds. To the reflecting mind there is something
bewildering and even mournful in the survey of this huge agglomeration
and of its owners, the muffled, shadowy figures, some three hundred in
number, grouped together, and who will be dispersed again in a few
hours.
A yacht-voyage could not be more tranquilly delightful than this
pleasant moonlight transit. We are scarcely clear of the twinkling
lights of the Dover amphitheatre, grown more and more distant, when
those of the opposite coast appear to draw near and yet nearer. Often
as one has crossed, the sense of a new and strange impression is never
wanting. The sense of calm and silence, the great waste of sea, the
monotonous 'plash' of the paddle-wheels, the sort of solitude in the
midst of such a crowd, the gradually lengthening distance behind, with
the lessening, as gradual, in front, and the always novel feeling of
approach to a new country--these elements impart a sort of dreamy,
poetical feeling to the scene. Even the calm resignation of the
wrapped-up shadows seated in a sort of retreat, and devoted to their
own thoughts or slumbers, add to this effect. With which comes the
thought of the brave little vessels, which through day and night, year
after year, dance over these uncertain waters in 'all weathers,' as it
is termed. When the night is black as Erebus, and the sea in its fury
boiling and raging over the pier, the Lord Warden with its
storm-shutters up, and timid guests removed to more sheltered
quarters, the very stones of the pier shaken from their places by the
violence of the monster outside--the little craft, wrapping its mantle
about its head, goes out fearlessly, and, emerging from the harbour to
be flung about, battered with wild fury, forces her way on through the
night, which its gallant sailors call, with truth, 'an awful one.'
While busy with these thoughts I take note of a little scene of
comedy, or perhaps of a farcical kind, which is going on near me, in
which two 'Harrys' of the purest kind were engaged, and whose oddities
lightened the tediousness of the passage. One had seen foreign parts,
and was therefore regarded with reverence by his companion.
They were promenading the deck, and the following dialogue was borne
to me in snatches:
First Harry (interrogatively, and astonished): 'Eh? no! Now, really?'
Second Harry: 'Oh, Lord bless yer, yes! It comes quite easy, you know'
(or 'yer know'). 'A little trouble at first; but, Lord bless yer'
(this benediction was imparted many times during the conversation),
'it ain't such a difficult thing at all.'
I now found they were speaking of acquiring the French language--a
matter the difficulty of which they thought had been absurdly
overrated. Then the second Harry: 'Of course it is! Suppose you're in
a Caffy, and want some wine; you just call to the waiter, and you
say--'
First Harry (who seems to think that the secret has already been
communicated): 'Dear me; yes, to be sure--to be sure! I never thought
of that. A Caffy?'
Second Harry: 'Oh, Lor' bless yer, it comes as easy as--that! Well,
you go say to the fellow--just as you would say to an English
waiter--"_Don-ny maw_"--(pause)--"_dee Vinne_."'
First Harry (amazed): 'So _that's_ the way! Dear, dear me! Vinne!'
Second Harry: 'O' course it is the way! Suppose you want yer way to
the railway, you just go ask for the "_Sheemin--dee--Fur_." _Fur_, you
know, means "rail" in French--_Sheemin_ is "the road," you know.'
Again lost in wonder at the simplicity of what is popularly supposed
to be so thorny, the other Harry could only repeat:
'So that's it! What is it, again? _Sheemin_--'
_'Sheemin dee Fur.'_
Later, in the fuss and bustle of the 'eating hall,' this 'Harry,' more
obstreperous than ever by contact with the foreigners, again attracted
my attention. Everywhere I heard his voice; he was rampant.
'When the chap laid hold of my bag, "Halloo," says I; "hands off, old
boy," says I.
"'Eel Fo!" says he.
'"Eel-pie!" says I. "Blow your _Fo_," says I, and didn't he grin like
an ape? I declare I thought I'd have split when he came again with his
"_Eel Fo_!"'
He was then in his element. Everything new to him was 'a guy,' or 'so
rum,' or 'the queerest go you ever.' One of the two declared that, 'in
all his experience and in all his life he had never heard sich a lingo
as French;' and further, that 'one of their light porters at
Bucklersbury would eat half a dozen of them Frenchmen for a bender.'
This strange, grotesque dialogue I repeat textually almost; and, it
may be conceived, it was entertaining in a high degree. _'Sheemin dee
Fur'_ was the exact phonetic pronunciation, and the whole scene
lingers pleasantly in the memory.
IV.
_CALAIS._
But it is now close on midnight, and we are drawing near land; the eye
of the French _phare_ grows fiercer and more glaring, until, close on
midnight, the traveller finds the blinding light flashed full on him,
as the vessel rushes past the wickerwork pier-head. One or two beings,
whose unhappy constitution it is to be miserable and wretched at the
very whisper of the word 'SEA,' drag themselves up from below,
rejoicing that here is CALAIS. Beyond rises the clustered town
confined within its walls. As we glide in between the friendly arms of
the openwork pier, the shadowy outlines of the low-lying town take
shape and enlarge, dotted with lamps as though pricked over with
pin-holes. The fiery clock of the station, that sits up all night from
year's end to year's end; the dark figures with tumbrils, and a stray
coach waiting; the yellow gateway and drawbridge of the fortress just
beyond, and the chiming of _carillons_ in a wheezy fashion from the
old watch-tower within, make up a picture.
[Illustration: HOGARTH'S GATE (CALAIS)]
[Illustration: HALL OF THE STAPLE, (Calais)]
Such, indeed, it used to be--not without its poetry, too; but the old
Calais days are gone. Now the travellers land far away down the pier,
at the new-fangled 'Calais Maritime,' forsooth! and do not even
approach the old town. The fishing-boats, laid up side by side along
the piers, are shadowy. It seems a scene in a play. The great sea is
behind us and all round. It is a curious feeling, thinking of the
nervous unrest of the place, that has gone on for a century, and that
will probably go on for centuries more. Certainly, to a person who has
never been abroad, this midnight scene would be a picture not without
a flavour of romance. But such glimpses of poetry are held intrusive
in these matter-of-fact days.
There is more than an hour to wait, whilst the passengers gorge in the
huge _salle_, and the baggage is got ashore. So I wander away up to
the town.
How picturesque that stroll! Not wholly levelled are the old yellow
walls; the railway-station with its one eye, and clock that never
sleeps, opens its jaws with a cheerful bright light, like an inn fire;
dark figures in cowls, soldiers, sailors, flit about; curiously-shaped
tumbrils for the baggage lie up in ordinary. Here is the old arched
gate, ditch, and drawbridge; Hogarth's old bridge and archway, where
he drew the 'Roast Beef of Old England.' Passing over the bridge into
the town unchallenged, I find a narrow street with yellow houses--the
white shutters, the porches, the first glance of which affects one so
curiously and reveals France. Here is the Place of Arms in the centre,
whence all streets radiate. What more picturesque scene!--the moon
above, the irregular houses straggling round, the quaint old
town-hall, with its elegant tower, and rather wheezy but most musical
chimes; its neighbour, the black, solemn watch-tower, rising rude and
abrupt, seven centuries old, whence there used to be strict look-out
for the English. Down one of these side streets is a tall building,
with its long rows of windows and shutters and closed door
(Quillacq's, now Dessein's), once a favourite house--the 'Silver
Lion,' mentioned in the old memoirs, visited by Hogarth, and where,
twenty years ago, there used to be a crowd of guests. Standing in the
centre, I note a stray roysterer issuing from some long-closed _cafe_,
hurrying home, while the _carillons_ in their airy _rococo_-looking
tower play their melodious tunes in a wheezy jangle that is
interesting and novel. This chime has a celebrity in this quarter of
France. I stayed long in the centre of that solitary _place_,
listening to that midnight music.