An Inland Voyage by Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

An Inland Voyage
An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Title: An Inland Voyage
Author: Robert Louis Stevenson
Release Date: May, 1996 [EBook #534]

[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on March 19, 1996]
[Most recently updated: August 27, 2002]
Edition: 10
Language: English
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Transcribed from 1904 Chatto & Windus edition by David Price, email [email protected] Second
proof by Margaret Price
AN INLAND VOYAGE
An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 1

An Inland Voyage
Contents:
Preface
Antwerp to Boom
On the Willebroek Canal
The Royal Sport Nautique
At Maubeuge
On the Sambre Canalised: to Quartes
Pont-sur-Sambre:
We are Pedlars
The Travelling Merchant
On the Sambre Canalised: to Landrecies
At Landrecies
Sambre and Oise Canal: Canal boats
The Oise in Flood
Origny Sainte-Benoîte
A By-day
The Company at Table
Down the Oise: to Moy
La Fère of Cursed Memory
Down the Oise: Through the Golden Valley
Noyon Cathedral
Down the Oise: to Compiègne
At Compiègne
Changed Times
Down the Oise: Church interiors
Précy and the Marionnettes
Back to the world
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
To equip so small a book with a preface is, I am half afraid, to sin against proportion. But a preface is more
than an author can resist, for it is the reward of his labours. When the foundation stone is laid, the architect
appears with his plans, and struts for an hour before the public eye. So with the writer in his preface: he may
have never a word to say, but he must show himself for a moment in the portico, hat in hand, and with an
urbane demeanour.
It is best, in such circumstances, to represent a delicate shade of manner between humility and superiority: as
if the book had been written by some one else, and you had merely run over it and inserted what was good.
But for my part I have not yet learned the trick to that perfection; I am not yet able to dissemble the warmth of
my sentiments towards a reader; and if I meet him on the threshold, it is to invite him in with country
cordiality.
To say truth, I had no sooner finished reading this little book in proof, than I was seized upon by a distressing
apprehension. It occurred to me that I might not only be the first to read these pages, but the last as well; that

An Inland Voyage
I might have pioneered this very smiling tract of country all in vain, and find not a soul to follow in my steps.
The more I thought, the more I disliked the notion; until the distaste grew into a sort of panic terror, and I
rushed into this Preface, which is no more than an advertisement for readers.
What am I to say for my book? Caleb and Joshua brought back from Palestine a formidable bunch of grapes;
alas! my book produces naught so nourishing; and for the matter of that, we live in an age when people prefer
a definition to any quantity of fruit.
I wonder, would a negative be found enticing? for, from the negative point of view, I flatter myself this
volume has a certain stamp. Although it runs to considerably upwards of two hundred pages, it contains not a
single reference to the imbecility of God’s universe, nor so much as a single hint that I could have made a
better one myself. - I really do not know where my head can have been. I seem to have forgotten all that
makes it glorious to be man. - ’Tis an omission that renders the book philosophically unimportant; but I am in
hopes the eccentricity may please in frivolous circles.
To the friend who accompanied me I owe many thanks already, indeed I wish I owed him nothing else; but at
this moment I feel towards him an almost exaggerated tenderness. He, at least, will become my reader: - if it
were only to follow his own travels alongside of mine.
R.L.S.
ANTWERP TO BOOM
We made a great stir in Antwerp Docks. A stevedore and a lot of dock porters took up the two canoes, and
ran with them for the slip. A crowd of children followed cheering. The Cigarette went off in a splash and a
bubble of small breaking water. Next moment the Arethusa was after her. A steamer was coming down, men
on the paddle-box shouted hoarse warnings, the stevedore and his porters were bawling from the quay. But in
a stroke or two the canoes were away out in the middle of the Scheldt, and all steamers, and stevedores, and
other ‘long-shore vanities were left behind.
The sun shone brightly; the tide was making - four jolly miles an hour; the wind blew steadily, with
occasional squalls. For my part, I had never been in a canoe under sail in my life; and my first experiment out
in the middle of this big river was not made without some trepidation. What would happen when the wind
first caught my little canvas? I suppose it was almost as trying a venture into the regions of the unknown as to
publish a first book, or to marry. But my doubts were not of long duration; and in five minutes you will not
be surprised to learn that I had tied my sheet.
I own I was a little struck by this circumstance myself; of course, in company with the rest of my fellow-men,
I had always tied the sheet in a sailing-boat; but in so little and crank a concern as a canoe, and with these
charging squalls, I was not prepared to find myself follow the same principle; and it inspired me with some
contemptuous views of our regard for life. It is certainly easier to smoke with the sheet fastened; but I had
never before weighed a comfortable pipe of tobacco against an obvious risk, and gravely elected for the
comfortable pipe. It is a commonplace, that we cannot answer for ourselves before we have been tried. But it
is not so common a reflection, and surely more consoling, that we usually find ourselves a great deal braver
and better than we thought. I believe this is every one’s experience: but an apprehension that they may belie
themselves in the future prevents mankind from trumpeting this cheerful sentiment abroad. I wish sincerely,
for it would have saved me much trouble, there had been some one to put me in a good heart about life when I

An Inland Voyage
was younger; to tell me how dangers are most portentous on a distant sight; and how the good in a man’s
spirit will not suffer itself to be overlaid, and rarely or never deserts him in the hour of need. But we are all
for tootling on the sentimental flute in literature; and not a man among us will go to the head of the march to
sound the heady drums.
It was agreeable upon the river. A barge or two went past laden with hay. Reeds and willows bordered the
stream; and cattle and grey venerable horses came and hung their mild heads over the embankment. Here and
there was a pleasant village among trees, with a noisy shipping-yard; here and there a villa in a lawn. The
wind served us well up the Scheldt and thereafter up the Rupel; and we were running pretty free when we
began to sight the brickyards of Boom, lying for a long way on the right bank of the river. The left bank was
still green and pastoral, with alleys of trees along the embankment, and here and there a flight of steps to serve
a ferry, where perhaps there sat a woman with her elbows on her knees, or an old gentleman with a staff and
silver spectacles. But Boom and its brickyards grew smokier and shabbier with every minute; until a great
church with a clock, and a wooden bridge over the river, indicated the central quarters of the town.
Boom is not a nice place, and is only remarkable for one thing: that the majority of the inhabitants have a
private opinion that they can speak English, which is not justified by fact. This gave a kind of haziness to our
intercourse. As for the Hôtel de la Navigation, I think it is the worst feature of the place. It boasts of a sanded
parlour, with a bar at one end, looking on the street; and another sanded parlour, darker and colder, with an
empty bird-cage and a tricolour subscription box by way of sole adornment, where we made shift to dine in
the company of three uncommunicative engineer apprentices and a silent bagman. The food, as usual in
Belgium, was of a nondescript occasional character; indeed I have never been able to detect anything in the
nature of a meal among this pleasing people; they seem to peck and trifle with viands all day long in an
amateur spirit: tentatively French, truly German, and somehow falling between the two.
The empty bird-cage, swept and garnished, and with no trace of the old piping favourite, save where two
wires had been pushed apart to hold its lump of sugar, carried with it a sort of graveyard cheer. The engineer
apprentices would have nothing to say to us, nor indeed to the bagman; but talked low and sparingly to one
another, or raked us in the gaslight with a gleam of spectacles. For though handsome lads, they were all (in
the Scots phrase) barnacled.
There was an English maid in the hotel, who had been long enough out of England to pick up all sorts of
funny foreign idioms, and all sorts of curious foreign ways, which need not here be specified. She spoke to us
very fluently in her jargon, asked us information as to the manners of the present day in England, and
obligingly corrected us when we attempted to answer. But as we were dealing with a woman, perhaps our
information was not so much thrown away as it appeared. The sex likes to pick up knowledge and yet
preserve its superiority. It is good policy, and almost necessary in the circumstances. If a man finds a woman
admire him, were it only for his acquaintance with geography, he will begin at once to build upon the
admiration. It is only by unintermittent snubbing that the pretty ones can keep us in our place. Men, as Miss
Howe or Miss Harlowe would have said, ‘are such encroachers.’ For my part, I am body and soul with the
women; and after a well-married couple, there is nothing so beautiful in the world as the myth of the divine
huntress. It is no use for a man to take to the woods; we know him; St. Anthony tried the same thing long
ago, and had a pitiful time of it by all accounts. But there is this about some women, which overtops the best
gymnosophist among men, that they suffice to themselves, and can walk in a high and cold zone without the
countenance of any trousered being. I declare, although the reverse of a professed ascetic, I am more obliged
to women for this ideal than I should be to the majority of them, or indeed to any but one, for a spontaneous
kiss. There is nothing so encouraging as the spectacle of self-sufficiency. And when I think of the slim and
lovely maidens, running the woods all night to the note of Diana’s horn; moving among the old oaks, as
fancy-free as they; things of the forest and the starlight, not touched by the commotion of man’s hot and turbid
life - although there are plenty other ideals that I should prefer - I find my heart beat at the thought of this
one. ’Tis to fail in life, but to fail with what a grace! That is not lost which is not regretted. And where - here

An Inland Voyage
slips out the male - where would be much of the glory of inspiring love, if there were no contempt to
overcome?
ON THE WILLEBROEK CANAL
Next morning, when we set forth on the Willebroek Canal, the rain began heavy and chill. The water of the
canal stood at about the drinking temperature of tea; and under this cold aspersion, the surface was covered
with steam. The exhilaration of departure, and the easy motion of the boats under each stroke of the paddles,
supported us through this misfortune while it lasted; and when the cloud passed and the sun came out again,
our spirits went up above the range of stay-at-home humours. A good breeze rustled and shivered in the rows
of trees that bordered the canal. The leaves flickered in and out of the light in tumultuous masses. It seemed
sailing weather to eye and ear; but down between the banks, the wind reached us only in faint and desultory
puffs. There was hardly enough to steer by. Progress was intermittent and unsatisfactory. A jocular person,
of marine antecedents, hailed us from the tow-path with a ‘C’est vite, mais c’est long.’
The canal was busy enough. Every now and then we met or overtook a long string of boats, with great green
tillers; high sterns with a window on either side of the rudder, and perhaps a jug or a flower-pot in one of the
windows; a dinghy following behind; a woman busied about the day’s dinner, and a handful of children.
These barges were all tied one behind the other with tow ropes, to the number of twenty-five or thirty; and the
line was headed and kept in motion by a steamer of strange construction. It had neither paddle-wheel nor
screw; but by some gear not rightly comprehensible to the unmechanical mind, it fetched up over its bow a
small bright chain which lay along the bottom of the canal, and paying it out again over the stern, dragged
itself forward, link by link, with its whole retinue of loaded skows. Until one had found out the key to the
enigma, there was something solemn and uncomfortable in the progress of one of these trains, as it moved
gently along the water with nothing to mark its advance but an eddy alongside dying away into the wake.
Of all the creatures of commercial enterprise, a canal barge is by far the most delightful to consider. It may
spread its sails, and then you see it sailing high above the tree-tops and the windmill, sailing on the aqueduct,
sailing through the green corn-lands: the most picturesque of things amphibious. Or the horse plods along at a
foot-pace as if there were no such thing as business in the world; and the man dreaming at the tiller sees the
same spire on the horizon all day long. It is a mystery how things ever get to their destination at this rate; and
to see the barges waiting their turn at a lock, affords a fine lesson of how easily the world may be taken.
There should be many contented spirits on board, for such a life is both to travel and to stay at home.
The chimney smokes for dinner as you go along; the banks of the canal slowly unroll their scenery to
contemplative eyes; the barge floats by great forests and through great cities with their public buildings and
their lamps at night; and for the bargee, in his floating home, ‘travelling abed,’ it is merely as if he were
listening to another man’s story or turning the leaves of a picture-book in which he had no concern. He may
take his afternoon walk in some foreign country on the banks of the canal, and then come home to dinner at
his own fireside.
There is not enough exercise in such a life for any high measure of health; but a high measure of health is only
necessary for unhealthy people. The slug of a fellow, who is never ill nor well, has a quiet time of it in life,
and dies all the easier.
I am sure I would rather be a bargee than occupy any position under heaven that required attendance at an
office. There are few callings, I should say, where a man gives up less of his liberty in return for regular

An Inland Voyage
meals. The bargee is on shipboard - he is master in his own ship - he can land whenever he will - he can never
be kept beating off a lee-shore a whole frosty night when the sheets are as hard as iron; and so far as I can
make out, time stands as nearly still with him as is compatible with the return of bed-time or the dinner-hour.
It is not easy to see why a bargee should ever die.
Half-way between Willebroek and Villevorde, in a beautiful reach of canal like a squire’s avenue, we went
ashore to lunch. There were two eggs, a junk of bread, and a bottle of wine on board the Arethusa; and two
eggs and an Etna cooking apparatus on board the Cigarette. The master of the latter boat smashed one of the
eggs in the course of disembarkation; but observing pleasantly that it might still be cooked à la papier, he
dropped it into the Etna, in its covering of Flemish newspaper. We landed in a blink of fine weather; but we
had not been two minutes ashore before the wind freshened into half a gale, and the rain began to patter on our
shoulders. We sat as close about the Etna as we could. The spirits burned with great ostentation; the grass
caught flame every minute or two, and had to be trodden out; and before long, there were several burnt fingers
of the party. But the solid quantity of cookery accomplished was out of proportion with so much display; and
when we desisted, after two applications of the fire, the sound egg was little more than loo-warm; and as for à
la papier, it was a cold and sordid fricassée of printer’s ink and broken egg-shell. We made shift to roast the
other two, by putting them close to the burning spirits; and that with better success. And then we uncorked
the bottle of wine, and sat down in a ditch with our canoe aprons over our knees. It rained smartly.
Discomfort, when it is honestly uncomfortable and makes no nauseous pretensions to the contrary, is a vastly
humorous business; and people well steeped and stupefied in the open air are in a good vein for laughter.
From this point of view, even egg à la papier offered by way of food may pass muster as a sort of accessory
to the fun. But this manner of jest, although it may be taken in good part, does not invite repetition; and from
that time forward, the Etna voyaged like a gentleman in the locker of the Cigarette.
It is almost unnecessary to mention that when lunch was over and we got aboard again and made sail, the
wind promptly died away. The rest of the journey to Villevorde, we still spread our canvas to the unfavouring
air; and with now and then a puff, and now and then a spell of paddling, drifted along from lock to lock,
between the orderly trees.
It was a fine, green, fat landscape; or rather a mere green water-lane, going on from village to village. Things
had a settled look, as in places long lived in. Crop-headed children spat upon us from the bridges as we went
below, with a true conservative feeling. But even more conservative were the fishermen, intent upon their
floats, who let us go by without one glance. They perched upon sterlings and buttresses and along the slope of
the embankment, gently occupied. They were indifferent, like pieces of dead nature. They did not move any
more than if they had been fishing in an old Dutch print. The leaves fluttered, the water lapped, but they
continued in one stay like so many churches established by law. You might have trepanned every one of their
innocent heads, and found no more than so much coiled fishing-line below their skulls. I do not care for your
stalwart fellows in india-rubber stockings breasting up mountain torrents with a salmon rod; but I do dearly
love the class of man who plies his unfruitful art, for ever and a day, by still and depopulated waters.
At the last lock, just beyond Villevorde, there was a lock-mistress who spoke French comprehensibly, and
told us we were still a couple of leagues from Brussels. At the same place, the rain began again. It fell in
straight, parallel lines; and the surface of the canal was thrown up into an infinity of little crystal fountains.
There were no beds to be had in the neighbourhood. Nothing for it but to lay the sails aside and address
ourselves to steady paddling in the rain.
Beautiful country houses, with clocks and long lines of shuttered windows, and fine old trees standing in
groves and avenues, gave a rich and sombre aspect in the rain and the deepening dusk to the shores of the
canal. I seem to have seen something of the same effect in engravings: opulent landscapes, deserted and
overhung with the passage of storm. And throughout we had the escort of a hooded cart, which trotted
shabbily along the tow-path, and kept at an almost uniform distance in our wake.

An Inland Voyage
THE ROYAL SPORT NAUTIQUE
The rain took off near Laeken. But the sun was already down; the air was chill; and we had scarcely a dry
stitch between the pair of us. Nay, now we found ourselves near the end of the Allée Verte, and on the very
threshold of Brussels, we were confronted by a serious difficulty. The shores were closely lined by canal
boats waiting their turn at the lock. Nowhere was there any convenient landing-place; nowhere so much as a
stable-yard to leave the canoes in for the night. We scrambled ashore and entered an estaminet where some
sorry fellows were drinking with the landlord. The landlord was pretty round with us; he knew of no
coach-house or stable-yard, nothing of the sort; and seeing we had come with no mind to drink, he did not
conceal his impatience to be rid of us. One of the sorry fellows came to the rescue. Somewhere in the corner
of the basin there was a slip, he informed us, and something else besides, not very clearly defined by him, but
hopefully construed by his hearers.
Sure enough there was the slip in the corner of the basin; and at the top of it two nice-looking lads in boating
clothes. The Arethusa addressed himself to these. One of them said there would be no difficulty about a
night’s lodging for our boats; and the other, taking a cigarette from his lips, inquired if they were made by
Searle and Son. The name was quite an introduction. Half-a-dozen other young men came out of a
boat-house bearing the superscription ROYAL SPORT NAUTIQUE, and joined in the talk. They were all
very polite, voluble, and enthusiastic; and their discourse was interlarded with English boating terms, and the
names of English boat-builders and English clubs. I do not know, to my shame, any spot in my native land
where I should have been so warmly received by the same number of people. We were English boating-men,
and the Belgian boating-men fell upon our necks. I wonder if French Huguenots were as cordially greeted by
English Protestants when they came across the Channel out of great tribulation. But after all, what religion
knits people so closely as a common sport?
The canoes were carried into the boat-house; they were washed down for us by the Club servants, the sails
were hung out to dry, and everything made as snug and tidy as a picture. And in the meanwhile we were led
upstairs by our new-found brethren, for so more than one of them stated the relationship, and made free of
their lavatory. This one lent us soap, that one a towel, a third and fourth helped us to undo our bags. And all
the time such questions, such assurances of respect and sympathy! I declare I never knew what glory was
before.
‘Yes, yes, the Royal Sport Nautique is the oldest club in Belgium.’
‘We number two hundred.’
‘We’ - this is not a substantive speech, but an abstract of many speeches, the impression left upon my mind
after a great deal of talk; and very youthful, pleasant, natural, and patriotic it seems to me to be - ‘We have
gained all races, except those where we were cheated by the French.’
‘You must leave all your wet things to be dried.’
‘O! entre frères! In any boat-house in England we should find the same.’ (I cordially hope they
might.)
‘En Angleterre, vous employez des sliding-seats, n’est-ce pas?’

An Inland Voyage
‘We are all employed in commerce during the day; but in the evening, voyez-vous, nous sommes
sérieux.’
These were the words. They were all employed over the frivolous mercantile concerns of Belgium during the
day; but in the evening they found some hours for the serious concerns of life. I may have a wrong idea of
wisdom, but I think that was a very wise remark. People connected with literature and philosophy are busy all
their days in getting rid of second-hand notions and false standards. It is their profession, in the sweat of their
brows, by dogged thinking, to recover their old fresh view of life, and distinguish what they really and
originally like, from what they have only learned to tolerate perforce. And these Royal Nautical Sportsmen
had the distinction still quite legible in their hearts. They had still those clean perceptions of what is nice and
nasty, what is interesting and what is dull, which envious old gentlemen refer to as illusions. The nightmare
illusion of middle age, the bear’s hug of custom gradually squeezing the life out of a man’s
soul, had not yet begun for these happy-starred young Belgians. They still knew that the interest they took in
their business was a trifling affair compared to their spontaneous, long-suffering affection for nautical sports.
To know what you prefer, instead of humbly saying Amen to what the world tells you you ought to prefer, is
to have kept your soul alive. Such a man may be generous; he may be honest in something more than the
commercial sense; he may love his friends with an elective, personal sympathy, and not accept them as an
adjunct of the station to which he has been called. He may be a man, in short, acting on his own instincts,
keeping in his own shape that God made him in; and not a mere crank in the social engine-house, welded on
principles that he does not understand, and for purposes that he does not care for.
For will any one dare to tell me that business is more entertaining than fooling among boats? He must have
never seen a boat, or never seen an office, who says so. And for certain the one is a great deal better for the
health. There should be nothing so much a man’s business as his amusements. Nothing but
money-grubbing can be put forward to the contrary; no one but
Mammon, the least erected spirit that fell

From Heaven,
durst risk a word in answer. It is but a lying cant that would represent the merchant and the banker as people
disinterestedly toiling for mankind, and then most useful when they are most absorbed in their transactions;
for the man is more important than his services. And when my Royal Nautical Sportsman shall have so far
fallen from his hopeful youth that he cannot pluck up an enthusiasm over anything but his ledger, I venture to
doubt whether he will be near so nice a fellow, and whether he would welcome, with so good a grace, a
couple of drenched Englishmen paddling into Brussels in the dusk.
When we had changed our wet clothes and drunk a glass of pale ale to the Club’s prosperity, one of
their number escorted us to an hotel. He would not join us at our dinner, but he had no objection to a glass of
wine. Enthusiasm is very wearing; and I begin to understand why prophets were unpopular in Judaea, where
they were best known. For three stricken hours did this excellent young man sit beside us to dilate on boats
and boat-races; and before he left, he was kind enough to order our bedroom candles.
We endeavoured now and again to change the subject; but the diversion did not last a moment: the Royal
Nautical Sportsman bridled, shied, answered the question, and then breasted once more into the swelling tide
of his subject. I call it his subject; but I think it was he who was subjected. The Arethusa, who holds all
racing as a creature of the devil, found himself in a pitiful dilemma. He durst not own his ignorance for the
honour of Old England, and spoke away about English clubs and English oarsmen whose fame had never
before come to his ears. Several times, and, once above all, on the question of sliding-seats, he was within an
ace of exposure. As for the Cigarette, who has rowed races in the heat of his blood, but now disowns these

An Inland Voyage
slips of his wanton youth, his case was still more desperate; for the Royal Nautical proposed that he should
take an oar in one of their eights on the morrow, to compare the English with the Belgian stroke. I could see
my friend perspiring in his chair whenever that particular topic came up. And there was yet another proposal
which had the same effect on both of us. It appeared that the champion canoeist of Europe (as well as most
other champions) was a Royal Nautical Sportsman. And if we would only wait until the Sunday, this infernal
paddler would be so condescending as to accompany us on our next stage. Neither of us had the least desire
to drive the coursers of the sun against Apollo.
When the young man was gone, we countermanded our candles, and ordered some brandy and water. The
great billows had gone over our head. The Royal Nautical Sportsmen were as nice young fellows as a man
would wish to see, but they were a trifle too young and a thought too nautical for us. We began to see that we
were old and cynical; we liked ease and the agreeable rambling of the human mind about this and the other
subject; we did not want to disgrace our native land by messing an eight, or toiling pitifully in the wake of the
champion canoeist. In short, we had recourse to flight. It seemed ungrateful, but we tried to make that good
on a card loaded with sincere compliments. And indeed it was no time for scruples; we seemed to feel the hot
breath of the champion on our necks.
AT MAUBEUGE
Partly from the terror we had of our good friends the Royal Nauticals, partly from the fact that there were no
fewer than fifty-five locks between Brussels and Charleroi, we concluded that we should travel by train across
the frontier, boats and all. Fifty-five locks in a day’s journey was pretty well tantamount to trudging
the whole distance on foot, with the canoes upon our shoulders, an object of astonishment to the trees on the
canal side, and of honest derision to all right-thinking children.
To pass the frontier, even in a train, is a difficult matter for the Arethusa. He is somehow or other a marked
man for the official eye. Wherever he journeys, there are the officers gathered together. Treaties are
solemnly signed, foreign ministers, ambassadors, and consuls sit throned in state from China to Peru, and the
Union Jack flutters on all the winds of heaven. Under these safeguards, portly clergymen, school-mistresses,
gentlemen in grey tweed suits, and all the ruck and rabble of British touristry pour unhindered, Murray in
hand, over the railways of the Continent, and yet the slim person of the Arethusa is taken in the meshes, while
these great fish go on their way rejoicing. If he travels without a passport, he is cast, without any figure about
the matter, into noisome dungeons: if his papers are in order, he is suffered to go his way indeed, but not until
he has been humiliated by a general incredulity. He is a born British subject, yet he has never succeeded in
persuading a single official of his nationality. He flatters himself he is indifferent honest; yet he is rarely
taken for anything better than a spy, and there is no absurd and disreputable means of livelihood but has been
attributed to him in some heat of official or popular distrust. . . .
For the life of me I cannot understand it. I too have been knolled to church, and sat at good men’s
feasts; but I bear no mark of it. I am as strange as a Jack Indian to their official spectacles. I might come
from any part of the globe, it seems, except from where I do. My ancestors have laboured in vain, and the
glorious Constitution cannot protect me in my walks abroad. It is a great thing, believe me, to present a good
normal type of the nation you belong to.
Nobody else was asked for his papers on the way to Maubeuge; but I was; and although I clung to my rights, I
had to choose at last between accepting the humiliation and being left behind by the train. I was sorry to give
way; but I wanted to get to Maubeuge.

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Maubeuge is a fortified town, with a very good inn, the Grand Cerf. It seemed to be inhabited principally by
soldiers and bagmen; at least, these were all that we saw, except the hotel servants. We had to stay there some
time, for the canoes were in no hurry to follow us, and at last stuck hopelessly in the custom-house until we
went back to liberate them. There was nothing to do, nothing to see. We had good meals, which was a great
matter; but that was all.
The Cigarette was nearly taken up upon a charge of drawing the fortifications: a feat of which he was
hopelessly incapable. And besides, as I suppose each belligerent nation has a plan of the other’s
fortified places already, these precautions are of the nature of shutting the stable door after the steed is away.
But I have no doubt they help to keep up a good spirit at home. It is a great thing if you can persuade people
that they are somehow or other partakers in a mystery. It makes them feel bigger. Even the Freemasons, who
have been shown up to satiety, preserve a kind of pride; and not a grocer among them, however honest,
harmless, and empty-headed he may feel himself to be at bottom, but comes home from one of their
coenacula with a portentous significance for himself.
It is an odd thing, how happily two people, if there are two, can live in a place where they have no
acquaintance. I think the spectacle of a whole life in which you have no part paralyses personal desire. You
are content to become a mere spectator. The baker stands in his door; the colonel with his three medals goes
by to the café at night; the troops drum and trumpet and man the ramparts, as bold as so many lions. It would
task language to say how placidly you behold all this. In a place where you have taken some root, you are
provoked out of your indifference; you have a hand in the game; your friends are fighting with the army. But
in a strange town, not small enough to grow too soon familiar, nor so large as to have laid itself out for
travellers, you stand so far apart from the business, that you positively forget it would be possible to go
nearer; you have so little human interest around you, that you do not remember yourself to be a man. Perhaps,
in a very short time, you would be one no longer. Gymnosophists go into a wood, with all nature seething
around them, with romance on every side; it would be much more to the purpose if they took up their abode in
a dull country town, where they should see just so much of humanity as to keep them from desiring more, and
only the stale externals of man’s life. These externals are as dead to us as so many formalities, and
speak a dead language in our eyes and ears. They have no more meaning than an oath or a salutation. We are
so much accustomed to see married couples going to church of a Sunday that we have clean forgotten what
they represent; and novelists are driven to rehabilitate adultery, no less, when they wish to show us what a
beautiful thing it is for a man and a woman to live for each other.
One person in Maubeuge, however, showed me something more than his outside. That was the driver of the
hotel omnibus: a mean enough looking little man, as well as I can remember; but with a spark of something
human in his soul. He had heard of our little journey, and came to me at once in envious sympathy. How he
longed to travel! he told me. How he longed to be somewhere else, and see the round world before he went
into the grave! ‘Here I am,’ said he. ‘I drive to the station. Well. And then I drive
back again to the hotel. And so on every day and all the week round. My God, is that life?’ I could
not say I thought it was - for him. He pressed me to tell him where I had been, and where I hoped to go; and
as he listened, I declare the fellow sighed. Might not this have been a brave African traveller, or gone to the
Indies after Drake? But it is an evil age for the gypsily inclined among men. He who can sit squarest on a
three-legged stool, he it is who has the wealth and glory.
I wonder if my friend is still driving the omnibus for the Grand Cerf? Not very likely, I believe; for I think he
was on the eve of mutiny when we passed through, and perhaps our passage determined him for good. Better
a thousand times that he should be a tramp, and mend pots and pans by the wayside, and sleep under trees, and
see the dawn and the sunset every day above a new horizon. I think I hear you say that it is a respectable
position to drive an omnibus? Very well. What right has he who likes it not, to keep those who would like it
dearly out of this respectable position? Suppose a dish were not to my taste, and you told me that it was a

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favourite amongst the rest of the company, what should I conclude from that? Not to finish the dish against
my stomach, I suppose.
Respectability is a very good thing in its way, but it does not rise superior to all considerations. I would not
for a moment venture to hint that it was a matter of taste; but I think I will go as far as this: that if a position is
admittedly unkind, uncomfortable, unnecessary, and superfluously useless, although it were as respectable as
the Church of England, the sooner a man is out of it, the better for himself, and all concerned.
ON THE SAMBRE CANALISED
TO QUARTES
About three in the afternoon the whole establishment of the Grand Cerf accompanied us to the water’s
edge. The man of the omnibus was there with haggard eyes. Poor cage-bird! Do I not remember the time
when I myself haunted the station, to watch train after train carry its complement of freemen into the night,
and read the names of distant places on the time-bills with indescribable longings?
We were not clear of the fortifications before the rain began. The wind was contrary, and blew in furious
gusts; nor were the aspects of nature any more clement than the doings of the sky. For we passed through a
stretch of blighted country, sparsely covered with brush, but handsomely enough diversified with factory
chimneys. We landed in a soiled meadow among some pollards, and there smoked a pipe in a flaw of fair
weather. But the wind blew so hard, we could get little else to smoke. There were no natural objects in the
neighbourhood, but some sordid workshops. A group of children headed by a tall girl stood and watched us
from a little distance all the time we stayed. I heartily wonder what they thought of us.
At Hautmont, the lock was almost impassable; the landing-place being steep and high, and the launch at a
long distance. Near a dozen grimy workmen lent us a hand. They refused any reward; and, what is much
better, refused it handsomely, without conveying any sense of insult. ‘It is a way we have in our
countryside,’ said they. And a very becoming way it is. In Scotland, where also you will get services
for nothing, the good people reject your money as if you had been trying to corrupt a voter. When people take
the trouble to do dignified acts, it is worth while to take a little more, and allow the dignity to be common to
all concerned. But in our brave Saxon countries, where we plod threescore years and ten in the mud, and the
wind keeps singing in our ears from birth to burial, we do our good and bad with a high hand and almost
offensively; and make even our alms a witness-bearing and an act of war against the wrong.
After Hautmont, the sun came forth again and the wind went down; and a little paddling took us beyond the
ironworks and through a delectable land. The river wound among low hills, so that sometimes the sun was at
our backs, and sometimes it stood right ahead, and the river before us was one sheet of intolerable glory. On
either hand, meadows and orchards bordered, with a margin of sedge and water flowers, upon the river. The
hedges were of great height, woven about the trunks of hedgerow elms; and the fields, as they were often very
small, looked like a series of bowers along the stream. There was never any prospect; sometimes a hill-top
with its trees would look over the nearest hedgerow, just to make a middle distance for the sky; but that was
all. The heaven was bare of clouds. The atmosphere, after the rain, was of enchanting purity. The river
doubled among the hillocks, a shining strip of mirror glass; and the dip of the paddles set the flowers shaking
along the brink.

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In the meadows wandered black and white cattle fantastically marked. One beast, with a white head and the
rest of the body glossy black, came to the edge to drink, and stood gravely twitching his ears at me as I went
by, like some sort of preposterous clergyman in a play. A moment after I heard a loud plunge, and, turning
my head, saw the clergyman struggling to shore. The bank had given way under his feet.
Besides the cattle, we saw no living things except a few birds and a great many fishermen. These sat along
the edges of the meadows, sometimes with one rod, sometimes with as many as half a score. They seemed
stupefied with contentment; and when we induced them to exchange a few words with us about the weather,
their voices sounded quiet and far away. There was a strange diversity of opinion among them as to the kind
of fish for which they set their lures; although they were all agreed in this, that the river was abundantly
supplied. Where it was plain that no two of them had ever caught the same kind of fish, we could not help
suspecting that perhaps not any one of them had ever caught a fish at all. I hope, since the afternoon was so
lovely, that they were one and all rewarded; and that a silver booty went home in every basket for the pot.
Some of my friends would cry shame on me for this; but I prefer a man, were he only an angler, to the bravest
pair of gills in all God’s waters. I do not affect fishes unless when cooked in sauce; whereas an angler
is an important piece of river scenery, and hence deserves some recognition among canoeists. He can always
tell you where you are after a mild fashion; and his quiet presence serves to accentuate the solitude and
stillness, and remind you of the glittering citizens below your boat.
The Sambre turned so industriously to and fro among his little hills, that it was past six before we drew near
the lock at Quartes. There were some children on the tow-path, with whom the Cigarette fell into a chaffing
talk as they ran along beside us. It was in vain that I warned him. In vain I told him, in English, that boys
were the most dangerous creatures; and if once you began with them, it was safe to end in a shower of stones.
For my own part, whenever anything was addressed to me, I smiled gently and shook my head as though I
were an inoffensive person inadequately acquainted with French. For indeed I have had such experience at
home, that I would sooner meet many wild animals than a troop of healthy urchins.
But I was doing injustice to these peaceable young Hainaulters. When the Cigarette went off to make
inquiries, I got out upon the bank to smoke a pipe and superintend the boats, and became at once the centre of
much amiable curiosity. The children had been joined by this time by a young woman and a mild lad who
had lost an arm; and this gave me more security. When I let slip my first word or so in French, a little girl
nodded her head with a comical grown-up air. ‘Ah, you see,’ she said, ‘he understands
well enough now; he was just making believe.’ And the little group laughed together very
good-naturedly.
They were much impressed when they heard we came from England; and the little girl proffered the
information that England was an island ‘and a far way from here - bien loin d’ici.’
‘Ay, you may say that, a far way from here,’ said the lad with one arm.
I was as nearly home-sick as ever I was in my life; they seemed to make it such an incalculable distance to the
place where I first saw the day. They admired the canoes very much. And I observed one piece of delicacy in
these children, which is worthy of record. They had been deafening us for the last hundred yards with
petitions for a sail; ay, and they deafened us to the same tune next morning when we came to start; but then,
when the canoes were lying empty, there was no word of any such petition. Delicacy? or perhaps a bit of fear
for the water in so crank a vessel? I hate cynicism a great deal worse than I do the devil; unless perhaps the
two were the same thing? And yet ’tis a good tonic; the cold tub and bath-towel of the sentiments; and
positively necessary to life in cases of advanced sensibility.
From the boats they turned to my costume. They could not make enough of my red sash; and my knife filled
them with awe.

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‘They make them like that in England,’ said the boy with one arm. I was glad he did not know
how badly we make them in England now-a-days. ‘They are for people who go away to sea,’
he added, ‘and to defend one’s life against great fish.’
I felt I was becoming a more and more romantic figure to the little group at every word. And so I suppose I
was. Even my pipe, although it was an ordinary French clay pretty well ‘trousered,’ as they call
it, would have a rarity in their eyes, as a thing coming from so far away. And if my feathers were not very
fine in themselves, they were all from over seas. One thing in my outfit, however, tickled them out of all
politeness; and that was the bemired condition of my canvas shoes. I suppose they were sure the mud at any
rate was a home product. The little girl (who was the genius of the party) displayed her own sabots in
competition; and I wish you could have seen how gracefully and merrily she did it.
The young woman’s milk-can, a great amphora of hammered brass, stood some way off upon the
sward. I was glad of an opportunity to divert public attention from myself, and return some of the
compliments I had received. So I admired it cordially both for form and colour, telling them, and very truly,
that it was as beautiful as gold. They were not surprised. The things were plainly the boast of the
countryside. And the children expatiated on the costliness of these amphorae, which sell sometimes as high as
thirty francs apiece; told me how they were carried on donkeys, one on either side of the saddle, a brave
caparison in themselves; and how they were to be seen all over the district, and at the larger farms in great
number and of great size.
PONT-SUR-SAMBRE
WE ARE PEDLARS
The Cigarette returned with good news. There were beds to be had some ten minutes’ walk from
where we were, at a place called Pont. We stowed the canoes in a granary, and asked among the children for
a guide. The circle at once widened round us, and our offers of reward were received in dispiriting silence.
We were plainly a pair of Bluebeards to the children; they might speak to us in public places, and where they
had the advantage of numbers; but it was another thing to venture off alone with two uncouth and legendary
characters, who had dropped from the clouds upon their hamlet this quiet afternoon, sashed and be-knived,
and with a flavour of great voyages. The owner of the granary came to our assistance, singled out one little
fellow and threatened him with corporalities; or I suspect we should have had to find the way for ourselves.
As it was, he was more frightened at the granary man than the strangers, having perhaps had some experience
of the former. But I fancy his little heart must have been going at a fine rate; for he kept trotting at a
respectful distance in front, and looking back at us with scared eyes. Not otherwise may the children of the
young world have guided Jove or one of his Olympian compeers on an adventure.
A miry lane led us up from Quartes with its church and bickering windmill. The hinds were trudging
homewards from the fields. A brisk little woman passed us by. She was seated across a donkey between a
pair of glittering milk-cans; and, as she went, she kicked jauntily with her heels upon the donkey’s
side, and scattered shrill remarks among the wayfarers. It was notable that none of the tired men took the
trouble to reply. Our conductor soon led us out of the lane and across country. The sun had gone down, but
the west in front of us was one lake of level gold. The path wandered a while in the open, and then passed
under a trellis like a bower indefinitely prolonged. On either hand were shadowy orchards; cottages lay low

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among the leaves, and sent their smoke to heaven; every here and there, in an opening, appeared the great gold
face of the west.
I never saw the Cigarette in such an idyllic frame of mind. He waxed positively lyrical in praise of country
scenes. I was little less exhilarated myself; the mild air of the evening, the shadows, the rich lights and the
silence, made a symphonious accompaniment about our walk; and we both determined to avoid towns for the
future and sleep in hamlets.
At last the path went between two houses, and turned the party out into a wide muddy high-road, bordered, as
far as the eye could reach on either hand, by an unsightly village. The houses stood well back, leaving a
ribbon of waste land on either side of the road, where there were stacks of firewood, carts, barrows,
rubbish-heaps, and a little doubtful grass. Away on the left, a gaunt tower stood in the middle of the street.
What it had been in past ages, I know not: probably a hold in time of war; but now-a-days it bore an illegible
dial-plate in its upper parts, and near the bottom an iron letter-box.
The inn to which we had been recommended at Quartes was full, or else the landlady did not like our looks. I
ought to say, that with our long, damp india-rubber bags, we presented rather a doubtful type of civilisation:
like rag-and-bone men, the Cigarette imagined. ‘These gentlemen are pedlars? - Ces messieurs sont
des marchands?’ - asked the landlady. And then, without waiting for an answer, which I suppose she
thought superfluous in so plain a case, recommended us to a butcher who lived hard by the tower, and took in
travellers to lodge.
Thither went we. But the butcher was flitting, and all his beds were taken down. Or else he didn’t like
our look. As a parting shot, we had ‘These gentlemen are pedlars?’
It began to grow dark in earnest. We could no longer distinguish the faces of the people who passed us by
with an inarticulate good-evening. And the householders of Pont seemed very economical with their oil; for
we saw not a single window lighted in all that long village. I believe it is the longest village in the world; but
I daresay in our predicament every pace counted three times over. We were much cast down when we came
to the last auberge; and looking in at the dark door, asked timidly if we could sleep there for the night. A
female voice assented in no very friendly tones. We clapped the bags down and found our way to chairs.
The place was in total darkness, save a red glow in the chinks and ventilators of the stove. But now the
landlady lit a lamp to see her new guests; I suppose the darkness was what saved us another expulsion; for I
cannot say she looked gratified at our appearance. We were in a large bare apartment, adorned with two
allegorical prints of Music and Painting, and a copy of the law against public drunkenness. On one side, there
was a bit of a bar, with some half-a-dozen bottles. Two labourers sat waiting supper, in attitudes of extreme
weariness; a plain-looking lass bustled about with a sleepy child of two; and the landlady began to derange the
pots upon the stove, and set some beefsteak to grill.
‘These gentlemen are pedlars?’ she asked sharply. And that was all the conversation
forthcoming. We began to think we might be pedlars after all. I never knew a population with so narrow a
range of conjecture as the innkeepers of Pont-sur-Sambre. But manners and bearing have not a wider
currency than bank-notes. You have only to get far enough out of your beat, and all your accomplished airs
will go for nothing. These Hainaulters could see no difference between us and the average pedlar. Indeed we
had some grounds for reflection while the steak was getting ready, to see how perfectly they accepted us at
their own valuation, and how our best politeness and best efforts at entertainment seemed to fit quite suitably
with the character of packmen. At least it seemed a good account of the profession in France, that even before
such judges we could not beat them at our own weapons.
At last we were called to table. The two hinds (and one of them looked sadly worn and white in the face, as

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though sick with over-work and under-feeding) supped off a single plate of some sort of bread-berry, some
potatoes in their jackets, a small cup of coffee sweetened with sugar-candy, and one tumbler of swipes. The
landlady, her son, and the lass aforesaid, took the same. Our meal was quite a banquet by comparison. We
had some beefsteak, not so tender as it might have been, some of the potatoes, some cheese, an extra glass of
the swipes, and white sugar in our coffee.
You see what it is to be a gentleman - I beg your pardon, what it is to be a pedlar. It had not before occurred
to me that a pedlar was a great man in a labourer’s ale-house; but now that I had to enact the part for
an evening, I found that so it was. He has in his hedge quarters somewhat the same pre-eminency as the man
who takes a private parlour in an hotel. The more you look into it, the more infinite are the class distinctions
among men; and possibly, by a happy dispensation, there is no one at all at the bottom of the scale; no one but
can find some superiority over somebody else, to keep up his pride withal.
We were displeased enough with our fare. Particularly the Cigarette, for I tried to make believe that I was
amused with the adventure, tough beefsteak and all. According to the Lucretian maxim, our steak should have
been flavoured by the look of the other people’s bread-berry. But we did not find it so in practice.
You may have a head-knowledge that other people live more poorly than yourself, but it is not agreeable - I
was going to say, it is against the etiquette of the universe - to sit at the same table and pick your own superior
diet from among their crusts. I had not seen such a thing done since the greedy boy at school with his
birthday cake. It was odious enough to witness, I could remember; and I had never thought to play the part
myself. But there again you see what it is to be a pedlar.
There is no doubt that the poorer classes in our country are much more charitably disposed than their superiors
in wealth. And I fancy it must arise a great deal from the comparative indistinction of the easy and the not so
easy in these ranks. A workman or a pedlar cannot shutter himself off from his less comfortable neighbours.
If he treats himself to a luxury, he must do it in the face of a dozen who cannot. And what should more
directly lead to charitable thoughts? . . . Thus the poor man, camping out in life, sees it as it is, and knows that
every mouthful he puts in his belly has been wrenched out of the fingers of the hungry.
But at a certain stage of prosperity, as in a balloon ascent, the fortunate person passes through a zone of
clouds, and sublunary matters are thenceforward hidden from his view. He sees nothing but the heavenly
bodies, all in admirable order, and positively as good as new. He finds himself surrounded in the most
touching manner by the attentions of Providence, and compares himself involuntarily with the lilies and the
skylarks. He does not precisely sing, of course; but then he looks so unassuming in his open landau! If all the
world dined at one table, this philosophy would meet with some rude knocks.
PONT-SUR-SAMBRE
THE TRAVELLING MERCHANT
Like the lackeys in Molière’s farce, when the true nobleman broke in on their high life below stairs, we
were destined to be confronted with a real pedlar. To make the lesson still more poignant for fallen gentlemen
like us, he was a pedlar of infinitely more consideration than the sort of scurvy fellows we were taken for: like
a lion among mice, or a ship of war bearing down upon two cock-boats. Indeed, he did not deserve the name
of pedlar at all: he was a travelling merchant.

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I suppose it was about half-past eight when this worthy, Monsieur Hector Gilliard of Maubeuge, turned up at
the ale-house door in a tilt cart drawn by a donkey, and cried cheerily on the inhabitants. He was a lean,
nervous flibbertigibbet of a man, with something the look of an actor, and something the look of a
horse-jockey. He had evidently prospered without any of the favours of education; for he adhered with stern
simplicity to the masculine gender, and in the course of the evening passed off some fancy futures in a very
florid style of architecture. With him came his wife, a comely young woman with her hair tied in a yellow
kerchief, and their son, a little fellow of four, in a blouse and military képi. It was notable that the child was
many degrees better dressed than either of the parents. We were informed he was already at a
boarding-school; but the holidays having just commenced, he was off to spend them with his parents on a
cruise. An enchanting holiday occupation, was it not? to travel all day with father and mother in the tilt cart
full of countless treasures; the green country rattling by on either side, and the children in all the villages
contemplating him with envy and wonder? It is better fun, during the holidays, to be the son of a travelling
merchant, than son and heir to the greatest cotton-spinner in creation. And as for being a reigning prince -
indeed I never saw one if it was not Master Gilliard!
While M. Hector and the son of the house were putting up the donkey, and getting all the valuables under lock
and key, the landlady warmed up the remains of our beefsteak, and fried the cold potatoes in slices, and
Madame Gilliard set herself to waken the boy, who had come far that day, and was peevish and dazzled by the
light. He was no sooner awake than he began to prepare himself for supper by eating galette, unripe pears,
and cold potatoes - with, so far as I could judge, positive benefit to his appetite.
The landlady, fired with motherly emulation, awoke her own little girl; and the two children were confronted.
Master Gilliard looked at her for a moment, very much as a dog looks at his own reflection in a mirror before
he turns away. He was at that time absorbed in the galette. His mother seemed crestfallen that he should
display so little inclination towards the other sex; and expressed her disappointment with some candour and a
very proper reference to the influence of years.
Sure enough a time will come when he will pay more attention to the girls, and think a great deal less of his
mother: let us hope she will like it as well as she seemed to fancy. But it is odd enough; the very women who
profess most contempt for mankind as a sex, seem to find even its ugliest particulars rather lively and
high-minded in their own sons.
The little girl looked longer and with more interest, probably because she was in her own house, while he was
a traveller and accustomed to strange sights. And besides there was no galette in the case with her.
All the time of supper, there was nothing spoken of but my young lord. The two parents were both absurdly
fond of their child. Monsieur kept insisting on his sagacity: how he knew all the children at school by name;
and when this utterly failed on trial, how he was cautious and exact to a strange degree, and if asked anything,
he would sit and think - and think, and if he did not know it, ‘my faith, he wouldn’t tell you at
all - foi, il ne vous le dira pas’: which is certainly a very high degree of caution. At intervals, M.
Hector would appeal to his wife, with his mouth full of beefsteak, as to the little fellow’s age at such or
such a time when he had said or done something memorable; and I noticed that Madame usually pooh-poohed
these inquiries. She herself was not boastful in her vein; but she never had her fill of caressing the child; and
she seemed to take a gentle pleasure in recalling all that was fortunate in his little existence. No schoolboy
could have talked more of the holidays which were just beginning and less of the black school-time which
must inevitably follow after. She showed, with a pride perhaps partly mercantile in origin, his pockets
preposterously swollen with tops and whistles and string. When she called at a house in the way of business,
it appeared he kept her company; and whenever a sale was made, received a sou out of the profit. Indeed they
spoiled him vastly, these two good people. But they had an eye to his manners for all that, and reproved him
for some little faults in breeding, which occurred from time to time during supper.

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On the whole, I was not much hurt at being taken for a pedlar. I might think that I ate with greater delicacy,
or that my mistakes in French belonged to a different order; but it was plain that these distinctions would be
thrown away upon the landlady and the two labourers. In all essential things we and the Gilliards cut very
much the same figure in the ale-house kitchen. M. Hector was more at home, indeed, and took a higher tone
with the world; but that was explicable on the ground of his driving a donkey-cart, while we poor bodies
tramped afoot. I daresay, the rest of the company thought us dying with envy, though in no ill sense, to be as
far up in the profession as the new arrival.
And of one thing I am sure: that every one thawed and became more humanised and conversible as soon as
these innocent people appeared upon the scene. I would not very readily trust the travelling merchant with
any extravagant sum of money; but I am sure his heart was in the right place. In this mixed world, if you can
find one or two sensible places in a man - above all, if you should find a whole family living together on such
pleasant terms - you may surely be satisfied, and take the rest for granted; or, what is a great deal better,
boldly make up your mind that you can do perfectly well without the rest; and that ten thousand bad traits
cannot make a single good one any the less good.
It was getting late. M. Hector lit a stable lantern and went off to his cart for some arrangements; and my
young gentleman proceeded to divest himself of the better part of his raiment, and play gymnastics on his
mother’s lap, and thence on to the floor, with accompaniment of laughter.
‘Are you going to sleep alone?’ asked the servant lass.
‘There’s little fear of that,’ says Master Gilliard.
‘You sleep alone at school,’ objected his mother. ‘Come, come, you must be a
man.’
But he protested that school was a different matter from the holidays; that there were dormitories at school;
and silenced the discussion with kisses: his mother smiling, no one better pleased than she.
There certainly was, as he phrased it, very little fear that he should sleep alone; for there was but one bed for
the trio. We, on our part, had firmly protested against one man’s accommodation for two; and we had
a double-bedded pen in the loft of the house, furnished, beside the beds, with exactly three hat-pegs and one
table. There was not so much as a glass of water. But the window would open, by good fortune.
Some time before I fell asleep the loft was full of the sound of mighty snoring: the Gilliards, and the
labourers, and the people of the inn, all at it, I suppose, with one consent. The young moon outside shone
very clearly over Pont-sur-Sambre, and down upon the ale-house where all we pedlars were abed.
ON THE SAMBRE CANALISED
TO LANDRECIES
In the morning, when we came downstairs, the landlady pointed out to us two pails of water behind the
street-door. ‘Voilà de l’eau pour vous débarbouiller,’ says she. And so there we made
a shift to wash ourselves, while Madame Gilliard brushed the family boots on the outer doorstep, and M.

An Inland Voyage
Hector, whistling cheerily, arranged some small goods for the day’s campaign in a portable chest of
drawers, which formed a part of his baggage. Meanwhile the child was letting off Waterloo crackers all over
the floor.
I wonder, by-the-bye, what they call Waterloo crackers in France; perhaps Austerlitz crackers. There is a
great deal in the point of view. Do you remember the Frenchman who, travelling by way of Southampton,
was put down in Waterloo Station, and had to drive across Waterloo Bridge? He had a mind to go home
again, it seems.
Pont itself is on the river, but whereas it is ten minutes’ walk from Quartes by dry land, it is six weary
kilometres by water. We left our bags at the inn, and walked to our canoes through the wet orchards
unencumbered. Some of the children were there to see us off, but we were no longer the mysterious beings of
the night before. A departure is much less romantic than an unexplained arrival in the golden evening.
Although we might be greatly taken at a ghost’s first appearance, we should behold him vanish with
comparative equanimity.
The good folk of the inn at Pont, when we called there for the bags, were overcome with marvelling. At sight
of these two dainty little boats, with a fluttering Union Jack on each, and all the varnish shining from the
sponge, they began to perceive that they had entertained angels unawares. The landlady stood upon the
bridge, probably lamenting she had charged so little; the son ran to and fro, and called out the neighbours to
enjoy the sight; and we paddled away from quite a crowd of wrapt observers. These gentlemen pedlars,
indeed! Now you see their quality too late.
The whole day was showery, with occasional drenching plumps. We were soaked to the skin, then partially
dried in the sun, then soaked once more. But there were some calm intervals, and one notably, when we were
skirting the forest of Mormal, a sinister name to the ear, but a place most gratifying to sight and smell. It
looked solemn along the river-side, drooping its boughs into the water, and piling them up aloft into a wall of
leaves. What is a forest but a city of nature’s own, full of hardy and innocuous living things, where
there is nothing dead and nothing made with the hands, but the citizens themselves are the houses and public
monuments? There is nothing so much alive, and yet so quiet, as a woodland; and a pair of people, swinging
past in canoes, feel very small and bustling by comparison.
And surely of all smells in the world, the smell of many trees is the sweetest and most fortifying. The sea has
a rude, pistolling sort of odour, that takes you in the nostrils like snuff, and carries with it a fine sentiment of
open water and tall ships; but the smell of a forest, which comes nearest to this in tonic quality, surpasses it by
many degrees in the quality of softness. Again, the smell of the sea has little variety, but the smell of a forest
is infinitely changeful; it varies with the hour of the day, not in strength merely, but in character; and the
different sorts of trees, as you go from one zone of the wood to another, seem to live among different kinds of
atmosphere. Usually the resin of the fir predominates. But some woods are more coquettish in their habits;
and the breath of the forest of Mormal, as it came aboard upon us that showery afternoon, was perfumed with
nothing less delicate than sweetbrier.
I wish our way had always lain among woods. Trees are the most civil society. An old oak that has been
growing where he stands since before the Reformation, taller than many spires, more stately than the greater
part of mountains, and yet a living thing, liable to sicknesses and death, like you and me: is not that in itself a
speaking lesson in history? But acres on acres full of such patriarchs contiguously rooted, their green tops
billowing in the wind, their stalwart younglings pushing up about their knees: a whole forest, healthy and
beautiful, giving colour to the light, giving perfume to the air: what is this but the most imposing piece in
nature’s repertory? Heine wished to lie like Merlin under the oaks of Broceliande. I should not be
satisfied with one tree; but if the wood grew together like a banyan grove, I would be buried under the
tap-root of the whole; my parts should circulate from oak to oak; and my consciousness should be diffused

An Inland Voyage
abroad in all the forest, and give a common heart to that assembly of green spires, so that it also might rejoice
in its own loveliness and dignity. I think I feel a thousand squirrels leaping from bough to bough in my vast
mausoleum; and the birds and the winds merrily coursing over its uneven, leafy surface.
Alas! the forest of Mormal is only a little bit of a wood, and it was but for a little way that we skirted by its
boundaries. And the rest of the time the rain kept coming in squirts and the wind in squalls, until one’s
heart grew weary of such fitful, scolding weather. It was odd how the showers began when we had to carry
the boats over a lock, and must expose our legs. They always did. This is a sort of thing that readily begets a
personal feeling against nature. There seems no reason why the shower should not come five minutes before
or five minutes after, unless you suppose an intention to affront you. The Cigarette had a mackintosh which
put him more or less above these contrarieties. But I had to bear the brunt uncovered. I began to remember
that nature was a woman. My companion, in a rosier temper, listened with great satisfaction to my Jeremiads,
and ironically concurred. He instanced, as a cognate matter, the action of the tides, ‘which,’
said he, ‘was altogether designed for the confusion of canoeists, except in so far as it was calculated to
minister to a barren vanity on the part of the moon.’
At the last lock, some little way out of Landrecies, I refused to go any farther; and sat in a drift of rain by the
side of the bank, to have a reviving pipe. A vivacious old man, whom I take to have been the devil, drew near
and questioned me about our journey. In the fulness of my heart, I laid bare our plans before him. He said it
was the silliest enterprise that ever he heard of. Why, did I not know, he asked me, that it was nothing but
locks, locks, locks, the whole way? not to mention that, at this season of the year, we should find the Oise
quite dry? ‘Get into a train, my little young man,’ said he, I and go you away home to your
parents.’ I was so astounded at the man’s malice, that I could only stare at him in silence. A
tree would never have spoken to me like this. At last I got out with some words. We had come from Antwerp
already, I told him, which was a good long way; and we should do the rest in spite of him. Yes, I said, if there
were no other reason, I would do it now, just because he had dared to say we could not. The pleasant old
gentleman looked at me sneeringly, made an allusion to my canoe, and marched of, waggling his head.
I was still inwardly fuming, when up came a pair of young fellows, who imagined I was the
Cigarette’s servant, on a comparison, I suppose, of my bare jersey with the other’s mackintosh,
and asked me many questions about my place and my master’s character. I said he was a good enough
fellow, but had this absurd voyage on the head. ‘O no, no,’ said one, ‘you must not say
that; it is not absurd; it is very courageous of him.’ I believe these were a couple of angels sent to give
me heart again. It was truly fortifying to reproduce all the old man’s insinuations, as if they were
original to me in my character of a malcontent footman, and have them brushed away like so many flies by
these admirable young men.
When I recounted this affair to the Cigarette, ‘They must have a curious idea of how English servants
behave,’ says he dryly, ‘for you treated me like a brute beast at the lock.’
I was a good deal mortified; but my temper had suffered, it is a fact.
AT LANDRECIES
At Landrecies the rain still fell and the wind still blew; but we found a double-bedded room with plenty of
furniture, real water-jugs with real water in them, and dinner: a real dinner, not innocent of real wine. After
having been a pedlar for one night, and a butt for the elements during the whole of the next day, these

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comfortable circumstances fell on my heart like sunshine. There was an English fruiterer at dinner, travelling
with a Belgian fruiterer; in the evening at the café, we watched our compatriot drop a good deal of money at
corks; and I don’t know why, but this pleased us.
It turned out we were to see more of Landrecies than we expected; for the weather next day was simply
bedlamite. It is not the place one would have chosen for a day’s rest; for it consists almost entirely of
fortifications. Within the ramparts, a few blocks of houses, a long row of barracks, and a church, figure, with
what countenance they may, as the town. There seems to be no trade; and a shopkeeper from whom I bought
a sixpenny flint-and-steel, was so much affected that he filled my pockets with spare flints into the bargain.
The only public buildings that had any interest for us were the hotel and the café. But we visited the church.
There lies Marshal Clarke. But as neither of us had ever heard of that military hero, we bore the associations
of the spot with fortitude.
In all garrison towns, guard-calls, and réveilles, and such like, make a fine romantic interlude in civic
business. Bugles, and drums, and fifes, are of themselves most excellent things in nature; and when they carry
the mind to marching armies, and the picturesque vicissitudes of war, they stir up something proud in the
heart. But in a shadow of a town like Landrecies, with little else moving, these points of war made a
proportionate commotion. Indeed, they were the only things to remember. It was just the place to hear the
round going by at night in the darkness, with the solid tramp of men marching, and the startling reverberations
of the drum. It reminded you, that even this place was a point in the great warfaring system of Europe, and
might on some future day be ringed about with cannon smoke and thunder, and make itself a name among
strong towns.
The drum, at any rate, from its martial voice and notable physiological effect, nay, even from its cumbrous
and comical shape, stands alone among the instruments of noise. And if it be true, as I have heard it said, that
drums are covered with asses’ skin, what a picturesque irony is there in that! As if this long-suffering
animal’s hide had not been sufficiently belaboured during life, now by Lyonnese costermongers, now
by presumptuous Hebrew prophets, it must be stripped from his poor hinder quarters after death, stretched on
a drum, and beaten night after night round the streets of every garrison town in Europe. And up the heights of
Alma and Spicheren, and wherever death has his red flag a-flying, and sounds his own potent tuck upon the
cannons, there also must the drummer-boy, hurrying with white face over fallen comrades, batter and bemaul
this slip of skin from the loins of peaceable donkeys.
Generally a man is never more uselessly employed than when he is at this trick of bastinadoing asses’
hide. We know what effect it has in life, and how your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating. But in
this state of mummy and melancholy survival of itself, when the hollow skin reverberates to the
drummer’s wrist, and each dub-a-dub goes direct to a man’s heart, and puts madness there, and
that disposition of the pulses which we, in our big way of talking, nickname Heroism:- is there not something
in the nature of a revenge upon the donkey’s persecutors? Of old, he might say, you drubbed me up
hill and down dale, and I must endure; but now that I am dead, those dull thwacks that were scarcely audible
in country lanes, have become stirring music in front of the brigade; and for every blow that you lay on my
old greatcoat, you will see a comrade stumble and fall.
Not long after the drums had passed the café, the Cigarette and the Arethusa began to grow sleepy, and set out
for the hotel, which was only a door or two away. But although we had been somewhat indifferent to
Landrecies, Landrecies had not been indifferent to us. All day, we learned, people had been running out
between the squalls to visit our two boats. Hundreds of persons, so said report, although it fitted ill with our
idea of the town - hundreds of persons had inspected them where they lay in a coal-shed. We were becoming
lions in Landrecies, who had been only pedlars the night before in Pont.
And now, when we left the café, we were pursued and overtaken at the hotel door by no less a person than the

An Inland Voyage
Juge de Paix: a functionary, as far as I can make out, of the character of a Scots Sheriff-Substitute. He gave
us his card and invited us to sup with him on the spot, very neatly, very gracefully, as Frenchmen can do these
things. It was for the credit of Landrecies, said he; and although we knew very well how little credit we could
do the place, we must have been churlish fellows to refuse an invitation so politely introduced.
The house of the Judge was close by; it was a well-appointed bachelor’s establishment, with a curious
collection of old brass warming-pans upon the walls. Some of these were most elaborately carved. It seemed
a picturesque idea for a collector. You could not help thinking how many night-caps had wagged over these
warming-pans in past generations; what jests may have been made, and kisses taken, while they were in
service; and how often they had been uselessly paraded in the bed of death. If they could only speak, at what
absurd, indecorous, and tragical scenes had they not been present!
The wine was excellent. When we made the Judge our compliments upon a bottle, ‘I do not give it
you as my worst,’ said he. I wonder when Englishmen will learn these hospitable graces. They are
worth learning; they set off life, and make ordinary moments ornamental.
There were two other Landrecienses present. One was the collector of something or other, I forget what; the
other, we were told, was the principal notary of the place. So it happened that we all five more or less
followed the law. At this rate, the talk was pretty certain to become technical. The Cigarette expounded the
Poor Laws very magisterially. And a little later I found myself laying down the Scots Law of Illegitimacy, of
which I am glad to say I know nothing. The collector and the notary, who were both married men, accused
the Judge, who was a bachelor, of having started the subject. He deprecated the charge, with a conscious,
pleased air, just like all the men I have ever seen, be they French or English. How strange that we should all,
in our unguarded moments, rather like to be thought a bit of a rogue with the women!
As the evening went on, the wine grew more to my taste; the spirits proved better than the wine; the company
was genial. This was the highest water mark of popular favour on the whole cruise. After all, being in a
Judge’s house, was there not something semi-official in the tribute? And so, remembering what a
great country France is, we did full justice to our entertainment. Landrecies had been a long while asleep
before we returned to the hotel; and the sentries on the ramparts were already looking for daybreak.
SAMBRE AND OISE CANAL
CANAL BOATS
Next day we made a late start in the rain. The Judge politely escorted us to the end of the lock under an
umbrella. We had now brought ourselves to a pitch of humility in the matter of weather, not often attained
except in the Scottish Highlands. A rag of blue sky or a glimpse of sunshine set our hearts singing; and when
the rain was not heavy, we counted the day almost fair.
Long lines of barges lay one after another along the canal; many of them looking mighty spruce and shipshape
in their jerkin of Archangel tar picked out with white and green. Some carried gay iron railings, and quite a
parterre of flower-pots. Children played on the decks, as heedless of the rain as if they had been brought up
on Loch Carron side; men fished over the gunwale, some of them under umbrellas; women did their washing;
and every barge boasted its mongrel cur by way of watch-dog. Each one barked furiously at the canoes,
running alongside until he had got to the end of his own ship, and so passing on the word to the dog aboard

An Inland Voyage
the next. We must have seen something like a hundred of these embarkations in the course of that
day’s paddle, ranged one after another like the houses in a street; and from not one of them were we
disappointed of this accompaniment. It was like visiting a menagerie, the Cigarette remarked.
These little cities by the canal side had a very odd effect upon the mind. They seemed, with their flower-pots
and smoking chimneys, their washings and dinners, a rooted piece of nature in the scene; and yet if only the
canal below were to open, one junk after another would hoist sail or harness horses and swim away into all
parts of France; and the impromptu hamlet would separate, house by house, to the four winds. The children
who played together to-day by the Sambre and Oise Canal, each at his own father’s threshold, when
and where might they next meet?
For some time past the subject of barges had occupied a great deal of our talk, and we had projected an old
age on the canals of Europe. It was to be the most leisurely of progresses, now on a swift river at the tail of a
steam-boat, now waiting horses for days together on some inconsiderable junction. We should be seen
pottering on deck in all the dignity of years, our white beards falling into our laps. We were ever to be busied
among paint-pots; so that there should be no white fresher, and no green more emerald than ours, in all the
navy of the canals. There should be books in the cabin, and tobacco-jars, and some old Burgundy as red as a
November sunset and as odorous as a violet in April. There should be a flageolet, whence the Cigarette, with
cunning touch, should draw melting music under the stars; or perhaps, laying that aside, upraise his voice -
somewhat thinner than of yore, and with here and there a quaver, or call it a natural grace-note - in rich and
solemn psalmody.
All this, simmering in my mind, set me wishing to go aboard one of these ideal houses of lounging. I had
plenty to choose from, as I coasted one after another, and the dogs bayed at me for a vagrant. At last I saw a
nice old man and his wife looking at me with some interest, so I gave them good-day and pulled up
alongside. I began with a remark upon their dog, which had somewhat the look of a pointer; thence I slid into
a compliment on Madame’s flowers, and thence into a word in praise of their way of life.
If you ventured on such an experiment in England you would get a slap in the face at once. The life would be
shown to be a vile one, not without a side shot at your better fortune. Now, what I like so much in France is
the clear unflinching recognition by everybody of his own luck. They all know on which side their bread is
buttered, and take a pleasure in showing it to others, which is surely the better part of religion. And they scorn
to make a poor mouth over their poverty, which I take to be the better part of manliness. I have heard a
woman in quite a better position at home, with a good bit of money in hand, refer to her own child with a
horrid whine as ‘a poor man’s child.’ I would not say such a thing to the Duke of
Westminster. And the French are full of this spirit of independence. Perhaps it is the result of republican
institutions, as they call them. Much more likely it is because there are so few people really poor, that the
whiners are not enough to keep each other in countenance.
The people on the barge were delighted to hear that I admired their state. They understood perfectly well,
they told me, how Monsieur envied them. Without doubt Monsieur was rich; and in that case he might make
a canal boat as pretty as a villa - joli comme un château. And with that they invited me on board their own
water villa. They apologised for their cabin; they had not been rich enough to make it as it ought to be.
‘The fire should have been here, at this side.’ explained the husband. ‘Then one might
have a writing-table in the middle - books - and’ (comprehensively) ‘all. It would be quite
coquettish - ça serait tout-à-fait coquet.’ And he looked about him as though the improvements were
already made. It was plainly not the first time that he had thus beautified his cabin in imagination; and when
next he makes a bit, I should expect to see the writing-table in the middle.
Madame had three birds in a cage. They were no great thing, she explained. Fine birds were so dear. They

An Inland Voyage
had sought to get a Hollandais last winter in Rouen (Rouen? thought I; and is this whole mansion, with its
dogs and birds and smoking chimneys, so far a traveller as that? and as homely an object among the cliffs and
orchards of the Seine as on the green plains of Sambre?) - they had sought to get a Hollandais last winter in
Rouen; but these cost fifteen francs apiece - picture it - fifteen francs!
‘Pour un tout petit oiseau - For quite a little bird,’ added the husband.
As I continued to admire, the apologetics died away, and the good people began to brag of their barge, and
their happy condition in life, as if they had been Emperor and Empress of the Indies. It was, in the Scots
phrase, a good hearing, and put me in good humour with the world. If people knew what an inspiriting thing
it is to hear a man boasting, so long as he boasts of what he really has, I believe they would do it more freely
and with a better grace.
They began to ask about our voyage. You should have seen how they sympathised. They seemed half ready
to give up their barge and follow us. But these canaletti are only gypsies semi-domesticated. The
semi-domestication came out in rather a pretty form. Suddenly Madam’s brow darkened.
‘Cependant,’ she began, and then stopped; and then began again by asking me if I were single?
‘Yes,’ said I.
‘And your friend who went by just now?’
He also was unmarried.
O then - all was well. She could not have wives left alone at home; but since there were no wives in the
question, we were doing the best we could.
‘To see about one in the world,’ said the husband, ‘il n’y a que ça - there is
nothing else worth while. A man, look you, who sticks in his own village like a bear,’ he went on,
‘ - very well, he sees nothing. And then death is the end of all. And he has seen nothing.’
Madame reminded her husband of an Englishman who had come up this canal in a steamer.
‘Perhaps Mr. Moens in the Ytene,’ I suggested.
‘That’s it,’ assented the husband. ‘He had his wife and family with him, and
servants. He came ashore at all the locks and asked the name of the villages, whether from boatmen or
lock-keepers; and then he wrote, wrote them down. Oh, he wrote enormously! I suppose it was a
wager.’
A wager was a common enough explanation for our own exploits, but it seemed an original reason for taking
notes.
THE OISE IN FLOOD
Before nine next morning the two canoes were installed on a light country cart at Étreux: and we were soon
following them along the side of a pleasant valley full of hop-gardens and poplars. Agreeable villages lay

An Inland Voyage
here and there on the slope of the hill; notably, Tupigny, with the hop-poles hanging their garlands in the very
street, and the houses clustered with grapes. There was a faint enthusiasm on our passage; weavers put their
heads to the windows; children cried out in ecstasy at sight of the two ‘boaties’ - barguettes:
and bloused pedestrians, who were acquainted with our charioteer, jested with him on the nature of his freight.
We had a shower or two, but light and flying. The air was clean and sweet among all these green fields and
green things growing. There was not a touch of autumn in the weather. And when, at Vadencourt, we
launched from a little lawn opposite a mill, the sun broke forth and set all the leaves shining in the valley of
the Oise.
The river was swollen with the long rains. From Vadencourt all the way to Origny, it ran with
ever-quickening speed, taking fresh heart at each mile, and racing as though it already smelt the sea. The
water was yellow and turbulent, swung with an angry eddy among half-submerged willows, and made an
angry clatter along stony shores. The course kept turning and turning in a narrow and well-timbered valley.
Now the river would approach the side, and run griding along the chalky base of the hill, and show us a few
open colza-fields among the trees. Now it would skirt the garden-walls of houses, where we might catch a
glimpse through a doorway, and see a priest pacing in the chequered sunlight. Again, the foliage closed so
thickly in front, that there seemed to be no issue; only a thicket of willows, overtopped by elms and poplars,
under which the river ran flush and fleet, and where a kingfisher flew past like a piece of the blue sky. On
these different manifestations the sun poured its clear and catholic looks. The shadows lay as solid on the
swift surface of the stream as on the stable meadows. The light sparkled golden in the dancing poplar leaves,
and brought the hills into communion with our eyes. And all the while the river never stopped running or
took breath; and the reeds along the whole valley stood shivering from top to toe.
There should be some myth (but if there is, I know it not) founded on the shivering of the reeds. There are not
many things in nature more striking to man’s eye. It is such an eloquent pantomime of terror; and to
see such a number of terrified creatures taking sanctuary in every nook along the shore, is enough to infect a
silly human with alarm. Perhaps they are only a-cold, and no wonder, standing waist-deep in the stream. Or
perhaps they have never got accustomed to the speed and fury of the river’s flux, or the miracle of its
continuous body. Pan once played upon their forefathers; and so, by the hands of his river, he still plays upon
these later generations down all the valley of the Oise; and plays the same air, both sweet and shrill, to tell us
of the beauty and the terror of the world.
The canoe was like a leaf in the current. It took it up and shook it, and carried it masterfully away, like a
Centaur carrying off a nymph. To keep some command on our direction required hard and diligent plying of
the paddle. The river was in such a hurry for the sea! Every drop of water ran in a panic, like as many people
in a frightened crowd. But what crowd was ever so numerous, or so single-minded? All the objects of sight
went by at a dance measure; the eyesight raced with the racing river; the exigencies of every moment kept the
pegs screwed so tight, that our being quivered like a well-tuned instrument; and the blood shook off its
lethargy, and trotted through all the highways and byways of the veins and arteries, and in and out of the
heart, as if circulation were but a holiday journey, and not the daily moil of threescore years and ten. The
reeds might nod their heads in warning, and with tremulous gestures tell how the river was as cruel as it was
strong and cold, and how death lurked in the eddy underneath the willows. But the reeds had to stand where
they were; and those who stand still are always timid advisers. As for us, we could have shouted aloud. If
this lively and beautiful river were, indeed, a thing of death’s contrivance, the old ashen rogue had
famously outwitted himself with us. I was living three to the minute. I was scoring points against him every
stroke of my paddle, every turn of the stream. I have rarely had better profit of my life.
For I think we may look upon our little private war with death somewhat in this light. If a man knows he will
sooner or later be robbed upon a journey, he will have a bottle of the best in every inn, and look upon all his
extravagances as so much gained upon the thieves. And above all, where instead of simply spending, he

An Inland Voyage
makes a profitable investment for some of his money, when it will be out of risk of loss. So every bit of brisk
living, and above all when it is healthful, is just so much gained upon the wholesale filcher, death. We shall
have the less in our pockets, the more in our stomach, when he cries stand and deliver. A swift stream is a
favourite artifice of his, and one that brings him in a comfortable thing per annum; but when he and I come to
settle our accounts, I shall whistle in his face for these hours upon the upper Oise.
Towards afternoon we got fairly drunken with the sunshine and the exhilaration of the pace. We could no
longer contain ourselves and our content. The canoes were too small for us; we must be out and stretch
ourselves on shore. And so in a green meadow we bestowed our limbs on the grass, and smoked deifying
tobacco and proclaimed the world excellent. It was the last good hour of the day, and I dwell upon it with
extreme complacency.
On one side of the valley, high up on the chalky summit of the hill, a ploughman with his team appeared and
disappeared at regular intervals. At each revelation he stood still for a few seconds against the sky: for all the
world (as the Cigarette declared) like a toy Burns who should have just ploughed up the Mountain Daisy. He
was the only living thing within view, unless we are to count the river.
On the other side of the valley a group of red roofs and a belfry showed among the foliage. Thence some
inspired bell-ringer made the afternoon musical on a chime of bells. There was something very sweet and
taking in the air he played; and we thought we had never heard bells speak so intelligibly, or sing so
melodiously, as these. It must have been to some such measure that the spinners and the young maids sang,
‘Come away, Death,’ in the Shakespearian Illyria. There is so often a threatening note,
something blatant and metallic, in the voice of bells, that I believe we have fully more pain than pleasure from
hearing them; but these, as they sounded abroad, now high, now low, now with a plaintive cadence that caught
the ear like the burthen of a popular song, were always moderate and tunable, and seemed to fall in with the
spirit of still, rustic places, like the noise of a waterfall or the babble of a rookery in spring. I could have
asked the bell-ringer for his blessing, good, sedate old man, who swung the rope so gently to the time of his
meditations. I could have blessed the priest or the heritors, or whoever may be concerned with such affairs in
France, who had left these sweet old bells to gladden the afternoon, and not held meetings, and made
collections, and had their names repeatedly printed in the local paper, to rig up a peal of brand-new, brazen,
Birmingham-hearted substitutes, who should bombard their sides to the provocation of a brand-new
bell-ringer, and fill the echoes of the valley with terror and riot.
At last the bells ceased, and with their note the sun withdrew. The piece was at an end; shadow and silence
possessed the valley of the Oise. We took to the paddle with glad hearts, like people who have sat out a noble
performance and returned to work. The river was more dangerous here; it ran swifter, the eddies were more
sudden and violent. All the way down we had had our fill of difficulties. Sometimes it was a weir which
could be shot, sometimes one so shallow and full of stakes that we must withdraw the boats from the water
and carry them round. But the chief sort of obstacle was a consequence of the late high winds. Every two or
three hundred yards a tree had fallen across the river, and usually involved more than another in its fall.
Often there was free water at the end, and we could steer round the leafy promontory and hear the water
sucking and bubbling among the twigs. Often, again, when the tree reached from bank to bank, there was
room, by lying close, to shoot through underneath, canoe and all. Sometimes it was necessary to get out upon
the trunk itself and pull the boats across; and sometimes, when the stream was too impetuous for this, there
was nothing for it but to land and ‘carry over.’ This made a fine series of accidents in the
day’s career, and kept us aware of ourselves.
Shortly after our re-embarkation, while I was leading by a long way, and still full of a noble, exulting spirit in
honour of the sun, the swift pace, and the church bells, the river made one of its leonine pounces round a
corner, and I was aware of another fallen tree within a stone-cast. I had my backboard down in a trice, and

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aimed for a place where the trunk seemed high enough above the water, and the branches not too thick to let
me slip below. When a man has just vowed eternal brotherhood with the universe, he is not in a temper to
take great determinations coolly, and this, which might have been a very important determination for me, had
not been taken under a happy star. The tree caught me about the chest, and while I was yet struggling to make
less of myself and get through, the river took the matter out of my hands, and bereaved me of my boat. The
Arethusa swung round broadside on, leaned over, ejected so much of me as still remained on board, and thus
disencumbered, whipped under the tree, righted, and went merrily away down stream.
I do not know how long it was before I scrambled on to the tree to which I was left clinging, but it was longer
than I cared about. My thoughts were of a grave and almost sombre character, but I still clung to my paddle.
The stream ran away with my heels as fast as I could pull up my shoulders, and I seemed, by the weight, to
have all the water of the Oise in my trousers-pockets. You can never know, till you try it, what a dead pull a
river makes against a man. Death himself had me by the heels, for this was his last ambuscado, and he must
now join personally in the fray. And still I held to my paddle. At last I dragged myself on to my stomach on
the trunk, and lay there a breathless sop, with a mingled sense of humour and injustice. A poor figure I must
have presented to Burns upon the hill-top with his team. But there was the paddle in my hand. On my tomb,
if ever I have one, I mean to get these words inscribed: ‘He clung to his paddle.’
The Cigarette had gone past a while before; for, as I might have observed, if I had been a little less pleased
with the universe at the moment, there was a clear way round the tree-top at the farther side. He had offered
his services to haul me out, but as I was then already on my elbows, I had declined, and sent him down stream
after the truant Arethusa. The stream was too rapid for a man to mount with one canoe, let alone two, upon
his hands. So I crawled along the trunk to shore, and proceeded down the meadows by the river-side. I was
so cold that my heart was sore. I had now an idea of my own why the reeds so bitterly shivered. I could have
given any of them a lesson. The Cigarette remarked facetiously that he thought I was ‘taking
exercise’ as I drew near, until he made out for certain that I was only twittering with cold. I had a rub
down with a towel, and donned a dry suit from the india-rubber bag. But I was not my own man again for the
rest of the voyage. I had a queasy sense that I wore my last dry clothes upon my body. The struggle had tired
me; and perhaps, whether I knew it or not, I was a little dashed in spirit. The devouring element in the
universe had leaped out against me, in this green valley quickened by a running stream. The bells were all
very pretty in their way, but I had heard some of the hollow notes of Pan’s music. Would the wicked
river drag me down by the heels, indeed? and look so beautiful all the time? Nature’s good-humour
was only skin-deep after all.
There was still a long way to go by the winding course of the stream, and darkness had fallen, and a late bell
was ringing in Origny Sainte-Benoîte, when we arrived.
ORIGNY SAINTE-BENOÎTE
A BY-DAY
The next day was Sunday, and the church bells had little rest; indeed, I do not think I remember anywhere else
so great a choice of services as were here offered to the devout. And while the bells made merry in the
sunshine, all the world with his dog was out shooting among the beets and colza.
In the morning a hawker and his wife went down the street at a foot-pace, singing to a very slow, lamentable

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music ‘O France, mes amours.’ It brought everybody to the door; and when our landlady
called in the man to buy the words, he had not a copy of them left. She was not the first nor the second who
had been taken with the song. There is something very pathetic in the love of the French people, since the
war, for dismal patriotic music-making. I have watched a forester from Alsace while some one was singing
‘Les malheurs de la France,’ at a baptismal party in the neighbourhood of Fontainebleau. He
arose from the table and took his son aside, close by where I was standing. ‘Listen, listen,’ he
said, bearing on the boy’s shoulder, ‘and remember this, my son.’ A little after he went
out into the garden suddenly, and I could hear him sobbing in the darkness.
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 Français,’ 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 Déroulède 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 Déroulède 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

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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?

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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-Benoîte by the river.
ORIGNY SAINTE-BENOÎTE
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
têtes 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

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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.

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‘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

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political beliefs were, in our eyes, suited to religious beliefs. And vice versâ.
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

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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 détours 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

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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 Moÿ) was a pleasant little village, gathered round a château 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 Fère, Nürnberg 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 FÈRE 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 château 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 Fère; but the dusk was falling, and a small rain had begun before we
stowed the boats. La Fère 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 Fère. 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

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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 Fère 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 Fère 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

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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 Fère; 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 à pied,’ was the sign. ‘À 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 Fère. ‘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 Fère 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

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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 Fère; 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 Hôtel 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 Hôtel 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

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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 Château 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

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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 COMPIÈGNE
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 Fère; we forecast other La Fères 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 Fère 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.
It was too much. The scales fell from our eyes. Another wet day, it was determined, and we put the boats
into the train.

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The weather took the hint. That was our last wetting. The afternoon faired up: grand clouds still voyaged in
the sky, but now singly, and with a depth of blue around their path; and a sunset in the daintiest rose and gold
inaugurated a thick night of stars and a month of unbroken weather. At the same time, the river began to give
us a better outlook into the country. The banks were not so high, the willows disappeared from along the
margin, and pleasant hills stood all along its course and marked their profile on the sky.
In a little while the canal, coming to its last lock, began to discharge its water-houses on the Oise; so that we
had no lack of company to fear. Here were all our old friends; the Deo Gratias of Condé and the Four Sons of
Aymon journeyed cheerily down stream along with us; we exchanged waterside pleasantries with the
steersman perched among the lumber, or the driver hoarse with bawling to his horses; and the children came
and looked over the side as we paddled by. We had never known all this while how much we missed them;
but it gave us a fillip to see the smoke from their chimneys.
A little below this junction we made another meeting of yet more account. For there we were joined by the
Aisne, already a far-travelled river and fresh out of Champagne. Here ended the adolescence of the Oise; this
was his marriage day; thenceforward he had a stately, brimming march, conscious of his own dignity and
sundry dams. He became a tranquil feature in the scene. The trees and towns saw themselves in him, as in a
mirror. He carried the canoes lightly on his broad breast; there was no need to work hard against an eddy: but
idleness became the order of the day, and mere straightforward dipping of the paddle, now on this side, now
on that, without intelligence or effort. Truly we were coming into halcyon weather upon all accounts, and
were floated towards the sea like gentlemen.
We made Compiègne as the sun was going down: a fine profile of a town above the river. Over the bridge, a
regiment was parading to the drum. People loitered on the quay, some fishing, some looking idly at the
stream. And as the two boats shot in along the water, we could see them pointing them out and speaking one
to another. We landed at a floating lavatory, where the washerwomen were still beating the clothes.
AT COMPIÈGNE
We put up at a big, bustling hotel in Compiègne, where nobody observed our presence.
Reservery and general militarismus (as the Germans call it) were rampant. A camp of conical white tents
without the town looked like a leaf out of a picture Bible; sword-belts decorated the walls of the cafés; and the
streets kept sounding all day long with military music. It was not possible to be an Englishman and avoid a
feeling of elation; for the men who followed the drums were small, and walked shabbily. Each man inclined
at his own angle, and jolted to his own convenience, as he went. There was nothing of the superb gait with
which a regiment of tall Highlanders moves behind its music, solemn and inevitable, like a natural
phenomenon. Who that has seen it can forget the drum-major pacing in front, the drummers’
tiger-skins, the pipers’ swinging plaids, the strange elastic rhythm of the whole regiment footing it in
time - and the bang of the drum, when the brasses cease, and the shrill pipes take up the martial story in their
place?
A girl, at school in France, began to describe one of our regiments on parade to her French schoolmates; and
as she went on, she told me, the recollection grew so vivid, she became so proud to be the countrywoman of
such soldiers, and so sorry to be in another country, that her voice failed her and she burst into tears. I have
never forgotten that girl; and I think she very nearly deserves a statue. To call her a young lady, with all its
niminy associations, would be to offer her an insult. She may rest assured of one thing: although she never

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should marry a heroic general, never see any great or immediate result of her life, she will not have lived in
vain for her native land.
But though French soldiers show to ill advantage on parade, on the march they are gay, alert, and willing like
a troop of fox-hunters. I remember once seeing a company pass through the forest of Fontainebleau, on the
Chailly road, between the Bas Bréau and the Reine Blanche. One fellow walked a little before the rest, and
sang a loud, audacious marching song. The rest bestirred their feet, and even swung their muskets in time. A
young officer on horseback had hard ado to keep his countenance at the words. You never saw anything so
cheerful and spontaneous as their gait; schoolboys do not look more eagerly at hare and hounds; and you
would have thought it impossible to tire such willing marchers.
My great delight in Compiègne was the town-hall. I doted upon the town-hall. It is a monument of Gothic
insecurity, all turreted, and gargoyled, and slashed, and bedizened with half a score of architectural fancies.
Some of the niches are gilt and painted; and in a great square panel in the centre, in black relief on a gilt
ground, Louis XII. rides upon a pacing horse, with hand on hip and head thrown back. There is royal
arrogance in every line of him; the stirruped foot projects insolently from the frame; the eye is hard and proud;
the very horse seems to be treading with gratification over prostrate serfs, and to have the breath of the
trumpet in his nostrils. So rides for ever, on the front of the town-hall, the good king Louis XII., the father of
his people.
Over the king’s head, in the tall centre turret, appears the dial of a clock; and high above that, three
little mechanical figures, each one with a hammer in his hand, whose business it is to chime out the hours and
halves and quarters for the burgesses of Compiègne. The centre figure has a gilt breast-plate; the two others
wear gilt trunk-hose; and they all three have elegant, flapping hats like cavaliers. As the quarter approaches,
they turn their heads and look knowingly one to the other; and then, kling go the three hammers on three little
bells below. The hour follows, deep and sonorous, from the interior of the tower; and the gilded gentlemen
rest from their labours with contentment.
I had a great deal of healthy pleasure from their manoeuvres, and took good care to miss as few performances
as possible; and I found that even the Cigarette, while he pretended to despise my enthusiasm, was more or
less a devotee himself. There is something highly absurd in the exposition of such toys to the outrages of
winter on a housetop. They would be more in keeping in a glass case before a Nürnberg clock. Above all, at
night, when the children are abed, and even grown people are snoring under quilts, does it not seem
impertinent to leave these ginger-bread figures winking and tinkling to the stars and the rolling moon? The
gargoyles may fitly enough twist their ape-like heads; fitly enough may the potentate bestride his charger, like
a centurion in an old German print of the Via Dolorosa; but the toys should be put away in a box among some
cotton, until the sun rises, and the children are abroad again to be amused.
In Compiègne post-office a great packet of letters awaited us; and the authorities were, for this occasion only,
so polite as to hand them over upon application.
In some ways, our journey may be said to end with this letter-bag at Compiègne. The spell was broken. We
had partly come home from that moment.
No one should have any correspondence on a journey; it is bad enough to have to write; but the receipt of
letters is the death of all holiday feeling.
‘Out of my country and myself I go.’ I wish to take a dive among new conditions for a while,
as into another element. I have nothing to do with my friends or my affections for the time; when I came
away, I left my heart at home in a desk, or sent it forward with my portmanteau to await me at my
destination. After my journey is over, I shall not fail to read your admirable letters with the attention they

An Inland Voyage
deserve. But I have paid all this money, look you, and paddled all these strokes, for no other purpose than to
be abroad; and yet you keep me at home with your perpetual communications. You tug the string, and I feel
that I am a tethered bird. You pursue me all over Europe with the little vexations that I came away to avoid.
There is no discharge in the war of life, I am well aware; but shall there not be so much as a week’s
furlough?
We were up by six, the day we were to leave. They had taken so little note of us that I hardly thought they
would have condescended on a bill. But they did, with some smart particulars too; and we paid in a civilised
manner to an uninterested clerk, and went out of that hotel, with the india-rubber bags, unremarked. No one
cared to know about us. It is not possible to rise before a village; but Compiègne was so grown a town, that it
took its ease in the morning; and we were up and away while it was still in dressing-gown and slippers. The
streets were left to people washing door-steps; nobody was in full dress but the cavaliers upon the town-hall;
they were all washed with dew, spruce in their gilding, and full of intelligence and a sense of professional
responsibility. Kling went they on the bells for the half-past six as we went by. I took it kind of them to make
me this parting compliment; they never were in better form, not even at noon upon a Sunday.
There was no one to see us off but the early washerwomen - early and late - who were already beating the
linen in their floating lavatory on the river. They were very merry and matutinal in their ways; plunged their
arms boldly in, and seemed not to feel the shock. It would be dispiriting to me, this early beginning and first
cold dabble of a most dispiriting day’s work. But I believe they would have been as unwilling to
change days with us as we could be to change with them. They crowded to the door to watch us paddle away
into the thin sunny mists upon the river; and shouted heartily after us till we were through the bridge.
CHANGED TIMES
There is a sense in which those mists never rose from off our journey; and from that time forth they lie very
densely in my note-book. As long as the Oise was a small rural river, it took us near by people’s
doors, and we could hold a conversation with natives in the riparian fields. But now that it had grown so
wide, the life along shore passed us by at a distance. It was the same difference as between a great public
highway and a country by-path that wanders in and out of cottage gardens. We now lay in towns, where
nobody troubled us with questions; we had floated into civilised life, where people pass without salutation. In
sparsely inhabited places, we make all we can of each encounter; but when it comes to a city, we keep to
ourselves, and never speak unless we have trodden on a man’s toes. In these waters we were no longer
strange birds, and nobody supposed we had travelled farther than from the last town. I remember, when we
came into L’Isle Adam, for instance, how we met dozens of pleasure-boats outing it for the afternoon,
and there was nothing to distinguish the true voyager from the amateur, except, perhaps, the filthy condition
of my sail. The company in one boat actually thought they recognised me for a neighbour. Was there ever
anything more wounding? All the romance had come down to that. Now, on the upper Oise, where nothing
sailed as a general thing but fish, a pair of canoeists could not be thus vulgarly explained away; we were
strange and picturesque intruders; and out of people’s wonder sprang a sort of light and passing
intimacy all along our route. There is nothing but tit-for-tat in this world, though sometimes it be a little
difficult to trace: for the scores are older than we ourselves, and there has never yet been a settling-day since
things were. You get entertainment pretty much in proportion as you give. As long as we were a sort of odd
wanderers, to be stared at and followed like a quack doctor or a caravan, we had no want of amusement in
return; but as soon as we sank into commonplace ourselves, all whom we met were similarly disenchanted.
And here is one reason of a dozen, why the world is dull to dull persons.

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In our earlier adventures there was generally something to do, and that quickened us. Even the showers of
rain had a revivifying effect, and shook up the brain from torpor. But now, when the river no longer ran in a
proper sense, only glided seaward with an even, outright, but imperceptible speed, and when the sky smiled
upon us day after day without variety, we began to slip into that golden doze of the mind which follows upon
much exercise in the open air. I have stupefied myself in this way more than once; indeed, I dearly love the
feeling; but I never had it to the same degree as when paddling down the Oise. It was the apotheosis of
stupidity.
We ceased reading entirely. Sometimes when I found a new paper, I took a particular pleasure in reading a
single number of the current novel; but I never could bear more than three instalments; and even the second
was a disappointment. As soon as the tale became in any way perspicuous, it lost all merit in my eyes; only a
single scene, or, as is the way with these feuilletons, half a scene, without antecedent or consequence, like a
piece of a dream, had the knack of fixing my interest. The less I saw of the novel, the better I liked it: a
pregnant reflection. But for the most part, as I said, we neither of us read anything in the world, and
employed the very little while we were awake between bed and dinner in poring upon maps. I have always
been fond of maps, and can voyage in an atlas with the greatest enjoyment. The names of places are
singularly inviting; the contour of coasts and rivers is enthralling to the eye; and to hit, in a map, upon some
place you have heard of before, makes history a new possession. But we thumbed our charts, on these
evenings, with the blankest unconcern. We cared not a fraction for this place or that. We stared at the sheet
as children listen to their rattle; and read the names of towns or villages to forget them again at once. We had
no romance in the matter; there was nobody so fancy-free. If you had taken the maps away while we were
studying them most intently, it is a fair bet whether we might not have continued to study the table with the
same delight.
About one thing we were mightily taken up, and that was eating. I think I made a god of my belly. I
remember dwelling in imagination upon this or that dish till my mouth watered; and long before we got in for
the night my appetite was a clamant, instant annoyance. Sometimes we paddled alongside for a while and
whetted each other with gastronomical fancies as we went. Cake and sherry, a homely rejection, but not
within reach upon the Oise, trotted through my head for many a mile; and once, as we were approaching
Verberie, the Cigarette brought my heart into my mouth by the suggestion of oyster-patties and Sauterne.
I suppose none of us recognise the great part that is played in life by eating and drinking. The appetite is so
imperious that we can stomach the least interesting viands, and pass off a dinner-hour thankfully enough on
bread and water; just as there are men who must read something, if it were only Bradshaw’s Guide.
But there is a romance about the matter after all. Probably the table has more devotees than love; and I am
sure that food is much more generally entertaining than scenery. Do you give in, as Walt Whitman would say,
that you are any the less immortal for that? The true materialism is to be ashamed of what we are. To detect
the flavour of an olive is no less a piece of human perfection than to find beauty in the colours of the sunset.
Canoeing was easy work. To dip the paddle at the proper inclination, now right, now left; to keep the head
down stream; to empty the little pool that gathered in the lap of the apron; to screw up the eyes against the
glittering sparkles of sun upon the water; or now and again to pass below the whistling tow-rope of the Deo
Gratias of Condé, or the Four Sons of Aymon - there was not much art in that; certain silly muscles managed
it between sleep and waking; and meanwhile the brain had a whole holiday, and went to sleep. We took in, at
a glance, the larger features of the scene; and beheld, with half an eye, bloused fishers and dabbling
washerwomen on the bank. Now and again we might be half-wakened by some church spire, by a leaping
fish, or by a trail of river grass that clung about the paddle and had to be plucked off and thrown away. But
these luminous intervals were only partially luminous. A little more of us was called into action, but never the
whole. The central bureau of nerves, what in some moods we call Ourselves, enjoyed its holiday without
disturbance, like a Government Office. The great wheels of intelligence turned idly in the head, like
fly-wheels, grinding no grist. I have gone on for half an hour at a time, counting my strokes and forgetting the

An Inland Voyage
hundreds. I flatter myself the beasts that perish could not underbid that, as a low form of consciousness. And
what a pleasure it was! What a hearty, tolerant temper did it bring about! There is nothing captious about a
man who has attained to this, the one possible apotheosis in life, the Apotheosis of Stupidity; and he begins to
feel dignified and longaevous like a tree.
There was one odd piece of practical metaphysics which accompanied what I may call the depth, if I must not
call it the intensity, of my abstraction. What philosophers call me and not-me, ego and non ego, preoccupied
me whether I would or no. There was less me and more not-me than I was accustomed to expect. I looked on
upon somebody else, who managed the paddling; I was aware of somebody else’s feet against the
stretcher; my own body seemed to have no more intimate relation to me than the canoe, or the river, or the
river banks. Nor this alone: something inside my mind, a part of my brain, a province of my proper being,
had thrown off allegiance and set up for itself, or perhaps for the somebody else who did the paddling. I had
dwindled into quite a little thing in a corner of myself. I was isolated in my own skull. Thoughts presented
themselves unbidden; they were not my thoughts, they were plainly some one else’s; and I considered
them like a part of the landscape. I take it, in short, that I was about as near Nirvana as would be convenient
in practical life; and if this be so, I make the Buddhists my sincere compliments; ’tis an agreeable
state, not very consistent with mental brilliancy, not exactly profitable in a money point of view, but very
calm, golden, and incurious, and one that sets a man superior to alarms. It may be best figured by supposing
yourself to get dead drunk, and yet keep sober to enjoy it. I have a notion that open-air labourers must spend a
large portion of their days in this ecstatic stupor, which explains their high composure and endurance. A pity
to go to the expense of laudanum, when here is a better paradise for nothing!
This frame of mind was the great exploit of our voyage, take it all in all. It was the farthest piece of travel
accomplished. Indeed, it lies so far from beaten paths of language, that I despair of getting the reader into
sympathy with the smiling, complacent idiocy of my condition; when ideas came and went like motes in a
sunbeam; when trees and church spires along the bank surged up, from time to time into my notice, like solid
objects through a rolling cloudland; when the rhythmical swish of boat and paddle in the water became a
cradle-song to lull my thoughts asleep; when a piece of mud on the deck was sometimes an intolerable
eyesore, and sometimes quite a companion for me, and the object of pleased consideration; - and all the time,
with the river running and the shores changing upon either hand, I kept counting my strokes and forgetting the
hundreds, the happiest animal in France.
DOWN THE OISE: CHURCH INTERIORS
We made our first stage below Compiègne to Pont Sainte Maxence. I was abroad a little after six the next
morning. The air was biting, and smelt of frost. In an open place a score of women wrangled together over
the day’s market; and the noise of their negotiation sounded thin and querulous like that of sparrows
on a winter’s morning. The rare passengers blew into their hands, and shuffled in their wooden shoes
to set the blood agog. The streets were full of icy shadow, although the chimneys were smoking overhead in
golden sunshine. If you wake early enough at this season of the year, you may get up in December to break
your fast in June.
I found my way to the church; for there is always something to see about a church, whether living worshippers
or dead men’s tombs; you find there the deadliest earnest, and the hollowest deceit; and even where it
is not a piece of history, it will be certain to leak out some contemporary gossip. It was scarcely so cold in the
church as it was without, but it looked colder. The white nave was positively arctic to the eye; and the
tawdriness of a continental altar looked more forlorn than usual in the solitude and the bleak air. Two priests

An Inland Voyage
sat in the chancel, reading and waiting penitents; and out in the nave, one very old woman was engaged in her
devotions. It was a wonder how she was able to pass her beads when healthy young people were breathing in
their palms and slapping their chest; but though this concerned me, I was yet more dispirited by the nature of
her exercises. She went from chair to chair, from altar to altar, circumnavigating the church. To each shrine
she dedicated an equal number of beads and an equal length of time. Like a prudent capitalist with a
somewhat cynical view of the commercial prospect, she desired to place her supplications in a great variety of
heavenly securities. She would risk nothing on the credit of any single intercessor. Out of the whole
company of saints and angels, not one but was to suppose himself her champion elect against the Great
Assize! I could only think of it as a dull, transparent jugglery, based upon unconscious unbelief.
She was as dead an old woman as ever I saw; no more than bone and parchment, curiously put together. Her
eyes, with which she interrogated mine, were vacant of sense. It depends on what you call seeing, whether
you might not call her blind. Perhaps she had known love: perhaps borne children, suckled them and given
them pet names. But now that was all gone by, and had left her neither happier nor wiser; and the best she
could do with her mornings was to come up here into the cold church and juggle for a slice of heaven. It was
not without a gulp that I escaped into the streets and the keen morning air. Morning? why, how tired of it she
would be before night! and if she did not sleep, how then? It is fortunate that not many of us are brought up
publicly to justify our lives at the bar of threescore years and ten; fortunate that such a number are knocked
opportunely on the head in what they call the flower of their years, and go away to suffer for their follies in
private somewhere else. Otherwise, between sick children and discontented old folk, we might be put out of
all conceit of life.
I had need of all my cerebral hygiene during that day’s paddle: the old devotee stuck in my throat
sorely. But I was soon in the seventh heaven of stupidity; and knew nothing but that somebody was paddling
a canoe, while I was counting his strokes and forgetting the hundreds. I used sometimes to be afraid I should
remember the hundreds; which would have made a toil of a pleasure; but the terror was chimerical, they went
out of my mind by enchantment, and I knew no more than the man in the moon about my only occupation.
At Creil, where we stopped to lunch, we left the canoes in another floating lavatory, which, as it was high
noon, was packed with washerwomen, red-handed and loud-voiced; and they and their broad jokes are about
all I remember of the place. I could look up my history-books, if you were very anxious, and tell you a date or
two; for it figured rather largely in the English wars. But I prefer to mention a girls’ boarding-school,
which had an interest for us because it was a girls’ boarding-school, and because we imagined we had
rather an interest for it. At least - there were the girls about the garden; and here were we on the river; and
there was more than one handkerchief waved as we went by. It caused quite a stir in my heart; and yet how
we should have wearied and despised each other, these girls and I, if we had been introduced at a
croquet-party! But this is a fashion I love: to kiss the hand or wave a handkerchief to people I shall never see
again, to play with possibility, and knock in a peg for fancy to hang upon. It gives the traveller a jog, reminds
him that he is not a traveller everywhere, and that his journey is no more than a siesta by the way on the real
march of life.
The church at Creil was a nondescript place in the inside, splashed with gaudy lights from the windows, and
picked out with medallions of the Dolorous Way. But there was one oddity, in the way of an ex voto, which
pleased me hugely: a faithful model of a canal boat, swung from the vault, with a written aspiration that God
should conduct the Saint Nicolas of Creil to a good haven. The thing was neatly executed, and would have
made the delight of a party of boys on the waterside. But what tickled me was the gravity of the peril to be
conjured. You might hang up the model of a sea-going ship, and welcome: one that is to plough a furrow
round the world, and visit the tropic or the frosty poles, runs dangers that are well worth a candle and a mass.
But the Saint Nicolas of Creil, which was to be tugged for some ten years by patient draught-horses, in a
weedy canal, with the poplars chattering overhead, and the skipper whistling at the tiller; which was to do all
its errands in green inland places, and never get out of sight of a village belfry in all its cruising; why, you

An Inland Voyage
would have thought if anything could be done without the intervention of Providence, it would be that! But
perhaps the skipper was a humorist: or perhaps a prophet, reminding people of the seriousness of life by this
preposterous token.
At Creil, as at Noyon, Saint Joseph seemed a favourite saint on the score of punctuality. Day and hour can be
specified; and grateful people do not fail to specify them on a votive tablet, when prayers have been
punctually and neatly answered. Whenever time is a consideration, Saint Joseph is the proper intermediary. I
took a sort of pleasure in observing the vogue he had in France, for the good man plays a very small part in
my religion at home. Yet I could not help fearing that, where the Saint is so much commanded for exactitude,
he will be expected to be very grateful for his tablet.
This is foolishness to us Protestants; and not of great importance anyway. Whether people’s gratitude
for the good gifts that come to them be wisely conceived or dutifully expressed, is a secondary matter, after
all, so long as they feel gratitude. The true ignorance is when a man does not know that he has received a
good gift, or begins to imagine that he has got it for himself. The self-made man is the funniest windbag after
all! There is a marked difference between decreeing light in chaos, and lighting the gas in a metropolitan
back-parlour with a box of patent matches; and do what we will, there is always something made to our hand,
if it were only our fingers.
But there was something worse than foolishness placarded in Creil Church. The Association of the Living
Rosary (of which I had never previously heard) is responsible for that. This Association was founded,
according to the printed advertisement, by a brief of Pope Gregory Sixteenth, on the 17th of January 1832:
according to a coloured bas-relief, it seems to have been founded, sometime other, by the Virgin giving one
rosary to Saint Dominic, and the Infant Saviour giving another to Saint Catharine of Siena. Pope Gregory is
not so imposing, but he is nearer hand. I could not distinctly make out whether the Association was entirely
devotional, or had an eye to good works; at least it is highly organised: the names of fourteen matrons and
misses were filled in for each week of the month as associates, with one other, generally a married woman, at
the top for zélatrice: the leader of the band. Indulgences, plenary and partial, follow on the performance of
the duties of the Association. ‘The partial indulgences are attached to the recitation of the
rosary.’ On ‘the recitation of the required dizaine,’ a partial indulgence promptly
follows. When people serve the kingdom of heaven with a pass-book in their hands, I should always be afraid
lest they should carry the same commercial spirit into their dealings with their fellow-men, which would make
a sad and sordid business of this life.
There is one more article, however, of happier import. ‘All these indulgences,’ it appeared,
‘are applicable to souls in purgatory.’ For God’s sake, ye ladies of Creil, apply them all
to the souls in purgatory without delay! Burns would take no hire for his last songs, preferring to serve his
country out of unmixed love. Suppose you were to imitate the exciseman, mesdames, and even if the souls in
purgatory were not greatly bettered, some souls in Creil upon the Oise would find themselves none the worse
either here or hereafter.
I cannot help wondering, as I transcribe these notes, whether a Protestant born and bred is in a fit state to
understand these signs, and do them what justice they deserve; and I cannot help answering that he is not.
They cannot look so merely ugly and mean to the faithful as they do to me. I see that as clearly as a
proposition in Euclid. For these believers are neither weak nor wicked. They can put up their tablet
commanding Saint Joseph for his despatch, as if he were still a village carpenter; they can ‘recite the
required dizaine,’ and metaphorically pocket the indulgence, as if they had done a job for Heaven; and
then they can go out and look down unabashed upon this wonderful river flowing by, and up without
confusion at the pin-point stars, which are themselves great worlds full of flowing rivers greater than the
Oise. I see it as plainly, I say, as a proposition in Euclid, that my Protestant mind has missed the point, and
that there goes with these deformities some higher and more religious spirit than I dream.

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I wonder if other people would make the same allowances for me! Like the ladies of Creil, having recited my
rosary of toleration, I look for my indulgence on the spot.
PRÉCY AND THE MARIONNETTES
We made Précy about sundown. The plain is rich with tufts of poplar. In a wide, luminous curve, the Oise
lay under the hillside. A faint mist began to rise and confound the different distances together. There was not
a sound audible but that of the sheep-bells in some meadows by the river, and the creaking of a cart down the
long road that descends the hill. The villas in their gardens, the shops along the street, all seemed to have
been deserted the day before; and I felt inclined to walk discreetly as one feels in a silent forest. All of a
sudden, we came round a corner, and there, in a little green round the church, was a bevy of girls in Parisian
costumes playing croquet. Their laughter, and the hollow sound of ball and mallet, made a cheery stir in the
neighbourhood; and the look of these slim figures, all corseted and ribboned, produced an answerable
disturbance in our hearts. We were within sniff of Paris, it seemed. And here were females of our own
species playing croquet, just as if Précy had been a place in real life, instead of a stage in the fairyland of
travel. For, to be frank, the peasant woman is scarcely to be counted as a woman at all, and after having
passed by such a succession of people in petticoats digging and hoeing and making dinner, this company of
coquettes under arms made quite a surprising feature in the landscape, and convinced us at once of being
fallible males.
The inn at Précy is the worst inn in France. Not even in Scotland have I found worse fare. It was kept by a
brother and sister, neither of whom was out of their teens. The sister, so to speak, prepared a meal for us; and
the brother, who had been tippling, came in and brought with him a tipsy butcher, to entertain us as we ate.
We found pieces of loo-warm pork among the salad, and pieces of unknown yielding substance in the ragoût.
The butcher entertained us with pictures of Parisian life, with which he professed himself well acquainted; the
brother sitting the while on the edge of the billiard-table, toppling precariously, and sucking the stump of a
cigar. In the midst of these diversions, bang went a drum past the house, and a hoarse voice began issuing a
proclamation. It was a man with marionnettes announcing a performance for that evening.
He had set up his caravan and lighted his candles on another part of the girls’ croquet-green, under one
of those open sheds which are so common in France to shelter markets; and he and his wife, by the time we
strolled up there, were trying to keep order with the audience.
It was the most absurd contention. The show-people had set out a certain number of benches; and all who sat
upon them were to pay a couple of sous for the accommodation. They were always quite full - a bumper
house - as long as nothing was going forward; but let the show-woman appear with an eye to a collection, and
at the first rattle of her tambourine the audience slipped off the seats, and stood round on the outside with their
hands in their pockets. It certainly would have tried an angel’s temper. The showman roared from the
proscenium; he had been all over France, and nowhere, nowhere, ‘not even on the borders of
Germany,’ had he met with such misconduct. Such thieves and rogues and rascals, as he called them!
And every now and again, the wife issued on another round, and added her shrill quota to the tirade. I
remarked here, as elsewhere, how far more copious is the female mind in the material of insult. The audience
laughed in high good-humour over the man’s declamations; but they bridled and cried aloud under the
woman’s pungent sallies. She picked out the sore points. She had the honour of the village at her
mercy. Voices answered her angrily out of the crowd, and received a smarting retort for their trouble. A
couple of old ladies beside me, who had duly paid for their seats, waxed very red and indignant, and

An Inland Voyage
discoursed to each other audibly about the impudence of these mountebanks; but as soon as the show-woman
caught a whisper of this, she was down upon them with a swoop: if mesdames could persuade their
neighbours to act with common honesty, the mountebanks, she assured them, would be polite enough:
mesdames had probably had their bowl of soup, and perhaps a glass of wine that evening; the mountebanks
also had a taste for soup, and did not choose to have their little earnings stolen from them before their eyes.
Once, things came as far as a brief personal encounter between the showman and some lads, in which the
former went down as readily as one of his own marionnettes to a peal of jeering laughter.
I was a good deal astonished at this scene, because I am pretty well acquainted with the ways of French
strollers, more or less artistic; and have always found them singularly pleasing. Any stroller must be dear to
the right-thinking heart; if it were only as a living protest against offices and the mercantile spirit, and as
something to remind us that life is not by necessity the kind of thing we generally make it. Even a German
band, if you see it leaving town in the early morning for a campaign in country places, among trees and
meadows, has a romantic flavour for the imagination. There is nobody, under thirty, so dead but his heart will
stir a little at sight of a gypsies’ camp. ‘We are not cotton-spinners all’; or, at least, not
all through. There is some life in humanity yet: and youth will now and again find a brave word to say in
dispraise of riches, and throw up a situation to go strolling with a knapsack.
An Englishman has always special facilities for intercourse with French gymnasts; for England is the natural
home of gymnasts. This or that fellow, in his tights and spangles, is sure to know a word or two of English, to
have drunk English aff-’n-aff, and perhaps performed in an English music-hall. He is a countryman of
mine by profession. He leaps, like the Belgian boating men, to the notion that I must be an athlete myself.
But the gymnast is not my favourite; he has little or no tincture of the artist in his composition; his soul is
small and pedestrian, for the most part, since his profession makes no call upon it, and does not accustom him
to high ideas. But if a man is only so much of an actor that he can stumble through a farce, he is made free of
a new order of thoughts. He has something else to think about beside the money-box. He has a pride of his
own, and, what is of far more importance, he has an aim before him that he can never quite attain. He has
gone upon a pilgrimage that will last him his life long, because there is no end to it short of perfection. He
will better upon himself a little day by day; or even if he has given up the attempt, he will always remember
that once upon a time he had conceived this high ideal, that once upon a time he had fallen in love with a star.
‘’Tis better to have loved and lost.’ Although the moon should have nothing to say to
Endymion, although he should settle down with Audrey and feed pigs, do you not think he would move with a
better grace, and cherish higher thoughts to the end? The louts he meets at church never had a fancy above
Audrey’s snood; but there is a reminiscence in Endymion’s heart that, like a spice, keeps it
fresh and haughty.
To be even one of the outskirters of art, leaves a fine stamp on a man’s countenance. I remember once
dining with a party in the inn at Château Landon. Most of them were unmistakable bagmen; others well-to-do
peasantry; but there was one young fellow in a blouse, whose face stood out from among the rest
surprisingly. It looked more finished; more of the spirit looked out through it; it had a living, expressive air,
and you could see that his eyes took things in. My companion and I wondered greatly who and what he could
be. It was fair-time in Château Landon, and when we went along to the booths, we had our question
answered; for there was our friend busily fiddling for the peasants to caper to. He was a wandering violinist.
A troop of strollers once came to the inn where I was staying, in the department of Seine et Marne. There was
a father and mother; two daughters, brazen, blowsy hussies, who sang and acted, without an idea of how to set
about either; and a dark young man, like a tutor, a recalcitrant house-painter, who sang and acted not amiss.
The mother was the genius of the party, so far as genius can be spoken of with regard to such a pack of
incompetent humbugs; and her husband could not find words to express his admiration for her comic
countryman. ‘You should see my old woman,’ said he, and nodded his beery countenance.

An Inland Voyage
One night they performed in the stable-yard, with flaring lamps - a wretched exhibition, coldly looked upon
by a village audience. Next night, as soon as the lamps were lighted, there came a plump of rain, and they had
to sweep away their baggage as fast as possible, and make off to the barn where they harboured, cold, wet,
and supperless. In the morning, a dear friend of mine, who has as warm a heart for strollers as I have myself,
made a little collection, and sent it by my hands to comfort them for their disappointment. I gave it to the
father; he thanked me cordially, and we drank a cup together in the kitchen, talking of roads, and audiences,
and hard times.
When I was going, up got my old stroller, and off with his hat. ‘I am afraid,’ said he,
‘that Monsieur will think me altogether a beggar; but I have another demand to make upon
him.’ I began to hate him on the spot. ‘We play again to-night,’ he went on.
‘Of course, I shall refuse to accept any more money from Monsieur and his friends, who have been
already so liberal. But our programme of to-night is something truly creditable; and I cling to the idea that
Monsieur will honour us with his presence.’ And then, with a shrug and a smile: ‘Monsieur
understands - the vanity of an artist!’ Save the mark! The vanity of an artist! That is the kind of thing
that reconciles me to life: a ragged, tippling, incompetent old rogue, with the manners of a gentleman, and the
vanity of an artist, to keep up his self-respect!
But the man after my own heart is M. de Vauversin. It is nearly two years since I saw him first, and indeed I
hope I may see him often again. Here is his first programme, as I found it on the breakfast-table, and have
kept it ever since as a relic of bright days:
‘Mesdames et Messieurs,
‘Mademoiselle Ferrario et M. de Vauversin auront l’honneur de chanter ce soir les morceaux

suivants.
‘Madermoiselle Ferrario chantera - Mignon - Oiseaux Légers - France - Des Français dorment là - Le
château bleu - Où voulez-vous aller?
‘M. de Vauversin - Madame Fontaine et M. Robinet - Les plongeurs à cheval - Le Mari mécontent -
Tais-toi, gamin - Mon voisin l’original - Heureux comme ça - Comme on est trompé.’
They made a stage at one end of the salle-à-manger. And what a sight it was to see M. de Vauversin, with a
cigarette in his mouth, twanging a guitar, and following Mademoiselle Ferrario’s eyes with the
obedient, kindly look of a dog! The entertainment wound up with a tombola, or auction of lottery tickets: an
admirable amusement, with all the excitement of gambling, and no hope of gain to make you ashamed of your
eagerness; for there, all is loss; you make haste to be out of pocket; it is a competition who shall lose most
money for the benefit of M. de Vauversin and Mademoiselle Ferrario.
M. de Vauversin is a small man, with a great head of black hair, a vivacious and engaging air, and a smile that
would be delightful if he had better teeth. He was once an actor in the Châtelet; but he contracted a nervous
affection from the heat and glare of the footlights, which unfitted him for the stage. At this crisis
Mademoiselle Ferrario, otherwise Mademoiselle Rita of the Alcazar, agreed to share his wandering fortunes.
‘I could never forget the generosity of that lady,’ said he. He wears trousers so tight that it has
long been a problem to all who knew him how he manages to get in and out of them. He sketches a little in
water-colours; he writes verses; he is the most patient of fishermen, and spent long days at the bottom of the
inn-garden fruitlessly dabbling a line in the clear river.

An Inland Voyage
You should hear him recounting his experiences over a bottle of wine; such a pleasant vein of talk as he has,
with a ready smile at his own mishaps, and every now and then a sudden gravity, like a man who should hear
the surf roar while he was telling the perils of the deep. For it was no longer ago than last night, perhaps, that
the receipts only amounted to a franc and a half, to cover three francs of railway fare and two of board and
lodging. The Maire, a man worth a million of money, sat in the front seat, repeatedly applauding Mlle.
Ferrario, and yet gave no more than three sous the whole evening. Local authorities look with such an evil
eye upon the strolling artist. Alas! I know it well, who have been myself taken for one, and pitilessly
incarcerated on the strength of the misapprehension. Once, M. de Vauversin visited a commissary of police
for permission to sing. The commissary, who was smoking at his ease, politely doffed his hat upon the
singer’s entrance. ‘Mr. Commissary,’ he began, ‘I am an artist.’ And on
went the commissary’s hat again. No courtesy for the companions of Apollo! ‘They are as
degraded as that,’ said M. de Vauversin with a sweep of his cigarette.
But what pleased me most was one outbreak of his, when we had been talking all the evening of the rubs,
indignities, and pinchings of his wandering life. Some one said, it would be better to have a million of money
down, and Mlle. Ferrario admitted that she would prefer that mightily. ‘Eh bien, moi non; - not
I,’ cried De Vauversin, striking the table with his hand. ‘If any one is a failure in the world, is
it not I? I had an art, in which I have done things well - as well as some - better perhaps than others; and now
it is closed against me. I must go about the country gathering coppers and singing nonsense. Do you think I
regret my life? Do you think I would rather be a fat burgess, like a calf? Not I! I have had moments when I
have been applauded on the boards: I think nothing of that; but I have known in my own mind sometimes,
when I had not a clap from the whole house, that I had found a true intonation, or an exact and speaking
gesture; and then, messieurs, I have known what pleasure was, what it was to do a thing well, what it was to
be an artist. And to know what art is, is to have an interest for ever, such as no burgess can find in his petty
concerns. Tenez, messieurs, je vais vous le dire - it is like a religion.’
Such, making some allowance for the tricks of memory and the inaccuracies of translation, was the profession
of faith of M. de Vauversin. I have given him his own name, lest any other wanderer should come across him,
with his guitar and cigarette, and Mademoiselle Ferrario; for should not all the world delight to honour this
unfortunate and loyal follower of the Muses? May Apollo send him rimes hitherto undreamed of; may the
river be no longer scanty of her silver fishes to his lure; may the cold not pinch him on long winter rides, nor
the village jack-in-office affront him with unseemly manners; and may he never miss Mademoiselle Ferrario
from his side, to follow with his dutiful eyes and accompany on the guitar!
The marionnettes made a very dismal entertainment. They performed a piece, called Pyramus and Thisbe, in
five mortal acts, and all written in Alexandrines fully as long as the performers. One marionnette was the
king; another the wicked counsellor; a third, credited with exceptional beauty, represented Thisbe; and then
there were guards, and obdurate fathers, and walking gentlemen. Nothing particular took place during the two
or three acts that I sat out; but you will he pleased to learn that the unities were properly respected, and the
whole piece, with one exception, moved in harmony with classical rules. That exception was the comic
countryman, a lean marionnette in wooden shoes, who spoke in prose and in a broad patois much appreciated
by the audience. He took unconstitutional liberties with the person of his sovereign; kicked his
fellow-marionnettes in the mouth with his wooden shoes, and whenever none of the versifying suitors were
about, made love to Thisbe on his own account in comic prose.
This fellow’s evolutions, and the little prologue, in which the showman made a humorous eulogium of
his troop, praising their indifference to applause and hisses, and their single devotion to their art, were the
only circumstances in the whole affair that you could fancy would so much as raise a smile. But the villagers
of Précy seemed delighted. Indeed, so long as a thing is an exhibition, and you pay to see it, it is nearly
certain to amuse. If we were charged so much a head for sunsets, or if God sent round a drum before the
hawthorns came in flower, what a work should we not make about their beauty! But these things, like good

An Inland Voyage
companions, stupid people early cease to observe: and the Abstract Bagman tittups past in his spring gig, and
is positively not aware of the flowers along the lane, or the scenery of the weather overhead.
BACK TO THE WORLD
Of the next two days’ sail little remains in my mind, and nothing whatever in my note-book. The river
streamed on steadily through pleasant river-side landscapes. Washerwomen in blue dresses, fishers in blue
blouses, diversified the green banks; and the relation of the two colours was like that of the flower and the leaf
in the forget-me-not. A symphony in forget-me-not; I think Théophile Gautier might thus have characterised
that two days’ panorama. The sky was blue and cloudless; and the sliding surface of the river held up,
in smooth places, a mirror to the heaven and the shores. The washerwomen hailed us laughingly; and the
noise of trees and water made an accompaniment to our dozing thoughts, as we fleeted down the stream.
The great volume, the indefatigable purpose of the river, held the mind in chain. It seemed now so sure of its
end, so strong and easy in its gait, like a grown man full of determination. The surf was roaring for it on the
sands of Havre.
For my own part, slipping along this moving thoroughfare in my fiddle-case of a canoe, I also was beginning
to grow aweary for my ocean. To the civilised man, there must come, sooner or later, a desire for civilisation.
I was weary of dipping the paddle; I was weary of living on the skirts of life; I wished to be in the thick of it
once more; I wished to get to work; I wished to meet people who understood my own speech, and could meet
with me on equal terms, as a man, and no longer as a curiosity.
And so a letter at Pontoise decided us, and we drew up our keels for the last time out of that river of Oise that
had faithfully piloted them, through rain and sunshine, for so long. For so many miles had this fleet and
footless beast of burthen charioted our fortunes, that we turned our back upon it with a sense of separation.
We had made a long détour out of the world, but now we were back in the familiar places, where life itself
makes all the running, and we are carried to meet adventure without a stroke of the paddle. Now we were to
return, like the voyager in the play, and see what rearrangements fortune had perfected the while in our
surroundings; what surprises stood ready made for us at home; and whither and how far the world had
voyaged in our absence. You may paddle all day long; but it is when you come back at nightfall, and look in
at the familiar room, that you find Love or Death awaiting you beside the stove; and the most beautiful
adventures are not those we go to seek.
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An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson

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Title: An Inland Voyage

Author: Robert Louis Stevenson

Release Date: May, 1996 [EBook #534]

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An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 1

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 2

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 3

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 4

ON THE WILLEBROEK CANAL

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 5

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 6

THE ROYAL SPORT NAUTIQUE

‘We number two hundred.’

‘You must leave all your wet things to be dried.’

&lsquo;En Angleterre, vous employez des sliding-seats, n&rsquo;est-ce pas?&rsquo;

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 7

Mammon, the least erected spirit that fell

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 8

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 9

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 10

ON THE SAMBRE CANALISED

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 11

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 12

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 13

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 14

THE TRAVELLING MERCHANT

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 15

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 16

&lsquo;Are you going to sleep alone?&rsquo; asked the servant lass.

&lsquo;There&rsquo;s little fear of that,&rsquo; says Master Gilliard.

ON THE SAMBRE CANALISED

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 17

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 18

I was a good deal mortified; but my temper had suffered, it is a fact.

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 19

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 20

SAMBRE AND OISE CANAL

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 21

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 22

&lsquo;And your friend who went by just now?&rsquo;

He also was unmarried.

&lsquo;Perhaps Mr. Moens in the Ytene,&rsquo; I suggested.

THE OISE IN FLOOD

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 23

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 24

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 25

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 26

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 27

&lsquo;It is like a violin,&rsquo; cried one of the girls in an ecstasy.

&lsquo;And polished like a violin,&rsquo; added a senator.

&lsquo;You are very fortunate,&rsquo; answered the Cigarette politely.

&lsquo;Look,&rsquo; said he.

An Inland Voyage, by Robert Louis Stevenson 28

Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts

eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971

These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!

‘En Angleterre, vous employez des sliding-seats, n’est-ce pas?’

‘Are you going to sleep alone?’ asked the servant lass.

‘There’s little fear of that,’ says Master Gilliard.

‘And your friend who went by just now?’

‘Perhaps Mr. Moens in the Ytene,’ I suggested.

‘It is like a violin,’ cried one of the girls in an ecstasy.

‘And polished like a violin,’ added a senator.

‘You are very fortunate,’ answered the Cigarette politely.

‘Look,’ said he.

‘The merchant bows unto the seaman’s star,

‘About as mean,’ returned I dejectedly, ‘as canoeing.’

‘Mademoiselle Ferrario et M. de Vauversin auront l’honneur de chanter ce soir les morceaux

* END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, AN INLAND VOYAGE *

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