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PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.
O UR great ambition when we first set out on our tricycle, three years ago, was to ride from London to Rome. We did not then know exactly why we wanted to do this, nor do we now. The third part of the journey was “ridden, written, and wrought into a work” before the second part was begun; and, moreover, when and where we could not ride with ease—across the Channel and over the Alps, for example—we went by boat and train. In our simplicity we thought by publishing the story of our journey, we cou
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PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION.
PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION.
T ANDEM tricycling, like Mr. Laurence Sterne’s graveyard, has virtually disappeared. But the pleasures of cycling are so all-enduring that we venture to issue a new edition of Our Sentimental Journey. J. & E. R. P. 14 Buckingham St., Strand , March 27, 1893 ....
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Dedication.
Dedication.
TO LAURENCE STERNE, Esq. , &c. &c. &c. London , Jan. 2 d , 1888 . Dear Sir ,— We never should have ventured to address you, had we not noticed of late that Mr. Andrew Lang has been writing to Dead Authors, not one of whom—to our knowledge—has taken offence at this liberty. Encouraged by his example, we beg leave to dedicate to you this history of our journey, laying it with the most respectful humility before your sentimental shade, and regretting it is without that charm
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CALAIS.
CALAIS.
N OW, before I quit Calais, a travel-writer would say, it would not be amiss to give some account of it.—But while we were there we were more concerned in seeking the time and occasion for sentiment than in studying the history and monuments of the town. If you would have a short description of it, I know of none better than that of Mr. Tristram Shandy, who wrote without even having seen by daylight the places he described.—The church with the steeple, the great Square, the town-house, the Courg
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THE BOARDING-HOUSE OF NEUCHÂTEL.
THE BOARDING-HOUSE OF NEUCHÂTEL.
A FAT old landlady received us, after a glance at the tricycle had reassured her that to take us in did not mean to be taken in herself. She promised us dinner at six, and a room in the course of the evening. In the café , or outer kitchen, where she gave us chairs, an elderly Cinderella was blacking boots and peeling potatoes in the fireplace; a pretty girl was carrying tumblers and clean linen to a near room; another, with a big baby in her arms, gossiped with neighbours on the front steps. Th
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THE SOUTH WIND.
THE SOUTH WIND.
T HE next day began well. Without, the rain had stopped, and the morning was bright and clear. Within, unfavourable social distinctions had ceased, since we were the only guests. If we were slighted at dinner, we were overwhelmed with attention at breakfast. The interest of the household centred upon us. Nothing was talked of but our journey. Every one was eager to advise. We must go here, we must go there; we must keep by the sea, we must turn inland; and, above all, declared the little tailor,
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MONTREUIL.
MONTREUIL.
T HERE is not a town in all France which, in my opinion, looks better in the map than Montreuil. I own it does not look so well in the guide-book, but when you come to see it, to be sure it looks most pitifully. There is promise of picturesqueness in a group of tumbled-down gabled houses at its entrance, and in a fine church doorway at one end of the Place where we lunched. But gables and doorway have been spared, I think, but to mislead the visitor with false hopes. The streets are lined with m
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NAMPONT.
NAMPONT.
T HE road between Montreuil and Nampont was for us classic ground. Breathlessness, because of the wind, before we had got a league, brought our career—like La Fleur’s—to a sudden stop. We then had time to see that the deathbed of the famous donkey lay in fair country. Near by two windmills turned their long arms swiftly. A sportsman banged away in the fields, and, to bring good-luck, two crows flew overhead. When we went on, the wind began to moderate, and by the time we reached Nampont it was m
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A CITY IN MOURNING.
A CITY IN MOURNING.
T HE straight, poplared road to Abbeville still lay across a golden plain, with no interest save its beauty, here and there bounded by a row of trees, yellow haystacks standing out in bold relief against them; and here and there narrowed by dark woods, in front of which an old white-haired shepherd or little white-capped girl watched newly sheared sheep. Now and then the way led through small blue villages. There was Airon, where a large party of gleaners, old and young men, women, boys, and gir
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FAITHFUL ABBEVILLE.
FAITHFUL ABBEVILLE.
I T is a pity that most tourists go straight from Calais to Amiens, satisfied to know Abbeville as a station by the way. The fault, I suppose, lies with “Murray” and “Baedeker,” who are almost as curt with it as with Montreuil, giving but a few words to its Church of St. Wulfran, and even fewer to its quaint old houses. But the truth is, Abbeville is better worth a visit than many towns they praise. And though Mr. Tristram Shandy objected to one of its inns as unpleasant to die in, I can recomme
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CRUSHED AGAIN.
CRUSHED AGAIN.
A ND now Mr. Ruskin writes:—“I not only object, but am quite prepared to spend all my best ‘bad language’ in reprobation of bi-tri-and-4-5-6 or 7-cycles, and every other contrivance and invention for superseding human feet on God’s ground. To walk, to run, to leap, and to dance are the virtues of the human body, and neither to stride on stilts, wriggle on wheels, or dangle on ropes, and nothing in the training of the human mind with the body will ever supersede the appointed God’s ways of slow w
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A BY-ROAD.
A BY-ROAD.
B ECAUSE of our sight-seeing we made a late start from Abbeville.—But then we determined to go no farther than Amiens that day. It was a good ten minutes’ walk over the pavé from the hotel to the end of the long Rue St. Gilles, where it is crossed by the railroad.—Here we were kept waiting another five minutes, in company with a carriage and two covered carts, while the woman in charge, who had shut the gate, put on her official hat and cape. Presently a faint whistle was heard.—— “Hold!” said o
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AMIENS.
AMIENS.
W E should always remember Amiens, even were it not for the cathedral, because it was there we had the best dinner we ever ate in France.—In looking over my note-book I find I made at the time elaborate mention of the menu , and applied the adjective divine to a course of fresh mackerel served with an exquisite sauce.—As there may be readers who take interest, and perhaps pleasure, in dining well, I will here add that this excellent meal was eaten at the Hôtel de l’Univers. I can wish the visito
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WIND, POPLARS, AND PLAINS.
WIND, POPLARS, AND PLAINS.
T HERE is nothing more pleasing to a traveller, or more terrible to travel-writers, than a large rich plain, unless it be a straight white poplar-lined road, good as asphalt. After Amiens, as after Abbeville and Neuchâtel, there was a poplared avenue over a breezy upland to carry us to the next town, that town little more but a new place to start from to the next plain and poplars, and so on. There were cantonniers still at work, sweeping the highway with great brooms.—— “You sweep them everyday
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THE COMMERCIAL GENTLEMEN OF ST. JUST.
THE COMMERCIAL GENTLEMEN OF ST. JUST.
A T the Cheval Blanc the landlady gave us a room over the stable on the farther side of a large court-yard. From the window we looked down into the court on chickens and ducks, and on a woman watering a small vegetable garden, and the poultry and vegetables reminded us that we had not dined. So we went to the café of the hotel, where Madame stayed our hunger with the overgrown lady fingers that are served with dessert at every well-regulated table d’hôte , and where a small man in a frock-coat a
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THROUGH THE RAIN.
THROUGH THE RAIN.
T HOUGH the Englishman was not on hand in the morning, Madame , all the commercial gentlemen except Mephistopheles, the waiter, and the postman, who was just then passing, stood out on the street to see us start.—We carried away from St. Just not only pleasant recollections, but a handful of sticking labels of advertisement of the Cheval Blanc, which Madame pressed upon us as she shook hands. The first place of note was Fitz-James, labelled in the convenient French fashion, its aggressive Englis
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AN ENGLISH LANDLADY.
AN ENGLISH LANDLADY.
F ORTUNATELY the town really was Beaumont, and the first inn tolerably decent—so decent we wondered as to our reception. With due respect for the clean floors, we waited humbly at the threshold until the landlady appeared.—— “We are very wet,” said I in French, as if this was not a self-evident truth. “Oh!” said she in unmistakable insular English. “Fancy!” —Here was a stroke of good luck! A Frenchwoman would have measured our respectability by our looks; an Englishwoman could judge us by our lo
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OVER THE PAVÉ.
OVER THE PAVÉ.
N EXT morning, because we were to go by train, we realised the advantage of travelling by tricycle. Early as we were, our clothes, dry and clean, were in readiness. When we appeared in them in the public dining-room the maid at first did not recognise us.—I think it is well worth recording that our bill amounted to just twelve francs and fifty centimes, though all the items, even to the fire that dried our entire wardrobe, were mentioned separately.—After breakfast J—— carried the luggage-carrie
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PARIS.
PARIS.
C RACK, crack—crack, crack—crack, crack. So this is Paris! quoth we, continuing in the same mood, when, having at last reached the Gare du Nord , we went out on the street in search of a cab—So this is Paris! The first, the finest, the most brilliant! The cabmen at first would have nothing to do with us. Take that thing on their carriage indeed! Crack, crack—crack, crack—what a fuss they made! But at last, when chances of a fare grew less, they listened to our explanation that the cab was but fo
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A TALK ABOUT M. MILLET AND MR. STEVENSON, AND FROM MR. PENNELL.
A TALK ABOUT M. MILLET AND MR. STEVENSON, AND FROM MR. PENNELL.
T HE ride from Melun to Barbizon and through the Forest of Fontainebleau was a pilgrimage within a pilgrimage. Like Christian, we were tempted to desert the straight course, and, like him, we yielded. We turned out of our sentimental way to see M. Millet’s house for pleasure.—To be strictly truthful, I must add that another good reason for going by Barbizon was the knowledge that the pavé of the national road only comes to an end at Fontainebleau, together with our eagerness to be out of the tra
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IN THE FOREST.
IN THE FOREST.
T HE waiter having overcharged us for the groseille , we thought it only fair he should give us information for nothing. He told us the forest was just around the corner, which we could see for ourselves, and he directed us on our way with such care that we forgot his directions the next minute. The forest is still “horrid and solitary,” as Evelyn has it, just as when he rode through it and between its “hideous rocks.” We do not know to this day in what part we were, nor what roads we followed.
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FONTAINEBLEAU.
FONTAINEBLEAU.
A LL you need say of Fontainebleau (in case you are asked) is, that it stands about forty miles (south something) from Paris, in the middle of a large forest, and that there is something great in it. Before we went to sleep that night we took counsel together, and it came to nought. For we determined to be up in the morning with the sun, and to devote the day to the forest. Of course we overslept ourselves. The sun had been up three or four hours when we awoke, though as yet it had refused to sh
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THROUGH A FAIR COUNTRY.
THROUGH A FAIR COUNTRY.
T O Nemours all the way was pleasantness, and all the path was peace. There was nothing to note but the beauty and excellence of the road. Only once we came to pavé . Then, however, as it was at the bottom of a hill, it was like to be our ruin. Rosin, back-pedalling, and clever steering to the side-path saved us. A couple of tramps asked if we had not an extra seat to spare. As for Nemours, we could go on for ever in its praise, we found it so pretty; but for its inhabitants, the less, I think,
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MONTARGIS.
MONTARGIS.
T HE landlady was full of apologies for the dulness of the town. The band always played on Sunday afternoons on the Place in front of her house, she said; but now the troops were away for the autumn manœuvres, and Montargis was sad in their absence. We thought, however, she might better have apologised for the lateness of her dinner-hour.—But it was, after all, fortunate, for it so chanced we saw more of Montargis than we expected. Though little is said about it in guide and other books, it is o
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HOW WE FOUGHT THE WIND FROM MONTARGIS TO COSNE.
HOW WE FOUGHT THE WIND FROM MONTARGIS TO COSNE.
F ROM Montargis to Cosne we fought a mighty wind. The greater part of the day our heads were down, and we were working as one never works except for pleasure.—Under these circumstances we saw little of the country through which we passed. We were just conscious of the tramps we had seen the day before, now resting by the roadside; and of a blue blouse on an old boneshaker flying triumphantly with the wind down a long hill up which we were painfully toiling. The long day was marked only by our ha
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A GOOD SAMARITAN.
A GOOD SAMARITAN.
A LONG, ugly, stupid street leads to the principal Place of Cosne. Its pavé is surely the vilest to be found in all the length and breadth of France.—When we came into the town it was full of slouchy, disorderly soldiers. We pushed the tricycle to the Hôtel d’Etoile, which the commercial gentlemen of St. Just had praised. We should forget the miseries of the day over a good dinner.—The landlady came to the door and looked at us. She had no room, she declared, and could do nothing for us. Her hou
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THE BOURBONNAIS.
THE BOURBONNAIS.
T HE next morning when we awoke it was pouring; but, the shower moderating into a drizzle, we made an early start after breakfast.— Monsieur , the landlord, was distressed when he saw both lamp and little wheel tied on with pink string. He hoped the velocipede had not been injured in his stables.— Madame , in white cap and blue ribbons, with her babies at her side, was so sorry for me when she heard we were to ride all the way to Moulins that day—fifty-three kilometres, Mon Dieu! I felt sorry fo
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MOULINS.
MOULINS.
M OULINS is a stupid town with a very poor hotel and an American bar. It is true there is a cathedral, and a castle also. But, for one reason or another—perhaps because ’tis so monstrous high there was no avoiding taking notice of it—we only looked at the clock-tower. However, we made a show of interest in the large Place in front of the hotel, deciding to our own satisfaction that it was the market-place where Mr. Sterne stopped to take his last look and last farewell of Maria.—— “Adieu, poor l
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THE BOURBONNAIS AGAIN.
THE BOURBONNAIS AGAIN.
T HERE was nothing from which we had painted out for ourselves so joyous a riot of the affections, as in this journey in the vintage through this part of France. But the absence of vineyards was an obstacle to the realisation of the picture. From Moulins to La Palisse, and indeed to La Pacaudière, we saw not one. Instead there was a rich green meadowland, or a desolate plain, with here and there a lonely pool. Under the hedges women knit as they watched their pigs. Donkey-carts rattled by, huge
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WITH THE WIND.
WITH THE WIND.
“N AME of God! it is six hours!” and a loud hammering at the window below wakened us with a start, and then we heard shutters banging and the wind blowing a blast over the hills. For the first time in our journey we were out of bed before seven, and the next minute J——’s head was out of the window. The trees on the hilltops were all bent towards the Cevennes, and as he pulled in his head the shutters came crashing after him.—— “If the road’s right,” cried he, “we’ll have the wind behind us all t
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LYONS.
LYONS.
T O those who call vexations vexations , as knowing what they are, there could not be a greater than to be the best part of a day at Lyons, the most opulent and flourishing city in France. It has an old cathedral, a castle on a hillside, ruins if I be not mistaken, two rivers, and I know not what besides. Baedeker devotes pages to it. Moreover, there is associated with it a story, that, to quote Mr. Tristram Shandy, who tells it, affords more pabulum to the brain than all the Frusts and Crusts a
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THE AUTUMN MANŒUVRES.
THE AUTUMN MANŒUVRES.
A FTER Lyons, adieu to all rapid movement! ’Tis a journey of caution; and it fares better with sentiments not to be in a hurry with them. Before we were out of the city limits we lost our way, and went wandering through lanes, hunting for a road by the river. One led us to a blank wall, another to a stone pile; and when we consulted passers-by they sent us back towards the town, and into a broad street running through endless ugly suburbs, and far out of sight of the Rhône.—So much for a fellow-
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VIENNE.
VIENNE.
S O now we were at the ancient city of Vienne as early as three o’clock, and J—— too exhausted to ride farther that afternoon. We never yet went on a long trip, as everybody must or ought to know by this time, that J—— did not break down at least once on the way. The matter threatened to be serious; but after half-an-hour or more of despair—for we thought now surely we are done with sentiment—we went out in search of food, the first and most natural medicine that suggested itself, as in our hast
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THE FEAST OF APPLES.
THE FEAST OF APPLES.
I DO not know why it was, but no sooner had we gone from Vienne by the road to the right, than we distrusted the directions of the tricycler we had met the night before. We asked our way of every peasant we saw. Many stared for answer. Therefore, when others, in a vile patois, declared the road we were on would take us to Chatonnay and Rives, but that it would be shorter to turn back and start from the other end of Vienne, we foolishly set this advice down to the score of stupidity, and rode on.
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RIVES.
RIVES.
A T the Hôtel de la Poste a middle-aged fille-de-chambre , in a white cap—another Alpine-bearish Burgundian—looked upon us with such disfavour we could scarce persuade her to show us our room. The dining-room was full of noisy men in blouses and big hats. No place was left for us at the long table, that stretched the entire length of the room; and we sat together in a corner.—The dinner was excellent. But the enemy in white cap was down upon us in a minute, and gave us no peace. She raised a win
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APPENDIX
APPENDIX
The above routes cover about the pleasantest and most interesting touring ground in France. But good roads exist all over the south. For instance, from Bordeaux, the road up the Garonne to Toulouse, 250 kilometres, is excellent, though quite flat; but in the summer time it is apt to be very hot, and the surface loose and sandy. From this road excursions may be made all through the Pyrenees, which can be entered either at Luchon or at Pau. It is preferable, however, when touring through the Pyren
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