Part 12

Out of Paris and Rome, there is hardly a ‘Dissenting’ Church represented; and as the worship of the other churches does not fundamentally differ, it may be convenient, in what I am about to say, to design and classify them all as Presbyterian. Putting out of view such places as Paris, Florence, and Rome, those attending the Presbyterian services are comparatively few in number; and this is partly attributable to the congregations being drawn from a smaller community, and from a nation in which, among the better classes, from whose ranks to a large extent travellers are drawn, Episcopalianism is, to a considerable extent, considered fashionable. Assuming the population of England to be seven times that of Scotland, the seventeen Scotch Church stations form just about the fair proportion as compared with the 120 English Church stations; while upon the same calculation, the numbers of those who should attend Scotch services ought to be only one–seventh, or, say, 10 for every 70. In this view of it, the Scotch churches are fairly enough represented. But, of course, this is not a practical view, and it is obvious that there must be great difficulty in maintaining, with so few supporters, stations in not very populous towns.

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In Fielding’s time, Thwackum’s definition of religion might very well represent general opinion in England, at least among Episcopalians. By religion, he said, ‘I mean the Christian religion, and not only the Christian religion, but the Protestant religion; and not only the Protestant religion, but the Church of England.’ The idea dictating this expression finds utterance more recently in Dean Hook saying, with reference to an interview with Dr. Chalmers, ‘It would be contrary to my principles to hear him preach.’ Many still would shrink from entering a Presbyterian or Dissenting church, though they are themselves Dissenters when across the Scottish border, where all sects are on the same level, no sect affecting a religious superiority over another, or being conscious of any social separation from others. But when bishops have quietly gone to hear popular Scotch ministers like Dr. Guthrie, and when men like Dean Stanley have even conducted Presbyterian service in Scotland, it shows that this narrow and unchristian illiberality of feeling is passing away. Presbyterians and Dissenters in general take a large and liberal view, and do not hesitate to go, at least occasionally, to an English Episcopal chapel; and where it is conducted with simplicity and reverence, they even enjoy a casual attendance, and hearing the fine old service of the English Church, although after having had to go repeatedly they are glad to get back to the less formal worship to which they have been accustomed.

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Now, does not all this suggest for consideration whether it would not be possible, in the smaller places at least, to combine the Scotch and English services in such a way as would enable all to meet in common. There are marked peculiarities in both, distinguishing them, no doubt—peculiarities which at home will take long, by mutual reconcilement, to efface; but when people are from home, there is a tendency to meet more on common ground and feel members of the same great community. Thus it is not uncommon, at least in Scotland, in large hydropathic establishments, very much to the satisfaction of all, to have the whole company assembled on a Sunday evening for a simple worship by reading of Scripture, singing of hymns, extempore prayer, and a sermon or address by a Presbyterian minister.

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Apart from the objection which Presbyterians have to a service which is wholly read, and is therefore apt to degenerate into ceremonious worship, there is not a great deal in what is usually read to which they would take exception. The absolution would be better out, as having a tendency to mislead,[15] and it grates upon unaccustomed ears to hear the words of the prosaic version of the Psalms contained in the Prayer Book substituted for the far grander and more poetical words of the Authorized Version. But the Prayer Book, till reformed or revised, would need to be taken as it stands. There would be, however, no need for adding to the morning or evening service the communion service—that might be reserved for those who desired to remain one Sunday in the month for the Episcopal communion, the Presbyterians taking another Sunday in the month for their communion. Nor need the Litany be always used. Then, with regard to the remainder of the service, why not have a Presbyterian minister, when he could be got (and sometimes there are even men of eminence going about), to take it alternately, or otherwise, with the Episcopalian, by giving a short suitable extempore prayer before sermon, and then preaching a sermon according to his own usage—in other words, adopting the mode of service practised in the Rev. Newman Hall’s church, London.

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Besides other and higher good, this alternate preaching might benefit even the ministers themselves of both communions. The great fault among Episcopalian clergymen is that, in the generality of cases, what they read has no pretence or aim at preaching, but consists rather of a string of meagre platitudes, of sentiments which nobody would controvert, a dry homily read without feeling or animation, and having no intention of reaching the soul or heart of the hearers. The ministers of the other communions have, as a rule, a higher estimate of the duty of the preacher; but they do not always have the power or the perception of the means of carrying it out successfully. Among men of mediocrity, the idea seems to be to occupy a long statutory three–quarters of an hour in a stiff, formal, methodical fashion of dividing and exhausting the subject, and an equally formal and unskilful, and therefore ineffective, application and address. While added to ignorance of the arts of arresting and maintaining attention and of persuading an audience, Presbyterian divines too often do not choose the most suitable subjects of discourse. Might not even the spirit of emulation evoke better things?

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It is too much the custom in churches in Scotland, after sermon, to close with a hymn, a prayer, and an anthem. After an impressive sermon, it seems only calculated to drive out the impression to have, immediately after, the same subject and the same thoughts droned out by the congregation in a melancholy paraphrase to a doleful tune, followed up by the blare and fanfare of an elaborate high–sounding anthem performed by the choir according to book. The English method, where all this would be more appropriate, is to close quietly. But sometimes the minister stops suddenly short, and with startling rapidity utters, ‘Now to God the Father,’ etc. However, the rule is, whether with or without this invocation, to close with either benediction, or a short prayer and benediction. We did not often go to the west church at Mentone, though near to us, because the flavour of the service inclined to be ‘high’; but the closing there was always pleasing. After the minister had pronounced the benediction, and before the congregation rose from their knees, the choir (composed principally of young ladies with good and trained voices), to the accompaniment of the organ, in subdued tones, so suitable to parting with reverent step and slow, sung to a soft sweet tune the following simple, perhaps child–like verse:—

‘Lord, keep us safe this night, Secure from all we fear; May angels guard us while we sleep, Till morning light appear.’

FIRST WINTER IN THE RIVIERA.

VI.

_LONDON TO SOUTH OF FRANCE._

SELECTING the route to Paris by Folkestone, we left London on the afternoon of 1st November 1876, and slept at Folkestone. The steamboat was to sail the following morning at 9.15, and to have proceeded direct would have involved leaving London at the inconveniently early hour of 7.10 A.M. The train by Dover and Calais departs fixedly at 7.40 A.M., so that one is not much better off by taking that route. But on proceeding by Boulogne, there is a chance that the state of the tide may throw the time of sailing to a later hour; only when this is the case, it involves arriving at the journey’s end late in the evening. The train in connection with the boat by which we were to sail, was due in Paris at 4.40 afternoon—a nice time at which to arrive.

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One does not get a chance of observing whether there be any attractions about Folkestone by just sleeping a night there. It may be a very Paradise upon earth; and, from its facilities for popping over to France, to its residents it probably is. One cannot say, but it does not look like it. Possibly the quarter to which summer visitors resort may be more inviting than the portion disclosed at the harbour. Anyhow, it seems a less dreary, out–of–the–world place than Newhaven. But Britannia rebels a little at her children quitting their native land to get enamoured with strange countries, and frowns upon their departure; for these nights before crossing are by no means pleasurable. One is brought into rather close proximity to the dreaded passage; and if the wind should howl or be even but moderately fresh, or if the sea, unwitting of its gigantean power, be only sporting in joyous freedom, the prospect for the morrow is far from assuring. Then it is a busy, bustling, uncomfortable scene at the hotel. Piles of luggage strew the hall. Apprehensive passengers are arriving by successive trains, and others in a woe–begone condition, and in all sorts and manners of wraps and disguises, by the boats. They are dining, teaing, suppering in a confused disagreeable way in the coffee–room. Anxious waiters and active chamber–maids are hurrying about. Porters meet you in narrow corners laden with luggage. There is nothing to invite you to remain in the public room. There is nothing to induce you to venture long out of doors. People depart early to bed. But the search for petty utilities by the feeble light of candle, the cramped bedroom, the cheerless difference from home, produce a feeling of discomfort which, combined with the early retirement, the noise and tramping about the corridors, the creaking of ships’ gearing dimly heard, and the thoughts arising,—which have little in them of the land of promise and more of the morn,—all keep the pilgrim long restless upon bed; and, after an unrefreshing night of broken sleep, he is glad to get up betimes for an early breakfast, call, with twenty others simultaneously, for the bill, settle it up quick if correct, and, after an impatient waiting for his goods, which seem never likely to make their appearance, and seeing that every little thing is brought along, to be off to the steamboat; for nobody stays, unless in exceptional circumstances, such as pending a storm, more than a night. After a little, the train arrives, and an endless procession of unassorted passengers moves slowly on board; the luggage and merchandise brought by it tediously follow. At last the gangway is dragged ashore, the vessel is released, and, after the usual backings and easings and tender movements, it tardily steams out of harbour, increases its speed, and we sit looking on the land, the return to which may be in the far future; and, thinking much of dear friends from whom we have parted, we gradually, as the distance widens, lose sight of Old England, and passing here and there a gallant ship, with its snowy sails catching, fortunately for us, but a gentle balmy breeze, we near the other—once hostile, now friendly—shore, and landing find ourselves among a foreign race, and gazing upon foreign habitations, and soon encountering foreign customs and institutions.

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We made the mistake of registering our luggage at London when we left London, instead of taking it on with us to Folkestone and registering it there for Paris. The consequence was that, on arrival of the train at Paris, we were compelled to wait nearly an hour at the station, which was cold, dark, and drafty, until all the luggage which had come by the train by which we had arrived had been arranged, examined by the _douaniers_, and delivered to their owners. We disconsolately saw our luggage standing within a barred enclosure, but the men would on no account touch it till then, and no doubt where thieves abound some precaution of this kind is needful.

We had repeatedly visited Paris before, but in one respect it was new to us—to see it in its wintry aspect. On former occasions, we had visited it in the sunshine of summer. But how changed did it look now! The trees were yellow with the tints of autumn, and were nearly stripped of their foliage. The air was cold and frosty, and Paris looked bleak and miserable. We spent one or two days in it; and one of the places to which we paid a visit was beyond the range of ordinary sight–seeing. The daughters of some Edinburgh friends were at a large boarding–school in Paris, in the Faubourg d’Auteuil. We drove there to see them, and after some search discovered the establishment, the name of which, ‘Une Institution des Demoiselles,’ was painted up in letters a yard high. It had quite a conventual aspect. The house was entered through a narrow little door, hinged on a panel of a large one (just like what one sees in the large door of a prison), which, upon ringing the bell, was opened by a pull from the opposite side of the court–yard, around which the buildings of the school were placed. Crossing to the dwelling–house, we were shown into a parlour, where our young friends shortly came to us. They were all habited in black, with a red leather belt, being the uniform compulsory on all the pupils while in school. They informed us there were 150 boarders, of whom only 17 were English. Having introduced us to one of the governesses, this lady very kindly showed us all over the place. Ranges of large rooms were occupied as bedrooms, containing a separate bed for each of the young ladies—all kept in the highest order, and in white, spotless purity. Separate adjoining rooms were fitted up as lavatories. Other rooms were schoolrooms; others, dining–rooms, or _salles à manger_, where the young people were then at lunch or early dinner, and evidently enjoying a hearty meal. A separate building was kept as an infirmary for the sick—a very prudent arrangement, where so many young persons were brought together. For those who were in good health, there was a large garden and playground attached to the house.

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On Monday, 6th November, having taken Gaze’s tickets from London to Nice, we left Paris by the Lyons Railway, registering our heavy luggage for Cannes; and we were free to travel to any station on the line to Cannes, at which our tickets permitted us to stop, only taking with us what we would require for a week by the way. Some people prefer making the journey from Paris to Cannes, Nice, or Mentone without break, and say there is less fatigue in doing so; but it is a long journey, occupying from Paris to Mentone—journeying by the express leaving at 11.20 A.M.—twenty–eight hours, arriving at Mentone at 3.24 next day. For invalids in a feeble condition, it is in some respects preferable. It is only one fatigue to be overcome, and it avoids the risk of exposure to damp or rain. In cold, winter weather at Paris, the one journey is certainly preferable, and at the end of it people arrive in what is by contrast a genial summer. So proceeding, passengers have, besides other shorter stoppages, an interval of half an hour at Dijon, at 5.45 P.M., to dine; 25 minutes at Lyons, at 10.18 P.M.; and the following morning, at 6.30 A.M., 1 hour 25 minutes at Marseilles to wash and breakfast.

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We desired to take the journey leisurely, and to see a little by the way. After the usual difficulty on French railways of getting accommodation in the train, we proceeded as far as Dijon. There is little to interest one by the route. Fontainebleau, at which the express trains do not stop, is passed soon after leaving Paris, but is nearly two miles from the station. Its palace with its gardens is really the only thing worth seeing, but to see them involves spending a day at the town. If not pushed for time, they are, however, well worthy of a visit. We stopped a night on our way home to see them. The palace is extensive, consisting of four distinct but united chateaux, erected at different times, with splendid suites of rooms full of historical interest. The forest, which covers 25,000 acres, is disappointing. The charges at the hotel to which we went, were as high as those of any in Paris.

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We rested the first night at Dijon, a convenient halting–place. The Hotel du Jura is near to the railway station, and is most comfortable. The landlord of it is attentive, and his charges moderate. Dijon was the former residence of the Dukes of Burgundy, and is a curious old place, well worthy of a visit for a day or two days. People often break their journey at Dijon merely to sleep there, but, arriving at night and departing next morning, do not always visit the town. A forenoon may be very profitably spent in walking about its promenades and its streets, with houses adorned by quaint carvings and architecture, and seeing its large, massively–built churches, particularly St. Michael and St. Benigne, and its interesting old public buildings. On the card of the hotel there is a little plan of the town, in which the Place Grande is shown about its centre. Here there is a large edifice which was formerly the palace of the Dukes of Burgundy, now the Hotel de Ville, one part of which has been converted into a museum and picture gallery, the most interesting portion being the old banqueting hall of the dukes, with its colossal chimney–piece and its monuments, carrying one away back to the times of boisterous mirth and probably lawless deeds.

Dijon stands high, and the weather being cold on our journey south, we were glad of fires. We considered we had made a mistake in travelling so late in the season. Had we started about the middle of October, it would have been better. The fact is, the larger part of the people going for health to the Riviera make the grievous mistake of delaying their departure till winter has commenced. Many, indeed, do not come to the Riviera till the month of January, in order to enjoy the gratification—dearly purchased, in some cases—of a Christmas at home. By doing so, they are obliged to travel through France during a season when the weather is often piercingly chill, while they are exposed in crossing the Channel to the risk of encountering winter storms.

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We proceeded next day to Lyons, passing through a rich wine country, in the midst of which Macon lies, where, at the station, on high days and holidays, the women may be seen wearing a witch–like hat of peculiar build. The cycle of fashion will no doubt in due course make the whole world acquainted with it, till which time the world may wait and wonder. It may require some fortitude to don this sweet marvel of a bonnet for the first time. But what observation will not the ladies brave to follow their leader in fashion!

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At Lyons it was keenly cold. There is not much to be seen at the ancient city, situated on the banks of the Rhone and Saone, which effect their junction just below it. The railway journey from Dijon occupies five or six hours, according to the trains. We arrived in the dark, and drove to the Hotel Collet, one of the best in the place. It is situated in the main street, which may be said to be the only good street of shops, formerly called the Rue Napoleon, and now since the Republic, which changes even the names of streets, the Rue Nationale. On entering the large hall, round which were distributed palm trees and other tropical plants in tubs and pots, we had the first suggestion of approaching a southern clime.

Lyons is populous without being lively, and stately without being imposing. We took a close carriage next morning, and drove about for nearly four hours to see what could be seen—almost the whole of which time was occupied in visiting the junction of the rivers and ascending Fourvières, a steep hill on the right bank of the Saone, from which an extensive panoramic view is in clear weather obtained, and Mont Blanc, about 130 miles distant, is sometimes seen—its visibility being a circumstance symptomatic of approaching wet weather, as we found did happen on a subsequent occasion, when the white mountain was seen as we were nearing Lyons from Geneva. Lyons at this season was looking very dreary, and the cold necessitated our burning fires in the bedrooms. On a former visit, in summer, the heat had been almost unendurable. In the evening of the second day, we found the large central hall of the hotel—which was lighted from the roof, and afforded access by encircling corridors and concealed stairs to the different floors—was covered in by an awning, and the _salle à manger_ was laid for a magnificent dinner. It turned out that the principal rooms were engaged for a wedding party (_noces_), the ordinary guests being conducted to other rooms. It was, however, a very quiet, solemn–looking affair; although the number assembled was large, they made no noisy demonstrations. At breakfast–time next morning the waiters seemed but half aroused.

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We left Lyons by train at 11 o’clock forenoon. Our through tickets required to be _vise’d_ at the booking–office before they would admit us to the _salle–d’attente_. The route from Lyons southward is very interesting. The railway skirts the Rhone nearly the whole way. The river has been said to vary in width from a quarter of a mile to two miles, although from the railway it does not appear to be so wide. In the sunshine everything looked beautiful. The farther south we got, the foliage became fresher, and it was very charming to see the river rolling softly on, fringed by trees, and through valleys, from which rise the vine–clad hills. We passed the Côtes d’Or, and other regions, where the famous Burgundy wines are grown. Some of the mountain ranges are lofty. We thought how much more beautiful would the river appear during summer months, and our wish as regards time was actually fulfilled the following September; but, alas! it was then obscured by clouds and rain.

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