Part 2 (1/2)
I think it is an observation of Cowper, that
”G.o.d made the country, and man made the town;”
and not even the centre of Lombard-street itself affords a truer ill.u.s.tration of the sentiment, than this town of mud and money, contrasted with its beautiful environs. The distant view of Lyons is imposing from most points; but the interior presents but few objects to repay the traveller for its closeness, stench, and bustle (not even good silk stockings). Its two n.o.ble rivers have had no apparent effect in purifying it, nor the easterly winds from the Alps, which stand in full sight, in ventilating its narrow smoky streets: and though usually considered the second city of the empire in wealth and importance, the houses and their inhabitants appear marvellously inferior to Bordeaux and the Bordelais in the air of neatness and fas.h.i.+on which might be expected to mark this distinction. In every thing relating to Bordeaux there is an easy elegant exterior, which conveys the idea of an independent and frequented capital of a kingdom, and an eligible residence; whereas Lyons bears the obvious marks of its manufacturing origin, defiling, like our own Colebrook Dale, a lovely country by its smoke and stench, and leaving hardly one of the five senses unmolested.
Those fine buildings of which it can boast, take their place amid the general ma.s.s, like a fastidious courtier in low company,
”Wondering how the devil they came there.”
Whereas the elegant theatre of Bordeaux appears just in its proper situation, and supported by suitable accompaniments of well-dressed people and airy streets. After the sight of the Hotel Dieu, a standing proof that the Lyonnese can employ their money laudably and well, I will not pretend to judge whether there is any truth in the charge of avarice brought against them, and which Voltaire slyly admits in a professed eulogium on Lyons. There are other reasons accounting in a degree for its inferiority to Bordeaux in appearance, and the sordid impression which it leaves on the mind. In the first place, to judge from the innumerable quant.i.ties of villas of all sizes within reach of the town, it seems that the rich Lyonnese appreciate their fine environs as they deserve, and consider the country as the scene of display and enjoyment, while they treat Lyons as a mere counting-house. On the contrary, the villas in the neighbourhood of Bordeaux appear comparatively few, and business and pleasure to unite in the town itself. The imagination also may have some share in giving the preference, particularly after reading[9] M. de Ruffigny's tirade against his infantine life in the silk mills of Lyons. One fancies the merchant conversant with a higher and less sordid cla.s.s of persons and details than the master spinner, and vineyards more agreeable objects than dying-houses and treddles. Be this as it may, appearances are certainly in favour of Bordeaux as the second city in France.
[Footnote 9: See G.o.dwin's St. Leon.]
CHAP. IV.
LYONS TO MONTELIMART.
MAY 7.--From Lyons to St. Symphorien, our breakfast-stage, twelve miles.
For the first seven, the outskirts of Lyons, extending along the western bank of the Rhone, continue to exhibit one unvarying appearance of wealth and population. The Archbishop's palace, which stands about two miles out of the city, on a hill overlooking the river, does not add much to the beauty of the country, as it strongly resembles a large manufactory. St. Symphorien, a neat small town, marked by a ruined watch-tower to the left of the road, possesses no inn at which a tolerable breakfast can be procured; but we fared well, in this respect, at a coffee-house in the middle of the town, situated under the Mairie.
To Vienne, nine miles more. During this stage, the Alps become again visible in full majesty, from a high terrace overlooking a range of woody rising ground; and extend as far as the eye can reach from north to south. Mont Blanc and Monte Viso, the Gog and Magog of this gigantic chain, preserve their pre-eminence; the distant pyramid of the latter, which shoots into the clouds like the Peak of Teneriffe, from a cl.u.s.ter of lower mountains, contrasting with the ma.s.sy dome of the former. From its figure and position in the map, I judged it could be no other than Monte Viso, which is so strikingly conspicuous on the road from Coni to Turin. Mont Pilate, towards the foot of which the Rhone wound to the right, sinks into utter insignificance when compared with these Alps, though of a height and grandeur which would render it a leading feature in Wales or c.u.mberland. It is considered in this neighbourhood as stored with rich specimens of botany, and its appearance, much less scorched and barren than the mountains of a southern climate usually are, renders this probable.
The view of Vienne, as you descend into the narrow green valley in which it is situated, crowned by the dark ruins of an old Roman castle, and watered by a deep and rapid reach of the Rhone, combines beauties calculated to please all tastes. On the opposite side of the river, overlooking the ruins of a bridge with which it probably once communicated as a guard-house, stands a tall, square, Roman tower, called the Tour[10] de Mauconseil. The legends of the country affirm, that this was the abode of Pontius Pilate,[11] and that, in a fit of despair and frenzy, he threw himself from its windows into the Rhone, where he perished. This point the good Catholics must settle as they can with the Swiss, who maintain that he drowned himself in a little Alpine lake on the mountain which bears his name; and that the storms by which it is frequently agitated are occasioned by the writhings of his perturbed spirit. Nothing shows more forcibly the power of a.s.sociation in minds not capable of discriminating, than that the name of a man so obviously a reluctant instrument in the hands of G.o.d, and who declared by a public act his abhorrence of the part he was forced to act, should be selected as synonymous to every thing fiendlike and murderous.
[Footnote 10: Vide Cooke's Views.]
[Footnote 11: There is, I believe, positive historical authority, which fixes Vienne as the place of Pilate's banishment and death.]
The cathedral of Vienne was shut, and its external appearance did not tempt us to make further inquiries; but we were directed to a Roman temple, which, like that at Nismes, is called the Maison Carree. It can only boast of the remains of lofty pilasters, and the marks of what was once an inscription; and the inside being converted into a paltry-looking palais de justice, will hardly repay the trouble of waiting for the concierge. We departed from Vienne with too unfavourable an impression of its dirty inn, and of the place in general, to render us desirous of spending the night there. The squalid, dispiriting appearance of the town itself, indeed, forms a strong contrast both to the fine country in which it stands, and the capital letters which decorate its name in the map of France. Instead of loitering in its smoky, desolate streets, while horses are changing, I should recommend the traveller to walk on and await their arrival at the Aiguille, an old Roman monument so called, which stands close to the road on the right, within about a mile of the town. This singular pyramidical relic commands a beautiful view of the Rhone, winding into the sequestered vallies at the foot of Mont Pilate; and the variety of coins and other small relics, found there, indicate the ancient boundaries of the city as extensive, and comprising both this building and the temple above-mentioned; The inhabitants, forgetting that a person once set afloat ”in the blue rus.h.i.+ng of the arrowy Rhone,” would probably find no grave but the gulf of Lyons, have denominated this building the tomb of Pilate.
Near Vienne the country of silk-worms begins, every tree almost being a mulberry; and on the steep hills, which inclose the channel of the Rhone during two days journey from this town, the celebrated Cote-Roti wine is chiefly produced. The vineyards are in the highest state of cultivation; and, as in Burgundy also, the nature and position of the soil seem to operate as a forcing-wall upon the vines, which had, at this early season, made immense shoots from their knotty close-pruned stumps. Here I frequently observed the industrious expedient practised in many parts of Valencia and Catalonia. On the steepest parts of the hills, terraces above terraces, of loose stones, are built to secure and consolidate the scanty portion of earth which would otherwise be washed away from the roots of their vines by the first winter storm; and not a spot is neglected, however unpromising and difficult of access, where a barrow-full of mould can be raked together, and increased by hand-carriage. One cannot witness such industry without wis.h.i.+ng that it could procure more of the comforts of life; but here, as in Burgundy, the exertions of the inhabitants seem hardly repaid by a bare subsistence, if one may judge by the general appearance of their houses and persons. Those travellers who have not yet learned to b.u.t.ton themselves up in total indifference, will find, that the interest and pleasure derived from a tour depend on nothing more than on the apparent well-being of those whom they see around them. It is this circ.u.mstance which, viewed in the mind's eye, throws a perpetual suns.h.i.+ne over the fine scenes of Tuscany and Catalonia, and lends a charm even to the flat uninteresting corn-fields of Picardy. The absence of it, on the contrary, disfigures the finest scenes in the south of Italy, and causes Naples, the most delightful spot on earth, perhaps, for situation and climate, to dwell on the recollection like a whited sepulchre, a gilded lazar-house of helpless and incurable wretchedness. A Roman beggar, glaring at you from the arches of a ruined temple, like one of Salvator Rosa's Radicals, with a look at once abject and ferocious, may be, perhaps, a characteristic accompaniment to the scene; but the active, erect walk, the frank countenance, and cheerful salutation of a peasant of the Val d'Arno, leave a more pleasing recollection on the mind, as connected with the ideas of comfort, manliness, and independence.
About five miles from Vienne, we ascended a steep hill to the left, leaving on the opposite side of the Rhone a well-wooded chateau, belonging to a Mons. d'Arangues; which forms a good accompaniment to the view of Mont Pilate. By the road side was a very primitive mill, near which we saw a woman sifting corn as we walked up the hill. The corn is laid in the circular trough, and ground by a stone revolving round the shaft in the centre; which is probably worked by an a.s.s. Such little circ.u.mstances as these frequently remind us more strongly of the change of place, than the difference of language and costume, which we are prepared to witness in the different provinces of a wide empire.
Nothing, for instance, forms a stronger or more distinct feature in one's recollections of the south of France, than the enormous remises which are annexed to every paltry inn on the road from Lyons to the southward, and which serve both as warehouse and stable to the hosts of stout Provencal carriers, who travel with wine, oil, and merchandise to the interior. The remise at Vienne was sixty feet square, without compartment; its roof-timbers were worthy of Westminster Hall, and for its folding doors
”The gates wide open stood, That with extended wings a banner'd host, Under spread ensigns marching, might pa.s.s through, With horse and chariots ranked in loose array; So wide they stood!”
Independent of the uses to which these capacious buildings are properly applied, they furnish the most agreeable place for rest and refreshment, during the heat of the day, being, as the traveller will frequently experience, the coolest and the sweetest place belonging to the inn.
During the rest of our day's journey, nothing occurred worthy of attention, until the descent into Peage de Rousillon, where we slept.
Here the Rhone, of which we had lost sight, again appears winding through the broad rich valley which opens at the foot of the hill; and Mont Pilate also, after you have lost sight of it for the last seven or eight miles, and expect to see it behind you, again makes its appearance at a distance seemingly undiminished. So difficult is it to judge of the real bearings of objects in this clear air, which in fact is less favourable to the display of the grander features of nature, than our own misty Ossianic climate.
Our inn at Peage de Rousillon, although the only place in the neighbourhood at which we could have slept in any comfort, somewhat resembled, in its general style, those recorded in Don Quixote, and afforded similar adventures. In the midst of our supper, (which was by no means a bad one of the kind), in burst a fat German woman in a transport of fury, who thought herself ill-used in the allotment of the rooms; squabbling in a very discordant key with the landlady, who followed her ”blaspheming an octave higher.” Both were apparently viragos of the first order, and the keen encounter of their wits was so loud, that we turned a deaf ear to the German's appeal, and insisted on their choosing another field of battle. Battle however was the order of the day, or rather night, for both myself and my servant were roused in the middle of the night to put a stop to a drunken quarrel on the staircase, which we effected by ordering down stairs the Maritornes, who proved the bone of contention. The Hotel du Grand Monarque, is evidently on a par with that cla.s.s of inns in our English country towns, which bear the royal badge of the George and Dragon, through some fatality attendant on high names and dignities.
From Peage de Rousillon to St. Vallier, you traverse eighteen miles of flat road, only enlivened by the hills to the right of the Rhone, which, becoming gradually more rocky and abrupt, meet at length with a corresponding barrier on the left, and enclose the river in a narrow valley. Just beyond its entrance, which we had distinguished from above Peage de Rousillon, stands the town of St. Vallier, where the conducteur intended that we should breakfast. The Hotel de Poste is a most dismal hole indeed, in every respect, and no appearance of any other inn: but soon after we learnt by experience, that wherever there is a cafe of tolerable appearance, it affords a much better chance for breakfast than any inn of the same rank. Neatness is the more the trade of the cafetier, and his notions of breakfast much more English, than those of the inn-keeper, who is usually put completely out of his way by our habits.
”Eh! Messieurs,” said a well-dressed bourgeoise, who saw us sauntering about near the door of her shop, ”vous irez sans doute voir notre beau chateau: il fut donne par Jean de Poitiers au premier Seigneur de St.
Vallier, et il a descendu jusqu'a Mons. de St. Vallier l'actuel proprietaire.” Nothing could be more acceptable to idle wanderers than this information, and off we set at a round pace up a most filthy street, according to our directions; our heads full of crenelles, pont-levis, donjon, fosse, and the proper etceteras. I am not sure that we did not half expect to meet M. de St. Vallier himself, (a good baronial name) cap-a-pie at the barbacan gate, his lance in rest, and his visor down, like Sir Boucicault, or the Lord de Roye, or the doughtiest of Froissart's heroes. A long white-washed mud wall, with green folding gates, began somewhat to cool our Gothic enthusiasm--. ”Perhaps the portcullis was destroyed at the Revolution.” A bell hung at the gate. ”Pshaw, it ought at least to have been a bugle-horn.” When we had rung, instead of sounding a blast, not a dwarf, but a slipshod dirty girl, not much bigger, opened the door cautiously.