by R S Surtees
The Douanians and other pier-walkers followed the steam-boat up the harbour; and having landed we were all marched by the former to the Bureau on the pier, to deliver our passports and be searched, having on our way to run the gauntlet of a myriad of opposition touts or commissionaires from the various hotels, all offering their cards and services in a mixed jargon of French and English. “Rigniolles’ Hotel, Sare, var good commodation!”—” Hotel de Bourbon, Sare, table d’hôte!”—” Roberts’s Hotel, tout pres, sir!”—” You go Dessin’s?”—” Meurice’s Hotel, ros bif, plomb pudding, &c.,”—” G — d d — n, sare!”
The fuss which all the guide-books used to make about the necessity of having passports to permit landing in France has exploded, and people find that it is much better to go without them — or at all events get them at Calais, or wherever they land, if they mean to proceed into the interior — than be kicking their heels in the French ambassador’s waiting-room for a couple of days. The ceremony of searching the person is generally dispensed with, save upon well-known smugglers; smuggling, small as the prize must be and great the risk, is followed as a trade by those of both nations. In the packet in which we arrived were three or four Frenchwomen who cross the Channel twice or thrice a week for the sole purpose of smuggling and wearing things over to save the duty. Of course they are frequently subjected to the scrutinising hands of the searchers; yet what they contrive to escape with themselves, and get other people to carry for them, earns them a livelihood.
Calais is a place so celebrated in history, and has been so often explored and described by modern travellers as to leave us little chance of saying anything new. One circumstance, however, we may be permitted to mention, memorable as it is in the history of the country, and remotely connected with the subject of this paper. We allude to the surrender of the town to Edward III. and the gallant conduct of Eustace de St Pierre, the first of the six principal burgers whose lives were required by the conqueror. The memory of this man is cherished with the enthusiasm so peculiar to the French for those who have deserved well of their country; and is marked by the annual fête, on the first day of which we happened to land.
Great as at all times is the difference between France and England, on no day of the week, perhaps, is it so strongly marked as on a Sunday. The distance between the two countries is so trifling and so easily accomplished that the change appears almost the effect of magic; and it seems scarcely credible that peoples of such opposite habits, manners, and customs should live within sight of each other; for on a fine day, particularly at an early hour in the morning, the French coast is so distinctly seen from the Dover heights as to appear only separated therefrom by a river.
But three hours before we had left that town where the people were observing all the sanctities of the day, and on arriving at Calais, some seven and twenty miles distant, we found the shops open, the cafés full, the labourer following his daily avocation, the tailors sitting cross-legged on their exalted shop-boards at the window, the fish-carts starting for Paris, and the idle part of the population turning out in all their finery for the fête.
Among the most pleasurable sensations on landing in France is that of receiving five-and-twenty shillings and sixpence, as it were, for every sovereign we take over; and instead of sitting down to a selfish beefsteak, a pint of hot port and a biscuit (which leaves little change of half-sovereign), to have an excellent dinner of three courses and a dessert provided for the sum of two shillings and sixpence; with a bottle of claret, for which in England eight shillings would be charged, costing about one-fourth that amount. Indeed, we remember the time when the vin ordinaire used to be given into the bargain for three francs at many of the tables d’hôte; and it was only in consequence of the manner in which John Bull threw his money about in later years that the inn-keepers took to charging for the wine separately.
Having got our portmanteau from the customhouse we despatched it on the shoulders of a stout fish-wench — for the women do all the work in France — and set off on foot to discover the abode of the celebrated Nimrod. The tide of pedestrians set strong for the Barriers, which being cleared we found ourself on the road that leads through the Basse Ville, which was literally swarming with parties going to and returning from the fête. The women in their smartest attire, tripping gaily along with their unbonneted heads braving the rays of the evening sun, escorted by some gallant moustached militaire, or such of the fortunate ouvriers as could afford the seventh day from their labour.
Since Sterne set the example, every man fancies himself more or less sentimental in Calais, and it would ill become us to be out of the fashion.
Looking at the gay throng that surrounded us on every side, and listening to the jabbering of the passers-by, we could have fancied ourself many hundred miles from home. A pretty mother passed with her boy and girl on either side, the former in the uniform of a hussar, the latter in the newest Calaisian fashion; and we were just calculating the price we should be likely to obtain for the boy as a curiosity from the Zoological gardens when our estimates were interrupted by the shrill blast of a horn, such as none but the mouth of an Englishman could produce.
Looking down the road we descried a lumbering machine drawn by four wretched horses, jehued by a cross-legged, gloveless, John Bull of a coachman in a glaring white silk hat as round as and flat as a Cheshire cheese, below which shone forth the broad disc of a face as red as a harvest moon.
The vehicle approached, and proved to be the Calais - Boulogne coach — a sort of cross between a Diligence and an old six-inside stage — which for several years has performed the daily journey between the two places at such fares as the passengers could afford, and (thanks to the roads being in the hands of government) managing to pay its expenses and leave a little over. It is not possible to conceive a being more out of its element than an English coachman in France, and the first effort must have been worthy the pencil of a Cruikshank.
The French, with all their opportunities, have not advanced one jot in the style of their equi-pagès. The same heavy-bodied, high-wheeled cabs and rumbling coaches with cabs in front, seesawing Obligéantes and Diligences, whose very appearance belies their names, that have been described by every traveller that ever wrote his “Trip Across The Channel,” still roll along their roads, built apparently for the purpose of trying the quantity of iron and timber it is possible to employ in their construction. “A ride is a ride” they say, and thus they go on from year to year without seeming to think it possible to refine upon luxury.
The machine rolled on at a quiet jog-trot — what the hackney coachmen call “Parliament pace” — and we resumed our walk.
Independently of the gay pedestrians that thronged the road to the fête, the line was marked by tri-coloured flags waving from every house with the regularity of those of a regiment of Lancers. The distant roll of a drum at length attracted our attention, and directing our steps to the quarter whence it proceeded, we found ourself in the midst of booths and swings, games of chance, and all the concomitants of a country fair. A large placard announced a Bal at the Jardin des Plantes, and the sound of music in a neighbouring wood directed us to the spot. The admission, ten sous (there were tickets at eight sous entitling the holder to a bottle of double Bierre de Mars into the bargain), being paid, we advanced through divers labyrinths and rows of bowers to the scene of action where, in a circular room with the sides open midway to the roof, we found quadrilling in progress with all the elegance and regularity of Almack’s. Here a coachman might be seen figuring off with a washerwoman, a shoe-maker with a she-fruiterer, a private of the line with a marchande des modes, while perhaps an officer of his regiment might be seen standing up with her sister for vis-à-vis. The parties seemed chiefly strangers to each other, and after every dance the gentleman handed his partner to her seat and went in quest of another with all the grace of a Chesterfield. Grace and elasticity marked all their movements — far different from the boorish thumping, pulling, and hauling that
accompanies what is termed ‘dancing’ in this country. Nor amid the assembled hundreds was there one exhibiting the slightest symptom of intoxication. This, perhaps more than aught else, marks the difference between the nations; and however modern cynics may decry innocent amusements on the Sabbath day, we consider them infinitely superior to the low pothouse habits of many of the lower orders in England.
France is indeed a land of thoughtless gaiety, with a population by nature the most polite, but by inclination the most democratic under the sun. The French have a way of carrying off the most serious affairs with an air that bespeaks almost total indifference, while on the other hand they magnify trifles into an importance scarcely credible. An instance of the former occurred to an English party about the time of which we are speaking. That terrible disorder, the cholera morbus, was raging at Guines, a small village a few miles from Calais, in which direction the party having strayed, they entered the cottage of a peasant to obtain a few minutes’ rest. When about to depart, one of them was going into another apartment when he was stopped by the owner, who said it was occupied by a sick person; and the nature of the disease being asked, the Frenchman very coolly replied, “Ah, Monsieur, c’est la maladie a la mode — la cholera morbus.”
But we are running riot and not likely to reach Nimrod at all at this rate. Quitting the gay and festive scene, therefore, we again sought the highway, and turning off to the left, a mile or two on the Dunkirk road brought us to the end of a straight poplar-planted avenue, which leads to his present habitation. A grass-grown courtyard, entered through large old-fashioned gates — the usual accompaniments of chateaus in France — occupied one side of the building, while the other looked upon a well-stored garden where, among the fruits and roses, a man could not be long in quest of an idea.
In a room on the ground-floor, the windows of which commanded a view of both sides of the house, we found the mighty hunter at his studies; the floor thickly strewn with books and pamphlets and other implements of literature. He was busy poring over a proof copy of one of the many cheap publications that deluge the world, and by its side lay a letter from the Editor requesting a contribution. Nimrod, though past what is called the prime of life, is still in full vigour of both mental and bodily powers, uniting the mens sana in corpore sano. In appearance he is tall and well proportioned, with a keen penetrating eye and very broad expanse of forehead. The society in which he has moved all his life is a sufficient guarantee for the politeness of his manner, while his experience of life in all its varieties, with a naturally quick conception and highly cultivated mind, render him one of the most agreeable companions it is possible to conceive.
His present abode is pleasantly situated, and without boasting much of the picturesque, has some fine objects within view and reach, of which the Forest of Guines — a sort of Calaisian Lion — may be reckoned as one. It was at a point in this forest that Mons. Blanchard alighted in his balloon when he crossed the straits in 1785; the balloon, with the car, is now kept at the public library at Calais. The forest abounds with foxes, and occasionally wolves are found there; indeed when we were at Calais the arrival at St Omer of a pack of hounds was reported; their intention to hunt — or rather, destroy — some that had been taking liberties with the flocks in the neighbourhood. Nimrod talked of taking the field.
The town of Calais, unlike its neighbour, Boulogne, has not improved much by its intercourse with the English. But few new houses have been built, and the principal improvements consist in the size and number of the hotels. Of these Rigniolle’s should perhaps rank first, and whether for external appearance or internal comforts it is not to be surpassed in France. Next to it is the now unfortunately named Hotel de Bourbon, still exhibiting the shield that contained the former arms of France with the fleur-de-lis effaced. Dessin’s also, rendered classical by Sterne, is an excellent hotel, and, we believe, kept by the grandson of the Dessin who had it at the time of Sterne’s visit. But all the hotels in Calais are good, and a traveller cannot go far wrong whichever he patronises. Still, as a residence, it is not an inviting place, though people who have got into the ways of it like it well enough.
The sands are spacious and good, and a man may live as quietly as he pleases, and on this account it is preferable to Boulogne which generally contains an odd mixture of quiet and riotous people.
Mr Brummell, the late Consul at Caen—’ late’ for we regret to hear that his consulship has been married to another — lived at Calais for very many years — ever since the time he quitted England, and was universally respected. It is reported that when he took up his quarters only twelve houses in the Place boasted glass windows; and when Madame Starke visited Calais in 1817, after an absence of twenty years, she “discovered no apparent change either in the town or its inhabitants.”
II. THE MAN AND HIS WRITINGS.
NIMROD’S WRITINGS ATTRACTED attention not only in the sporting world. The Morning Post noticed his contributions, saying that a sensation had been created by the letters of a gentleman in the Sporting Magazine who appeared to have passed all his life among hounds, horses, and coachmen, and his style was so excellent the editor thought it a pity it had not been more worthily directed.
There is no doubt that Nimrod originated a new style of literature which may not inappropriately be called the ‘sporting personal.’ It requires a good deal of tact and delicacy to write of the dead; but he set himself a task yet more difficult, that of describing the equestrian performances of the living; a point upon which sportsmen — we might almost say, men in general — are peculiarly sensitive. We consider the ability with which he did this a greater feat than the good and forcible language in which he expressed himself. Nimrod was a good English writer. We have heard that one of the greatest authorities of the day pronounced him one of the most correct writers we had. This power, applied to a subject in which he was heart and soul, of course produced corresponding success. Nothing can be better, more sporting, dashing, or characteristic than his hunting contributions in the Sporting Magazine. These papers may be read and enjoyed by persons who never saw a hound. He might occasionally strike a wrong chord, but a man following Nimrod through his travels will be struck by the general accuracy and happiness of his touches.
He procrastinated in his work. One would think that these Tours, these personal observations, would have been best written at the time they were made, just as the Times Commissioner now publishes his progress in Ireland; but Nimrod could not manage this; it was necessary for him to be back at home before he could write anything; and, no doubt, much amusing matter would thus be lost in the keeping and transit. We really believe that if he had set to and written in a good familiar letter-writing style, and published his experiences without such delays, his papers would have been even more acceptable than they were in their more polished form at a later date.
It was in May of 1825 that he appeared in full feather in the Sporting Magazine; the early tours — that in Surrey certainly — were made with his own horses, Mr Pittman, the proprietor of the magazine, paying the stable bills and allowing Nimrod the usual rate of payment for his contributions. Now everything was found for him — horses, servants, and money without end — a very fine life, and one that would have lasted had he played his cards better.
He had rather a trick of overrating his difficulties, if difficulties they could be called, — what he has described as “the draft upon my poor brains.” He had nothing to do but tell what he saw, and the danger was not being brought up short for want of matter, but making his matter too expensive in the acquirement. If, as he says, his memory was bad, a metallic pencil and a pocket-book would have been the cure. Telling what one sees and hears is very different from drawing on the imagination for scenes, characters, and situations. However, now we have him fairly started — five hunters and a hack; and we do him the justice to say that he was not churlish in using the goods the god in Warwick Square had provided; the first page of the Tour finds him mounting an Oxonian who, but for
him, must have stayed at home.
The winter of 1824-25 was remarkably wet, and Nimrod said the vale of Bicester was never known to be as tender as it was in February: “Draining appears almost entirely neglected there,” he says, “whereas that is not the case in Leicestershire.” He remarks that a man with five hunters and a hack “makes a very respectable appearance in the provincials, but has no business in Leicestershire — he would be more than half his time kicking his heels in the town.” There is a good deal of exaggeration in this. In the first place, whatever he might have been in the past, the hard-riding days of Nimrod were then over, and six horses would have carried him every day of the week and to church on Sundays. Besides, the chronicler of a run was not expected to ride in front, or how could he tell what was going on behind him? Moreover, some of his ‘twenty-horsepower’ friends would have given him a mount, as many of them did when he afterwards exchanged into the dismounted troop.
But Nimrod was quite a top-of-the-tree man, and forgot that no one then supposed he was hunting with his own money — strange contrast to the gentleman who, having advertised his coming, cast up at Melton with nothing but his boots and breeches, and was indebted to a run-away hack for a glimpse of hounds, before it floored him; which happened at the first fence.... Why should not a man with a moderate stud go to Leicestershire, and take the best meets, just as he would in any other country? Are there no frosts, no bad days, no failure of scent, no ringing, short-running foxes there, as in other countries? There was always a disposition on Nimrod’s part to magnify Leicestershire and Leicestershire men into something beyond what they will fairly bear. No doubt it is a fine grass country, and many famous sportsmen resort to it from all parts of the kingdom; but it also draws a lot of noisy, perfumed, chattering coxcombs who have no idea of hunting, and no real pleasure in the thing. One may go to Almack’s to see the flower of English beauty; but go to Melton to see the flower of English youth!... That is an expedition that few fox-hunters, we think, will be inclined to undertake.... Neither do we subscribe to the doctrine that Leicestershire is the “only country in the world that appears to have been intended for fox-hunting.” Nay! we know countries we prefer to it.
