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.
TO COMPIEGNE
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 Fere; we forecast other La Feres
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 Fere 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.
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.
