the night—and in that case, which? We knew, by lamentable experience, how little external appearances are to be trusted as an index to internal accommodation in the matter of French hotels; and I believe that if we had been driven to extremities, we should have decided for the house that made the least show. But we were fortunately saved the necessity of determining that question by discovering that in a certain back street there was a cariole to be obtained, which would convey us into Belgium as far as a place called Poperinghe, from whence we might proceed by way of rail to Ypres. We hastened to the spot, secured the cariole, and while the owner was harnessing his horse, had the pleasure of hearing the whole of the honest fellow’s family history from his young wife,—a narrative of cupboards, cradles, and domestic character by no means deficient in interest or instruction.
The cariole, you must know, is the popular vehicle of the French frontier and Western Flanders. It is as strong and as ugly as a farmer’s cart, and bears a compound resemblance to an old-fashioned “shay” with a great hood, and a small covered van. It has two seats, both looking to the horse, after the manner of a Dutch omnibus; and they are capable of accommodating four persons, one of whom is, of necessity, the driver, who, if he be intelligent and communicative, considerably increases the entertainment of this model mode of travelling, by pictorial remarks and descriptive anecdotes, a thousand times more racy than anything you will find in the guide-books. The rate is somewhere about four miles an hour, and the jolting by no means so bad as might be expected.
Slow as the pace was, the time passed rapidly. Everything was new and quaint; and the road, which lay for a long way between France and Belgium, afforded an infinite variety of topics for comment and discussion. It was a fresh “sensation” to be conscious of the vis-à-vis of races and languages through which we were passing on a neutral highway; but the “Vins et Biere” which stared upon us from the whitewashed face of an occasional auberge on the one side, and the homelier intimation of “drinkables” on the other, in the familiar Flemish inscription of “Hier verkoopt men drinken,” did not make half so vivid an impression upon me as the reflection that, by simply crossing the road, a man might pass from despotism to freedom—or vice versâ, if he had a mind to it. The close neighbourhood of these antagonisms, and the curious dialogues one can fancy taking place between the opposite tenants, as they sit on their benches of a summer’s evening, “chaffing” each other, gave us something to think of till we found ourselves dashing over the pavement of Poperinghe. If we had not been apprised of the fact by the thunder of the wheels, we must have known that we had entered a town by the detonating cracks of the driver’s whip, accompanied by that shrill cry “Yeu!” which all travellers in France carry away ringing in their ears, but nobody can imitate.
Dependence, as a matter of course, is not to be placed on the expedition of a cariole; and, to confess the truth, we never thought about it, resigning ourselves to the easy pace of our moving panorama, till we reached the station at Poperinghe, when we had the satisfaction of finding that the train for Ypres had started exactly seven minutes before, and that there was no other train that evening.
What was to be done now? Upon grave consideration, it appeared to us that the best thing we could do was to dine at Poperinghe, a project which we were led to resolve upon by having observed, as we passed through the spacious lifeless square, a splendid hotel, covering a much larger extent of ground than the Mansion House. Here was at least the prospect of a satisfactory dinner, with ample time to organise an arrangement for another cariole to convey us to Ypres at night. The moon was to be up early, and the drive promised to be exciting. But we reckoned, literally, without our host; for when we came to inquire at the great hotel, whether we could get dinner, we were informed that everything in the house had been eaten up except the fish, of which, unfortunately, added the maître d’hôtel, there was none left! Here was a new dilemma. Luckily there was a cariole ready at our service, and in this machine we at once embarked for Ypres, which we reached without further mishap, in good time, for what would be considered, in England, merely a late dinner.
The narrative of the journey may be useful to others. The accident of missing the railway is not to be taken into account, for it was purely the penalty of carelessness and inexperience; and the expedition may be fairly looked upon as an exploration in an unknown region, by which a new route is opened up to future travellers. Subsequent information enables me to recommend Bailleul, the second station beyond Hazebrouck, as the best point of departure for Belgium, and especially for Ypres, from which it is distant only eighteen miles, or about four hours and a half by a cariole.
And, now we are in Ypres, let us look about us. The town is wondrous bright and clean. Relics of the old greatness may be traced here and there, especially in the Halle, with its imposing array of niched statues, surmounting the offices of police, and law, and municipal record, once the vast warehouse where the cloth-manufacturers deposited their bales. Conclusive of the decay of the trade of the place is the diversion of that noble pile to other uses than those for which it was originally designed, and to which it was dedicated for centuries.
A fragment of the archiepiscopal palace wears modern whitewash in the face of the sun, and the bishop’s garden, now converted into a public promenade on an excruciatingly small scale, still remains with its old trees and little winding walks, in the midst of which a painted orchestra, where the band plays on fine Sundays, has been perked up on an artificial mound.
The cloth-business is gone. The staple trade of the town is in lace, of which there is a large manufacture. One house, whose productions I had an opportunity of inspecting, in profound ignorance of their value, but not without admiration of their skill and delicacy, gives constant employment to