most people would make great sacrifices to avoid the hour and three quarters in one of those loathsome little Channel boats,--they always call them loathsome, though I did n't see but they are as good as any boats.I have never found any boat that hasn't a detestable habit of bobbing round.The Channel is hated: and no one who has much to do with it is surprised at the projects for bridging it and for boring a hole under it; though I have scarcely ever met an Englishman who wants either done,--he does not desire any more facile communication with the French than now exists.The traditional hatred may not be so strong as it was, but it is hard to say on which side is the most ignorance and contempt of the other.
It must be the Channel: that is enough to produce a physical disagreement even between the two coasts; and there cannot be a greater contrast in the cultivated world than between the two lands lying so close to each other; and the contrast of their capitals is even more decided,--I was about to say rival capitals, but they have not enough in common to make them rivals.I have lately been over to London for a week, going by the Dieppe and New Haven route at night, and returning by another; and the contrasts I speak of were impressed upon me anew.Everything here in and about Paris was in the green and bloom of spring, and seemed to me very lovely; but my first glance at an English landscape made it all seem pale and flat.We went up from New Haven to London in the morning, and feasted our eyes all the way.The French foliage is thin, spindling, sparse; the grass is thin and light in color--in contrast.The English trees are massive, solid in substance and color; the grass is thick, and green as emerald; the turf is like the heaviest Wilton carpet.The whole effect is that of vegetable luxuriance and solidity, as it were a tropical luxuriance, condensed and hardened by northern influences.
If my eyes remember well, the French landscapes are more like our own, in spring tone, at least; but the English are a revelation to us strangers of what green really is, and what grass and trees can be.
I had been told that we did well to see England before going to the Continent, for it would seem small and only pretty afterwards.Well, leaving out Switzerland, I have seen nothing in that beauty which satisfies the eye and wins the heart to compare with England in spring.When we annex it to our sprawling country which lies out-doors in so many climates, it will make a charming little retreat for us in May and June, a sort of garden of delight, whence we shall draw our May butter and our June roses.It will only be necessary to put it under glass to make it pleasant the year round.
When we passed within the hanging smoke of London town, threading our way amid numberless railway tracks, sometimes over a road and sometimes under one, now burrowing into the ground, and now running along among the chimney-pots,--when we came into the pale light and the thickening industry of a London day, we could but at once contrast Paris.Unpleasant weather usually reduces places to an equality of disagreeableness.But Paris, with its wide streets, light, handsome houses, gay windows and smiling little parks and fountains, keeps up a tolerably pleasant aspect, let the weather do its worst.But London, with its low, dark, smutty brick houses and insignificant streets, settles down hopelessly into the dumps when the weather is bad.Even with the sun doing its best on the eternal cloud of smoke, it is dingy and gloomy enough, and so dirty, after spick-span, shining Paris.And there is a contrast in the matter of order and system; the lack of both in London is apparent.You detect it in public places, in crowds, in the streets.The "social evil" is bad enough in its demonstrations in Paris: it is twice as offensive in London.I have never seen a drunken woman in Paris: I saw many of them in the daytime in London.I saw men and women fight in the streets,--a man kick and pound a woman; and nobody interfered.There is a brutal streak in the Anglo-Saxon, I fear,--a downright animal coarseness, that does not exhibit itself the other side of the Channel.It is a proverb, that the London policemen are never at hand.The stout fellows with their clubs look as if they might do service; but what a contrast they are to the Paris sergents de ville!
The latter, with his dress-coat, cocked hat, long rapier, white gloves, neat, polite, attentive, alert,--always with the manner of a jesuit turned soldier,--you learn to trust very much, if not respect;and you feel perfectly secure that he will protect you, and give you your rights in any corner of Paris.It does look as if he might slip that slender rapier through your body in a second, and pull it out and wipe it, and not move a muscle; but I don't think he would do it unless he were directly ordered to.He would not be likely to knock you down and drag you out, in mistake for the rowdy who was assaulting you.
A great contrast between the habits of the people of London and Paris is shown by their eating and drinking.Paris is brilliant with cafes: all the world frequents them to sip coffee (and too often absinthe), read the papers, and gossip over the news; take them away, as all travelers know, and Paris would not know itself.There is not a cafe in London: instead of cafes, there are gin-mills; instead of light wine, there is heavy beer.The restaurants and restaurant life are as different as can be.You can get anything you wish in Paris:
