Travels Through France And Italy by Tobias Smollett (fastest ebook reader .txt) 📕

The Small River, Or Rather Rivulet Liane, Which Is So Shallow,

That The Children Wade Through It At Low Water. As The Tide

Makes, The Sea Flows In, And Forms A Pretty Extensive Harbour,

Which, However, Admits Nothing But Small Vessels. It Is

Contracted At The Mouth By Two Stone Jetties Or Piers, Which Seem

To Have Been Constructed By Some Engineer, Very Little Acquainted

With This Branch Of His Profession; For They Are Carried Out In

Such A Manner, As To Collect A Bank Of Sand Just At The Entrance

Of The Harbour. The Road Is Very Open And Unsafe, And The Surf

Very High When The Wind Blows From The Sea. There Is No

Fortification Near The Harbour, Except A Paltry Fort Mounting

About Twenty Guns, Built In The Last War By The Prince De Cruy,

Upon A Rock About A League To The Eastward Of Boulogne. It

Appears To Be Situated In Such A Manner, That It Can Neither

Offend, Nor Be Offended. If The Depth Of Water Would Admit A

Forty Or Fifty Gun Ship To Lie Within Cannon-Shot Of It, I

Apprehend It Might Be Silenced In Half An Hour; But, In All

Probability, There Will Be No Vestiges Of It At The Next Rupture

Between The Two Crowns. It Is Surrounded Every Day By The Sea, At

High Water; And When It Blows A Fresh Gale Towards The Shore, The

Waves Break Over The Top Of It, To The Terror And Astonishment Of

The Garrison, Who Have Been Often Heard Crying Piteously For

Assistance. I Am Persuaded, That It Will One Day Disappear In The

Twinkling Of An Eye. The Neighbourhood Of This Fort, Which Is A

Smooth Sandy Beach, I Have Chosen For My Bathing Place. The Road

To It Is Agreeable And Romantic, Lying Through Pleasant

Cornfields, Skirted By Open Downs, Where There Is A Rabbit

Warren, And Great Plenty Of The Birds So Much Admired At

Tunbridge Under The Name Of Wheat-Ears. By The Bye, This Is A

Pleasant Corruption Of White-A-Se, The Translation Of Their

French Name Cul-Blanc, Taken From Their Colour For They Are

Actually White Towards The Tail.

Upon The Top Of A High Rock, Which Overlooks The Harbour, Are The

Remains Of An Old Fortification, Which Is Indiscriminately

Called, Tour D'ordre, And Julius Caesar's Fort. The Original

Tower Was A Light-House Built By Claudius Caesar, Denominated

Turris Ardens, From The Fire Burned In It; And This The French

Have Corrupted Into Tour D'ordre; But No Vestiges Of This Roman

Work Remain; What We Now See, Are The Ruins Of A Castle Built By

Charlemagne. I Know Of No Other Antiquity At Boulogne, Except An

Old Vault In The Upper Town, Now Used As A Magazine, Which Is

Said To Be Part Of An Antient Temple Dedicated To Isis.

On The Other Side Of The Harbour, Opposite To The Lower Town,

There Is A House Built, At A Considerable Expence, By A General

Officer, Who Lost His Life In The Late War. Never Was Situation

More Inconvenient, Unpleasant, And Unhealthy. It Stands On The

Edge Of An Ugly Morass Formed By The Stagnant Water Left By The

Tide In Its Retreat: The Very Walks Of The Garden Are So Moist, 

That, In The Driest Weather, No Person Can Make A Tour Of It,

Without Danger Of The Rheumatism. Besides, The House Is

Altogether Inaccessible, Except At Low Water, And Even Then The

Carriage Must Cross The Harbour, The Wheels Up To The Axle-Tree

In Mud: Nay, The Tide Rushes In So Fast, That Unless You Seize

The Time To A Minute, You Will Be In Danger Of Perishing. The

Apartments Of This House Are Elegantly Fitted Up, But Very Small;

And The Garden, Notwithstanding Its Unfavourable Situation,

Affords A Great Quantity Of Good Fruit. The Ooze, Impregnated

With Sea Salt, Produces, On This Side Of The Harbour, An

Incredible Quantity Of The Finest Samphire I Ever Saw. The French

Call It Passe-Pierre; And I Suspect Its English Name Is A

Corruption Of Sang-Pierre. It Is Generally Found On The Faces Of

Bare Rocks That Overhang The Sea, By The Spray Of Which It Is

Nourished. As It Grew Upon A Naked Rock, Without Any Appearance

Of Soil, It Might Be Naturally Enough Called Sang Du Pierre, Or

Sangpierre, Blood Of The Rock; And Hence The Name Samphire. On

The Same Side Of The Harbour There Is Another New House, Neatly

Built, Belonging To A Gentleman Who Has Obtained A Grant From The

King Of Some Ground Which Was Always Overflowed At High Water. He

Has Raised Dykes At A Considerable Expence, To Exclude The Tide,

And If He Can Bring His Project To Bear, He Will Not Only Gain A

Good Estate For Himself, But Also Improve The Harbour, By

Increasing The Depth At High-Water.

In The Lower Town Of Boulogne There Are Several Religious Houses,

Particularly A Seminary, A Convent Of Cordeliers, And Another Of

Capuchins. This Last, Having Fallen To Decay, Was Some Years Ago

Repaired, Chiefly By The Charity Of British Travellers, Collected

By Father Graeme, A Native Of North-Britain, Who Had Been An

Officer In The Army Of King James Ii. And Is Said To Have Turned

Monk Of This Mendicant Order, By Way Of Voluntary Penance, For

Having Killed His Friend In A Duel. Be That As It May, He Was A

Well-Bred, Sensible Man, Of A Very Exemplary Life And

Conversation; And His Memory Is Much Revered In This Place. Being

Superior Of The Convent, He Caused The British Arms To Be Put Up

In The Church, As A Mark Of Gratitude For The Benefactions

Received From Our Nation. I Often Walk In The Garden Of The

Convent, The Walls Of Which Are Washed By The Sea At High-Water.

At The Bottom Of The Garden Is A Little Private Grove, Separated

From It By A High Wall, With A Door Of Communication; And Hither

The Capuchins Retire, When They Are Disposed For Contemplation.

About Two Years Ago, This Place Was Said To Be Converted To A

Very Different Use. There Was Among The Monks One Pere Charles, A

Lusty Friar, Of Whom The People Tell Strange Stories. Some Young

Women Of The Town Were Seen Mounting Over The Wall, By A Ladder

Of Ropes, In The Dusk Of The Evening; And There Was An Unusual

Crop Of Bastards That Season. In Short, Pere Charles And His

Companions Gave Such Scandal, That The Whole Fraternity Was

Changed; And Now The Nest Is Occupied By Another Flight Of These

Birds Of Passage. If One Of Our Privateers Had Kidnapped A

Capuchin During The War, And Exhibited Him, In His Habit, As A 

Shew In London, He Would Have Proved A Good Prize To The Captors;

For I Know Not A More Uncouth And Grotesque Animal, Than An Old

Capuchin In The Habit Of His Order. A Friend Of Mine (A Swiss

Officer) Told Me, That A Peasant In His Country Used To Weep

Bitterly, Whenever A Certain Capuchin Mounted The Pulpit To Hold

Forth To The People. The Good Father Took Notice Of This Man, And

Believed He Was Touched By The Finger Of The Lord. He Exhorted

Him To Encourage These Accessions Of Grace, And At The Same Time

To Be Of Good Comfort, As Having Received Such Marks Of The

Divine Favour. The Man Still Continued To Weep, As Before, Every

Time The Monk Preached; And At Last The Capuchin Insisted Upon

Knowing What It Was, In His Discourse Or Appearance, That Made

Such An Impression Upon His Heart "Ah, Father! (Cried The

Peasant) I Never See You But I Think Of A Venerable Goat, Which I

Lost At Easter. We Were Bred Up Together In The Same Family. He

Was The Very Picture Of Your Reverence--One Would Swear You Were

Brothers. Poor Baudouin! He Died Of A Fall--Rest His Soul! I

Would Willingly Pay For A Couple Of Masses To Pray Him Out Of

Purgatory."

Among Other Public Edifices At Boulogne, There Is An Hospital, Or

Workhouse, Which Seems To Be Established Upon A Very Good

Foundation. It Maintains Several Hundreds Of Poor People, Who Are

Kept Constantly At Work, According To Their Age And Abilities, In

Making Thread, All Sorts Of Lace, A Kind Of Catgut, And In

Knitting Stockings. It Is Under The Direction Of The Bishop; And

The See Is At Present Filled By A Prelate Of Great Piety And

Benevolence, Though A Little Inclining To Bigotry And Fanaticism.

The Churches In This Town Are But Indifferently Built, And Poorly

Ornamented. There Is Not One Picture In The Place Worth Looking

At, Nor Indeed Does There Seem To Be The Least Taste For The

Liberal Arts.

In My Next, I Shall Endeavour To Satisfy You In The Other

Articles You Desire To Know. Mean-While, I Am Ever--Yours.

Sir,--I Am Infinitely Obliged To D. H-- For The Favourable Manner

In Which He Has Mentioned Me To The Earl Of H-- I Have At Last

Recovered My Books, By Virtue Of A Particular Order To The

Director Of The Douane, Procured By The Application Of The 

English Resident To The French Ministry. I Am Now Preparing For

My Long Journey; But, Before I Leave This Place, I Shall Send You

The Packet I Mentioned, By Meriton. Mean-While I Must Fulfil My

Promise In Communicating

The Observations I Have Had Occasion To Make Upon This Town