children on the
road, leaves its play as we pass by, and all dart upon us on both sides
of the carriage, almost under the wheels, almost under the horses'
feet, with out-stretched blackened hands, and intense bright black
eyes, running, panting, shouting, "Un sou! un sou! un sou!" I do not
think I am quite in love with this as an institution, but it is very
lively as a spectacle; and the little fleet-footed, long-winded beggars
show a touching confidence in human nature. There is no servility in
their beggary; and when it is glossed over with a thin mercantile
veneering, by the brown little paws holding out to you a gorgeous
bouquet of one clover-blossom, two dandelions, and a quartette of
sorrel-leaves, why, it ceases to be beggarly, and becomes traffic
overlaid with grace, the acanthus capital surmounting the fluted shaft.
We meet also continual dog-carts, something like the nondescript which
"blind Carwell" used to drag. Did you never see it? Well, then, like
the cart in which the ark went up to Kirjath-jearim. Now you must know.
Stubborn two-wheeled vehicles, with the whole farm loaded into the
body, and the whole family on the seat. Here comes one drawn by a cow,
not unnatural. Unnatural! It is the key-note of the tune. Everything
is cow-y,--slow and sure, firm, but not fast, kindly, sunny, ruminant,
heavy, lumbering, basking, content. Calashes also we meet,--a
cumbrous, old-fashioned "one-hoss shay," with a yellow body, a
suspicion of springlessness, wheels with huge spokes and broad rims,
and the driver sitting on the dash-board. Now we are at the Falls of
Montmorency. If you would know how they look, go and see them. If you
have seen them, you don't need a description; and if you have not seen
them, a description would do no good. From the Falls, if you are
unsophisticated, you will resume your carriage and return to the city;
but if you are au fait, you will cross the high-road, cross the
pastures, and wind down a damp, mossy wood-path to the steps of
Montmorency,--a natural phenomenon, quite as interesting as, and more
remarkable than, the Falls,--especially if you go away without seeing
it. Any river can fall when it comes to a dam. In fact, there is
nothing for it to do but fall; but it is not every river that can carve
out in its rage such wonderful stairways as this,--seething and foaming
and roaring and leaping through its narrow and narrowing channel, with
all the turbulence of its fiery soul