"It is getting cold, Ellen, dear; had you not better descend to the cabin, now? Captain Hardy and I will assist you, as the sea is getting pretty rough."
Ellen rose without answering; and, with the jolly captain's help, who was only too glad to give his hand to the Scotch belle, and said many pretty things, praising her as the best sailor he had ever taken across the Channel, reached her berth.
The sea got rougher every minute, and the groaning and creaking of the planks, the shrill whistling of the wind through the cordage, and the occasional shout of the pilot, were sounds sufficient to instil terror into landsmen's minds; but both Mr. Ravensworth and his daughter proved excellent sailors; and Ellen's mind was too busy with other things to bestow more than a passing thought on her present situation. Whilst her father, with the captain and two other passengers, engaged in a friendly rubber at whist over their grog, she amused herself by listening to the chat of the stewardess, a pretty little Frenchwoman, whose vivacity helped to dispel her sad thoughts, whilst it also gave her an opportunity of testing her powers in French conversation, which, however little it satisfied herself, was declared to be beyond all praise by the Frenchwoman, with her natural politeness. Ellen was, however, a really finished French scholar, and only required a month or two in Paris, as her companion told her, to become quite perfect in pronunciation.
In a few hours, after a pleasant though somewhat rough passage, the motion of the vessel ceased, and all the passengers hurried on deck, and in the gray twilight of the early dawning reached Dieppe. There was nothing peculiarly foreign in the appearance of this place, and, had it not been for the French cries which assailed our travellers' ears, they might have almost fancied themselves at Newhaven again, so similar was the appearance of the chalk downs. After a cursory examination of passports and baggage by the custom-house officers, who did everything in the politest manner, our friends, accompanied by Jean Lacroix, their courier, disembarked, and Ellen stood on foreign land. The porters of the various cafés beset them on all sides, offering to carry monsieur's luggage, and each recommending his own café or hotel. Jean, however, was well up to his trade, and, engaging the right man, led his charges to a small café on the quay side, where they might breakfast, and then proceed to the post-house, and set out on their journey at once.
The first insight Ellen had into foreign life was not a very flattering one: sour bread, and very indifferent milk and butter, accompanied, however, with excellent coffee, composed their matutinal meal. Jean begged mad'moiselle not to think Dieppe was like Paris.
On their way to the post-house, they passed the market-place, where numbers of carts, and peasants in blue vestments, crowded the square; on one side of which stood a fine Gothic cathedral; here, too, Ellen saw a band of soldiers, in their red trousers, blue coats, and red caps. Their full, leg-of-mutton-shaped trousers, slight figures drawn in tightly at the waist, and rapid, undisciplined-looking march, contrasted with the Highland regiments she had been accustomed to, certainly when weighed in the balance of her mind were found wanting. The gay little soldiers seemed to regard her tall figure with equal surprise. Ellen's first insight into the French army was not very encouraging, but Jean assured her the Cuirassiers in Paris were equal to any soldiers in the world.
By this time their travelling carriage was ready, and Ellen was not sorry to turn her back on dirty little Dieppe. The carriage was large and roomy, though not on the easiest springs in the world, drawn by four noble horses, whose magnificent appearance required no courier to point out as worthy her admiration; and she frankly acknowledged, to Jean's delight, she had seen no post horses at all like them even in Old England.
As it is not our intention to weary our reader with a journal of our friends' travels to Switzerland, we shall briefly glance over the journey.
Passing through a down country very like the south of Sussex or Kent, their road soon became more interesting as they approached the rich pastures and orchards for which Normandy is celebrated; and the tall poplars which often fringed the road, and occasional glimpses of the Seine, with its green islands, and now and then a vineyard on a southern aspect, interested Ellen not a little during her first stage to Rouen. In this fine old town she was doubly interested, by viewing the city sacred to the memories of our Norman line, and the ill-fated Joan of Arc; she saw also the tomb where the heart of Lion Richard lies, the Cathedral of Notre Dame, and the fine church of St. Ouen. A longer day's journey brought them to Paris, and so pretty was the country between, that our heroine was almost sorry when the capital of la belle France appeared. There they stayed two days, which they spent in seeing the sights of this wonderful city—but as Switzerland was the point to which they hurried, and Mr. Ravensworth was unwilling to lose the advantage of the wonderfully fine warm weather in any town, he soon left the dissipated city, and pushed on by long stages to Bâle, which he reached late on the evening of Saturday, and intended to spend Sunday there. It was a beautiful evening, and Ellen was indeed charmed with the first sight of the Rhine's broadly swelling breast of waters, rushing swiftly beneath the very windows of their hotel. It was the largest river, of course, she had ever seen, and its clear light green waters, eddying round the pillars of the bridge, partly built of stone and partly of wood, on account of the ice, impressed an image on her mind's eye time would take long to obliterate, if it ever could. Bâle seemed the first really foreign looking town, and the houses not unlike those of the old town of Edinburgh, though certainly more neat and clean, quite took the love of her Caledonian mind.
On the following evening Ellen hailed Lucerne on its own beautiful lake; and if Bâle had pleased, Lucerne charmed her. Here they lingered a day and saw the strange Kapell Brücke, with its pictures of the deeds of saints and warriors of Swiss celebrity, and, more wonderful still, the monumental lion, sculptured out of the living rock in commemoration of the brave Swiss guard, slaughtered in defending the Tuileries in 1792. The aspect of the dying lion, with the broken spear in its side, from which is welling his life-blood, yet defending in its dying agonies the shield of France, is the most touching and beautiful design ever perfected by art.