The fields of France : $b with twenty illustrations in colorRobinson, A. Mary F. (Agnes Mary Frances)
General
The fields of France : $b with twenty illustrations in color
Robinson, A. Mary F. (Agnes Mary Frances)
France -- Social conditions; France -- Social life and customs; Peasants -- France
Senlis was the capital of our friends the Sylvanectes. Hence stretched
on either hand the vast forests which even to-day are still considerable
in a score of relics--the woods of Chantilly, Lys, Coye, Ermenonville,
Hallatte, Compiègne, Villers-Cotterets, etc., but which in Gallo-Roman
times were still one vast united breadth of forest. To-day, all round
Senlis the lands are cleared, and the nearest woods, north or south, are
some six miles away. We rumbled regretfully down the hill, out towards
the windy plains of Valois, windiest plains that ever were; bleak
champaigns where the sough and rushing of the wind sounds louder than at
sea. The forests of this northern plain are beautiful. O woods of
Chantilly! O birchen glades of Coye! O deep and solemn vales of
Compiègne, spinnies of Hallatte, and wavy pine-knolls of
Villers-Cotterets, are ye not as a collar of green emeralds upon the
breast of Mother Earth? But we must admit that, shorn of their trees,
the plains of Oise have not the grandeur, the ample solemn roll, of the
plains of Seine-et-Marne. ’Tis a lean, chill, flat, and as it were an
angular sort of beauty; like some thin thirteenth-century saint,
divinely graceful in her robes of verdure; more graceful beneath those
plenteous folds than her better nourished sisters. But never choose her
for your model of Venus Anadyomene. Leave her that imperial cloak of
woods and forests.
We pass by fields of sun-smitten, withered pasture; by stretches of sad
precocious corn, already in ear on its scanty span-high stems of green;
by quarries and hamlets, into the deep wood of Hallatte; then forth
again by more fields, ever bleaker, ever higher, till somehow suddenly
we find ourselves on the steep brow of a down (they call it a mountain
here, la Montagne de la Verberie), with below us, half seen through the
poplar screens of the precipitous hill-side, a lovely blue expanse of
country with the Oise lying across it like a scimitar of silver. Far
away beyond the bridge, beyond the village in its meadows, depths of
forest, blue and ever bluer, make an azure background that reaches out
to Compiègne.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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