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TRAVELS IN FRANCE,

DURING THE YEARS

1814-15.

COMPRISING A

RESIDENCE AT PARIS DURING THE STAY OF THE ALLIED ARMIES,

AND

AT AIX,

_AT THE PERIOD OF THE LANDING OF_

BONAPARTE.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

SECOND EDITION, CORRECTED AND ENLARGED.

EDINBURGH:

PRINTED FOR MACREDIE, SKELLY, AND MUCKERSY, 52. PRINCE'S STREET;

LONGMAN, HURST. REES, ORME, AND BROWN; BLACK,

PARRY, AND CO. T. UNDERWOOD, LONDON;

AND J. CUMMING, DUBLIN.

1816.

[Transcriber's note: The original spellings have been maintained; the
French spelling and accentuation have not been corrected, but left as
they appear in the original.]




ADVERTISEMENT.


A Second Edition of the following Work having been demanded by the
Booksellers, the Author has availed himself of the opportunity to
correct many verbal inaccuracies, to add some general reflections, and
to alter materially those parts of it which were most hastily prepared
for the press, particularly the Journal in the Second Volume, by
retrenching a number of particulars of partial interest, and
substituting more general observations on the state of the country,
supplied by his own recollection and that of his fellow-travellers.

He has only farther to repeat here, what he stated in the Advertisement
to the first Edition, that the whole materials of the Publication were
collected in France, partly by himself, during a residence which the
state of his health had made adviseable in Provence, and partly by some
friends who had preceded him in their visit to France, and were at Paris
during the time when it was first occupied by the Allied Armies;--and
that he has submitted it to the world, merely in the hope of adding
somewhat to the general stock of information regarding the situation,
character, and prospects of the French people, which it is so desirable
that the English Public should possess.




CONTENTS.


VOL. I.

CHAPTER I. Journey to Paris

II. Paris--The Allied Armies

III. Paris--Its Public Buildings

IV. Environs of Paris

V. Paris--The Louvre

VI. Paris--The French Character and Manners

VII. Paris--The Theatres

VIII. Paris--The French Army and Imperial Government

IX. Journey to Flanders


VOLUME II.


CHAPTER I. Journey to Aix

II. Residence at Aix, and Journey to Bourdeaux

III. State of France under Napoleon--Anecdotes of him

IV. State of France under Napoleon--continued

V. State of Society and Manners in France

Register of the Weather




VOLUME FIRST.




CHAPTER I.

JOURNEY TO PARIS.


We passed through Kent in our way to France, on Sunday the first of May
1814. This day's journey was very delightful. The whole scenery around
us,--the richness of the fields and woods, then beginning to assume the
first colours of spring; the extent and excellence of the cultivation;
the thriving condition of the towns, and the smiling aspect of the neat
and clean villages through which we passed; the luxuriant bloom of the
fruit-trees surrounding them; the number of beautiful villas adapted to
the accommodation of the middle ranks of society, the crowds of
well-dressed peasantry going to and returning from church; the frank
and cheerful countenances of the men, and beauty of the women--all
presented a most pleasing spectacle. If we had not proposed to cross the
channel, we should have compared all that we now saw with our
recollections of Scotland; and the feeling of the difference, although
it might have increased our admiration, would perhaps have made us less
willing to acknowledge it. But when we were surveying England with a
view to a comparison with France, the difference of its individual
provinces was overlooked;--we took a pride in the apparent happiness and
comfort of a people, of whom we knew nothing more, than that they were
our countrymen; and we rejoiced, that the last impression left on our
minds by the sight of our own country, was one which we already
anticipated that no other could efface.

Our passage to Calais was rendered very interesting, by the number of
Frenchmen who accompanied us. Some of these were emigrants, who had
spent the best part of their lives in exile; the greater part were
prisoners of various ranks, who had been taken at different periods of
the war. There was evidently the greatest diversity of character, of
prospects, of previous habits, and of political and moral sentiments
among these men; the only bond that connected them was, the love of
their common country; and at a moment for which they had been so long
and anxiously looking, this was sufficient to repress all jealousy and
discord, and to unite them cordially and sincerely in the sentiment
which was expressed, with true French enthusiasm, by one of the party,
as we left the harbour of Dover,--"Voila notre chere France,--A present
nous sommes tous amis!"

As we proceeded, the expression of their emotions, in words, looks, and
gestures, was sometimes extremely pleasing, at other times irresistibly
ludicrous, but always characteristic of a people whose natural feelings
are quick and lively, and who have no idea of there being any dignity or
manliness in repressing, or concealing them. When the boat approached
the French shore, a fine young officer, who had been one of the most
amusing of our companions, leapt from the prow, and taking up a handful
of sand, kissed it with an expression of ardent feeling and enthusiastic
joy, which it was delightful to observe.

It is only on occasions of this kind, that the whole strength of the
feeling of patriotism is made known. In the ordinary routine of civil
life, this feeling is seldom awakened. In the moments of national
enthusiasm and exultation, it is often mingled with others. But in
witnessing the emotions of the French exiles and captives, on returning
to their wasted and dishonoured country, we discerned the full force of
those moral ties, by which, even in the most afflicting circumstances of
national humiliation and disaster, the hearts of men are bound to the
land of their fathers.

We landed, on the evening of the 2d, about three miles from Calais, and
walked into the town. The appearance of the country about Calais does
not differ materially from that in the immediate neighbourhood of Dover,
which is much less fertile than the greater part of Kent; but the
cottages are decidedly inferior to the English. The first peculiarity
that struck us was the grotesque appearance of the _Douaniers_, who came
to examine us on the coast; and when we had passed through the numerous
guards, and been examined at the guard-houses, previously to our
admission into the town, the gates of which had been shut, we had
already observed, what subsequent observation confirmed, that the air
and manner which we call military are in very little estimation among
the French soldiers. The general appearance of the French soldiery
cannot be better described than it has been by Mr Scott: "They seemed
rather the fragments of broken-up gangs, than the remains of a force
that had been steady, controlled, and lawful." They have almost
uniformly, officers and men, much expression of intelligence, and often
of ferocity, in their countenances, and much activity in their
movements; but there are few of them whom an Englishman, judging from
his recollection of English soldiers, would recognise to belong to a
regular army.

The lower orders of inhabitants in Calais hailed the arrival of the
English strangers with much pleasure, loudly proclaiming, however, the
interested motives of their joy. A number of blackguard-looking men
gathered round us, recommending their own services, and different
hotels, with much vehemence, and violent altercations among themselves;
and troops of children followed, crying, "Vivent les Anglois--Give me
one sous." In our subsequent travels, we were often much amused by the
importunities of the children, who seem to beg, in many places, without
being in want, and are very ingenious in recommending themselves to
travellers; crying first, Vive le Roi; if that does not succeed, Vive
l'Empereur; that failing, Vive le Roi d'Angleterre; and professing
loyalty to all the sovereigns of Europe, rather than give up the hopes
of a _sous_.

Having reached the principal inn, we found that all the places in the
diligence for Paris were taken for the ten following days. By this time,
in consequence of the communication with France being opened, several
new coaches had been established between London and Dover, but no such
measure had been thought of on the road between Calais and Paris. There
was no want of horses, as we afterwards found, belonging to the inns on
the roads, but this seemed to indicate strongly want of ready money
among the innkeepers. However, there were at Calais a number of
"voitures" of different kinds, which had been little used for several
years; one of which we hired from a "magasin des chaises," which
reminded us of the Sentimental Journey, and set out at noon on the 3d,
for Paris, accompanied by a French officer who had been a prisoner in
Scotland, and to whose kindness and attentions we were much indebted.

We were much struck with the appearance of poverty and antiquity about
Calais, which afforded a perfect contrast to the Kentish towns; and all
the country towns, through which we afterwards passed in France,
presented the same general character. The houses were larger than those
of most English country towns, but they were all old; in few places out
of repair, but nowhere newly built, or even newly embellished. There
were no newly painted houses, windows, carriages, carts, or even
sign-posts; the furniture, and all the interior arrangements of the
inns, were much inferior to those we had left; their external appearance
stately and old-fashioned; the horses in the carriages were caparisoned
with white leather, and harnessed with ropes; the men who harnessed them
were of mean appearance, and went about their work as if they had many
other kinds of work to do. There were few carts, and hardly any
four-wheeled carriages to be seen in the streets; and it was obvious
that the internal communications of this part of the country were very
limited. There appeared to be few houses fitted for the residence of
persons of moderate incomes, and hardly any villas about the town to
which they might retire after giving up business. All the lower ranks of
people, besides being much worse looking than the English, were much
more coarsely clothed, and they seemed utterly indifferent about the
appearance of their dress. Very few of the men wore beaver hats, and
hardly two had exactly the same kind of covering for their heads.

The dress of the women of better condition, particularly their
high-crowned bonnets, and the ruffs about their necks, put us in mind of
the pictures of old English fashions. The lower people appeared to bear
a much stronger resemblance to some of the Highland clans, and to the
Welch, than to any other inhabitants of Britain.

On the road between Calais and Boulogne, we began to perceive the
peculiarities of the husbandry of this part of France. These are just
what were described by Arthur Young; and although it is possible, as the
natives uniformly affirm, that the agriculture has improved since the
revolution, this improvement must be in the details of the operations,
and in the extent of land under tillage, not in the principles of the
art. The most striking to the eye of a stranger are the want of
enclosures, the want of pasture lands and of green crops, and the
consequent number of bare fallows, on many of which a few sheep and
long-legged lean hogs are turned out to pick up a miserable subsistence.
The common rotation appears to be a three year's one; fallow, wheat, and
oats or barley. On this part of the road, the ground is almost all under
tillage, but the soil is poor; there is very little wood, and the
general appearance of the country is therefore very bleak. In the
immediate neighbourhood of Boulogne, it is better clothed, and varied
by some pasture fields and gardens. The ploughs go with wheels. They are
drawn by only two horses, but are clumsily made, and evidently inferior
to the Scotch ploughs. They, as well as the carts, are made generally of
green unpeeled wood, like those in the Scotch Highlands, and are never
painted. This absence of all attempt to give an air of neatness or
smartness to any part of their property--this indifference as to its
appearance, is a striking characteristic of the French people over a
great part of the country.

It is likewise seen, as before observed, in the dress of the lower
orders; but here it is often combined with a fantastic and ludicrous
display of finery. An English dairy-maid or chamber-maid, ploughman or
groom, shopkeeper or mechanic, has each a dress consistent in its parts,
and adapted to the situation and employment of the wearer. But a country
girl in France, whose bed-gown and petticoat are of the coarsest
materials, and scantiest dimensions, has a pair of long dangling
ear-rings, worth from 30 to 40 francs. A carter wears an opera hat, and
a ballad-singer struts about in long military boots; and a blacksmith,
whose features are obscured by the smoke and dirt which have been
gathering on them for weeks, and whose clothes hang about him in
tatters, has his hair newly frizzled and powdered, and his long queue
plaited on each side, all down his back, with the most scrupulous
nicety.

Akin to this shew of finery in some parts of their dress, utterly
inconsistent with the other parts of it, and with their general
condition, is the disposition of the lower orders in France, even in
their intercourse with one another, to ape the manners of their
superiors. "An English peasant," as Mr Scott has well remarked, "appears
to spurn courtesy from him, in a bitter sense of its inapplicability to
his condition." This feeling is unknown in France. A French soldier
hands his "bien aimée" into a restaurateur's of the lowest order and
supplies her with fruits and wine, with the grace and foppery of a
Parisian "petit maitre," and with the gravity of a
"philosophe."--"Madame," says a scavenger in the streets of Paris,
laying his hand on his heart, and making a low bow to an old woman
cleaning shoes at the door of an inn, "J'espere que vous vous portez
bien."--"Monsieur," she replies, dropping a curtsey with an air of
gratitude and profound respect, "Vous me faites d'honneur; je me porte a
merveille."

This peculiarity of manner in the lower orders, will generally, it is
believed, be found connected with their real degradation and
insignificance in the eyes of their superiors. It is precisely because
they are not accustomed to look with respect to those of their own
condition, and because their condition is not respected by others, that
they imitate the higher ranks. An English coachman or stable-boy is
taught to believe, that a certain demeanour befits his situation; and he
will certainly expose himself to more sneers and animadversions, by
assuming the manners of the rank next above him in society, than the
highest peer of the realm will by assuming his. But Frenchmen of the
same rank are fain to seek that respectability from manner, which is
denied to the lowness of their condition, and the vulgarity of their
occupation; and they therefore assume the manner which is associated in
their minds, and in the minds of their observers, with situations
acknowledged to be respectable.

It is also to be observed, that the power of ridicule, which has so much
influence in the formation of manner, is much less in France than in
England. The French have probably more relish for true wit than any
other people; but their perception of humour is certainly not nearly so
strong as that of our countrymen. Their ridicule is seldom excited by
the awkward attempts of a stranger to speak their language, and as
seldom by the inconsistencies which appear to us ludicrous in the dress
and behaviour of their countrymen.

These causes, operating gradually for a length of time, have probably
produced that remarkable politeness of manners which is so pleasing to a
stranger, in a number of the lower orders in France, and which appears
so singular at the present time, as revolutionary ideas, military
habits, and the example of a military court, have given a degree of
roughness, and even ferocity, to the manners of many of the higher
orders of Frenchmen, with which it forms a curious contrast. It is,
however, in its relation to Englishmen at least, a fawning, cringing,
interested politeness; less truly respectable than the obliging civility
of the common people in England, and in substance, if not in appearance,
still farther removed from the frank, independent, disinterested
courtesy of the Scottish Highlanders.

* * *

Our entry into Boulogne was connected with several striking
circumstances. To an Englishman, who, for many years, had heard of the
mighty preparations which were made by the French in the port of
Boulogne for the invasion of this country, the first view of this town
could not but be peculiarly interesting. We accordingly got out of our
_voiture_ as quickly as possible, and walked straight to the harbour.
Here the first objects that presented themselves were, on one side, the
last remains of the grand flotilla, consisting of a few hulks,
dismantled and rotting in the harbour; on the other side, the Prussian
soldiers drawn up in regiments on the beach. Nothing could have recalled
to our minds more strongly the strength of that power which our country
had so long opposed, nor the magnificent result which had at length
attended her exertions. The forces destined for the invasion, and which
were denominated by anticipation the army of England, had been encamped
around the town. The characteristic arrogance--the undoubting
anticipation of victory--the utter thoughtlessness--the unsinking
vivacity of the French soldiery, were then at the highest pitch. Some
little idea of the gay and light-hearted sentiments with which they
contemplated the invasion of England, may be formed from the following
song, which was sung to us with unrivalled spirit and gesticulation, as
we came in sight of Boulogne, by our fellow-traveller, who had himself
served in the army of England, and who informed us it was then commonly
sung in the ranks.

    SONG.

    Français! le bal va se r'ouvrir,
    Et vous aimez la danse,
    L'Allemande vient de finir,
    Mais l'Anglaise commence.

    D'y figurer tous nous Français
    Seront parbleu bien aises,
    Car s'ils n'aiment pas les Anglais,
    Ils aiment les Anglaises.

    D'abord par le pas de Calais
    Il faut entrer en danse,
    Le son des instrumens Français
    Marquera la cadence;

    Et comme les Anglais ne scanroient
    Que danser les Anglaises,
    Bonaparte leur montrera
    Les figures Françaises.

    Allons mes amis de grand rond,
    En avant, face a face,
    Français le bas, restez d'a plomb,
    Anglais changez les places.

    Vous Monsieur Pitt vous balancez,
    Formez la chaine Anglaise,
    Pas de cotè--croisez--chassez--
    C'est la danse Française!

The humour of this song depends on the happy application of the names of
the French dances, and the terms employed in them, to the subjects on
which it is written, the conclusion of the German campaigns, and the
meditated invasion of England.

The Prussians who were quartered at Boulogne, and all the adjoining
towns and villages, belonged to the corps of General Von York. Most of
the infantry regiments were composed in part of young recruits, but the
old soldiers, and all the cavalry, had a truly military appearance; and
their swarthy weather-beaten countenances, their coarse and patched, but
strong and serviceable dresses and accoutrements, the faded embroidery
of their uniforms, and the insignia of orders of merit with which almost
all the officers, and many of the men, were decorated, bore ample
testimony to their participation in the labours and the honours of the
celebrated army of Silesia.

Some of them who spoke French, when we enquired where they had been,
told us, in a tone of exultation, rather than of arrogance, that they
had entered Paris--"le sabre a la main."

The appearance of the country is considerably better in Picardy than in
Artois, but the general features do not materially vary until you reach
the Oise. The peasantry seem to live chiefly in villages, through which
the road passes, and the cottages composing which resemble those of
Scotland more than of England. They are generally built in rows; many of
them are white-washed, but they are very dirty, and have generally no
gardens attached to them; and a great number of the inhabitants seem
oppressed with poverty to a degree unknown in any part of Britain. The
old and infirm men and women who assembled round our carriage, when it
stopped in any of these villages, to ask for alms, appeared in the most
abject condition; and so far from observing, as one English traveller
has done, that there are few beggars in France, it appeared to us that
there are few inhabitants of many of these country villages who are
ashamed to beg.

To this unfavourable account of the aspect of this part of France, there
are, however, exceptions: We were struck with the beauty of the village
of Nouvion, between Montreuil and Abbeville, which resembles strongly
the villages in the finest counties of England: The houses here have all
gardens surrounding them, which are the property of the villagers. In
the neighbourhood of Abbeville, and of Beauvais, there are also some
neat villages; and the country around these towns is rich, and well
cultivated, and beautifully diversified with woods and vineyards; and,
in general, in advancing southwards, the country, though still
uninclosed, appears more fertile and better clothed. Many of the
villages are surrounded with orchards, and long rows of fruit-trees
extend from some of them for miles together along the sides of the
roads; long regular rows of elms and Lombardy poplars are also very
common, particularly on the road sides; and, in some places, chateaux
are to be seen, the situation of which is generally delightful; but most
of them are uninhabited, or inhabited by poor people, who do not keep
them in repair; and their deserted appearance contributes even more than
the straight avenues of trees, and gardens laid out in the Dutch taste,
which surround them, to confirm the impression of _antiquity_ which is
made on the mind of an Englishman, by almost all that he sees in
travelling through France.

The roads in this, as in many other parts of the country, are paved in
the middle, straight, and very broad, and appear adapted to a much more
extensive intercourse than now exists between the different provinces.

The country on the banks of the Oise, (which we crossed at Beaumont),
and from thence to Paris, is one of the finest parts of France. The
road passes, almost the whole way, through a majestic avenue of elm
trees: Instead of the continual recurrence of corn fields and fallows,
the eye is here occasionally relieved by the intervention of fields of
lucerne and saintfoin, orchards and vineyards; the country is rich, well
clothed with wood, and varied with rising grounds, and studded with
chateaux; there are more carriages on the roads and bustle in the inns,
and your approach to the capital is very obvious. Yet there are strong
marks of poverty in the villages, which contain no houses adapted to the
accommodation of the middling ranks of society; the soil is richer, but
the implements of agriculture, and the system of husbandry, are very
little better than in Picardy: the cultivation, every where tolerable,
is nowhere excellent; there are no new farm-houses or farm-steadings; no
signs of recent agricultural improvements; and the chateaux, in general,
still bear the aspect of desertion and decay.

This last peculiarity of French scenery is chiefly owing to the great
subdivision of property which has taken place in consequence of the
confiscation of church lands, and properties of the noblesse and
emigrants, and of the subsequent sale of the national domains, at very
low or even nominal prices, to the lower orders of the peasantry. To
such a degree has this subdivision extended, that in many parts of
France there is no proprietor of land who does not labour with his own
hands in the cultivation of his property. The influence of this state of
property on the prosperity of France, and the gradual changes which it
will undergo in the course of time, will form an interesting study for
the political economist; but in the mean time, it will almost prevent
the possibility of collecting an adequate number of independent and
enlightened men to represent the landed interest of France in any system
of national representation.

In travelling from Calais to Paris, we did not observe so great a want
of men in the fields and villages as we had been led to expect. The men
whom we saw, however, were almost all above the age of the conscription.
In several places we saw women holding the plough; but in general, the
proportion of women to men employed in the fields, appeared hardly
greater than may be seen during most of the operations of husbandry in
the best cultivated districts of Scotland. On inquiry among the
peasants, we found the conscription, and the whole of Bonaparte's system
of government, held in much abhorrence, particularly among the women;
yet they did not appear to feel it so deeply as we had anticipated; and
of him, individually, they were more disposed to speak in terms of
ridicule than of indignation. "Il est parti pour l'ile d'Elbe (said
they)--bon voyage!" It was obvious that public affairs, even in those
critical moments, occupied much less of their attention than of persons
of the same rank in England: their spirits are much less easily
depressed; and it was easy to see that their domestic affections are
less powerful. The men shewed much jealousy of the allied troops: said
they were superior to the French only in numbers; and often repeated,
that one French soldier was equal to two Russians.

Although the old men and women whom we saw in the villages were
generally in the most abject condition, yet the labourers employed in
the fields appeared nearly as well dressed as the corresponding class in
England; their wages were stated to be, over most of the country, from
one franc to 25 sous a-day, and in the immediate neighbourhood of Paris,
to be as high as two, or even three francs. In some places, we saw them
dining on bread, pork, and cyder; but the scarcity of live stock was
such, that it was impossible to suppose that they usually enjoyed so
good a fare. The interior of the cottages appeared, generally, to be ill
furnished.

Every village and town through which we passed between Boulogne and
Paris contained a number of the allied troops. At Beauvais, a town
remarkable for its singular appearance, being almost entirely built of
wood, and likewise for the beauty of its cathedral, the choir of which
is reckoned the finest in France, we were first gratified with the sight
of some hundreds of Russians, horse and foot, under arms. These troops
were of the finest description, and belonged to the corps of the
celebrated Wigtenstein.

We enquired of many of the lower people, in the towns and villages
through which we passed, concerning the conduct of the allied troops in
their quarters, and the answers were almost uniformly--from the men,
"Ils se comportent bien;" (frequently with the addition, "mais ils
mangent comme des diables:")--and from the women, "Ils sont de bons
enfans." We had very frequent opportunities of remarking the truth of
the observation, that "women have less bitterness against the enemies of
their country than men." The Parisian ladies adopted fashions from the
uniforms of almost all the allied troops whom they saw in Paris; many of
them were exceedingly anxious for opportunities of seeing the Emperor of
Russia, and the most distinguished leaders of the armies that had
conquered France; and those who were acquainted with officers of rank
belonging to these armies appeared, on all occasions, to be highly
flattered with the attentions they received from them. The same was
observable in the conduct of the lower ranks. In the suburbs of Paris,
and in the neighbouring villages, where many of the allied troops were
quartered, they appeared always on the best terms with the female
inhabitants, and were often to be seen assisting them in their work,
playing at the battledore and shuttlecock with them in the streets, or
strolling in their company along the banks of the Seine, and through the
woods of Belleville or St Cloud, evidently to the satisfaction of both
parties. Much must be allowed for the national levity of the French; yet
it may be doubted, whether the officers and soldiers of a victorious
army are ever, in the first instance, very obnoxious to the females,
even of a vanquished country.




CHAPTER II.

PARIS--THE ALLIED ARMIES.


To those whose attention had been long fixed on the great political
revulsion which had brought the wandering tribes of the Wolga and the
Don into the heart of France, and whose minds had been incessantly
occupied for many months previous to the time of which we speak, (as the
minds of almost all Englishmen had been), with wishes for the success,
and admiration of the exploits, of the brave troops who then occupied
Paris, it may naturally be supposed, that even all the wonders of that
capital were, in the first instance, objects of secondary consideration.
It was not until our curiosity had been satisfied by the sight of the
Emperor Alexander, the Duke of Wellington, Marshal Blucher, Count
Platoff, and such numbers of the Russian and Prussian officers and
soldiers, as we considered a fair specimen of the whole armies, that we
could find time to appreciate the beauties even of the Apollo and the
Venus.

The streets of Paris are always amusing and interesting, from the
numbers and varieties of costumes and characters which they present; but
at the time of which we speak, they might be considered as exhibiting an
epitome of the greater part of Europe. Parties of Russian cuirassiers,
Prussian lancers, and Hungarian hussars; Cossacks, old and young, from
those whose beards were grey with age, to those who were yet beardless,
cantering along after their singular fashion--their long lances poised
on their stirrups, and loosely fastened to their right arms, vibrating
over their heads; long files of Russian and Prussian foragers, and long
trains of Austrian baggage waggons, winding slowly through the crowd;
idle soldiers of all services, French as well as allied, lounging about
in their loose great coats and trowsers, with long crooked pipes hanging
from their mouths; patroles of infantry parading about under arms,
composed half of Russian grenadiers, and half of Parisian national
guards; Russian coaches and four, answering to the description of Dr
Clarke, the postillions riding on the off-horses, and dressed almost
like beggars; Russian carts drawn by four horses a-breast, and driven by
peasants in the national costume; Polish Jews, with long black beards,
dressed in black robes like the cassocks of English clergymen, with
broad leathern belts--all mingled with the Parisian multitude upon the
Boulevards: and in the midst of this indiscriminate assemblage, all the
business, and all the amusements of Paris, went on with increased
alacrity and fearless confidence. The Palais Royal was crowded, morning,
noon, and night, with Russian and Prussian officers in full uniform,
decorated with orders, whose noisy merriment, cordial manners, and
careless profusion, were strikingly contrasted with the silence and
sullenness of the French officers.

It is fortunately superfluous for us to enlarge on the appearance, or on
the character of the Emperor Alexander. We were struck with the
simplicity of the style in which he lived. He inhabited only one or two
apartments in a wing of the splendid Elysee Bourbon--slept on a leather
mattress, which he had used in the campaign--rose at four in the
morning, to transact business--wore the uniform of a Russian General,
with only the medal of 1812, (the same which is worn by every soldier
who served in that campaign, with the inscription, in Russ, _Non nobis
sed tibi Domine_); had a French guard at his door--went out in a chaise
and pair, with a single servant and no guards, and was very regular in
his attendance at a small chapel, where the service of the Greek church
was performed. We had access to very good information concerning him,
and the account which we received of his character even exceeded our
anticipation. His well-known humanity was described to us as having
undergone no change from the scenes of misery inseparable from extended
warfare, to which his duties, rather than his inclinations, had so long
habituated him. He repeatedly left behind him, in marching with the
army, some of the medical men of his own staff, to dress the wounds of
French soldiers whom he passed on the way; and it was a standing order
of his to his hospital staff, to treat wounded Russians and French
exactly alike.

His conduct at the battle of Fere Champenoise, a few days before the
capture of Paris, of which we had an account from eye-witnesses, may
give an idea of his conduct while with the armies. The French column,
consisting of about 5000 infantry, with some artillery, was attacked by
the advanced guard of the allies, consisting of cavalry, with some
horse-artillery, under his immediate orders. It made a desperate
resistance, and its capture being an object of great importance, he sent
away all his guards, even the Cossacks, and exposed himself to the fire
of musketry for a long time, directing the movements of the troops. When
the French squares were at length broken by the repeated charges of
cavalry and Cossacks, he threw himself into the middle of them, at a
great personal risk, that he might restrain the fury of the soldiers,
exasperated by the obstinacy of the resistance; and although he could
not prevent the whole French officers and men from being completely
pillaged, many of them owed their lives to his interference. The French
commander was brought to him, and offered him his sword, which he
refused to accept, saying, he had defended himself too well.

The wife and children of a General who had been with the French army,
were brought to him, and he placed a guard over them, which was
overpowered in the confusion. The unfortunate woman was never more heard
of, but he succeeded in recovering the children, had a bed made for them
in his own tent, and kept them with him, until he reached Paris, when he
ordered enquiry to be made for some of her relations, to whose care he
committed them.

He was uniformly represented to us as a man not merely of the most
amiable dispositions, but of superior understanding, of uncommon
activity, and of a firm decided turn of mind. Of the share which he
individually had in directing the operations of the allied armies, we do
not pretend to speak with absolute certainty; but we had reason to know,
that the general opinion in the Russian army was, that the principal
movements were not merely subjected to his control, but guided by his
advice; and he was certainly looked upon, by officers who had long
served under him, as one of the ablest commanders in the allied armies.

He was much disconcerted, it was said, by the loss of the battle of
Austerlitz; but his subsequent experience in war had given him the true
military obstinacy, and he bore the loss of the battles of Lutzen and
Bautzen with perfect equanimity; often saying, the French can still beat
us, but they will teach us how to beat them; and we will conquer them by
our _pertinacity_. The attachment of the Russian army, and especially of
the guards, to him, almost approaches to idolatry; and the effect of his
presence on the exertions and conduct of his troops, was not more
beneficial to Europe while the struggle was yet doubtful, than to France
herself after her armies were overthrown, and her "sacred territory"
invaded.

As a specimen of the general feeling in the Russian army at the time
they invaded France, we may mention the substance of a conversation
which an officer of the Russian staff told us he had held with a private
of the Russian guard on the march, soon after the invasion. The soldier
complained of the Emperor's proclamation, desiring them to consider as
enemies only those whom they met in the field. "The French," said he,
"came into our country, bringing hosts of Germans and Poles along with
them;--they plundered our properties, burnt our houses, and murdered our
families;--every Russian was their enemy. We have driven them out of
Russia, we have followed them into Poland, into Germany, and into
France; but wherever we go, we are allowed to find none but friends.
This," he added, "is very well for us guards, who know that pillage is
unworthy of us; but the common soldiers and Cossacks do not understand
it; they remember how their friends and relations have been treated by
the French, and that remembrance _lies at their hearts_."

* * *

We visited with deep interest the projecting part of the heights of
Belleville, immediately overlooking the Fauxbourg St Martin, which the
Emperor Alexander reached, with the king of Prussia, the Prince
Schwartzenburg, and the whole general staff, on the evening of the 30th
of March. It was here that he received the deputation from Marshals
Marmont and Mortier, who had fought all day against a vast superiority
of force, and been fairly overpowered, recommending Paris to the
generosity of the allies. Thirty howitzers were placed on this height,
and a few shells were thrown into the town, one or two of which, we were
assured, reached as far as the Eglise de St Eustace; it is allowed on
all hands that they fell within the Boulevards. The heights of
Montmartre were at the same time stormed by the Silesian army, and
cannon were placed on it likewise,--Paris was then at his mercy. After a
year and a half of arduous contest, it was at length in his power to
take a bloody revenge for the miseries which his subjects had suffered
during the unprovoked invasion of Russia.--He ordered the firing to
cease; assured the French deputation of his intention to protect the
city; and issued orders to his army to prepare to march in, the next
morning, in parade order. He put himself at their head, in company with
the King of Prussia, and all the generals of high rank. After passing
along the Boulevards to the Champs Elysees, the sovereigns placed
themselves under a tree, in front of the palace of the Thuilleries,
within a few yards of the spot where Louis XVI. and many other victims
of the revolution had perished; and they saw the last man of their
armies defile past the town, and proceed to take a position beyond it,
before they entered it themselves.

At this time, the recollection of the fate of Moscow was so strong in
the Russian army, and the desire of revenge was so generally diffused,
not merely among the soldiers, but even among the superior, officers,
that they themselves said, nothing could have restrained them but the
presence and positive commands of their Czar; nor could any other
influence have maintained that admirable discipline in the Russian army,
during its stay in France, which we have so often heard the theme of
panegyric even among their most inveterate enemies.

It is not in the columns of newspapers, nor in the perishable pages of
such a Journal as this, that the invincible determination, the splendid
achievements, and the generous forbearance of the Emperor of Russia and
his brave army, during the last war, can be duly recorded; but when they
shall have passed into history, we think we shall but anticipate the
sober judgment of posterity by saying, that the foreign annals of no
other nation, ancient or modern, will present, in an equal period of
time, a spectacle of equal moral grandeur.

* * *

The King of Prussia was often to be seen at the Parisian theatres,
dressed in plain clothes, and accompanied only by his son and nephew.
The first time we saw him there, he was making some enquiries of a
manager of the Theatre de l'Odeon, whom he met in the lobby; and the
modesty and embarrassment of his manner were finely contrasted with the
confident loquacity and officious courtesy of the Frenchman. He is known
to be exceedingly averse to public exhibitions, even in his own country.
He had gone through all the hardships and privations of the campaigns,
had exposed himself with a gallantry bordering on rashness in every
engagement, his son and nephew always by his side; his coolness in
action was the subject of universal admiration; and it was not without
reason that he had acquired the name of the first soldier in his army.
His brothers, who are fine looking men, took the command of brigades in
the Silesian army, and did the duty of brigadiers to the satisfaction of
the whole army.

* * *

We had the good fortune of seeing the Duke of Wellington at the opera,
the first time that he appeared in public at Paris. He was received with
loud applause, and the modesty of his demeanour, while it accorded with
the impressions of his character derived from his whole conduct, and the
style of his public writings, sufficiently shewed, that his time had
been spent more in camps than in courts. We were much pleased to find,
that full justice was done to his merits as an officer by all ranks of
the allied armies. On the day that he entered Paris, the watch-word in
the whole armies in the neighbourhood was Wellington, and the
countersign Talavera. We have often heard Russian and Prussian officers
say, "he is the hero of the war:--we have conquered the French by main
force, but his triumphs are the result of superior skill."

* * *

We found, as we had expected, that Marshal Blucher was held in the
highest estimation in the allied army, chiefly on account of the
promptitude and decision of his judgment, and the unconquerable
determination of his character. We were assured, that notwithstanding
the length and severity of the service in which he had been engaged
during the campaign of 1814, he expressed the greatest regret at its
abrupt termination; and was anxious to follow up his successes, until
the remains of the French army should be wholly dispersed, and their
leader unconditionally surrendered. An English gentleman who saw him at
the time of the action in which a part of his troops were engaged at
Soissons, a few days previous to the great battle at Laon, gave a
striking account of his cool collected appearance on that occasion. He
was lying in profound silence, wrapped up in his cloak, on the snow, on
the side of a hill overlooking the town, smoking his pipe, and
occasionally looking through a telescope at the scene of action. At
length he rose up, saying, it was not worth looking at, and would come
to nothing. In fact, the main body of the French army was marching on
Rheims, and he was obliged to retire and concentrate his forces, first
on Craon, and afterwards on Laon, before he could bring on a general
action.

He bore the fatigues of the campaign without any inconvenience, but fell
sick on the day after he entered Paris, and resigned his command,
requesting only of General Sacken, the governor of the town, that he
would allot him lodgings from which he could look out upon Montmartre,
the scene of his last triumph. He never appeared in public at Paris;
but we had the pleasure of seeing him in a very interesting situation.
We had gone to visit the Hotel des Invalides, and on entering the church
under the great dome, we found this great commander, accompanied only by
his son and another officer, leaning on the rails which encircle the
monument of Turenne. We followed him into a small apartment off the
church, where the bodies of Marshals Bessieres and Duroc, and the hearts
of Generals Laroboissiere and Barraguay D'Hilliers, lay embalmed under a
rich canopy of black velvet, in magnificent coffins, which were strewed
with flowers every morning by the Duchess of Istria, the widow of
Bessieres, who came thither regularly after mass. This room was hung
with black, and lighted only by a small lamp, which burnt under the
canopy, and threw its light in the most striking manner on the grey
hairs and expressive countenance of the old Marshal, as he stood over
the remains of his late antagonists in arms. He heard the name of each
with a slight inclination of his head, gazed on the coffins for some
moments in silence, and then turned about, and, as if to shew that he
was not to be moved by his recollections, he strode out of the chapel
humming a tune.

He had vowed to recover possession of the sword of the great Frederic,
which used to hang in the midst of the 10,000 standards of all nations
that waved under the lofty dome of this building; but on the day that
the allies entered Paris, the standards were taken down and burnt, and
the sword was broken to pieces, by an order, as was said, from Maria
Louisa.

It is right to notice here, that the famous Silesian army which he
commanded, consisted originally of many more Russian troops than
Prussians,--in the proportion, we were told, of four to one, although
the proportion of the latter was afterwards increased. Indeed it was at
first the intention of the Emperor of Russia to put himself at the head
of this army; but he afterwards gave up that idea, saying, that he knew
the Russians and Prussians would fight well, and act cordially together;
but that the presence of the Sovereigns would be more useful in keeping
together the heterogeneous materials composing the army then forming in
Bohemia, which afterwards had the name of the grand army.

We have heard different opinions expressed as to the share which General
Gneisenau, the chief of the staff of the Silesian army, had in directing
the operations of that army. This General is universally looked on as an
officer of first-rate merit, and many manœuvres of great importance are
believed to have been suggested by him; yet it was to the penetrating
judgment and enthusiastic spirit of the old Marshal, that the officers
whom we saw seemed most disposed to ascribe their successes.

* * *

We were much struck by the courteous and dignified manners of old Count
Platoff. Even at that time, before he had experienced British
hospitality, he professed high admiration for the British character,
individual as well as national, saying, that he looked on every
Englishman as his brother; and he was equally candid in expressing his
detestation of the French, not even excepting the ladies. We, however,
saw him receive one or two Frenchmen, who were presented to him by his
friends, with his accustomed mildness. His countenance appeared to us
expressive of considerable humour, and he addressed a few words to
almost every Cossack of the guard whom he met in passing through the
court of the Elysee Bourbon, which were always answered by a hearty
laugh. During the two last campaigns of the war he had been almost
constantly at head-quarters, and his advice, we were assured, was much
respected.

On the night after the battle of Borodino, Count Platoff, we were told,
bivouacked on the field, in front of the position originally occupied by
the Russians[1], and on the next day he covered their retreat with his
Cossacks. One of the Princes of Hesse Philipsthal, an uncommonly
handsome young man, who had volunteered to act as an aid-de-camp of his,
had his leg shot away close to his side. Amputation was immediately
performed above the middle of his thigh; he was laid on a peasant's
cart, and carried 350 versts almost without stopping. However, he
recovered perfectly, and petitioned the Emperor to be allowed to wear
ever after the Cossack uniform. We saw him in it at Paris, going on
crutches, but regretting in strong terms that he was to see no more
fighting.

On the day before the French entered Moscow, Count Platoff, and some
other officers, from one of whom we had this anecdote, breakfasted with
Count Rostapchin at his villa in the vicinity of the town, which it had
been the delight of his life to cultivate and adorn. After breakfast,
Count Rostapchin assembled his servants and retainers; and after saying
that he hoped his son and latest descendants would always be willing to
make a similar sacrifice for the good of their country, he took a torch,
set fire to the building with his own hands, and waited until it was
consumed. He then rode into the town to superintend the destruction of
some warehouses full of clothes, of a number of carts, and of other
things which might be useful to the enemy. But he did not, as we were
assured by his son, whom we met at Paris, order the destruction of the
town. The French, enraged at the loss of what was most valuable to them,
according to the uniform account of the Russians, set fire in a
deliberate and methodical manner to the different streets. It is but
justice to say, however, that French officers, who had been at Moscow,
denied the truth of the latter part of this statement.

* * *

The Russian troops in the neighbourhood of Paris were under the
immediate command of General Count Miloradovitch, a man of large
property, and unbounded generosity, and an enthusiast in his profession.
He had been in the habit of always making the troops under his command
some kind of present on his birth-day. During the retreat of the French
from Moscow, this day came round when he was not quite prepared for it.
"I have no money here," said he to his soldiers; "but yonder," pointing
to a French column, "is a present worthy of you and of me." This address
was a prelude to one of the most successful attacks, made during the
pursuit, on the French rear-guard.

The other Russian commanders, whom we heard highly spoken of by the
Russian officers whom we met, were, the Marshal commanding, Barclay de
Tolly, in whose countenance we thought we could trace the indications of
his Scotch origin;--he is an old man, and was commonly represented as
"sage, prudent, tres savant dans la guerre."--Wigtenstein, who is much
younger, and is designated as "ardent, impetueux, entreprenant,"
&c.--Benigsen, who is an old man, but very active, and represented to be
as fond of fighting as Blucher himself;--Count Langeron, and Baron
Sacken, the commanders of corps in the Silesian army. The former is a
French emigrant, but has been long in the Russian service, and highly
distinguished himself. The latter is an old man, but very spirited, and
highly esteemed for his honourable character: in his capacity of
Governor of Paris, he gave very general satisfaction.--Woronzoff, who,
as is well known, was educated in England, and who distinguished
himself at Borodino, and in the army of the north of Germany, and
afterwards in France under Blucher--Winzingerode, one of the best
cavalry officers, formerly in the Austrian service--Czernicheff, the
famous partisan, a gallant gay young man, whose characteristic activity
is strongly marked in his countenance--Diebzitch, a young staff officer
of the first promise, since promoted to the important situation of Chef
de l'etat major--Lambert (of French extraction), and Yermoloff: This
last officer commanded the guards when we were at Paris, and was
represented as a man of excellent abilities, and of a most determined
character.

To shew the determined spirit of some of the Russian generals, we may
mention an anecdote of one of them, which we repeatedly heard. On one
occasion, the troops under the command of this general were directed to
defile over a bridge, under a very heavy fire from the enemy. Observing
some hesitation in their movements, he said, with perfect coolness, "If
they don't go forward, I will take care they shall not come back;" and
planted a battery of 12 pounders in their rear, pointing directly at the
bridge, in view of which they forced the passage in the most gallant
style.

The spirit of emulation which prevailed in all ranks of the Russian
army, during the war, was worthy of the cause in which they were
engaged. The following anecdote, we think, deserves commemoration. Two
officers of rank had aspired to the same situation in the army, and
exerted all their influence to obtain it. The successful candidate had
the command of the famous redoubt at Borodino, when it was carried by
the French. The other, who had a subordinate command just behind it,
immediately came up to him, and asked leave to retake it for him. No,
replied he; if you go there, I must be along with you. They collected
what force they could, entered the redoubt together, and regained it at
the point of the bayonet; but the officer who originally commanded in it
was killed by the side of his rival. The latter, immediately after the
battle, was promoted to the situation which he had so ardently desired;
but his enjoyment of it was long and visibly embittered by the
recollection of the event to which he owed his appointment.

The number of Russian prisoners taken by the French during the war was
very trifling, and we were assured, that there was no instance in the
whole course of it, of a single Russian battalion or squadron laying
down its arms. The number of prisoners taken by the Cossacks alone,
from the time when the French left Moscow until the passage of the
Niemen, was 90,000, and the number of cannon 550. It is true that these
were for the most part stragglers, and men unable to fight; but it must
be remembered, that many of them could only have been overtaken in their
flight by these hardy and enterprising troops. To prove the value of the
service rendered by the Cossacks, it is only necessary to observe, that
many of the officers who distinguished themselves most in all the
campaigns, Platoff, Orloff Denizoff, Wasilchikoff, Czernicheff,
Tettenborn, &c. commanded Cossacks almost exclusively, and attributed
much of their success to the quality of their troops. Most of the
Cossacks whom we saw appeared to be well disciplined, and had a truly
military air; and we were told, that all the 83 regiments of Cossacks
are at present in a state of tolerable discipline. We cannot go so far
as Dr Clarke in praise of their cleanliness, but we often observed their
native easy courtesy of manner; and there can be no doubt, as he
observes, of their being a much handsomer race than the generality of
Russians. Their figures are more graceful, and their features are
higher, and approach often to the Roman style of countenance. One troop
of the Cossacks of the guards, composed of those from the Black Sea,
attracted our particular admiration; and the noble manly figures of the
men, the elegant forms of the horses, and the picturesque appearance of
the arms and uniforms of the whole body of Cossacks of the guard, were
very striking. The hereditary Prince of Georgia was at Paris as one of
the Colonels of this regiment, and his figure and countenance were such
as might have rendered him remarkable even in his native country, in
which the "human form divine" is understood to attain its highest
perfection.

The Cossacks were kept in good order when under the inspection of their
officers; but during the campaigns, they were often obliged to act in
patroles, two or three together, at a distance from their officers; and
in these situations, it may be supposed that they would commit many
excesses. Immediately after a battle, they plundered all they met, and
at all times, and in all places, they looked on horses as fair game,
insomuch that it was often remarked in the allied armies, that they
believed horses to have been created for none but Cossacks. It was said,
that almost every Cossack of the corps of Czernicheff was worth from £.
300 to £. 400 in money and watches, which most of them spent much after
the manner of British sailors.

* * *

Some idea of the expenditure of human life, during the campaign of 1812,
may be formed from the following facts, which we had from unquestionable
authority: The number of killed and wounded on both sides at the battle
of Borodino, which did not extend from flank to flank more than three
English miles, was ascertained to exceed 75,000 men. Eighteen thousand
wounded Russians were dressed on the field, and sent off in carts. When
the Russian army crossed the Niemen, in pursuit of the French, they left
behind them 87,000 sick and wounded in hospitals, of which number 63,000
were wounded. The whole number of human bodies, Russian and French, men,
women, and children, which were collected and buried or burnt, after the
retreat from Moscow to the Niemen, exceeded 300,000.

The officers of the Russian medical staff spoke in terms of the utmost
indignation of the conduct of the French medical staff, in deserting
their charge on the approach of the Russian armies. A great part of the
town of Wilna, and surrounding villages, had been converted into
hospitals for the French army, and when the Russians arrived, they
found these hospitals wholly deserted by the medical men. The sick (many
of them labouring under infectious fevers), and the wounded, were
huddled together, without provisions, attendants, or the slightest
regard to their situation. The first step of the Russian officers who
were entrusted with the care of these hospitals, was to employ a number
of Jews to clear out the corpses, some of which had lain there for three
weeks; and when these were collected and burnt, their number was found
to exceed 16,000; the sick were then separated from the wounded; and as
soon as order was re-established, the Emperor of Russia visited the
hospitals himself, to be assured that every possible attention was paid
to their surviving inmates.

During the whole of the winter of 1812 and the year 1813, a typhus fever
was very prevalent in the French army, and in many places, particularly
on the fortresses on the Elbe, and in Frankfort and Mentz, it made
dreadful ravages; but it never extended, to any considerable degree,
among the Russians. This was partly owing, no doubt, to the influence of
exciting passions on the constitutions of the men; but much must
certainly be ascribed to the admirable arrangements of the Russian
hospital staff, which, under the superintendance of our countryman, Sir
James Wyllie, have attained, in a few years, a surprising degree of
excellence. The state of the Russian hospitals at Paris, under the
direction of another countryman, Dr Crichton, was universally admired.

The Russian imperial guard is, we believe, the finest body of men in
Europe; the whole number, when the regiments are all complete, is about
30,000; but the effective men at Paris did not exceed 20,000. These are
made up from time to time, by picked men from the whole army. The charge
of one of the regiments of cuirassiers, 1000 strong, upon the Champ de
Mars, was one of the finest sights imaginable. The clattering of the
horses feet on hard ground, and the rattling of the armour, increasing
as they advanced, exceeded the sound of the loudest thunder.

Their horses are not so heavy as those of the English dragoons, but they
have evidently more blood in them, and their power of bearing fatigues
and privations is quite wonderful. We were told by the officer
commanding one of these regiments, that almost all the horses we saw in
Paris, in the finest possible condition, were on the Niemen when the
French crossed it in 1812, and had borne the fatigues of the retreat to
Moscow, and of the advance during the dreadful winter which had proved
so fatal to the French army; as well as of the winter campaign of 1814
in France, which was carried on, almost entirely, during frost and snow.
The Russian soldiers bore the extreme cold of the former winter in a
manner hardly less wonderful; we were assured that they were not more
warmly clothed than the French; but they were accustomed to the climate,
were comparatively well fed, and were animated by victory, while their
antagonists were depressed by famine and despair.

The equipment of the artillery of the guard is probably the completest
in the world;--each gun of the horse artillery is followed by three
tumbrils of ammunition, and the artillerymen being all mounted and
armed, a battery of horse artillery is fitted to act in a double
capacity. One of these batteries, of 12 pieces, on the march, with all
its accompaniments, takes up fully half-a-mile of road.

The regiments of infantry are of various strength; all are composed of
the finest men, in point of strength and military appearance, but they
appeared to us rather inadequately officered. Of the physical powers of
this body of men, no better proof can be given, than their having
marched, within 24 hours, on the 22d and 23d of March, a distance of 18
leagues, or 54 miles, which they did at two marches, resting three
hours, without any straggling. The occasion on which they most highly
distinguished themselves was at Culm, where four regiments of them
(about 8000 men) stopped, for two days, in the defiles of the Riesen
Gebirge, the whole corps of Vandamme. The regiment Pavloffsky, who were
made guards for their conduct at Borodino, attracted particular
attention; they wear caps faced with brass, whence the French soldiers,
who know them well, call them the Bonnets d'Or; and many of them
preserve with much care the marks of the bullets by which these have
been pierced.

The Russian soldiers, at least of the guard, have almost universally
dark complexions, their features are generally low, and their faces
broad. The officers and soldiers of the Prussian guard, which is about
8000 strong, and in an equally high state of discipline and equipment,
are, on the whole, handsomer men, having generally fair hair, blue eyes,
high features, and ruddy complexions.

A great number of the Prussian officers have a fine expression of
romantic enterprise in their countenances; and it is well known, that
the whole Prussian nation, long oppressed by the presence of French
armies, entered into the war with France with a spirit of energy and
union that never was surpassed. The formation of the legion of
revenge,--the desertion of all seminaries of education, by teachers as
well as pupils,--the substitution of ornaments in iron, for gold and
jewellery, by the ladies of Berlin and other towns, are striking
instances of this popular feeling. The war-song, composed by a young
student from Konigsberg, which was sung in the heat of battle by the
regiment of volunteer hussars to which he belonged, and the author of
which was basely slain by a French prisoner whom he had neglected to
disarm,--to judge of it by a version which appeared in the newspapers,
and by the enthusiasm with which the Prussians speak of it, is worthy of
being translated by one of our noblest poets.

All the nations of Germany have strong feelings of patriotism associated
with the sight, and even with the name of the Rhine. When the Austrians,
in one of the last actions of the campaign of 1813, carried the heights
of Hockheim, in the neigbourhood of Mentz, and first came in sight of
that river, they involuntarily halted, and stood for some minutes in
silence; when the Prince Marshal coming up to know the cause of the
delay, their feelings burst forth in peals of enthusiastic acclamation,
as they again advanced to the charge. The Prussian corps of the army of
Silesia, destined to force the passage of the river, assembled on the
right bank on the evening of the 31st of December 1813, determined to
begin the year with the conquest to which they had long aspired; and
just at midnight the first boats pulled off from the shore, the oars
keeping time to thousands of voices, who sung words adapted to a
favourite national air by the celebrated Schlegel, the beginning of
which is, literally translated, "The Rhine shall no longer be our
boundary,--it is the great artery of Germany, and it shall flow through
the heart of our empire."

The Austrians whom we saw at Paris, were in general strong heavy looking
men. Their cavalry were universally admired; but the Russians and
Prussians complained much of the general dilatoriness of their
movements, and in particular, of the quantity of baggage waggons with
which their march was encumbered. Upon one occasion, some hundreds of
these fell into the hands of the French, to the great amusement of the
Russians. The Bavarians and Wirtembergers had the character, both in
Russia and France, of fighting very hard, and plundering freely. This
last accomplishment, as well as their military arrangements, they had
learnt from the French; and their conduct in this respect in France
itself, might be said to be actuated by a kind of poetical justice.

* * *

We were highly gratified by this review of the whole Russian and
Prussian guard which we saw in the Bois de Boulogne and road to St
Germain, on the 30th of May. They were drawn up in a single line,
extending at least six miles. The allied Sovereigns, followed by the
Princes of Russia, Prussia and France, the French Marshals, and all the
leading officers of the allied armies, rode at full speed along the
line; and the loud huzzas of the soldiers, which died away among the
long avenues of elm trees, as the cloud of dust which enveloped them
receded from the view, were inexpressibly sublime.

The appearance of these troops on parade was such, that but for the
traces which long exposure to all changes of weather had left on their
countenances, it never could have been supposed that they had been
engaged in long marches. They had always marched and fought in their
great coats and small blue caps, carrying their uniforms in their
knapsacks. On the night before they entered Paris, however, they put
them on, and marched into the town in as fine parade order as that in
which they had left Petersburg. The Parisians, who had been told that
the allied armies were nearly annihilated, and only a wreck left,
expressed their astonishment with their usual levity: "Au moins," said
they, "C'est un beau debris."

While the uniforms, arms, and accoutrements of these troops were in the
highest order, they seemed to take a pride in displaying the worn and
faded standards, torn by the winds and pierced with bullets, under which
they had served during the whole campaigns. Their services might also be
judged of from the medals of the year 1812, which almost all the
Russians bore, and to which all without distinction of rank are
entitled, who were exposed to the enemy's fire during that campaign; and
from the insignia of various orders, which in both the services extend
to privates as well as officers. The effect of these honorary rewards on
the minds of the men is certainly very great; and it is perhaps to be
regretted that there is no institution of the same kind in the British
service. The spirit of our soldiers, as all the world knows, needs no
such stimulus; but if a measure of this kind could in any degree gratify
their military feelings, surely their country owes them the
gratification; and what can be more pleasing to a soldier than to see
his officers and his Sovereign proud to display honours which he shares
along with them? The Russians appear to set a value on these medals and
decorations, which clearly shews the wisdom of the policy by which they
were granted. Almost every wounded soldier wears them even when lying in
hospital, and in the hour which teaches the insignificance of all the
titles of kings, and all the treasures of the universe, he still
rejoices, that he can lay these testimonies of his valour and fidelity
beside the small crucifix which he brought with him from his home, and
which, with a superstition that accords better with the true military
spirit than the thoughtless infidelity of the French, he has carried in
his bosom through all the chances of war.




CHAPTER III.

PARIS--ITS PUBLIC BUILDINGS.


With whatever sentiments a stranger might enter Paris at the time we
did, his feelings must have been the same with regard to the monuments
of ancient magnificence, or of modern taste, which it contained. All
that the vanity or patriotism of a long series of Sovereigns could
effect for the embellishment of the capital in which they resided; all
that the conquests of an ambitious and unprincipled Army could
accumulate from the spoils of the nations whom they had subdued, were
there presented to the eye of the stranger with a profusion which
obliterated every former prejudice, and stifled the feelings of
national emulation in exultation at the greatness of human genius.

The ordinary buildings of Paris, as every traveller has observed, and as
all the world knows, are in general mean and uncomfortable. The height
and gloomy aspect of the houses; the narrowness of the streets, and the
want of pavement for foot passengers, convey an idea of antiquity, which
ill accords with what the imagination had anticipated of the modern
capital of the French empire. This circumstance renders the admiration
of the spectator greater when he first comes in sight of its _public
edifices_; when he is conducted to the Place Louis Quinze, or the Pont
Neuf, from whence he has a general view of the principal buildings of
this celebrated capital. With the single exception of the view of London
from the terrace of the Adelphi, there is no point in our own country
where the effect of architectural design is so great as in the
situations which have now been mentioned. The view from the former of
these combines many of the most striking objects which Paris has to
present. To the east, the long front of the Thuilleries rises over the
dark mass of foliage which covers its gardens; to the south, the
picturesque aspect of the town is broken by the varied objects which the
river presents, and the fine perspective of the Bridge of Peace,
terminating in the noble front of the palace of the Legislative Body; to
the west, the long avenues of the Elysian Fields are closed by the
pillars of a triumphal arch which Napoleon had commenced; while to the
north, the beautiful façade of the Palace itself, leaves the spectator
only room to discover at a greater distance the foundation of the Temple
of Glory, which he had commenced, and in the execution of which he was
interrupted by those ambitious enterprises to which his subsequent
downfall was owing. To a painter's eye, the effect of the whole scene is
increased by the rich and varied foreground which everywhere presents
itself, composed of the shrubs with which the skirts of the square are
adorned, and the lofty poplars which rise amidst the splendour of
architectural beauty; while recent events give a greater interest to the
spot from which this beauty is surveyed, by the remembrance, that it was
here that Louis XVI. fell a martyr to the revolutionary principles, and
that it was here that the Emperor Alexander and the other princes of
Europe took their station, when their armies passed in triumph through
the walls of Paris.

The view from the Pont Neuf, though not so striking upon the whole,
embraces objects of greater individual beauty. The gay and animated
quays of the city covered with foot-passengers, and with all the varied
exhibitions of industrious occupation, which, from the warmth of the
climate, are carried on in the open air;--the long and splendid front of
the Louvre and Thuilleries;--the bold projection of the Palais des Arts,
of the Hotel de la Monnaie, and other public buildings on the opposite
side of the river;--the beautiful perspective of the bridges, adorned by
the magnificent colonnade which fronts the Palace of the Legislative
Body;--and the lofty picturesque buildings of the centre of Paris
surrounding the more elevated towers of Notre Dame, form a scene, which,
though less perfect, is more striking, and more characteristic, than the
scene from the centre of the Place Louis Quinze, which has been just
described. It conveys at once a general idea of the French capital; of
that mixture of poverty and splendour by which it is so remarkably
distinguished; of that grandeur of national power, and that degradation
of individual importance, which marked the ancient dynasty of the French
nation. It marks too, in a historical view, the changes of the public
feeling which the people of this country have undergone, from the
distant period when the towers of Notre Dame rose amidst the austerity
of Gothic taste, and were loaded with the riches of Catholic
superstition, to that boasted æra, when the loyalty of the French people
exhausted the wealth and the genius of the country, to decorate with
classic taste the residence of their Sovereigns; and lastly, to those
later days, when the names of religion and of loyalty have alike been
forgotten; when the national exultation reposed only on the trophies of
military greatness, and the iron yoke of imperial power was forgotten in
the monuments which record the deeds of imperial glory.

To the general observation on the inferiority of the common buildings in
Paris, there are some remarkable exceptions. The Boulevards, the remains
of the ancient ramparts of the city, are in general beautiful, from
their circular form, from their uniform breadth, from the magnificence
of the detached palaces with which they abound, and from the rows of
fine trees with which they are shaded. In the skirts of the town, and
more especially in the Fauxbourg St Germain, the beauty of the streets
is greatly increased by the detached hotels or villas, surrounded by
gardens, which are everywhere to be met with, in which the lilac, the
laburnum, the Bois de Judeé, and the acacia, grow in the most luxuriant
manner, and on the green foliage of which the eye reposes with singular
delight amidst the bright and dazzling whiteness of the stone with
which they are surrounded.

The Hotel des Invalides, the Chelsea Hospital of France, is one of the
objects on which the Parisians principally pride themselves, and to
which a stranger is conducted immediately after his arrival in that
capital. The institution itself appears to be well conducted, and to
give general satisfaction to the wounded men who have there found an
asylum from the miseries of war. We were informed that these men live in
habits of perfect harmony among each other; a state of things widely
different from that of our veterans in Greenwich Hospital, and which is
probably chiefly owing to the cheerfulness and equanimity of temper
which form the best feature in the French character. There is something
in the style of the architecture of this building, which accords well
with the object to which it is devoted. The front is distinguished by a
simple manly portico, and a dome of the finest proportion rises above
its centre, which is visible from all parts of the city. This dome was
gilded by order of Bonaparte: and however much a fastidious taste may
regret the addition, it certainly gave an air of splendour to the whole,
which was in perfect unison with the feelings of exultation which the
sight of this monument of military glory was then fitted to awaken
among the French people. The exterior of this edifice was formerly
surrounded by cannon captured by the armies of France at different
periods: and ten thousand standards, the trophies of victory during the
wars of two centuries, waved under its splendid dome, and enveloped the
sword of Frederic the Great, which hung from the centre, until the 31st
of March 1814, when, as already observed, they were all burnt by order
of Maria Louisa, to prevent their falling into the victorious hands of
the allied powers.

If the character of the architecture of the Hotel des Invalides accords
well with the object to which that building is destined, the character
of the Louvre is not less in unison with the spirit of the fine arts, to
which it is consecrated. It is impossible for language to convey any
adequate idea of the impression which this exquisite building awakens in
the mind of a stranger. The beautiful proportions, and the fine symmetry
of the great façade, give an air of simplicity to the distant view of
this edifice, which is not diminished, on nearer approach, by the
unrivalled beauty of its ornaments and detail; but when you cross the
threshold of the portico, and pass under its noble archway into the
inner-court, all considerations are absorbed in the throb of admiration
which is excited by the sudden display of all that is lovely and
harmonious in Grecian architecture. You find yourself in the midst of
the noblest and yet chastest display of architectural beauty, where
every ornament possesses the character by which the whole is
distinguished, and where the whole possesses the grace and elegance
which every ornament presents:--You find yourself on the spot where all
the monuments of ancient art are deposited;--where the greatest
exertions of mortal genius are preserved--and where a palace has at last
been raised worthy of being the depository of the collected genius of
the human race.--It bears a higher character than that of being the
residence of imperial power; it seems destined to loftier purposes than
to be the abode of earthly greatness; and the only forms by which its
halls would not be degraded, are those models of ideal perfection which
the genius of ancient Greece created to exalt the character of a heathen
world.

Placed in a more elevated spot, and destined to a still higher object,
the Pantheon bears in its front the traces of the noble purpose for
which it was intended.--It was intended to be the cemetery of all the
great men who had deserved well of their country; and it bears the
inscription, above its entrance, _Aux grands Hommes La Patrie
reconnoissante_. The character of its architecture is well adapted to
the impression it is intended to convey, and suits the simplicity of the
inscription which its portico presents. Its situation has been selected
with singular taste, to aid the effect which was thus intended. It is
placed at the top of an eminence, which shelves in a declivity on every
side; and the immediate approach is by an immense flight of steps, which
form the base of the building, and increase the effect which its
magnitude produces. Over the entrance is placed a portico of lofty
pillars, finely proportioned, supporting a magnificent entablature of
the simplest order; and the whole terminates in a dome of vast
dimensions, forming the highest object in the whole city. The impression
which every one must feel in crossing its threshold, is that of
religious awe; the individual is lost in the greatness of the objects
with which he is surrounded, and he dreads to enter what seems the abode
of a greater Power, and to have been framed for the purposes of more
elevated worship. The Louvre might have been fitted for the gay scenes
of ancient sacrifice; it suits the brilliant conceptions of heathen
mythology; and seems the fit abode of those ideal forms, in which the
imagination of ancient times embodied their conception of divine
perfection; but the Pantheon is adapted for a holier worship, and
accords with the character of a purer belief; and the vastness and
solitude of its untrodden chambers awaken those feelings of human
weakness, and that sentiment of human immortality, which befit the
temple of a spiritual faith.

We were involuntarily led, by the sight of this great monument of sacred
architecture in the Grecian style, to compare it with the Gothic
churches which we had seen, and in particular with the Cathedral of
Beauvais, the interior of which is finished with greater delicacy, and
in finer proportions, than any other edifice of a similar kind in
France. The impression which the inimitable choir of Beauvais produced,
was widely different from that which we felt on entering the lofty dome
of the Pantheon at Paris. The light pinnacles, the fretted roof, the
aspiring form of the Gothic edifice, seemed to have been framed by the
hands of aerial beings, and produced, even from a distance, that
impression of grace and airiness which it was the peculiar object of
this species of Gothic architecture to excite. On passing the high
archway which covers the western door, and entering the immense aisles
of the Cathedral, the sanctity of the place produces a deeper
impression, and the grandeur of the forms awakens profounder feelings.
The light of the day is excluded, the rays of the sun come mellowed
through the splendid colours with Which the windows are stained, and
cast a religious light over the marble pavement which covers the floor;
while the eye reposes on the harmonious forms of the lancet windows, or
is bewildered in the profusion of ornament with which the roof is
adorned. The impression which the whole produces, is that of religious
emotion, singularly suited to the genius of Christianity; if is seen in
that obscure light which fits the solemnity of religious duty, and
awakens those feelings of intense delight, which prepare the mind for
the high strain of religious praise. But it is not the deep feeling of
humility and weakness which is produced by the dark chambers and massy
pillars of the Pantheon at Paris; it is not in the mausoleum of the dead
that you seem to wander, nor on the thoughts of the great that have gone
before you that the mind revolves; it is in the scene of thanksgiving
that your admiration is fixed; it is with the emblems of Hope that your
devotion is awakened, and with the enthusiasm of gratitude that the
mind is filled. Beneath the gloomy roof of the Grecian Temple, the
spirit is concentrated within itself: it seeks the repose which solitude
affords, and meditates on the fate of the immortal soul; but it loves to
follow the multitude into the Gothic Cathedral, to join in the song of
grateful praise which peals through its lengthened aisles, and to share
in the enthusiasm which belongs to the exercise of common devotion.

The Cathedral of Notre Dame is the only Gothic building of note in
Paris, and it is by no means equal to the expectations we had been led
to form of it. The style of its architecture is not that of the finest
Gothic; it has neither the exquisite lightness of ornament which
distinguishes the summit of Gloucester Cathedral, nor the fine lancet
windows which give so unrivalled a beauty to the interior of Beauvais,
nor the richness of roof which covers the tombs of Westminster Abbey.
Its character is that of massy greatness; its ornaments are rich rather
than elegant, and its interior striking more from its immense size than
the beauty of the proportion in which it is formed. In spite of all
these circumstances, however, the Cathedral of Notre Dame produces a
deep impression on the mind of the beholder; its towers rise to a
stupendous height above all the buildings which surround them; while
the stone of every other edifice is of a light colour, they alone are
black with the smoke of centuries; and exhibit a venerable aspect of
ancient greatness in the midst of the brilliancy of modern decoration
with which the city abounds. Even the crowd of ornaments with which they
are loaded, and the heavy proportion in which they are built, are
forgotten in the effect which their magnitude produces; they suit the
gloomy character of the building they adorn, and accord with the
expression of antiquated power by which its aged forms are now
distinguished.

To those who have been accustomed to the form of worship which is
established in Protestant countries, there is nothing so striking in the
Catholic churches as the complete oblivion of rank, or any of the
distinctions of established society, which there universally prevails.
There are no divisions of seats, nor any places fixed for any particular
classes of society. All, of whatever rank or station, kneel alike upon
the marble pavement; and the whole extent of the church is open for the
devotion of all classes of the people. You frequently see the poorest
citizens with their children kneeling on the stone close to those of the
highest rank, or the most extensive fortunes. This custom may appear
painful to those who have been habituated to the forms of devotion in
the English churches; but it produces an impression on the mind of the
spectator which nothing in our service is capable of effecting. To see
the individual form lost in the immensity of the objects with which he
is surrounded; to see all ranks and ages blended in the exercise of
common devotion; to see all distinction forgotten in the sense of common
infirmity, suits the spirit of that religion which was addressed to the
poor as well as to the rich, and fits the presence of that Being before
whom all ranks are equal.

Nor is it without a good effect upon the feelings of mankind, that this
custom has formed a part of the Catholic service. Amidst that
degradation of the great body of the people, which marks the greater
part of the Catholic countries--amidst the insolence of aristocratic
power, which the doctrines of the Catholic faith are so well suited to
support, it is fitting that there should be some occasions on which the
distinctions of the world should be forgotten; some moments in which the
rich as well as the poor should be humbled before a greater power--in
which they should be reminded of the common faith in which they have
been baptized, of the common duties to which they are called, and the
common hopes which they have been permitted to form.

We had the good fortune to see high mass performed in Notre Dame, with
all the pomp of the Catholic service, for the souls of Louis XVI. Marie
Antoinette, and the Dauphin, on May 16, 1814, soon after the King's
arrival in Paris. The Cathedral was hung with black in every part; the
brilliancy of day wholly excluded, and it was lighted only by double
rows of wax tapers, which burned round the coffins, placed in the centre
of the choir. It was crowded to excess in every part; all the Marshals,
Peers, and dignitaries of France, were stationed with the Royal Family
near the centre of the Cathedral, and all the principal officers of the
allied armies attended at the celebration of the service. The King was
present, though without being perceived by the vast assembly by whom he
was surrounded; and the Duchess d'Angouleme exhibited, in this
melancholy duty, that mixture of firmness and sensibility by which her
character has always been distinguished.

It was said, that there were several persons present at this solemn
service who had voted for the death of the King; and many of those
assembled must doubtless have been conscious that they had been
instrumental in the death of those for whose souls this solemn service
was now performing. The greater part, however, of those whom we had an
opportunity of observing, exhibited the symptoms of genuine sorrow, and
seemed to participate in the solemnity with unfeigned devotion. The
Catholic worship was here displayed in its utmost splendour; all the
highest prelates of France were assembled to give dignity to the
spectacle; and all that art could devise was exhausted to render the
scene impressive in the eyes of the people. To us, however, who had been
habituated to the simplicity of the English form, the variety of
unmeaning ceremony, the endless gestures and unceasing bows of the
clergy who officiated, destroyed the impression which the solemnity of
the service would otherwise have produced. But though the service itself
appeared ridiculous, the effect of the whole scene was sublime in the
greatest degree. The black tapestry hung in heavy folds round the sides
of the Cathedral, and magnified the impression which its vastness
produced. The tapers which surrounded the coffins threw a red and gloomy
light over the innumerable multitude which thronged the floor; their
receding rays faintly illuminated the farther recesses, or strained to
pierce the obscure gloom in which the summits of the pillars were lost;
while the sacred music pealed through the distant aisles, and deepened
the effect of the thousands of voices which joined in the strains of
repentant prayer.

Among the exhibitions of art to which a stranger is conducted
immediately after his arrival in the French metropolis, there is none
which is more characteristic of the disposition of the people than the
_Musèe des Monumens François_, situated in the Rue des Petits Angustins.
This is a collection of all the finest sepulchral monuments from
different parts of France, particularly from the Cathedral of St Denis,
where the cemetery of the royal family had, from time immemorial, been
placed. It is said by the French, that the collection of these monuments
into one museum was the only means of preserving them from the fury of
the people during the revolution; and certainly nothing but absolute
necessity could have justified the barbarous idea of bringing them from
the graves they were intended to adorn, to one spot, where all
associations connected with them are destroyed. It is not the mere
survey of the monuments of the dead that is interesting,--not the
examination of the specimens of art by which they may be adorned;--it is
the remembrance of the deeds which they are intended to record,--of the
virtues they are destined to perpetuate,--- of the pious gratitude of
which they are now the only testimony--above all, of the dust they
actually cover. They remind us of the great men who formerly filled the
theatre of the world,--they carry us back to an age which, by a very
natural illusion, we conceive to have been both wiser and happier than
our own, and present the record of human greatness in that pleasing
distance when the great features of character alone are remembered, when
time has drawn its veil over the weaknesses of mortality, and its
virtues are sanctified by the hand of death. It is a feeling fitted to
elevate the soul; to mingle the thoughts of death with the recollection
of the virtues by which life had been dignified, and renovate in every
heart those high hopes of religion which spring from, the grave of
former virtue.

All this delightful, this purifying illusion, is destroyed by the way in
which the monuments are collected in the Museum at Paris. They are there
brought together from all parts of France; severed from the ashes of the
dead they were intended to cover; and arranged in systematic order to
illustrate the history of the art whose progress they unfold. The tombs
of all the Kings of France, of the Generals by whom its glory has been
extended, of the statesmen by whom its power, and the writers by whom
its fame has been established, are crowded together in one collection,
and heaped upon each other, without any other connexion than that of the
time in which they were originally raised. The Museum accordingly
exhibits, in the most striking manner, the power of arrangement and
classification which the French possess; it is valuable, as containing
fine models of the greatest men whom France has produced, and exhibits a
curious specimen of the progress of art, from its first commencement to
the period of its greatest perfection; but it has wholly lost that deep
and peculiar interest which belongs to the monuments of the dead in
their original situation.

Adjoining to the Museum, is a garden planted with trees, in which many
of the finest monuments are placed; but in which the depravity of the
French taste appears in the most striking manner. It is surrounded with
houses, and darkened by the shade of lofty buildings; yet, in this
gloomy situation, they have placed the tomb of Fenelon, and the united
monument of Abelard and Eloise: profaning thus, by the barbarous
affectation of artificial taste, and the still more shocking imitation
of ancient superstition, the remains of those whose names are enshrined
in every heart which can feel the beauty of moral excellence, or share
in the sympathy with youthful sorrow.

How different are the feelings with which an Englishman surveys the
untouched monuments of English greatness!--and treads the floor of that
venerable building which shrouds the remains of all who have dignified
their native land--in which her patriots, her poets, and her
philosophers, "sleep with her kings, and dignify the scene," which the
rage of popular fury has never dared to profane, and the hand of
victorious power has never been able to violate; where the ashes of the
immortal dead still lie in undisturbed repose, under that splendid roof
which covered the tombs of her earliest kings, and witnessed, from its
first dawn, the infant glory of the English people.--Nor could the
remembrance of the national monuments we have described, ever excite in
the mind of a native of France, the same feeling of heroic devotion
which inspired the sublime expression of Nelson, as he boarded the
Spanish Admiral's ship at St Vincent's--"Westminster Abbey or Victory!"

Though the streets in Paris have an aged and uncomfortable appearance,
the form of the houses is such, as, at a distance, to present a
picturesque aspect. Their height, their sharp and irregular tops, the
vast variety of forms which they assume when seen from different
quarters, all combine to render a distant view of them more striking
than the long rows of uniform houses of which London is composed. The
domes and steeples of Paris, however, are greatly inferior, both in
number and magnificence, to those of the English capital.

The gardens of the Thuilleries and the Luxembourg, of which the
Parisians think so highly, and which are constantly filled with all
ranks of citizens, are laid out with a singularity of taste, of which,
in this country, we can scarcely form any conception. The straight
walks--the clipt trees--the marble fountains--are fast wearing out in
all parts of England; they are to be met with only round the mansions of
ancient families, and even there are kept rather from the influence of
ancient prejudice, or from the affection to hereditary forms, than from
their coincidence with the present taste of the English people. They are
seldom, accordingly, disagreeable, with us, to the eye of the most
cultivated taste; their singularity forms a pleasing variety to the
continued succession of lawns and shrubberies which is every where to be
met with; and they are regarded rather as the venerable marks of
ancient splendour, than as the barbarous affectation of modern
distinction. In France, the native deformity of this taste appears in
its real light, without the colouring of any such adventitious
circumstances as conceal it in this country. It does not appear there
under the softening veil of ancient manners; its avenues do not conduct
to the decaying abode of hereditary greatness--its gardens do not mark
the scenes of former festivity--its fountains are not covered with the
moss which has grown for centuries. It appears as the model of present
taste; it is considered as the indication of existing splendour; and
sought after, as the form in which the beauty of Nature is now to be
admired. All that association accordingly had blended in our minds with
the style of ancient gardening in our own country, was instantly
divested by its appearance in France; and we felt then the whole
importance of that happy change in the national taste, whereby variety
has been made to succeed to uniformity, and the imitation of nature to
come in the place of the exhibition of art.

In every country, and in every department of taste, the earliest object
of art is, the display of the power of the artist; and it is in the last
period of its improvements alone, that this miserable propensity is
overcome. It is hence that the imitation of Nature is not what is at
first attempted; that the forms which she presents are uniformly
neglected, and the merit of the artist is thought to consist in such
artificial designs as bear the most unequivocal marks of his individual
dexterity. The forms of nature are every where to be met with--they are
open to the most vulgar capacity; the power of art, therefore, it is at
first thought, must be shown in the complete subjugation of natural
form, or the complete abandonment of natural beauty. It is hence that
florists uniformly take delight in double flowers and monsters, which
are the farthest removed from the forms of nature; and it is hence that
gardeners always evince so great an anxiety to conduct strangers to the
most ridiculous contortion of natural form, which their domains can
exhibit. There is nothing unnatural or vulgar in this propensity; it
pervades all branches of taste at a certain stage of its progress, and
all ranks of society, to whom a limited capacity of mind is granted. It
is hence that every society exhibits examples of individuals, who aim at
singularity of manners, merely that they may be different from the
generality of mankind; it is hence that many persons, even of a
cultivated mind, shut their eye to the charms of beauty in every
department of taste, merely that they may display their own wretched
vanity in criticising its imperfections; it is hence that painters
select the moment of passion or exertion, for no other reason than for
the display of their anatomical knowledge, or their skill in the
delineation of extraordinary emotion; and that poets have so often
neglected what is really pathetic in the scenes, either of nature or of
man, to present the artificial conceptions of their learning or fancy.
In all these instances, the degradation of taste arises from the vain
anxiety of men to display the power of the artist, and their utter
forgetfulness of the end of the Art.

The remarkable characteristic of the taste of France is, that this love
of artificial beauty continues with undiminished force, at a period
when, in other nations, it has given place to a more genuine love for
the beauty of nature. In them, the natural progress of refinement has
led from the admiration of the art of imitation to the love of the
subjects imitated. In France, this early prejudice, continues in its
pristine vigour at the present moment: They never lose sight of the
effort of the artist; their admiration is fixed not on the quality or
object in nature, but on the artificial representation of it; not on the
thing signified, but the sign. It is hence that they have such exalted
ideas of the perfection of their artist David, whose paintings are
nothing more than a representation of the human figure in its most
extravagant and phrenzied attitudes; that they are insensible to the
simple display of real emotion, but dwell with delight upon the vehement
representation of it which their stage exhibits; and that, leaving the
charming heights of Belleville, or the sequestered banks of the Seine,
almost wholly deserted, they crowd to the stiff alleys of the Elysian
Fields, or the artificial beauties of the gardens of Versailles.

In the midst of Paris this artificial style of gardening is not
altogether unpleasing; it is in unison, in some measure, with the
regular character of the buildings with which it is surrounded; and the
profusion of statues and marble vases continues the impression which the
character of their palaces is fitted to produce. But at Versailles, at
St Cloud, and Fountainbleau, amidst the luxuriance of vegetation, and
surrounded by the majesty of forest scenery, it destroys altogether the
effect which arises from the irregularity of natural beauty. Every one
feels straight borders, and square porticoes and broad alleys, to be in
unison with the immediate neighbourhood of an antiquated mansion; but
they become painful when extended to those remoter parts of the
grounds, when the character of the scene is determined by the rudeness
of uncultivated nature.

There are some occasions, nevertheless, on which the gardens of the
Thuilleries present a beautiful spectacle, in spite of the artificial
taste in which they are formed. From the warmth of the climate, the
Parisians, of all classes, live much in the open air, and frequent the
public gardens in great numbers during the continuance of the fine
weather. In the evening especially, they are filled with citizens, who
repose themselves under the shade of the lofty trees, after the heat and
the fatigues of the day; and they then present a spectacle of more than
ordinary interest and beauty. The disposition of the French suits the
character of the scene, and harmonises with the impression which the
stillness of the evening produces on the mind. There is none of that
rioting or confusion by which an assembly of the middling classes in
England is too often disgraced; no quarrelling or intoxication even
among the poorest ranks, and little appearance of that degrading want
which destroys the pleasing idea of public happiness. The people appear
all to enjoy a certain share of individual prosperity; their intercourse
is conducted with unbroken harmony, and they seem to resign themselves
to those delightful feelings which steal over the mind during the
stillness and serenity of a summer evening.

Still more beautiful perhaps, is the appearance of this scene during the
stillness of the night, when the moon throws her dubious rays over the
objects of nature. The gardens of the Thuilleries remain crowded with
people, who seem to enjoy the repose which universally prevails, and
from whom no sound is to be heard which can break the stillness or
serenity of the scene. The regularity of the forms is wholly lost in the
masses of light and shadow that are there displayed; the foliage throws
a chequered shade over the ground beneath, while the different vistas of
the Elysian Fields are seen in that soft and mellow light by which the
radiance of the moon is so peculiarly distinguished. After passing
through these favourite scenes of the French people, we frequently came
to small encampments of the allied troops in the remote parts of the
grounds. The appearance of these bivouacks, composed of Cossack
squadrons, Hungarian hussars, or Prussian artillery, in the obscurity of
moonlight, and surrounded by the gloom of forest scenery, was beyond
measure striking. The picturesque forms of the soldiers, sleeping on
their arms under the shade of the trees, or half hid by the rude huts
which they had erected for their shelter; the varied attitudes of the
horses standing amidst the waggons by which the camp was followed, or
sleeping beside the veterans whom they had borne through all the
fortunes of war; the dark masses of the artillery, dimly discerned in
the shades of night, or faintly reflecting the pale light of the moon,
presented a scene of the most beautiful description, in which the rude
features of war were softened by the tranquillity of peaceful life; and
the interest of present repose was enhanced by the remembrance of the
wintry storms and bloody fields through which these brave men had
passed, during the memorable campaigns in which they had been engaged.
The effect of the whole was increased by the perfect stillness which
everywhere prevailed, broken only at intervals by the slow step of the
sentinel, as he paced his rounds, or the sweeter sounds of those
beautiful airs, which, in a far distant country, recalled to the Russian
soldier the joys and the happiness of his native land.




CHAPTER IV.

ENVIRONS OF PARIS.


St Cloud was the favourite residence of Bonaparte, and, from this
circumstance, possesses an interest which does not belong to the other
imperial palaces. It stands high, upon a lofty bank overhanging the
Seine, which takes a bold sweep in the plain below; and the steep
declivity which descends to its banks is clothed with magnificent woods
of aged elms. The character of the scenery is bold and rugged;--the
trees are of the wildest forms, and the most stupendous height, and the
banks, for the most part, steep and irregular. It is here, accordingly,
that the French gardening appears in all its genuine deformity; and that
its straight walks and endless fountains display a degree of formality
and art, destructive of the peculiar beauty by which the scene is
distinguished. These gardens, however, were the favourite and private
walks of the Emperor;--it was here that he meditated those schemes of
ambition which were destined to shake the established thrones of
Europe;--it was under the shade of this luxuriant foliage that he formed
the plan of all the mighty projects which he had in contemplation;--it
was in the splendid apartments of this palace that the Councils of
France assembled, to revolve on the means of permanently destroying the
English power:--It was here too, by a most remarkable coincidence, that
his destruction was finally accomplished;--that the last convention was
concluded, by which his second dethronement was completed;--and that the
victorious arms of England dictated the terms of surrender to his
conquered capital.

When we visited St Cloud, it was the head-quarters of Prince
Schwartzenberg; and the Austrian grenadiers mounted guard at the gates
of the Imperial Palace. The banks of the Seine, below the Palace, were
covered by an immense bivouack of Austrian troops, and the fires of
their encampment twinkled in the obscurity of twilight amidst the low
brushwood with which the sides of the river were clothed. The
appearance of this bivouack, dimly discerned through the rugged stems of
lofty trees, or half-hid by the luxuriant branches which obscured the
view;--the picturesque and varied aspect of the plain covered with
waggons, and all the accompaniments of military service;--the columns of
smoke rising from the fires with which it was interspersed, and the
innumerable horses crowded amidst the confused multitude of men and
carriages, or resting in more sequestered spots on the sides of the
river, with their forms finely reflected in its unruffled
waters--presented a spectacle which exhibited war in its most striking
aspect, and gave a character to the scene which would have suited the
romantic strain of Salvator's mind.

St Germain, though less picturesquely situated than St Cloud, presents
features, nevertheless, of more than ordinary magnificence. The Palace,
now converted into a school of military education by Napoleon, is a mean
irregular building, though it possesses a certain interest, by having
been long the residence of the exiled house of Stuart. The situation,
however, is truly fitted for an imperial dwelling; it stands on the edge
of a high bank overhanging the Seine, at the end a magnificent terrace,
a mile and a half long, built on the projecting heights which edge the
river. The walk along this terrace is the finest spectacle which the
vicinity of Paris has to present. It is backed along its whole extent by
the extensive forest of St Germain, the foliage of which overhangs the
road, and in the recesses of which you can occasionally discern those
beautiful peeps which form the peculiar characteristic of forest
scenery. The steep bank which descends to the river is clothed with
orchards and vineyards in all the luxuriance of a southern climate; and
in front, there is spread beneath your feet the wide plain in which the
Seine wanders, whose waters are descried at intervals through the woods
and gardens with which its banks are adorned; while, in the farthest
distance, the towers of St Denis, and the heights of Paris, form an
irregular outline on the verge of the horizon. It is a scene exhibiting
the most beautiful aspect of cultivated nature, and would have been the
fit residence for a Monarch who loved to survey his subjects' happiness:
but it was deserted by the miserable weakness of Louis XIV., because the
view terminated in the cemetery of the Kings of France, and his
enjoyment of it would have been destroyed by the thoughts of mortal
decay.

Versailles, which that monarch chose as the ordinary abode of his
splendid Court, is less favourably situate for a royal dwelling, though
the view from the great front of the palace is beautifully clothed with
luxuriant woods. The palace itself is a magnificent building of great
extent, loaded with the riches of architectural beauty, but destitute of
that fine proportion and lightness of ornament, which spread so
indescribable a charm over the Palace of the Louvre. The interior is in
a state of lamentable decay, having been pillaged at the commencement of
the revolutionary fury, and formed into a barrack for the republican
soldiers, the marks of whose violence are still visible in the faded
splendour of its magnificent apartments. They still shew, however, the
favourite rooms of Marie Antoinette, the walls of which are covered with
the finest mirrors, and some remains of the furniture are still
preserved, which even the licentious fury of the French army seems to
have been afraid to violate. The gardens on which all the riches of
France, and all the efforts of art, were so long lavished, present a
painful monument of the depravity of taste: but the _Petit Trianon_,
which is a little palace built of marble, and surrounded by shrubberies
in the English style, exhibits the genuine beauty of which the
imitation of nature is susceptible. This palace contains a suite of
splendid apartments, fitted up with singular taste, and adorned with a
number of charming pictures; it was the favourite residence of Maria
Louisa, and we were there shewn the drawing materials which she used,
and some unfinished sketches which she left, in which, we were informed,
she much delighted, and which bore the marks of a cultivated taste.

We frequently enquired concerning the character and occupations of this
Empress, at all the palaces where she usually dwelt, and uniformly
received the same answer:--She was everywhere represented as cold,
proud, and haughty in her manner, and unconciliating in her ordinary
address. Her time was much spent in private, in the exercise of
religious duty, or in needle-work and drawing; and her favourite seat at
St Cloud was between two windows, from one of which she had a view over
the beautiful woods which clothe the banks of the river, and from the
other a distant prospect of the towers and domes of Paris.

Very different was the character which belonged to the former Empress,
the first wife of Bonaparte, Josephine: She passed the close of her life
at the delightful retreat of Malmaison, a villa charmingly situated on
the banks of the Seine, seven miles from Paris, on the road to St
Germain. This villa had been her favourite residence while she continued
Empress, and formed her only home after the period of her divorce;--here
she lived in obscurity and retirement, without any of the pomp of a
court, or any of the splendour which belonged to her former
rank,--occupied entirely in the employment of gardening, or in
alleviating the distresses of those around her. The shrubberies and
gardens were laid out with singular beauty, in the English taste, and
contained a vast variety of rare flowers, which she had for a long
period been collecting. These shrubberies were to her the source of
never-failing enjoyment; she spent many hours in them every day, working
herself, or superintending the occupations of others; and in these
delightful occupations seemed to return again to all the innocence and
happiness of youth. She was beloved to the greatest degree by all the
poor who inhabited the vicinity of her retreat, both for the gentleness
of her manner, and her unwearied attention to their sufferings and their
wants; and during the whole period of her retirement, she retained the
esteem and affection of all classes of French citizens. The Emperor
Alexander visited her repeatedly during the stay of the allied armies
in Paris; and her death occasioned an universal feeling of regret,
rarely to be met with amidst the corruption and selfishness of the
French metropolis.

There was something singularly striking in the history and character of
this remarkable woman:--Born in a humble station, without any of the
advantages which rank or education could afford, she was early involved
in all the unspeakable miseries of the French revolution, and was
extricated from her precarious situation only by being united to that
extraordinary man, whose crimes and whose ambition have spread misery
through every country of Europe: Rising through all the gradations of
rank through which he passed, she everywhere commanded the esteem and
regard of all those who had access to admire her private virtues; and
when at length she was raised to the rank of Empress, she graced the
imperial throne with all the charities and virtues of a humbler station.
She bore, with unexampled magnanimity, the sacrifice of power and of
influence which she was compelled to make: She carried into the
obscurity of humble life all the dignity of mind which befitted the
character of an Empress of France; and exercised, in the delightful
occupations of country life, or in the alleviation of the severity of
individual distress, that firmness of mind and gentleness of
disposition, with which she had lightened the weight of imperial
dominion, and softened the rigour of despotic power.

The Forest of Fontainbleau exhibits scenery of a more picturesque and
striking character than is to be met with in any other part of the north
of France. It is situated 40 miles from Paris, on the great road to
Rome, and the appearance of the country through which this road runs, is
for the most part flat and uninteresting. It runs through a continued
plain, in a straight line between tall rows of elm trees, whose lower
branches are uniformly cut off for firewood to the peasantry; and
exhibits, for the most part, no other feature than the continued riches
of agricultural produce. At the distance of seven miles from the town of
Fontainbleau, you first discern the forest, covering a vast ridge of
rocks, stretching as far as the eye can reach, from right to left, and
presenting a dark irregular outline on the surface of the horizon. The
cultivation continues, with all its uniformity, to the very foot of the
ridge; but the moment you pass the boundaries of the forest, you find
yourself surrounded at once with all the wildness and luxuriance of
natural scenery. The surface of the ground is broken and irregular,
rising at times into vast piles of shapeless rocks, and enclosing at
others small vallies, in which the wood grows in endless beauty,
unblighted by the chilling blasts of northern climates. In these
vallies, the oak, the ash, and the beech, exhibit the peculiar
magnificence of forest scenery, while, on the neighbouring hills, the
birch waves its airy foliage round the dark masses of rock which
terminate the view. Nothing can be conceived more striking than the
scenery which this variety of rock and wood produce in every part of
this romantic forest. At times you pass through an unbroken mass of aged
timber, surrounded by the native grandeur of forest scenery, and
undisturbed by any traces of human habitation, except in those rude
paths which occasionally open a passing view into the remoter parts of
the forest. At others, the path winds through great masses of rock,
piled in endless confusion upon each other, in the crevices of which the
fern and the heath grow in all the luxuriance of southern vegetation;
while their summits are covered by aged oaks of the wildest forms, whose
crossing boughs throw an eternal shade over the ravines below, and
afford room only to discern at the farthest distance the summits of
those beautiful hills, on which the light foliage of the birch trembles
in the ray of an unclouded sun, or waves on the blue of a summer
heaven.

To those who have had the good fortune to see the beautiful scenery of
the Trosachs in Scotland, of Matlock in Derbyshire, or of the wooded
Fells in Cumberland, it may afford some idea of the Forest of
Fontainbleau, to say that it combines scenery of a similar description
with the aged magnificence of Windsor Forest. Over its whole extent
there are scattered many detached oaks of vast dimensions, which seem to
be of an older race in the growth of the Forest,--whose lowest boughs
stretch above the top of the wood which surrounds them,--and whose
decayed summits afford a striking contrast to the young and luxuriant
foliage with which their stems are enveloped. When we visited
Fontainbleau, it was occupied by the old imperial guard, which still
remained in that station after the abdication of Bonaparte; and we
frequently met parties, or detached stragglers of them, wandering in the
most solitary parts of the Forest. Their warlike and weather-beaten
appearance; their battered arms and worn accoutrements; the dark plumes
of their helmets, and the sallow ferocious aspect of their countenances,
suited the savage character of the scenery with which they were
surrounded, and threw over the gloom and solitude of the Forest that
wild expression with which the genius of Salvator dignified the features
of uncultivated nature.

The town and palace of Fontainbleau are situate in a small plain near
the centre of the forest, and surrounded on all sides by the rocky
ridges with which it is everywhere intersected. The palace is a large
irregular building, composed of many squares, and fitted up in the
inside with the utmost splendour of imperial magnificence. We were there
shewn the apartments in which Napoleon dwelt during his stay in the
palace, after the capture of Paris by the allied troops; and the desk at
which he always wrote, and where his abdication was signed. It was
covered with white leather, scratched over in every direction, and
marked with innumerable wipings of the pen, among which we perceived his
own name, Napoleon, frequently written as in a very hurried and
irregular hand; and one sentence which began, Que Dieu, Napoleon,
Napoleon. The servants in the palace agreed in stating, that the
Emperor's gaiety and fortitude of mind never deserted him during the
ruin of his fortune; that he was engaged in his writing-chamber during
the greater part of the day, and walked for two hours on the terrace, in
close conversation with Marshal Ney. Several officers of the imperial
guard repeated the speech which he made to his troops on leaving them
after his abdication of the throne, which was precisely what appeared
in the English newspapers. So great was the enthusiasm produced by this
speech among the soldiers present, that it was received with shouts and
cries of Vive l'Empereur, A Paris, A Paris! and when he departed under
the custody of the allied Commissioners, the whole army wept; there was
not a dry eye in the multitude who were assembled to witness his
departure. Even the imperial guard, who had been trained in scenes of
suffering from their first entry into the service--who had been inured
for a long course of years to the daily sight of human misery, and had
constantly made a sport of all the afflictions which are fitted to move
the human heart, shared in the general grief; they seemed to forget the
degradation in which their commander was involved, the hardships to
which they had been exposed, and the destruction which he had brought
upon their brethren in arms; they remembered him when he stood
victorious on the field of Austerlitz, or passed in triumph through the
gates of Moscow; and shed over the fall of their Emperor those tears of
genuine sorrow which they denied to the deepest scenes of private
suffering, or the most aggravated instances of individual distress. It
is impossible not to regret that feelings so exalting to human nature
should have been awakened by one who shared so little in their
enthusiasm himself; that the sufferings of thousands should have been
forgotten in the fate of one to whom the miseries of others never
afforded a subject of regret; and that the only occasion on which
generous sentiments were manifested by the French army, should have been
the overthrow of that power by which their ambition and their wickedness
had been supported.

We had the good fortune to see the infantry of the old guard drawn up in
line in the streets of Fontainbleau, and their appearance was such as
fully answered the idea we had formed of that body of veteran soldiers,
who had borne the French eagles through every capital of Europe. Their
aspect was bold and martial; there was a keenness in their eyes which
bespoke the characteristic intelligence of the French soldiers, and a
ferocity in the expression of their countenances which seemed to have
been unsubdued even by the unparalleled disasters in which their country
had been involved. The people of the town itself complained in the
bitterest terms of their licentious conduct, and repeatedly said, that
they dreaded them more as friends than the Cossacks themselves as
enemies. They seemed to harbour the most unbounded resentment against
the people of this country; their countenances bore the expression of
the strongest enmity as we walked along their line, and we frequently
heard them mutter among themselves, in the most emphatic manner, _Sacre
Dieu, voila des Anglois!_--Whatever the atrocity of their conduct,
however, might have been, to the people of their own, as well as every
other country, it was impossible not to feel the strongest emotion at
the sight of the veteran soldiers whose exploits had so long rivetted
the attention of all who felt an interest in the civilized world. These
were the men who first raised the glory of the republican armies on the
plains of Italy; who survived the burning climate of Egypt, and chained
victory to the imperial standards at Jena, at Austerlitz, and at
Friedland--who followed the career of victory to the walls of the
Kremlin, and marched undaunted through the ranks of death amid the snows
of Russia;--who witnessed the ruin of France under the walls of Leipsic,
and struggled to save her falling fortune on the heights of Laon; and
who preserved, in the midst of national humiliation, and when surrounded
by the mighty foreign Powers, that undaunted air and unshaken firmness,
which, even in the moment of defeat, commanded the respect of their
antagonists in arms.

Beyond the town of Fontainbleau, there rises a ridge of steep hills,
which prevents any view in that direction into the distant parts of the
forest. The road to their summit lies through the Imperial Gardens, and
is surrounded by the artificial forms and regular walks which mark the
character of the French gardening. When you reach the summit, however,
the character of the scene instantly changes, and you pass at once into
the utmost wildness of desolated nature. The foreground is broken by
barren rock, or covered with the beautiful forms of the weeping birch;
immediately below there lies a lonely valley, strewed with masses of
grey stone, without the slightest trace of human habitation, while, in
the farthest distance, the forest is discerned, clothing the sides of
those broken ridges which rise in endless confusion on the surface of
the horizon. At the moment when we reached this spot, the sun was
setting in the west; the cold grey of the stone which covered the
ravines was dimly discerned through the obscure light which the approach
of night produced, while the rugged outline of the rocks beyond was
projected in the deepest shadow on the bright light of the departing
day.

There is no scenery round Paris so striking as the forest of
Fontainbleau, but the heights of Belleville exhibit nature in a more
pleasing aspect, and are distinguished by features of a gentler
character. Montmartre, and the ridge of Belleville, form those
celebrated heights which command Paris on the northern side, and which
were so obstinately contested between the allies and the French on the
30th March 1814, previous to the capture of Paris by the allied
Sovereigns. Montmartre is covered for the most part with houses, and
presents nothing to attract the eye of the observer, except the
extensive view which is to be met with at its summit. The heights of
Belleville, however, are varied with wood, with orchards, vineyards, and
gardens, interspersed with cottages and villas, and cultivated with the
utmost care. There are few inclosures, but the whole extent of the
ground is thickly studded with walnuts, fruit-trees, and forest timber,
which, from a distance, give it the appearance of one continued wood. On
a nearer approach, however, you find it intersected in every direction
by small paths, which wind among the vineyards, or through the woods
with which the hills are covered, and present at every turn those
charming little scenes which form the peculiar characteristic of
woodland scenery. The cottages half hid by the profusion of
fruit-trees, or embosomed in the luxuriant woods with which they are
everywhere surrounded, increase the interest which the scenery itself is
fitted to produce: they combine the delightful idea of the peasant's
enjoyment with the beauty of the spot on which his dwelling is placed;
and awaken, in the midst of the boundless luxuriance of vegetable
nature, those deeper feelings of moral delight, which spring from the
contemplation of human happiness.

To a northern eye, there is nothing so delightful as this luxuriance of
vegetation, which rises amidst the warmth of southern climates. The
sterile rocks and rugged mountains of northern regions exhibit nature in
her native rudeness, her features bear a harsher aspect, and her forms
are expressive of more melancholy feeling; but under the genial warmth
of a southern sun, she is arrayed in a robe of softer colours, and beams
with the expression of a gentler character. She there appears surrounded
by the luxuriance of vegetable life: she pours forth her bounty with a
profusion which the partizans of utility would call prodigality, and
covers the earth with a splendour of beauty, which serves no other
purpose than to minister to the delight of human existence. Amidst the
riches with which man is surrounded, his destiny appears happier than
in more desolate situations; we forget the sufferings of the individual
in the profusion of beauty with which he is surrounded; and impute to
the inhabitants of these delightful regions, those feelings of happiness
which spring in our own minds from the contemplation of the scenery in
which they are placed.

The effect of the charming scenery on the heights of Belleville is much
increased by the distant objects which terminate some parts of the view.
To the east, the high and gloomy towers of Vincennes rise over the
beautiful woods with which the sides of the hill are adorned, and give
an air of solemnity to the scene, arising from the remembrance of the
tragic events of which it was the theatre. To the south, the domes and
spires of Paris can occasionally be discovered through the openings of
the wood with which the foreground is enriched, and present the capital
at that pleasing distance, when the minuter part of the buildings are
concealed, when its prominent features alone are displayed, and the
whole is softened by the obscure light which distance throws over the
objects of nature. To an English mind, the effect of the whole is
infinitely increased, by the animating associations with which this
scenery is connected;--by the remembrance of the mighty struggle between
freedom and slavery, which was here terminated;--of the heroic deeds
which were here performed, and the unequalled magnanimity which was here
displayed. It was here that the expiring efforts of military despotism
were overthrown--that the armies of Russia stood triumphant over the
power of France, and nobly avenged the ashes of their own capital, by
sparing that of their prostrate enemy.

When we visited the heights of Belleville, the traces of the recent
struggle were visibly imprinted on the villages and woods with which the
hill is covered. The marks of blood were still to be discerned on the
chaussée which leads through the village of Pantin; the elm trees which
line the road were cut asunder, or bored through with cannon shot, and
their stems riddled in many parts with the incessant fire of the grape
shot. The houses in La Villette, Belleville and Pantin, were covered
with the marks of musket shot; the windows of many were shattered, or
wholly destroyed, and the interior of the rooms broken by the balls
which seemed to have pierced every part of the buildings. So thickly
were the houses in some places covered with these marks, that it
appeared almost incredible how any one could have escaped from so
destructive a fire. Even the beautiful gardens with which the slope of
the heights are adorned, and the inmost recesses of the wood of
Romainville, bore throughout the marks of the desperate struggles which
they had lately witnessed, and exhibited the symptoms of fracture or
destruction in the midst of the luxuriance of natural beauty; yet,
though they had so recently been the scene of mortal combat; though the
ashes of the dead yet lay in heaps on different parts of the field of
battle, the prolific powers of nature were undecayed: the vines
clustered round the broken fragments of the instruments of war,--the
corn spread a sweeter green over the fields, which were yet wet with
human blood, and the trees waved with renovated beauty over the
uncoffined remains of the departed brave; emblematic of the decay of
man, and of the immortality of nature.

The French have often been accused of selfishness, and the indifference
which they often manifest to the fate of their relations, affords too
much reason to believe that the social affections have little permanent
influence on their minds. We must, however, admit, that they exhibit in
misfortunes of a different kind--in calamities which really press upon
their own enjoyments of life, the same gaiety of heart, and the same
undisturbed equanimity of disposition. That gaiety in misfortune, which
is so painful to every observer, when it is to be found in the midst of
family-distress, becomes delightful when it exists under the deprivation
of the selfish gratification to which the individual had been
accustomed. Both here, and in other parts of France, where the houses of
the peasants had been wholly destroyed by the allied armies, we had
occasion frequently to observe and admire the equanimity of mind with
which these poor people bore the loss of all their property. For an
extent of 30 miles in one direction, towards the North of Champagne,
every house near the great road had-been burnt or pillaged for the
firewood which it contained, both by the French and the allied armies,
and the people were everywhere compelled to sleep in the open air. When
we spoke to them on the subject of their losses, they answered with
smiles, "Tout est detruit: tout est brulè, tout, tout;" and seemed to
derive amusement from the completeness of the devastation. The men were
everywhere rebuilding their fallen walls, with a cheerfulness which
never would have existed in England under similar circumstances; and the
little children laboured in the gardens during the day, and slept under
the vines at night, without exhibiting any signs of distress for their
disconsolate situation. In many places, we saw groupes of these little
children in the midst of the ruined houses, or under the shattered
trees, playing with the musket shot, or trying to roll the cannon balls
by which the destruction of their dwellings had been
effected;--exhibiting a picture of youthful joy and native innocence,
while sporting with the instruments of human destruction, which the
genius of Sir Joshua Reynolds would have moulded into the expression of
pathetic feeling, or employed as the means of moral improvement.




CHAPTER V.

PARIS--THE LOUVRE.


To those who have had the good fortune to see the pictures and statues
which were preserved in the Louvre, all description of these works must
appear superfluous; and to those who have not had this good fortune,
such an attempt could convey no adequate idea of the objects which are
described. There is nothing more uninteresting than the catalogue of
pictures which are to be found in the works of many modern travellers;
nor any thing in general more ridiculous than the ravings of admiration
with which this catalogue is described, and with which the reader in
general is little disposed to sympathise. Without attempting,
therefore, to enumerate the great works which were there to be met with,
we shall confine ourselves to a simpler object, to the delineation of
the _general character_ by which the different schools of painting are
distinguished, and the great features in which they all differ from the
sculpture of ancient times. For the justice of these observations, we
must of course appeal to those who have examined this great collection;
and in the prosecution of them, we pretend to nothing more than the
simple account of the feelings which, we are persuaded, must have
occurred to all those who have viewed it without any knowledge of the
rules which art has established, or the more despicable principles which
connoisseurs have maintained.

For an attempt of this kind, the Louvre presented, singular advantages,
from the unparalleled collection of paintings of every school and
description which was there to be met with, and the facility with which
you could trace the progress of the art from its first beginning to the
period of its greatest perfection. And it is in this view that the
collection of these works into one museum, however much to be deplored
as the work of unprincipled ambition, and however much it may have
diminished the impression which particular objects, from the influence
of association, produced in their native place, was yet calculated, we
conceive, to produce the greatest of all improvements in the progress of
the art, by divesting particular schools and particular works of the
unbounded influence which the effect of early association, or the
prejudices of national feeling, have given them in their original
situation, and placing them where their real nature is to be judged of
by a more extended circle, and subjected to the examination of more
impartial sentiments.

The character of every school of painting has been determined by some
peculiar circumstances under which that school first originated, which
have contributed to form its greatest excellencies, and been the real
source of its principal defects; and it has unfortunately happened, that
the unbounded admiration for the great production of these schools has
everywhere formed the national taste, and tended to perpetuate their
errors, when the progress of society would otherwise have led to their
earlier abandonment. It deserves well to be considered, therefore,
whether the restoration of these monuments of art to their original
situations, while it must unquestionably enhance the veneration with
which they will severally be regarded, may not perpetuate the defects
which particular circumstances have stamped on their school of
composition; and whether the continuance of them in one vast collection,
however fatal to the implicit veneration for the works of antiquity, was
not calculated, by the comparison of their excellencies and the
exhibition of their defects, to form a new school, possessed of a more
general character, and adapted for the admiration of a more unbiassed
public. It is in the despotic reign of arbitrary governments, if we may
be allowed, in a discussion on matters of taste, to borrow an
illustration from politics, that the influence of ancient error, and the
power of ancient prejudice, is most unbounded; but it is in the
unbiassed discussion which distinguishes a free state, that the
influence of prejudice is forgotten, and truth emerges from the
collision of opposite opinions. However this may be, it will not, it is
hoped, be deemed an useless attempt, if we now endeavour to state, in a
few words, the impression which was produced by this great collection of
the works of art, which has been felt, we doubt not, by all who have
viewed it with untutored eyes, but has not hitherto been described by
those so much better able to do justice to it than ourselves.

The first hall of the Louvre in the Picture Gallery is filled with
paintings of the French school. The principal artists whose works are
here exhibited are, Le Brun, Gaspar and Nicolas Poussin, Claude Lorrain,
Vernet, and the modern painters Gerard and David. The general character
of the school of French historical painting, is the expression of
_passion and violent emotion_. The colouring is for the most part
brilliant; the canvas crowded with figures, and the incident selected,
that in which the painter might have the best opportunity of displaying
his knowledge of the human frame, or the varied expression of the human
countenance. In the pictures of the modern school of French painting,
this peculiarity is pushed to an extravagant length, and, fortunately
for the art, displays the false principles on which the system of their
composition is founded. The moment seized is uniformly that of the
strongest and most violent passion; the principal actors in the piece
are represented in a state of phrenzied exertion, and the whole
anatomical knowledge of the artist is displayed in the endless
contortions into which the human frame is thrown. In David's celebrated
picture of the three Horatii, this peculiarity appears in the most
striking light. The works of this artist may excite admiration, but it
is the limited and artificial admiration of the schools; of those who
have forgot the end of the art in the acquisition of the technical
knowledge with which it is accompanied, or the display of the technical
powers which its execution involves.

The paintings of _Vernet_, in this collection, are perhaps the finest
specimens of that beautiful master, and they entitle him to a higher
place in the estimation of mankind than he seems yet to have obtained
from the generality of observers. There is a delicacy of colouring, an
unity of design, and a harmony of expression in his works, which accord
well with the simplicity of the subjects which his taste has selected,
and the general effect which it was his object to produce. In the
representation of the sun dispelling the mists of a cloudy morning; of
his setting rays gilding the waves of a western sea; or of that
undefined beauty which moonlight throws over the objects of nature, the
works of this artist are perhaps unrivalled.

The paintings of _Claude_ are by no means equal to what we had expected,
from the celebrity which his name has acquired, or the matchless beauty
which the engravings from him possess. They are but eleven in number,
and cannot be in any degree compared with those which are to be found in
Mr Angerstein's collection. To those, however, who have been accustomed
to study the designs of this great master, through the medium of the
engraved copies, and above all, in the unrivalled works of Woollet, the
sight of the original pictures must, perhaps at all times, create a
feeling of disappointment. There is an unity of effect in the engravings
which can never be met with amidst the distraction of colouring in the
original pictures; and the imagination clothes the beautiful shades of
the copy with finer tints than even the pencil of Claude has been able
to supply. "I have shewn you," said Corinne to Oswald, "St Peter's for
the first time, when the brilliancy of its decorations might appear in
full splendour, in the rays of the sun: I reserve for you a finer, and a
more profound enjoyment, to behold it by the light of the moon." Perhaps
there is a distinction of the same kind between the gaudy brilliancy of
varied colours, and the chaster simplicity of uniform shadows; and it is
probably for this reason, that on the first view of a picture which you
have long admired in the simplicity of engraved effect, you
involuntarily recede from the view, and seek in the obscure light and
uncertain tint which distance produces, to recover that uniform tone and
general character, which the splendour of colouring is so apt to
destroy. It is a feeling similar to that which Lord Byron has so finely
described, as arising from the beauty of moonlight scenery:--

    ------"Mellow'd to that tender light
    Which Heaven to gaudy day denies."

The Dutch and Flemish school, to which you next advance, possesses
merit, and is distinguished by a character of a very different
description. It was the well-known object of this school, to present an
exact and faithful _imitation of nature_; to exaggerate none of its
faults, and enhance none of its excellencies, but exhibit it as it
really appears to the eye of an ordinary spectator. Its artists
selected, in general, some scene of humour or amusement, in the
discovery of which, the most ignorant spectators might discover other
sources of pleasure than those which the merit of the art itself
afforded. They did not pretend, in general, to aim at the exhibition of
passion or powerful emotion: their paintings, therefore, are free from
that painful display of theatrical effect, which characterises the
French school; their object was not to represent those deep scenes of
sorrow or suffering, which accord with the profound feelings which it
was the object of the Italian school to awaken; they want, therefore,
the dignity and grandeur which the works of the greater Italian
painters possess: their merit consists in the faithful delineation of
those ordinary scenes and common occurrences, which are familiar to the
eye of the most careless observer. The power of the painter, therefore,
could be displayed only in the minuteness of the finishing, or the
brilliancy of the effect; and he endeavoured, by the powerful contrast
of light and shade, to give an higher character to his works, than the
nature of their subject could otherwise admit.

The pictures of Teniers, Ostade, and Gerard Dow, possess these merits,
and are distinguished by this character in the highest degree; but their
qualities are so well known in this country, as to render any
observation on them superfluous. There is a very great collection here
preserved of the works of Rembrandt, and their design and effect bear,
in general, a higher character than belongs to most of the works of this
celebrated master.

In one respect, the collection in the Louvre is altogether
unrivalled--in the number and beauty of the _Wouvermans_ which are there
to be met with; nor is it possible, without having seen it, to
appreciate, with any degree of justice, the variety of design, the
accuracy of drawing, or delicacy of finishing, which distinguish his
works from those of any other painter of a similar description. There
are 38 of his pieces there assembled, all in the finest state of
preservation, and all displaying the same unrivalled beauty of colouring
and execution. In their design, however, they widely differ; and they
exhibit, in the most striking manner, the real object to which painting
should be applied, and the causes of the errors in which its composition
has been involved. His works, for the most part, are crowded with
figures; his subjects are in general battle-pieces, or spectacles of
military pomp, or the animated scenes which the chace presents; and he
seems to have exhausted all the efforts of his genius, in the variety of
incident and richness of execution, which these subjects are fitted to
afford. From the confused and indeterminate expression, however, which
the multitude of their objects exhibit, we turn with delight to those
simpler scenes in which his mind seems to have reposed, after the
fatigues which it had undergone: to the representation of a single
incident, or the delineation of a certain occurrence--to the rest of the
traveller after the fatigues of the day--to the repose of the horse in
the intermission of labour--to the return of the soldier after the
dangers of the campaign;--scenes, in which every thing combines for the
uniform character, and where the genius of the artist has been able to
give to the rudest occupations of men, and even to the objects of animal
life, the expression of general poetical feeling.

The pictures of _Vandyke_ and _Rubens_ belong to a much higher school
than that which rose out of the wealth and the limited taste of the
Dutch people. There are 60 pieces of the latter of these masters in the
Louvre, and, combined with the celebrated Gallery in the Luxembourg
Palace, they form the finest assemblage of them which is to be met with
in the world. The character of his works differs essentially from that
both of the French and the Dutch schools; he was employed, not in
painting cabinet pictures for wealthy merchants, but in designing great
altar pieces for splendid churches, or commemorating the glory of
sovereigns in imperial galleries. The greatness of his genius rendered
him fit to attempt the representation of the most complicated and
difficult objects; but in the confidence of this genius, he seems to
have lost sight of the genuine object of composition in his art. He
attempts what it is impossible for painting to accomplish--he aims at
telling a whole story by the expression of a single picture; and seems
to pour forth the profusion of his fancy, by crowding his canvas with a
multiplicity of figures, which serve no other purpose than that of
shewing the endless power of creation which the author possessed. In
each figure there is great vigour of conception, and admirable power of
execution; but the whole possesses no general character, and produces no
permanent emotion. There is a mixture of allegory and truth in many of
his greatest works, which is always painful; a grossness in his
conception of the female form, which destroys the symmetry of female
beauty; and a wildness of imagination in his general design, which
violates the feelings of ordinary taste. You survey his pictures with
astonishment--at the power of thought and brilliancy of colouring which
they display; but they produce no lasting impression on the mind; they
have struck no chord of feeling or emotion, and you leave them with no
other feeling, than that of regret, that the confusion of objects
destroys the effect which each in itself might be fitted to produce. And
if one has made a deeper impression; if you dwell on it with that
delight which it should ever be the object of painting to produce, you
find that your pleasure proceeds from a single figure, or the expression
of a detached part of the picture; and that, in the contemplation of it,
you have, without being conscious of it, detached your mind from the
observation of all that might interfere with its characteristic
expression, and thus preserved that unity of emotion which is essential
to the existence of the emotion of taste, but which the confusion of
incident is so apt to destroy.

A few landscapes by _Ruysdael_ are to be here met with, which are
distinguished by that boldness of conception, fidelity of execution, and
coldness of colouring, which have often been remarked as the
characteristics of this powerful master.

It is in the Italian school, however, that the collection in the Louvre
is most unrivalled, and it is from its character that the general
tendency of the modern school of historical painting is principally to
be determined.

The general object of the Italian school appears to be the expression of
_passion_. The peculiar subjects which its painters were called on to
represent, the sufferings and death of our Saviour, the varied
misfortunes to which his disciples were exposed, or the multiplied
persecutions which the early fathers of the church had to sustain,
inevitably prescribed the object to which their genius was to be
directed, and the peculiar character which their works, were to assume.
They have all, accordingly, aimed at the expression of passion, and
endeavoured to excite the pity, or awaken the sympathy of the spectator;
though the particular species of passion which they have severally
selected, has varied with the turn of mind which the artist possessed.

The works of _Dominichino_ and of the _Caraccis_, of which there are a
very great number, incline, in general, to the representation of what is
dark or gloomy in character, or what is terrific and appalling in
suffering. The subjects which the first of these masters has in general
selected, are the cells of monks, the energy of martyrs, or the
sufferings of the crucifixion; and the dark-blue coldness of his
colouring, combined with the depth of his shadows, accord well with the
gloomy character which his compositions possess. The _Caraccis_, amidst
the variety of objects which their genius has embraced, have dwelt, in
general, upon the expression of sorrow--of that deep and profound sorrow
which the subjects of Sacred History were so fitted to afford, and which
was so well adapted to that religious emotion which it was their object
to excite.

Guido Reni, Carlo Maratti, and Murillo, are distinguished by a gentler
character; by the expression of tenderness and sweetness of
disposition: and the subjects which they have chosen are, for the most
part, those which were fitted for the display of this predominant
expression--the Holy Family, the flight into Egypt, the youth of St
John, the penitence of the Magdalene. While, in common with all their
brethren, they have aimed at the expression of emotion, it was an
emotion of a softer kind than that which arose from the energy of
passion, or the violence of suffering; it was the emotion produced by
more permanent feelings; and less turbulent affections; and from the
character of this emotion, their execution has assumed a peculiar cast,
and their composition been governed by a peculiar principle. Their
colouring is seldom brilliant; there is a subdued tone pervading the
greater part of their pictures; and they have limited themselves, in
general, to the delineation of a single figure, or a small group, in
which a single character of mind is prevalent.

Of the numerous and splendid collection of _Titian's_ which are here
preserved, it is not necessary to give any description, because they
consist for the most part of portraits, and our object is not to dwell
on the richness of colouring, or powers of execution, but on the
principles of composition by which the different schools of painting
are distinguished.

There are only six paintings by Salvator Rosa in this collection, but
they bear that wild and original character which is proverbially known
to belong to the works of this great artist. One of his pieces is
particularly striking, a skirmish of horse, accompanied by all the
scenery in which he so peculiarly delighted. In the foreground is the
ruins of an old temple, with its lofty pillars finely displayed in
shadow above the summits of the horizon;--in the middle distance the
battle is dimly discerned through the driving rain, which obscures the
view; while the back ground is closed by a vast ridge of gloomy rocks,
rising into a dark and tempestuous sky. The character of the whole is
that of sullen magnificence; and it affords a striking instance of the
power of great genius, to mould the most varied objects in nature into
the expression of one uniform poetical feeling.

Very different is the expression which belongs to the softer pictures of
Correggio--of that great master, whose name is associated in every one's
mind with all that is gentle or delicate in the imitation of nature.
Perhaps it was from the force of this impression that his works did not
completely come up to the expectations which we had been led to form.
They are but eight in number, and do not comprehend the finest of his
compositions. Their general character is that of tenderness and
delicacy: there is a softness in his shading of the human form which is
quite unrivalled, and a harmony in the general tone of his colouring,
which is in perfect unison with the characteristic expression which it
was his object to produce. You feel a want of unity, however, in the
composition of his figures; you dwell rather on the fine expression of
individual form, than the combined tendency of the whole group, and
leave the picture with the impression of the beauty of a single
countenance, rather than the general character of the whole design. He
has represented nature in its most engaging aspect, and given to
individual figures all the charms of ideal beauty; but he wants that
high strain of spiritual feeling, which belongs only to the works of
Raphael.

The only work of Carlo Dolci in the Louvre is a small cabinet picture;
but it alone is sufficient to mark the exquisite genius which its author
possessed. It is of small dimensions, and represents the Holy Family,
with the Saviour asleep. The finest character of design is here combined
with the utmost delicacy of execution; the softness of the shadows
exceeds Correggio himself; and the dark-blue colouring which prevails
over the whole, is in perfect unison with the expression of that rest
and quiet which the subject requires. The sleep of the Infant is
perfection itself--it is the deep sleep of youth and of innocence, which
no care has disturbed, and no sorrow embittered, and in the unbroken
repose of which the features have relaxed into the expression of perfect
happiness. All the features of the picture are in unison with this
expression, except in the tender anxiety of the Virgin's eye; and all is
at rest in the surrounding objects, save where her hand gently removes
the veil to contemplate the unrivalled beauty of the Saviour's
countenance.

Without the softness of shading or the harmony of colour which Correggio
possessed, the works of Raphael possess a higher character, and aim at
the expression of a sublimer feeling, than those of any other artist
whom modern Europe has produced. Like all his brethren, he has often
been misled from the real object of of his art, and tried, in the energy
of passion, or the confused expression of varied figures, to multiply
the effect which his composition might produce. Like all the rest, he
has failed in effecting what the constitution of the human mind renders
impossible, and in this very failure, warned every succeeding age of the
vanity of the attempt which his transcendent genius was unable to
effect. It is this fundamental error that destroys the effect, even of
his finest pieces; it is this, combined with the unapproachable nature
of the presence which it reveals, that has rendered the Transfiguration
itself a chaos of genius rather than a model of ideal beauty; nor will
it, we hope, be deemed a presumptuous excess, if we venture to express
our sentiments in regard to this great author, since it is from his own
works alone that we have derived the means of appreciating his
imperfections.

It is in his smaller pieces that the genuine character of Raphael's
paintings is to be seen--in the figure of St Michael subduing the demon;
in the beautiful tenderness of the Virgin and Child; in the unbroken
harmony of the Holy Family; in the wildness and piety of the infant St
John;--scenes, in which all the objects of the picture combine for the
preservation of one uniform character, and where the native fineness of
his mind appears undisturbed by the display of temporary passion, or the
painful distraction of varied suffering.

There are no pictures of the English school in the Louvre, for the arms
of France never prevailed in our island. From the splendid character,
however, which it early assumed under the distinguished guidance of Sir
Joshua Reynolds, and from the high and philosophical principles which he
at first laid down for the government of the art, there is every reason
to believe that it ultimately will rival the celebrity of foreign
genius; And it is in this view that the continuance of the gallery of
the Louvre was principally to be wished by the English nation--that the
English artists might possess, so near their own country, so great a
school for composition and design; that the imperfections of foreign
schools might enlighten the views of English genius; and that the
conquests of the French arms, by transferring the remains of ancient
taste to these northern shores, might give greater facilities to the
progress of our art, than can exist when they are restored to their
legitimate possessors.

The great object, then, of all the modern schools of historical
painting, seems to have been, the delineation of an _affecting scene_ or
_interesting occurrence_; they have endeavoured to tell a story by the
variety of incidents in a single picture; and seized, for the most part,
the moment when passion was at its greatest height, or suffering
appeared in its most excruciating form. The general character,
accordingly, of the school, is the expression of passion or violent
suffering; and in the prosecution of this object, they have endeavoured
to exhibit it under all its aspects, and display all the effects which
it could possibly produce on the human form, by the different figures
which they have introduced. While this is the general character of the
whole, there are of course numerous exceptions; and many of its greatest
painters seem, in the representation of single figures, or in the
composition of smaller groups, to have had in view the expression of
less turbulent affections; to have aimed at the display of settled
emotion, or permanent feeling, and to have excluded every thing from
their composition which was not in unison with this predominant
expression.

The _Sculpture Gallery_, which contains 220 remains of ancient statuary,
marks, in the most decided manner, the different objects to which this
noble art was applied in ancient times. Unlike the paintings of modern
Europe, their figures are almost uniformly at rest; they exclude passion
or violent suffering from their design; and the moment which they select
is not that in which a particular or transient emotion may be
displayed, but in which the settled character of mind may be expressed.
With the two exceptions of the Laocoon and the Fighting Gladiator, there
are none of the statues in the Louvre which are not the representation
of the human figure in a state of repose; and the expression which the
finest possess, is invariably that permanent expression which has
resulted from the habitual frame and character of mind. Their figures
seem to belong to a higher class of beings than that in which we are
placed; they indicate a state in which passion, anxiety, and emotion are
no more; and where the unruffled repose of mind has moulded the features
into the perfect expression of the mental character. Even the
countenance of the Venus de Medicis, the most beautiful which it has
ever entered into the mind of man to conceive, and of which no copy
gives the slightest idea, bears no trace of emotion, and none of the
marks of human feeling; it is the settled expression of celestial
beauty, and even the smile on her lip is not the fleeting smile of
temporary joy, but the lasting expression of that heavenly feeling which
sees in all around it the grace and loveliness which belongs to itself
alone. It approaches nearer to that character which sometimes marks the
countenance of female beauty; when death has stilled the passions of
the world; but it is not the cold expression of past character which
survives the period of mortal dissolution; it is the living expression
of present existence, radiant with the beams of immortal life, and
breathing the air of eternal happiness.

The paintings of Raphael convey the most perfect idea of earthly beauty;
and they denote the expression of all that is finest and most elevated
in the character of the female mind. But there is a "human meaning in
their eye," and they bear the marks of that anxiety and tenderness which
belong to the relations of present existence. The Venus displays the
same beauty, freed from the cares which existence has produced; and her
lifeless eye-balls gaze upon the multitude which surround her, as on a
scene fraught only with the expression of universal joy.

In another view, the Apollo and the Venus appear to have been intended
by the genius of antiquity, as expressive of the character of mind which
distinguishes the different sexes; and in the expression of this
character, they have exhausted all which it is possible for human
imagination to produce upon the subject. The commanding air, and
advanced step, of the Apollo, exhibit _Man_ in his noblest aspect, as
triumphing over the evils of physical nature, and restraining the energy
of instinctive passion by the high dominion of moral power: the averted
eyes and retiring grace of the Venus, are expressive of the modesty,
gentleness, and submission, which form the most beautiful features of
the _female_ character.

    Not equal, as their sex not equal seemed,
    For valour He, and contemplation, formed,
    For beauty She, and sweet attractive grace,
    He for God only, She for God in Him.

These words were said of our first parents by our greatest poet, after
the influence of a pure religion had developed the real nature of the
female character, and determined the place which woman was to hold in
the scale of nature; but the idea had been expressed in a still finer
manner two thousand years before, by the sculptors of antiquity; and
amidst all the degradation of ancient manners, the prophetic genius of
Grecian taste contemplated that ideal perfection in the character of the
sexes, which was destined to form the boundary of human progress in the
remotest ages of human improvement.

The Apollo strikes a stranger with all its divine grandeur on the first
aspect; subsequent examination can add nothing to the force of the
impression which is then received; The Venus produces at first less
effect, but gains upon the mind at every renewal, till it rivets the
affections even more than the greatness of its unequalled
rival--emblematic of the charm of female excellence, which, if it
excites less admiration at first than the loftier features of manly
character, is destined to acquire a deeper influence, and lay the
foundation of more indelible affection.

The Dying Gladiator is perhaps, after the two which we have mentioned,
the finest statue which the Louvre contains. The moment chosen is finely
adapted for that expression of ideal beauty, which may be produced even
in a subject naturally connected with feelings of pain. It is not the
moment of energy or struggling, when the frame is convulsed with the
exertion it is making, or the countenance is deformed by the tumult of
passion; it is the moment of expiring nature, when the figure is relaxed
by the weakness of decay, and the mind is softened by the approach of
death; the moment when the ferocity of combat is forgotten in the
extinction of the interest which it had excited, when every unsocial
passion is stilled by the weakness of exhausted nature, and the mind,
in the last moments of life, is fraught with finer feelings than had
belonged to the character of previous existence. It is a moment similar
to that in which Tasso has so beautifully described the change in
Clorinda's mind, after she had been mortally wounded by the hand of
Tancred, but in which he was enabled to give her the inspiration of a
greater faith, and the charity of a more gentle religion:--

    Amico h'ai vinto: io te perdon. Perdona
    Tu ancora, al corpo no che nulla pave
    All'alma si: deh per lei prega; e dona
    Battesme a me, ch'ogni mia colpa lave;
    In queste voci languide risuona
    Un non so che di flebile e soave
    Ch'al cor gli scende, ed ogni sdegno ammorza,
    Egli occhi a lagrimar gl'invoglia e sforza.

The greater statues of antiquity were addressed to the worshippers in
their temples; they were intended to awaken the devotion of all classes
of citizens--to be felt and judged by all mankind. They were intended to
express characters superior to common nature, and they still express
them. They are free, therefore, from all the peculiarities of national
taste; they are purified from all the peculiarities of local
circumstances; they have been rescued from that inevitable degradation
to which art is uniformly exposed, by taste being confined to a limited
society; they have assumed, in consequence, that general character,
which might suit the universal feelings of our nature, and that
permanent expression which might speak to the hearts of men through
every succeeding age. The admiration, accordingly, for those works of
art, has been undiminished by the lapse of time; they excite the same
feelings at the present time, as when they came fresh from the hand of
the Grecian artist, and are regarded by all nations with the same
veneration on the banks of the Seine, as when they sanctified the
temples of Athens, or adorned the gardens of Rome.

Even the rudest nations seem to have felt the force of this impression.
The Hungarians and the Cossacks, as we ourselves have frequently seen,
during the stay of the allied armies in Paris, ignorant of the name or
the celebrity of those works of art, seemed yet to take a delight in the
survey of the statues of antiquity; and in passing through the long line
of marble greatness which the Louvre presents, stopt involuntarily at
the sight of the Venus, or clustered round the foot of the pedestal of
the Apollo;--indicating thus, in the expression of unaffected feeling,
the force of that genuine taste for the beauty of nature, which all the
rudeness of savage manners, and all the ferocity of war, had not been
able to destroy. The poor Russian soldier, whose knowledge of art was
limited to the crucifix which he had borne in his bosom from his native
land, still felt the power of ancient beauty, and in the spirit of the
Athenians, who erected an altar to the Unknown God, did homage in
silence to that unknown spirit which had touched a new chord in his
untutored heart.

* * *

From the impression produced on our minds by the collection in the
Louvre, we were led to form some general conclusions concerning the
history and object of the arts of Painting and Sculpture, which we shall
presume to state, as what suggested themselves to us on the
contemplation of the greatest assemblage of the works of art which has
ever been formed; but which we give, at the same time, with the utmost
diffidence, and merely as the result of our own feelings and
reflections.

The character of art in every country appears to have been determined by
the _disposition of the people_ to whom it was addressed, and the
object of its composition to have varied with the purpose it was called
on to fulfil.--The Grecian statues were designed to excite the devotion
of a cultivated people; to embody their conceptions of divine
perfection; to realise the expression of that character of mind which
they imputed to the deities whose temples they were to adorn: It was
grace, or strength, or majesty, or the benignity of divine power, which
they were to represent by the figures of Venus, of Hercules, of Jupiter,
or of Apollo. Their artists accordingly were led to aim at the
expression of _general character_; to exclude passion, or emotion, or
suffering, from their design, and represent the figures in that state of
repose where the permanent expression of mind ought to be displayed. It
is perhaps in this circumstance that we are to discern the cause both of
the peculiarity and the excellence of the Grecian statuary.

The Italian painters were early required to effect a different object.
Their pictures were destined to represent the sufferings of nature; to
display the persecution or death of our Saviour, the anguish of the Holy
Family, the heroism of martyrs, the resignation of devotion. In the
infancy of the arts, accordingly, they were led to study the expression
of passion, of suffering, and of temporary emotion; to aim at rousing
the pity, or exciting the sympathy, of the spectators; and to endeavour
to characterise their works by the representation of temporary passion,
not the expression of permanent character. Those beautiful pictures in
which a different object seems to have been followed--in which the
expression is that of permanent emotion, not transient passion, while
they captivate our admiration, seem to be exceptions from the general
design, and to have been suggested by the peculiar nature of the subject
represented, or a particular firmness of mind in the artist. In these
causes we may perhaps discern the origin of the peculiar character of
the Italian school.

In the French school, the character and manners of the people seem to
have carried this peculiarity to a still greater length. Their character
led them to seek in every thing for stage effect; to admire the most
extravagant and violent representations, and to value the efforts of
art, not in proportion to their imitation of the expressions of nature,
but in proportion to their resemblance to those artificial expressions
on which their admiration was founded. The vehemence of their manner on
the most ordinary occasions, rendered the most extravagant gestures
requisite for the display of real passion; and their drama accordingly
exhibits a mixture of dignity of sentiment, with violence of gesture,
beyond measure surprising to a foreign spectator. The same disposition
of the people has influenced the character of their historical painting;
and it is to be remembered, that the French school of painting succeeded
the establishment of the French drama. It is hence that they have
generally selected the moment of theatrical effect--the moment of
phrenzied passion, of unparalleled exertion, and that their composition
is distinguished by so many striking contrasts, and so laboured a
display of momentary effect.

The Flemish or Dutch school of painting was neither addressed to the
devotion nor the theatrical feelings of mankind; it was neither intended
to awaken the sympathy of religious emotion, nor excite the admiration
of artificial composition--it was addressed to wealthy men of vulgar
capacities, whose taste advanced in no proportion to their riches, and
who were capable of appreciating only the merit of minute detail, or the
faithfulness of exact imitation. It is hence that their painting
possesses excellencies and defects of so peculiar a description; that
they have carried the minuteness of finishing to so unparalleled a
degree of perfection; that the brilliancy of their lights has thrown a
splendour over the vulgarity of their subjects; and that they are in
general so utterly destitute of all the refinement and sentiment which
sprung from the devotional feelings of the Italian people.

The subjects which the Dutch painters chose were subjects of low humour,
calculated to amuse a rich and uncultivated people; the subjects of the
French school were heroic adventures, suited to the theatrical taste of
a more elevated society; the subjects of the Italian school were the
incidents of Sacred History, adapted to the devotional feelings of a
religious people. In all, the subjects to which painting was applied,
and the character of the art itself, was determined by the peculiar
circumstances or disposition of the people to whom it was addressed: so
that, in these instances, there has really happened what Mr Addison
stated should ever be the case, that "the taste should not conform to
the art, but the art to the taste."

* * *

We soon perceived that the statues rivetted our admiration more than any
of the other works of art which the Louvre presents; and that amongst
the pictures, those made the deepest impression which approached nearest
to the character by which the Grecian statuary is distinguished. In the
prosecution of this train of thought, we were led to the following
conclusions, relative to the separate objects to which painting and
statuary should be applied.

1. That the object of Statuary should ever be the same to which it was
always confined by the ancients, viz. the representation of CHARACTER.
The very materials on which the sculptor has to operate, render his art
unfit for the expression either of emotion or passion; and the figure,
when finished, can bear none of the marks by which they are to be
distinguished. It is a figure of cold, and pale, and lifeless marble,
without the varied colour which emotion produces, or the living eye
which passion animates. The eye is the feature which is expressive of
present emotion; it is it which varies with all the changes which the
mind undergoes; it is it which marks the difference between joy and
sorrow, between love and hatred, between pleasure and pain, between life
and death. But the eye, with all the endless expressions which it bears,
is lost to the sculptor; its gaze must ever be cold and lifeless to him;
its fire is quenched in the stillness of the tomb. A statue, therefore,
can never be expressive of living emotion; it can never express those
transient feelings which mark the play of the living mind. It is an
abstraction of character which has no relation to common existence; a
shadow in which all the permanent features of the mind are expressed,
but none of the temporary passions of the mind are shewn; like the
figures of snow, which the magic of Okba formed to charm the solitude of
Leila's dwelling, it bears the character of the human form, but melts at
the warmth of human feeling. The power of the sculptor is limited to the
delineation of those signs alone by which the permanent qualities of
mind are displayed: his art, therefore, should be confined to the
representation of that permanent character of which they are expressive.

2. While such is the object to which statuary would appear to be
destined, Painting embraces a wider range, and is capable of more varied
expression: It is expressive of the living form; it paints the eye and
opens the view of the present mind; it imitates all the fleeting changes
which constitute the signs of present emotion. It is not, therefore, an
abstraction of character which the painter is to represent; not an ideal
form, expressive only of the qualities of permanent character; but an
actual being, alive to the impressions of present existence, and bound
by the ties of present affection. It is in the delineation of these
affections, therefore, that the powers of the painter principally
consists; in the representation, not of simple character, but of
character influenced or subdued by emotion. It is the representation of
the joy of youth, or the repose of age; of the sorrow of innocence, or
the penitence of guilt; of the tenderness of parental affection, or the
gratitude of filial love. In these, and a thousand other instances, the
expression of the emotion constitutes the beauty of the picture; it is
that which gives the tone to the character which it is to bear; it is
that which strikes the chord which vibrates in every human heart. The
object of the painter, therefore, is the expression of EMOTION, of that
emotion which is blended with the character of the mind which feels, and
gives to that character the interest which belongs to the events of
present existence.

3. The object of the painter, being the representation of emotion in all
the varied situations which life produces, it follows, that every thing
in his picture should be in unison with the predominant expression which
he wishes it to bear; that the composition should be as simple as is
consistent with the developement of this expression; and the colouring
such as accords with the character by which this emotion is
distinguished. It is here that the genius of the artist is principally
to be displayed, in the selection of such figures as suit the general
impression which the whole is to produce; and the choice of such a tone
of colouring, as harmonises with the feelings of mind which it is his
object to awaken. The distraction of varied colours--the confusion of
different figures--the contrast of opposite expressions, completely
destroy the effect of the composition; they fix the mind to the
observation of what is particular in the separate parts, and prevent
that uniform and general emotion which arises from the perception of one
uniform expression in all the parts of which it is composed. It is in
this very perception, however, that the source of the beauty is to be
found; it is in the undefined feeling to which it gives rise, that the
delight of the emotion of taste consists. Like the harmony of sounds in
musical composition, it produces an effect of which we are unable to
give an account; but which we feel to be instantly destroyed by the
jarring sound of a different note, or the discordant effect of a foreign
expression. It is in the neglect of this great principle that the defect
of many of the first pictures of modern times is to be found--in the
confused multitude of unnecessary figures--in the contradictory
expression of separate parts--in the distracting brilliancy of gorgeous
colours; in the laboured display, in short, of the power of the artist,
and the utter dereliction of the object of the art. The great secret, on
the other hand, of the beauty of the most exquisite specimens of modern
art, lies in the simplicity of expression which they bear, in their
production of one uniform emotion, from all the parts of one harmonious
composition. For the production of this unity of emotion, the surest
means will be found to consist in the selection of _as few figures_ as
is consistent with the developement of the characteristic expression of
the composition; and it is, perhaps, to this circumstance, that we are
to impute the unequalled charm which belongs to the pictures of single
figures, or small groups, in which a single expression is alone
attempted.

4. The last principle of the art appeared to be, that both painting and
sculpture are wholly unfit for the representation of PASSION, as
expressed by motion; and that, to attempt to delineate it, necessarily
injures the effect of the composition. Neither, it is clear, can express
actual motion: they should not attempt, therefore, to represent those
passions of the mind which motion alone is adequate to express. The
attempt to delineate violent passion, accordingly, uniformly produces a
painful or a ridiculous effect; it does not even convey any conception
of the passion itself, because its character is not known by the
expression of any single moment, but by the rapid changes which result
from the perturbed state into which the mind is thrown. It is hence that
passion seems so ridiculous when seen at a distance, or without the
cause of its existence being known, and it is hence, that if a human
figure were petrified in any of the stages of passion, it would have so
painful or insane an appearance.--As painting, therefore, cannot exhibit
the rapid changes in which the real expression of passion consists, it
should not attempt its delineation at all. Its real object is, the
expression of _emotion_, of that more settled state of the human mind
when the changes of passion are gone--when the countenance is moulded
into the expression of permanent feeling, and the existence of this
feeling is marked by the permanent expression which the features have
assumed.

The greatest artists of ancient and modern times, accordingly, have
selected, even in the representation of violent exertion, that moment of
temporary repose, when a permanent expression is given to the figure.
Even the Laocoon is not in the state of actual exertion: it is
represented in that moment when the last effort has been made; when
straining against an invincible power has given to the figure the aspect
at last of momentary repose; and when despair has placed its settled
mark on the expression of the countenance. The Fighting Gladiator is not
represented in a state of actual activity, but in that moment when he is
preparing his mind for the future and final contest, and when, in this
deep concentration of his powers, the pause which the genius of the
artist has given, expresses more distinctly to the eye of the spectator
the determined character of the combatant, than all that the struggle or
agony of the combat itself could afterwards display.

The Grecian statues which were assembled in the Louvre may be considered
as the most perfect works of human genius; and after surveying the
different schools of painting which it contains, we could not but feel
those higher conceptions of human form, and of human nature, which the
taste of ancient statuary had formed. It is not in the moment of action
that it has represented man, but in the moment after action, when the
tumult of passion has ceased, and all that is great or dignified in
moral nature remains; and the greatest works of modern art are those
which approach nearest to the same principle. It is not Hercules in the
moment of earthly combat, when every muscle was swollen with the
strength he was exerting, that they represent; but Hercules in the
moment of transformation into a nobler being, when the exertion of
mortality has passed, and his powers seem to repose in the tranquillity
of Heaven: not Apollo, when straining his youthful strength in drawing
the bow; but Apollo, when the weapon was discharged, watching, with
unexulting eye, its resistless course, and serene in the enjoyment of
immortal power: not St Michael when struggling with the Demon, and
marring the beauty of angelic form by the violence of earthly passion,
but St Michael in the moment of unruffled triumph, restraining the might
of Almighty power, and radiant with the beams of eternal mercy.




CHAPTER VI.

PARIS--THE FRENCH CHARACTER AND MANNERS.


We do not by any means consider ourselves as qualified to enter fully
into the interesting subject of the national character of the French;
but we shall venture to state, in this place, what appeared to us its
most striking peculiarities, particularly as it is observed at Paris.
Our stay in the capital was too short, and our opportunities of
observation too limited, to entitle us to speak with confidence; but it
is to be remembered on the other hand, that there is a surprising
uniformity of character among the French, which facilitates observation.
The habit of constant intercourse in society, which constitutes their
greatest pleasure, and has made them, in their own opinion, the most
polished nation on earth, appears not merely to have assimilated their
manners to one another, in the manner so finely illustrated by the
celebrated simile of Sterne[2], but to have engendered a kind of
conventional standard character, by which all those we observe are more
or less modelled.

The most striking and formidable part of their general character is, the
_contempt for religion_ which is so frequently and openly expressed. In
all countries there are men of a selfish and abstracted turn of mind,
who are more disposed than others to religious argument and doubt; and
in all, there are a greater number, whose worldly passions lead them to
the neglect, or hurry them on to the violation of religious precepts;
but a great nation, among whom a cool selfish regard to personal comfort
and enjoyment has been deliberately substituted for religious feeling,
and where it is generally esteemed reasonable and wise to oppose and
wrestle down, by metaphysical arguments, the natural and becoming
sentiments of piety, as they arise in the human breast, is hitherto, and
it is to be hoped will long continue, an anomaly in the history of
mankind.

We heard it estimated at Paris, that 40,000 out of 600,000 inhabitants
of that town attend church; one half of which number, they say, are
actuated in so doing by real sentiments of devotion; but to judge from
the very small numbers whom we have ever seen attending the regular
service in any of the churches, we should think this proportion greatly
overrated. Of those whom we have seen there, at least two-thirds have
been women above fifty, or girls under fifteen years of age. In all
Catholic countries, Sunday is a day of amusement and festivity, as well
as of religion--but it is generally, also, one of relaxation from
business: in Paris, we could see very little signs of the latter in the
forenoons, but the amusements and dissipation of the capital were
visibly increased in the evenings; and the Parisians have some reason
for their remark, that their day of rest is changed to Monday, when the
effect of their last night's dissipation wholly incapacitates them for
exertion.

It is clear, that it is quite absurd to attempt altering the manner of
spending the Sundays at Paris, while the sentiments of the people, in
regard to religion, continue such as at present; but it must be
admitted, on the other hand, that their habits, as to the way of
spending Sundays, re-act powerfully on their sentiments; and that the
minds of the lower orders, in particular, are much debased by the want
of what have been emphatically called "these precious breathing times
for the labouring part of the community."

Frenchmen of the higher ranks seem, at present, generally disposed to
wave the subject of religion; but those of the middling ranks, by whom
the business of the country is mainly carried on, do not scruple to
express their contempt of it;--they applaud with enthusiasm all
irreligious sentiments in the theatres, and seldom mention priests, of
any persuasion, without the epithet of _sacrès_.

We were informed in Holland, that the Frenchmen who were sent to that
country in official capacities, military or civil, manifested on all
occasions the utmost contempt for religion. A French General, quartered
in the house of a respectable gentleman in Amsterdam, inquired the
reason, the first Sunday that he was there, of the family going out in
their best clothes; and being told they were going to church, he
expressed his surprise, saying,--"Now that you are a part of the great
nation, it is time for you to have done with that nonsense."

To an Englishman, who has been accustomed to see the ordinances of
religion regularly observed by the great majority of his countrymen, the
neglect of them by the French people appears very singular, and even
unnatural. When we afterwards visited Flanders, and observed the
manifest respect of the people for religion--when when saw the
numberless handsome churches in the villages, and the frequent religious
processions in the streets of the towns--when we entered the Great
Cathedral at Antwerp, and found vast numbers of people, of both sexes,
and all ranks and ages, on their knees, engaged, with the appearance of
sincere devotion, in the solemn and striking service of vespers, we
could not help saying among ourselves, that this people, for better
reasons than mere political convenience, deserved to be separated from
the French.

Yet, we do not mean to say that the French are wholly, or even generally
devoid of religious feeling; on the contrary, we believe it may often be
seen to break out in a very striking manner, even in the conversation of
those who are accustomed to think it wise to express contempt for it. A
Frenchman, full of enthusiasm about the glory of his country, who was
talking to us of the deeds and sufferings of the French army in Russia,
concluded his description of the latter with these emphatic words: "Ah!
Monsieur, Ce n'est pas les Russes; C'est _le bon Dieu_ qui a fait cela."

* * *

In point of _intellectual ability_, the French are certainly inferior to
no other nation. They have not, perhaps, so frequently as others, that
cool, sound judgment in matters of speculation, which can fit them for
unravelling with success the perplexities of metaphysics; but their
unparalleled success in mathematical pursuits is the best possible proof
of the accuracy and quickness of their reasoning powers, when confined
within due bounds. We do not refer to the astonishing efforts of such
men as d'Alembert or La Place, but to the general diffusion of
mathematical knowledge among all who receive a scientific education. It
is not, perhaps, going too far to say, that few professors in Britain
have an equally accurate and extensive knowledge of the integral and
differential calculus, with some lads of 17 or 18, who have completed
their education at the Ecole Polytechnique. Unless a man makes
discoveries of his own in mathematics, he is little thought of as a
mathematician by the men of science at Paris, even although he may be
intimately versed in all the branches of that science as it stands.

Under the Imperial Government, it was not considered safe to cultivate
any sciences which relate to politics or morals; but the advancement of
the physical and mathematical sciences in France during that time,
sufficiently indicates that there has been no want of talents or
industry.

It may be remarked as a striking characteristic of the French scientific
works, that they are almost always well arranged, and the meaning of the
author fully and unequivocally expressed. A Frenchman does not always
take a comprehensive view of his subject, but he seldom fails to take a
clear view of it. The same turn of mind may be observed in the
conversation of Frenchmen; even when their information is defective,
they will very generally arrest attention by the apparent order and
perspicuity of their thoughts; and they never seem to know what it is to
be at a loss for words.

Considering the great ingenuity and ability of the French, it seems not
a little surprising that they should be so much behind our countrymen in
useful and profitable arts, and that Englishmen should be so much struck
with the apparent poverty of the greater part of France. This is in a
great measure owing, no doubt, to the policy of the late French
Government, which has directed all the energies of the nation towards
military affairs; and to the abuses of the former government: but we
think it must be ascribed in part to the character of the people. There
is not the same co-operation of different individuals to one end, of
private advantage and public usefulness; the same division of labour,
intellectual as well as operative; the same hearty confidence between
man and man, in France as in England. Men of talents in France are, in
general, too much tainted with the national vanity, and too much
occupied with their own fame, to join heartily in promoting the public
interest. Individual intelligence, activity, and ingenuity, go but
little way in making a nation wealthy and prosperous, if they are made
to minister only to the individual pleasures and _glory_ of their
possessors.

* * *

The _patriotism_ of the French is certainly a very strong feeling, but
it appears to be much tainted with the same vanity and love of shew that
we have just remarked. There can be no doubt, that during the time of
Bonaparte's successes, he commanded, in a degree that no other Sovereign
ever did, the admiration and respect of the great body of the people;
and it is equally certain, that he did this without interesting himself
at all in their happiness. His hold of them was by their national vanity
alone. They assent to all that can be said of the miseries which he
brought upon France; but add, "Mais il a battu tout le monde; il a fait
des choses superbes a Paris; il a flattè notre orgeuil national. Ah!
C'est un grand homme. Notre pays n'a jamais etè si grand ni si puissant
que sous lui." The condition of the inhabitants of distant provinces was
nowise improved by his public buildings and decorations at their
capital; but every Frenchman considers a compliment to Paris, to the
Louvre, to the Palais Royal, or the Opera, as a personal compliment to
himself.

At this moment, it is certainly a very general wish in France, to have
a sovereign, who, as they express it, has grown out of the revolution;
but when we enquire into their reason for this, it will often be found,
we believe, to resolve itself into their national vanity. It is not that
they think the Bourbons will break their word, or that the present
Constitution will be altered without their consent; but after five and
twenty years of confusion and bloodshed, they cannot bear the thoughts
of leaving off where they began; and they think, that taking back their
old dynasty without alteration, is practically acknowledging that they
have been in the wrong all the time of their absence. We have often
remarked (but we presume the remark is applicable to all despotic
countries) that the French political conversation, such as is heard at
caffés and tables d'hôte, relates more to men, and less to measures, and
appears to be more guided by personal attachments or antipathies, than
that to which we are accustomed in England.

The character that appears to be most wanted in France, is that of
disinterested public-spirited individuals, of high honour and integrity,
and of large possessions and influence, who do not interfere in public
affairs from views of ambition, but from a sense of duty--who have no
wish to dazzle the eyes of the multitude, and do not seek for a more
extensive influence than that to which their observation and experience
entitle them. While this character continues so much more frequent in
our own country than among the French, it is perhaps in military affairs
only that we need entertain any fear of their superiority. Englishmen of
power and influence, generally speaking, have really at heart the _good_
of their country, whereas Frenchmen, in similar situations, are chiefly
interested in the _glory_ of theirs.

It must also be observed, that public affairs occupy much less of the
attention, and interfere much less with the happiness, of the majority
of the French than of the English. There is less anxiety about public
measures, and less gratitude for public services. We were often
surprised at the indifference of the citizens of Paris with regard to
their Marshals, whom they seldom knew by name, and did not seem to care
for knowing. The peroration of an old lady, who had delivered a long
speech to a friend of ours, then a prisoner at Verdun, lamenting the
reverses of the French arms, and the miseries of France, was
characteristic of the nation: "Mais, ce m'est egal. Je suis toujours ici."

It is quite unnecessary for us to give proofs of the laxity of _moral
principle_ which prevails so generally among the French. The world has
not now to learn, that notwithstanding their high professions, they have
but little regard either for truth or morality. According to Mr Scott,
"they have, in a great measure, detached words from ideas and feelings;
they can, therefore, afford to be unusually profuse of the better sort
of the first; and they experience as much internal satisfaction and
pride when they profess a virtue, as if they had practised one." Perhaps
it would be more correct to say, that they have detached ideas and
feelings from their corresponding actions. Their feelings have always
been too violent for the moment, and too short in their duration, to
influence their conduct steadily and permanently; but at present, they
seem much disposed to think, that it is quite enough to have the
feelings, and that there is no occasion for their conduct being
influenced by them at all.

They appear to have a strong natural sense of the beauty and excellence
of virtue; but they are accustomed to regard it merely as a sense. It
does not regulate their conduct to others, but adds to their own selfish
enjoyments. They speak of virtue almost uniformly, not as an object of
rational approbation and imitation, and still less as a rule of moral
obligation, but as a matter of _feeling and taste_. A French officer,
who describes to you, in the liveliest manner, and with all the
appearance of unfeigned sympathy, the miseries and devastations
occasioned by his countrymen among the unoffending inhabitants of
foreign states, proceeds, in the same breath, to declaim with
enthusiastic admiration on the untarnished honour of the French arms,
and the great mind of the Emperor. A Parisian tradesman, who goes to the
theatre that he may see the representation of integrity of conduct,
conjugal affection, and domestic happiness, and applauds with enthusiasm
when he sees it, shews no symptoms of shame when detected in a barefaced
attempt to cheat his customers; spends his spare money in the Palais
Royal, and sells his wife or daughter to the highest bidder.

"Among the French," says the intelligent and judicious author of the
Caractere des Armées Europeennes, "the seat of the passions is in the
head--they feel rather from the fancy than the heart--their feelings are
nothing more than thoughts."

Another striking feature of the French character, connected with the
preceding, is the openness, and even eagerness, with which they
communicate all their thoughts and feelings to each other, and even to
strangers. All Frenchmen seem anxious to make the most in conversation,
not only of whatever intellectual ability they possess, but of whatever
moral feelings they experience on any occasion;--they do not seem to
understand why a man should ever be either ashamed or unwilling to
disclose any thing that passes in his mind;--they often suspect their
neighbours of expressing sentiments which they do not feel, but have no
idea of giving them credit for feelings which they do not express.

The French have many _good qualities_; they are very generally obliging
to strangers, they are sober and good-tempered, and little disposed, in
the ordinary concerns of life, to quarrel among themselves, and they
have an amiable cheerfulness of disposition, which supports them in
difficulties and adversity, better than the resolutions of philosophy.
But it is clear that they have very little esteem for the most estimable
of all characters, that of firm and enduring virtue; and in fact, it is
not going too far to say, that a certain _propriety of external
demeanour_ has completely taken the place of correctness of moral
conduct among them. They speak almost uniformly with much abhorrence of
drunkenness, and of all violations of the established forms of society;
and such improprieties are very seldom to be seen among them. Many
Frenchmen, as was already observed, are rough and even ferocious in
their manners; and the language and behaviour of most of them,
particularly in the presence of women, appears to us very frequently
indelicate and rude; yet there are limits to this freedom of manner
which they never allow themselves to pass. Go where you will in Paris,
you will very seldom see any disgusting instances of intoxication, or
any material difference of manner, between those who are avowedly
unprincipled and abandoned, and the most respectable part of the
community. In the caffés, which correspond not only to the
coffee-houses, but to the taverns of London, you will see modest women,
at all hours of the day, often alone, sitting in the midst of the men.
In the Palais Royal, at no hour of the night do you witness scenes of
gross indecency or riot.

To an Englishman, it often serves as an excuse for vicious indulgences,
that he is led off his feet by temptation. To a Frenchman, this excuse
is the only crime; he stands in no need of an apology for vice; but it
is necessary "qu'il se menage:" he is taught "qu'un pechè cachè est la
moitie pardonnè;" he must on no account allow, that any temptation can
make him lose his recollection or presence of mind.

We ought perhaps to admit likewise, that some of the vices common among
the French are not merely less foul and disgusting in appearance, but
less odious in their own nature, than those of our countrymen. We do not
say this in palliation of their conduct. It is rather to be considered
as a benevolent provision of nature, that in proportion as vice is more
generally diffused, its influence on individual character is less fatal.
This remark applies particularly to the case of women. A woman in
England, who loses one virtue, knows that she outrages the opinion of
mankind; she disobeys the precepts of her religion, and estranges
herself from the examples which she has been taught to revere; she
becomes an outcast of society; and if she has not already lost, must
soon lose all the best qualities of the female character. But a French
woman, in giving way to unlawful love, knows that she does no more than
her mother did before her; if she is of the lower ranks, she is not
necessarily debarred from honest occupation; if of the higher, she loses
little or nothing in the estimation of society; if she has been taught
to revere any religion, it is the Catholic, and she may look to
absolution. Her conduct, therefore, neither implies her having lost, nor
necessarily occasions her losing, any virtue but one; and during the
course of the revolution, we have understood there have been many
examples, proving, in the most trying circumstances, that not even the
worst corruptions of Paris had destroyed some of the finest virtues
which can adorn the sex. "Elles ont toujours des bons cœurs," is a
common expression in France, in speaking even of the lowest and most
degraded of the sex. In Paris, it is certainly much more difficult than
in London to find examples in any rank of the unsullied purity of the
female character; but neither is it commonly seen so utterly perverted
and degraded; one has not occasion to witness so frequently the painful
spectacle of youth and beauty brought by one rash step to shame and
misery; and to lament, that the fairest gifts of heaven should become
the bitterest of curses to so many of their possessors.

* * *

Having mentioned the French women, we think we may remark, without
hazarding our character as impartial observers, that most of the faults
which are so well known to prevail among them, may be easily traced to
the manner in which they are treated by the other sex. It is a very
common boast in France, that there is no other country in which women
are treated with so much respect; and you can hardly gratify any
Frenchman so much, as by calling France "le paradis des femmes." Yet,
from all that we could observe ourselves, or learn from others, there
appears to be no one of the boasts of Frenchmen which is in reality less
reasonable. They exclude women from society almost entirely in their
early years; they seldom allow them any vote in the choice of their
husbands: After they have brought them into society, they seem to think
that they confer a high favour on them, by giving them a great deal of
their company, and paying them a great deal of attention, and
encouraging them to separate themselves from the society of their
husbands. In return for these obligations, they often oblige them to
listen to conversation, which, heard as it is, from those for whom they
have most respect, cannot fail to corrupt their minds as well as their
manners; and they take care to let them see that they value them for the
qualities which render them agreeable companions for the moment; not for
the usefulness of their lives, for the purity of their conduct, or the
constancy of their affections. Surely the respect with which all women
who conduct themselves with propriety are treated in England, merely on
account of their sex; the delicacy and reserve with which in their
presence conversation is uniformly conducted by all who call themselves
gentlemen, are more honourable tokens of regard for the virtues of the
female character, than the unmeaning ceremonies and officious attentions
of the French.

The female inhabitants of our own country are distinguished of those of
France, and probably of every other country, by a certain native,
self-respecting, dignity of appearance and manner, which claims respect
and attention as a right, rather than solicits them as a boon; and gives
you to understand, that the man who does not give them is disgraced,
rather than the woman who does not receive them. We believe it to be
owing to the influence of the causes we have noticed, that this manner,
so often ridiculed by the French, under the name of "hauteur" and
"fiertè Anglaise," is hardly ever to be seen among women of any rank in
France. And to a similar influence of the tastes and sentiments of our
own sex, it is easy to refer the more serious faults of the female
character in that country.

On the other hand, the better parts of the character of the French women
are all their own. It is not certainly from the men that they have
learnt those truly feminine qualities, that interesting humility and
gentleness of manner, that pleasing gaiety of temper, and native
kindness of disposition, to which it is very difficult, even for the
proverbial coldness of northern critics, to apply terms of ridicule or
reproach.

* * *

It is not easy for a stranger, in forming his opinion of the moral
character of a people, to make allowance for the modification which
moral sentiments undergo, in consequence of long habits, and
adventitious circumstances. There is no quality which strikes a stranger
more forcibly, in the character of the French of the middling and lower
ranks, than their seeming dishonesty, particularly their uniformly
endeavouring to extract more money for their goods or their services
than they know to be their value. But we think too much stress has been
laid on this part of their character by some travellers. It is regarded
in France as a sort of professional accomplishment, without which it is
in vain to attempt exercising a trade; and it is hardly thought to
indicate immorality of any kind, more than the obviously false
expressions which are used in the ordinary intercourse of society in
England, or the license of denying oneself to visitors. That it should
be so regarded is no doubt a proof of _national_ inferiority, and
perhaps immorality; but while the general sentiments of the nation
continue as at present, an instance of this kind cannot be considered as
a proof of _individual_ baseness. An Englishman is apt to pronounce
every man a scoundrel, who, in making a bargain, attempts to take him
in; but he will often find, on a closer and more impartial examination,
that the judgment formed by this circumstance alone in France, is quite
erroneous. One of our party entered a small shop in the Palais Royal to
buy a travelling cap. The woman who attended in it, with perfect
effrontery, asked 16 francs for one which was certainly not worth more
than six, and which she at last gave him for seven. Being in a hurry at
the time, he inadvertently left on the counter a purse containing 20
gold pieces of 20 francs each. He did not miss it for more than an hour:
on returning to the shop, he found the old lady gone, and concluded at
first, that she had absented herself to avoid interrogation; but to his
surprise, he was accosted immediately on entering, by a pretty young
girl, who had come in her place, with the sweetest smile
imaginable,--"Monsieur, a oubliè sa bourse--que nous sommes heureuses de
la lui rendre."

* * *

It is certainly incorrect to say, that the _taste_ of the French is
decidedly superior to that of other nations. Their poetry, on the whole,
will not bear a comparison with the English; their modern music is not
nearly so beautiful as their ancient songs, which have now descended to
the lower ranks; their painting is in a peculiar and not pleasing style;
their taste in gardening is antiquated and artificial; their
architecture is only fine where it is modelled on the ancient; their
theatrical tastes, if they are more correct than ours, are also more
limited. We have already taken occasion more than once to reprobate the
general taste of the French, as being partial to art, and brilliant
execution, rather than to simplicity and beautiful design.

But what distinguishes the French from almost every other nation, is the
_general diffusion_ of the taste for the fine arts, and for elegant
amusements, among all ranks of the people. Almost all Frenchmen take not
only a pride, but an interest, in the public buildings of Paris, and in
the collections of paintings and statues. There is a very general liking
for poetry and works of imagination among the middling and lower ranks;
they go to the theatres, not merely for relaxation and amusement, but
with a serious intention of cultivating their taste, and displaying
their critical powers. Many of them are so much in the habit of
attending the theatres when favourite plays are acted, that they know
almost every word of the principal scenes by heart. All their favourite
amusements are in some measure of a refined kind. It is not in drinking
clubs, or in sensual gratifications alone, that men of these ranks seek
for relaxation, as its too often the case with us; but it is in the
society of women, in conversation, in music and dancing, in theatres and
operas, and caffés and promenades, in seeing and being seen; in short,
in scenes resembling, as nearly as possible, those in which the higher
ranks of all nations spend their leisure hours.

While the useful arts are comparatively little advanced, those which
relate to ornaments alone are very generally superior to ours; and the
persons who profess these arts speak of them with a degree of fervour
that often seems ludicrous. "Monsieur," says a peruquier in the Palais
Royal, with the look of a man who lets you into a profound secret in
science, "Notre art est un art imitatif; en effèt, c'est un des beaux
arts;" then taking up a London-made wig, and twirling it round on his
finger, with a look of ineffable contempt, "Celui ci n'est pas la belle
nature; mais voici la mienne,--c'est la nature personifiée!"

One of the best proofs of the tastes of the lower ranks being, at least
in part, cultivated and refined, is to be found in the songs which are
common among the peasantry and soldiers. There are a great number of
these, and some of them, in point of beauty of sentiment, and elegance
of expression, might challenge a comparison even with the admired
productions of our own land of song. The following is part of a song
which was written in April 1814, and set to the beautiful air of Charles
VII. It was popular among the description of persons to whom it relates;
and the young man from whom we got it had himself returned home, after
serving as a private in the young guard.


LE RETOUR DE L'AMANT FRANCAIS.

    De bon cœur je pose les armes;
    Adieu le tumulte des camps,
    L'amitiè m'offre d'autres charmes,
    Au sein de mes joyeux parents;
    Le Dieu des Amants me rapelle,
    C'est pour m'enroler à son tour;
    Et je vais aupres de ma belle,
    Servir sous les lois de l'amour.

    Aux noms d'honneur et de patrie,
    On m'a vu braver le trepas;
    Aujourd'hui pour charmer ma vie
    La paix fait cesser les combats.
    Le Dieu des Amants, &c.

After all that we had heard, and all that is known over the whole world,
of the unbridled licentiousness and savage ferocity of the French
soldiers, we were not a little surprised to find, that this and other
songs written in good taste, and expressing sentiments of a kind of
chivalrous elevation and refinement, were popular in their ranks.

* * *

The last peculiarity in the French character which we shall notice, is
perhaps the most fundamental of the whole; it is their _love of mixed
society_; of the society of those for whom they have no regard, but whom
they meet on the footing of common acquaintances. This is the favourite
enjoyment of almost every Frenchman; to shine in such society, is the
main object of his ambition; his whole life is regulated so as to
gratify this desire. He is indifferent about comforts at home--he
dislikes domestic society--he hates the retirement of the country; but
he loves, and is taught to love, to figure in a large circle of
acquaintance, for whom he has not the least heartfelt friendship, with
whom he is on no more intimate terms than with perfect strangers, after
the first half hour. If he has acquired a reputation in science, arts,
or arms, so much the better; his _glory_ will be of much service to him;
if not, he must make it up by his conversation.

In consequence of the predilection of the French for social intercourse
of this kind, it is, that knowledge of such kinds, and to such an
extent, as can be easily introduced into conversation, is very general;
that the opportunities of such intercourse are carefully multiplied;
that all arts which can add to the attractions of such scenes are
assiduously improved; that liveliness of disposition is prized beyond
all other qualities, while those eccentricities of manner, which seem to
form a component part of what we call humorous characters, are excluded;
that even childish amusements are preferred to solitary occupations;
that taste is cultivated more than morality, wit esteemed more than
wisdom, and vanity encouraged more than merit.

It is easy to trace the pernicious effects of a taste for society of
this kind, on individual character, when it is encouraged to such a
degree as to become a serious occupation, instead of a relaxation to the
mind. When the main object of a man's life is distinction among his
acquaintances, from his wit--his liveliness--his elegance of taste--his
powers of conversation--or even from the fame he may have earned by his
talents; he becomes careless about the love of those with whom he is on
more intimate terms, and who do not value him exclusively, or even
chiefly, for such qualities. His domestic affections are weakened; he
lives for himself and enjoys the present moment without either
reflection or foresight; with the outward appearance of an open friendly
disposition, he becomes, in reality, selfish and interested; that he may
secure general sympathy from indifferent spectators, he is under the
necessity of repressing all strong emotions, and expressions of ardent
feeling, and of confining himself to a worldly and common-place
morality; he learns to value his moral feelings, as well as his
intellectual powers, chiefly for the sake of the display which he can
make of them in society; and to reprobate vice, rather on account of its
outward deformity, than of its intrinsic guilt; gradually he becomes
impatient of restraints on the pleasure which he derives from social
intercourse; and the religious and moral principles of his nature are
sacrificed to the visionary idol to which his love of pleasure and his
love of _glory_ have devoted him.

Such appears to be the state of the minds of most Parisians. They have
been so much accustomed to pride themselves on the outward appearance of
their actions, that they have become regardless of their intrinsic
merits; they have lived so long for _effect_, that they have forgotten
that there is any other principle by which their lives can be regulated.

Of the devotion of the French to the sort of life to which we refer, the
best possible proof is, their fondness for a town life; the small number
of chateaux in the country that are inhabited--and the still more
remarkable scarcity of villas in the neighbourhood of Paris, to which
men of business may retire. There are a few houses of this description
about Belleville and near Malmaison; but in general, you pass from the
noisy and dirty Fauxbourgs at once into the solitude of the country; and
it is quite obvious, that you have left behind you all the scenes in
which the Parisians find enjoyment. The contrast in the neighbourhood of
London, is most striking. It is easy to laugh at the dulness and
vulgarity of a London citizen, who divides his time between his
counting-house and his villa, or at the coarseness and rusticity of an
English country squire; but there is no description of men to whom the
national character of our country is more deeply indebted.

It seems no difficult matter to ascribe most of the differences which we
observe between the English and French character to the differences in
the habits of the people, occasioned by form of government and various
assignable causes: and the French character, in particular, has very
much the appearance of being moulded by the artificial form of society
which prevails among the people. Yet, it is not easy to reconcile such
explanations with the instances we can often observe, of difference of
national character manifested under circumstances, or at an age, when
the causes assigned can hardly have operated. The peculiarities which
appear to us most artificial in the Parisian character and manners, may
often be seen in full perfection in very young children. Every little
French girl, almost from the time when she begins to speak, seems to
place her chief delight in attracting the regard of the other sex,
rather than in playing with her female companions. "In England," says
Chateaubriand, "girls are sent to school in their earliest years: you
sometimes see groups of these little ones, dressed in white mantles,
with straw hats tied under the chin with a ribband, and a basket on the
arm, containing fruit and a book--all with downcast eyes, blushing when
looked at. When I have seen," he continues, "our French female children,
dressed in their antiquated fashion, lifting up the trains of their
gowns, looking at every one they meet with effrontery, singing love-sick
airs, and taking lessons in declamation; I have thought with regret, of
the simplicity and modesty of the little English girls."

It is the opinion of some naturalists, that the acquired habits, as well
as the natural instincts of animals, are transmitted to their progeny;
and in comparing the causes commonly assigned, and plausibly supported,
for the peculiarities of national character, with the very early age at
which these peculiarities shew themselves, one is almost tempted to
believe, that something of the same kind may take place in the human
species.

* * *

In what has now been said, no reference has been made to the influence
of the revolution on the parts of the French character on which we have
touched. On this point we have of course, the means of judging with
precision; but most of the peculiarities which appeared to us most
striking certainly existed before the revolution, and we should be
disposed to doubt whether the leading features are materially altered.
The influence of the writings of the French philosophers on the
religious and moral principles of their countrymen, has certainly been
very great, and has been probably strengthened, rather than weakened, by
the events of the last twenty-five years.

The general diffusion of a military spirit; the unprincipled manner in
which war has been conducted, and the encouragement which has been given
to martial qualities, to the exclusion of all pacific virtues, have
promoted the growth of the French military vices, particularly
selfishness and licentiousness, among all ranks and descriptions of the
people, and materially injured their general character, even in the
remotest parts of the country. During the revolution, and under the
Imperial Government, men have owed their success, in France, almost
exclusively to the influence of their intellectual abilities, without
any assistance from their moral character; in consequence, the contempt
for religion is more generally diffused, and more openly expressed than
it was; and although loud protestations of inviolable honour are still
necessary, integrity of conduct is much less respected. The abolition of
the old, and the formation of a new nobility, composed chiefly of men
who had risen from inferior military situations, has had a most
pernicious effect on the general manners of the nation. The chief or
sole use of a hereditary nobility in a free country, is to keep up a
standard of dignity and elegance of manner, which serves as a model of
imitation much more extensively than the middling and lower ranks are
often willing to allow, and has a more beneficial effect on the national
character, than it is easy to explain on mere speculative principles.
But the manners of the new French nobility being the very reverse of
dignified or elegant, their constitution has hitherto tended only to
confirm the changes in the general manners of a great proportion of the
French nation, which the revolutionary ideas had effected. There are
very few men to be seen now in France, who (making all allowances for
difference of previous habits) appear to Englishmen to possess either
the manners or feelings of gentlemen.

The best possible proof that this is not a mere national prejudice, in
so far as the army is concerned, is, that the French _ladies_ are very
generally of the same way of thinking. After the English officers left
Toulouse in the summer of 1814, the ladies of that town found the
manners of the French officers who succeeded them so much less
agreeable, that they could not be prevailed on, for a long time, to
admit them into their society. This is a triumph over the arms of
France, which we apprehend our countrymen would have found it much more
difficult to achieve in the days of the ancient monarchy.

On the other hand, it must be admitted, that the revolution, has had the
effect of completely removing from the French character that silly
veneration for high rank, unaccompanied by any commanding qualities of
mind, which used to form a predominant feature in it. Yet it seems
doubtful whether the equivalent they have obtained is more likely to
promote their happiness. They have now an equally infatuated admiration
for ability and success, without integrity or virtue. Their minds have
been delivered from the dominion of rank without talents, and have
fallen under that of talents without principle.




CHAPTER VII.

PARIS--THE THEATRES.


It is difficult for any person who has never quitted England to enter
into the feelings which every one must experience when he first finds it
in his power to examine those peculiarities of national manners, or
national taste, in the people of other states, which have long been the
subject of speculation in his own country, and on his imperfect
knowledge of which, much perhaps of the estimate he has formed of the
character of those nations may depend. The circumstance which perhaps,
of all others connected with the people of France, is most likely to
create this feeling of curiosity and interest, is the opportunity of
attending the French theatres. In most countries, and even in some
where dramatic representations possess much greater power over the minds
of the audience, the theatre is comparatively of much less importance to
a stranger in assisting him to judge of the character of the people; the
observations which he may collect can seldom be of any great use in
affording him means of understanding their manners and public character,
and at the most, cannot inform him of those circumstances in the
character of the people with which their happiness and prosperity are
connected;--but the theatre at Paris is an object of the greatest
interest to a stranger; every one knows how strikingly the character and
dispositions of the French people are displayed at their theatres; and
at the period when we were there, as every speech almost contained
something which was eagerly turned into an allusion to the circumstances
of their situation, and to the events which had so lately taken place,
the interest which the theatres must at any time have excited, was
greatly increased.

There was another object also, less temporary in its nature, which
rendered frequent attendance at the theatre, one of the most useful and
instructive occupations of our time. The construction and character of
the French tragedies have been as generally questioned in other
countries, as they are universally and enthusiastically admired in
France; and with whatever feelings, whether of pleasure or fatigue, we
might have read these celebrated compositions, we were all naturally
most anxious to ascertain how far they were calculated for actual
representation, and what effect these plays, which possess such
influence over the French people, might produce on those who had been
accustomed to dramatic writings of so very different a description.

The theatres present, at first view, a very favourable aspect of French
character. The audience uniformly conduct themselves with propriety and
decorum; they are always attentive to the piece represented, and shew
themselves, in general very good judges of theatrical merit; and the
entertainments which please their taste are certainly of a superior
order to a great part of those which are popular in England. A great
number of the performances which are loudly applauded by the pit and
boxes of the London theatres, would be esteemed low and vulgar, even by
the galleries at the Theatre Français. It must be added, likewise, that
the morality of the plays which are in request, is very generally more
strict than of favourite English plays; and often of a refined and
sentimental turn, which would be little relished in England. The
tragedies acted at the Theatre Français are generally modelled on the
Greek; those of Racine and Voltaire are common. The comedies have seldom
any low life or buffoonery, or vulgar ribaldry in them; The after
pieces, and the ballets at the Academie de Musique, and at the Opera
Comique, are often beautiful representations of rural innocence and
enjoyments.

It appears at first difficult to reconcile this taste in theatrical
entertainments with the well-known immorality of the Parisians; but the
fact is, that as they are in the daily habit of speaking of virtues
which they do not practise, so it never appears to enter their heads;
that the sentiments which they delight in hearing at the theatres ought
to regulate their conduct to one another. They applaud them only for
their adaptation to the situation of the fictitious personages; whereas
in England they are applauded, for speaking home to the business and
bosoms of the audience.

The conduct and style of the French tragedies, in particular, appear to
be very characteristic of a nation among whom noble and virtuous
feelings are no sooner experienced than they are proclaimed to the
world; and are there valued, rather for the selfish pleasure they
produce, in the mind, than for their influence on conduct. The French
will not admit, in their tragedies, the representation of all the
variety of character and situation that can throw an air of truth and
reality over dramatic fiction; they can admire such incidents and
characters only, as accord with the sentiments and emotions which it is
the peculiar province of tragedy to excite. They are not satisfied with
the indication, in a few energetic words,--valuable only as an index to
the state of the mind, and an earnest of the actions of the speaker,--of
feelings too strong to find vent at the moment, in words capable of
fully expressing them; they must have the full developement, the long
detailed exposition of all the thoughts which crowd into the mind of the
actor or sufferer, expanded, as it were, to prolong the enjoyment of
those who are to sympathise with them, and expressed in select and
appropriate terms, with the pomp and stateliness of heroic verse. An
English tragedy is valued as a representation of life and character; a
French tragedy as a display of eloquence and feeling: and the reason is,
that in France eloquence and feeling are valued for their own sake, and
in England they are valued for the sake of the corresponding character
and conduct.

It is perhaps one of the strongest arguments in favour of the general
plan of the English drama, and one of the best proofs that dramatic
poetry ought to be judged by very different principles from those by
which other kinds of poetry are criticised, that one of the principal
merits of the French actors consists in hiding the chief peculiarities
of their own dramatic school. The personages in a French tragedy are
represented by the authors as it were a degree above human nature; but
the actors study to present themselves before the audience as simple men
and women: the speeches are generally such as appear to be delivered by
persons who are superior to the overwhelming influence of strong
passions, and who can calmly enter into an analysis of their own
feelings; but the actors labour to give you the impression, that they
are agitated by present, violent, and sudden emotions; the tragedies are
composed with as much regularity as epic poems in heroic verse, but the
best actors do all in their power, by varied intonation, by irregular
pauses, and frequent bursts of passion, to conceal the rhymes, and break
the uniformity of the measure.

The effect of the rhymes and regular versification, in the mouths of the
inferior actors, who have not the art to conceal them, is, to an English
ear at least, very unpleasing, and indeed almost destructive of
theatrical illusion; and as a number of such actors must necessarily
appear in every tragedy, it may be doubted whether a tragedy is ever
acted throughout on the French stage in so pleasing a manner, at least
to an English taste, as some of our English tragedies are at present in
the London theatres--as Venice preserved, for example, is now acted at
Covent Garden. If such be our superiority, however, it must be ascribed,
not to the tragic genius of the people being greater, but to there being
fewer difficulties to be overcome on the English stage than on the
French.

We think it is pretty clear, likewise, that the style of the best
English tragedies affords a better field for the display of genius in
the actors, than that of the French. Where the sentiments of the
characters introduced are fully expressed in their words--where their
whole thoughts are detailed for the edification of the audience, however
grand or touching these may be, it is obvious, that the actor who is to
represent them is in trammels; the poet has done so much, that little
remains for him; his art is confined to the display of emotions or
passions, all the variations of which are set down for him, and which he
is not permitted to alter. But when the expression of intense feeling is
confined to few words, to broken sentences, and sudden transitions of
thought, which let you, indeed, into the inmost recesses of the soul of
the sufferer, but do not lay it open before you, it is permitted for the
genius of the actor to co-operate with that of the poet in producing an
effect, for which neither was singly competent. Those who have witnessed
the representation of the heart-rendings of jealousy in Kean's Othello,
or of the agonies of "love and sorrow joined" in Miss O'Neil's
Belvidera, will, we are persuaded, acknowledge the truth of this
observation.

The ideas which we had formed of the French stage, from reading their
tragedies, had prepared us to expect, in their principal actor, a
figure, countenance, and manner, resembling those of Kemble, fitted to
give full effect to the declamations in which they abound, and to the
representation of characters of heroic virtue, elevated above the
influence of earthly passions. The appearance of Talma is very different
from this, and certainly has by no means the uniform dignity and
majestic elevation of Kemble.

Difficult as it must always be to convey, by any general description, a
distinct or adequate notion of the excellence of any actor, there are
some circumstances which it is common to mention, and some expressions
which must be understood wherever the theatre is an object of interest,
and the power of acting appreciated. Talma appears to us to unite more
of the advantages of figure, and countenance, and voice, than any actor
that we have ever seen: it is not that his person is large and graceful,
or even well proportioned; on the contrary, he is rather a short man,
and is certainly not without defects in the shape of his limbs. But
these disadvantages are wholly overlooked in admiration of his dignified
and imposing carriage--of his majestic head--and of his full and
finely-proportioned chest, which expresses so nobly the resolution, and
manliness, and independence of the human character.

There is one circumstance in which Talma has every perfection which it
is possible to conceive--in the power, and richness, and beauty of his
_voice_. It is one of those commanding and pathetic voices which can
never, at any distance of time, be forgotten by any one who has once
heard it: every variety of tone and expression of which the human voice
is capable, is perfectly at his command, and succeed each other with a
rapidity and power which it is not possible to conceive. It makes its
way to the heart the instant it is heard, and at the moment he begins to
speak, you feel not only your attention fixed, and your admiration
excited, but the mind wholly subdued by its resistless influence, and
disposed to enter at once into every emotion which he may wish to
produce. The beauty and feeling of his under tones, the affection,
tenderness, and pity which they so exquisitely express, are so perfect,
that no one could foresee in such perfections, the fierce, hurried, and
overhearing tones of Nero--the voice of deep and exhausting suffering,
which in Hamlet shews so profound an impression of the misery he had
undergone, and of the hopelessness of the situation in which he is
placed,--or still more the shriek of agony in Orestes, when he finds the
horrors of madness again assailing him, and when, in that utter
prostration of soul which the belief of inevitable and merciless destiny
alone could produce in his mind, he abandons himself in dark despair to
the misery which seems to close around him for ever.

We have heard several English people describe Talma's countenance, as by
no means powerful enough for a great actor; it appeared to us, that in
no one respect was he so decidedly superior to any _actor_ on the
English stage, as in the truth and variety of expression which it
displays. There is one observation indeed regarding the acting of Talma,
which often suggested itself, and which may, in some degree, prepare us
to expect, that English people in general could not be much struck with
the expression of his countenance. On the English stage, it appears
commonly to be the object of the actors, to give to every sentiment the
whole effect of which the words of the part will admit, as fully as if
that sentiment were the only one which could occupy the mind of the
character at the time; and any person who will attend to the manner in
which Macbeth and Hamlet are performed, even by that great actor whose
genius has secured at once the pre-eminence which the reputation of
Garrick had left so long uncontested, may observe, that many of the
parts, which are applauded as the strongest proofs of the abilities of
the actor, consist in the expression given to sentiments, undoubtedly of
subordinate importance in the situation of these characters, and which
probably could never occupy so exclusively the mind of any one really
placed in the circumstances represented in the play, and under the
influence of the feelings which such circumstances are calculated to
produce. In the character of Hamlet, in particular, there are several
passages, in which it is the custom to express minor and passing
sentiments with a keenness little suitable to the profound grief in
which Hamlet ought to be absorbed at the commencement of the play, and
which can be natural only when the mind is free from other more powerful
emotions. It appears to us, that the consistency of character is much
more judiciously and naturally preserved in the acting of Talma; that he
is more careful to maintain invariably that unity of expression which
ought to be given to the character, and is more uniformly under the
influence of those predominating feelings, which the circumstances of
the situation in which the part has placed him seem fitted to excite.
Under this impression apparently of the object which an actor ought to
keep in view, Talma omits many opportunities, which would be eagerly
employed on the English stage, to display the power of the actor, though
the natural consistency of character might be violated; and never seems
to think it proper to express, on all occasions, every sentiment with
that effect which should be given to it, only when it becomes the
predominant feeling of the moment. Much, no doubt, is lost for stage
effect by this notion of acting. Many opportunities are passed over,
which might have been employed to shew the manner in which the actor can
represent a variety of feelings, which the language of the play may seem
to admit; and we lose much of the art and skill of acting, when the
talents of the actor are limited to the display of such sentiments only
as accord with the simple and decided expression of character which he
is anxious to maintain.

But on the other hand, the impression which this representation of
character makes upon the mind, is on the whole much more profound, and
the interest which the spectator takes in the circumstances in which the
character is placed, is much greater when the actor is so wholly under
the influence of the feelings which the situation of the part ought to
excite, as never to betray any emotion which can weaken that general
effect which this situation would naturally produce. To those,
therefore, accustomed to the greater variety of expression which the
practice of the English stage renders necessary in the countenance of
every actor, and to the strong and often exaggerated manner in which
common sentiments and ordinary feelings are represented, there may
perhaps appear some want of expression in Talma's countenance; but no
one can attend fully to any of the more interesting characters which he
performs, without feeling an impression produced by the power and
intelligence of his countenance, which no length of time will ever
wholly efface. It is not the expression of his countenance at any
particular moment which fixes itself on the mind, or the force with
which accidental feelings are represented; but that permanent and
powerful expression which suits the character he has to sustain, and
never for an instant permits you to forget the circumstances, of
whatever kind, in which he is placed; and those who have seen him in any
of the greater parts on the French stage, can never forget that
unrivalled power of expressing deep grief, of which nothing in any
English actor at present on the stage can afford any idea.

At the same time it must be admitted, that Talma has arrived at that
time of life, when the hand of age has impaired, in some degree, the
vigour and expression of the human frame, and when his countenance has
lost much of that variety and play of expression which belongs to the
period of youth alone; it has lost much of the warmth and keenness of
youthful feeling, and probably might fail in expressing that openness,
and gaiety, and enthusiasm, which time has so great a tendency to
diminish. But these qualities are not often required in the parts which
Talma has to perform in the French plays; and if his countenance has
lost some of the perfections of earlier years, it has, on the other
hand, gained much from the seriousness and dignity of age. If, for
instance, he does not express so well the ardour--the hope--the triumph
of youthful love, there is yet something irresistibly affecting in the
earnestness with which he expresses that passion; something which adds
most deeply to the interest which its expression is calculated to
excite, by reminding one of the instability of human enjoyment, and of
the many misfortunes which the course of life may bring with it to
destroy the visions of inexperienced affection. We have already
mentioned, that in the expression of profound emotion and deep
suffering, the countenance of Talma is altogether admirable; and we
doubt whether there is any thing is this respect more true and perfect,
even in the performance of that great actress who has, in the present
day, united every perfection of grace, and beauty, and genuine feeling
which the stage has ever exhibited. But the countenance of Talma, in
scenes of distress, expresses not merely suffering, but if possible,
something more, which we have never seen in any other actor. He alone
possesses the power of expressing that impatience under suffering--that
restless, constant wish for relief, which produces so strong an
impression of the truth and reality of the affliction with which you are
called upon to sympathise.

His attitudes and action are uncommonly striking, seldom in the
exaggeration of the French stage, and never running into that immoderate
expression of passion in which dignity of character is necessarily
sacrificed. Talma appears to understand the use and management of action
better than any actor on the French stage; and though at times some
prominent faults, inseparable, perhaps, from the character of the plays
in which he is compelled to perform, may be observable; yet, in general,
his action appears to possess a power and expression beyond what is
attempted by any actor on the English stage.

Nothing can be conceived apparently so inconsistent with the character
of the French plays, as the manner in which they are delivered. The
harangues, which are tedious to many when read, might probably be very
uninteresting to all when performed, if delivered with that unbending
and unimpassioned declamation, which seems to suit "their stately march
and long resounding lines:" to a French audience, in particular, such
representations would be intolerable, and the actors, accordingly, have
been led to perform them with a degree of energy and passion which they
do not appear intended to admit, but which was necessary, perhaps, to
awaken those emotions which it must be more or less the object of
theatrical representations to excite, wherever they are to be performed
to all classes of mankind. As might have been foreseen, the French
actors, compelled to counterfeit a degree of warmth and feeling which
was not suggested by the sentiments they utter, or the language they
employ, have fallen very naturally into the error of making the
expression of passion immoderately vehement; and thus, when not guided
by the language they are to use, have become not only indiscriminate in
the introduction of violent emotion, but often run into a degree of
warmth, totally destructive of every feeling of propriety and dignity.

The striking circumstance in Talma's acting is, that he alone seems to
know how to act the French plays with all the feeling and interest which
can be necessary to produce effect; and at the same time, to avoid that
exaggerated representation of passion which represses the very emotions
it is intended to excite. The means by which the genius of this great
actor has accomplished so important an effect, and overcome the
difficulties which seem insuperable to the rest of his countrymen,
afford the best illustration that can be given of the talents and
imagination he displays. Talma appears to have thought, and most justly,
that the only manner in which the French tragedies can approach and
interest the heart, is by the impression which the character and the
moral tendency of the play may, upon the whole, be able to produce, not
by the force or pathos which can be thrown into any detached speeches,
or by the effect with which individual parts of the tragedy may be
given. The impression which might be created by the delivery of any
particular passage, or by the expression of any occasional sentiment, he
seems at all times to consider as of subordinate importance to the
preservation of that permanent character, whether of intense and
overpowering suffering, or wild desperation, by which he thinks the
feelings of the spectators may be most deeply and heartily interested.
Much as we admire the excellencies of the English stage, and none we are
persuaded can have an opportunity of comparing it with the acting of the
French theatre, without being more sensible of its perfections, we
think it may yet be observed, that many important objects are sacrificed
to the desire of producing _continual_ emotion,--to the practice of
making every sentiment and every word tell upon the audience, with an
effect which could not be greater, if that sentiment were the whole
object of the tragedy. We admit, most willingly, the talent and feeling
which are often so beautifully displayed in the course of the inferior
scenes; and the impression, which is so frequently produced over the
"whole assembled multitude," by the delivery of a single passage, of no
importance in itself, attests sufficiently the merits of the actors who
can thus wield at will the passions of the spectators. What we are
anxious to observe is, that the _general impression_, from the play must
be less profound, when the mind is thus distracted by a variety of
powerful feelings succeeding each other so rapidly, and when the
interest, which would naturally increase of itself as the performance
proceeds, in the history and moral tendency of the tragedy, is thus
broken, as it were, by the influence of so many transient passions. It
is very singular to observe the difference, in this respect, between the
character of an English and a Parisian audience: To the former, every
thing, as it passes, must be given with the greatest effect; no
opportunity can safely be omitted, by any one attentive to the public
opinion, of displaying the power with which each sentiment may be
expressed; and there is no common feeling among the spectators, of the
subserviency of all the different parts of the tragedy to one great
import, or that it is only in the more important scenes, where the
events of the story are coming to a close, that great talent is to be
exerted, or profound emotion excited. The feelings of a French audience,
as might be expected, are such as better suit the character of the plays
which have been so long addressed to them; they like to have their
interest awakened, and their feelings excited, only as the story
proceeds, and the deeper scenes of the tragedy begin to open upon them;
and it is to the general impression which the progress and close of the
play leave upon the mind, that they look, as to the criterion of the
excellence of the manner, in which that play has been performed.
Nothing, therefore, can be apparently quieter than the commencement of a
French tragedy; and a person unacquainted with the language, would be
disposed to conclude what was passing before him as uninteresting in the
highest degree, if he did not observe the most profound and eager
attention to prevail in those to whom it is addressed. It would be a
subject of very curious and instructive speculation, to examine the
circumstances, in the situation and intelligence of the people in both
countries, which have occasioned this remarkable difference in their
feelings, in moments when the influence of prejudice, or the effect of
peculiar character, generally gives way, and when the genuine sentiments
of mankind, as invariably happens when the different ranks of men are
assembled indiscriminately together, assume their natural empire over
the human heart. It might unfold some interesting conclusions both as to
the great object of the drama, and the genuine style of dramatic
representation; and might place, in a more important point of view than
is within the consideration, perhaps, of many who so hastily decide on
the superiority of the English stage, the excellence they admire.

Much as the French tragedies are despised in this country, and sensible
as we are of many essential defects which belong to them, when
considered as the means of exciting popular feeling, or of applying to
the duties of common life, we must yet state the very great and lasting
impression which many of them left on our minds, and which, we can truly
say, was never equalled by any effect produced by the most successful
efforts of the English stage. At our own theatres, we have been often
more deeply affected during the performance of the play,--we have often
admired, much more, the grace, or feeling, or grandeur of the acting we
witnessed, and been more highly delighted with the _species_ of talent
which was displayed; but yet, we must acknowledge, that the impression
that all this _left upon the mind_, was not such as has been produced by
the powers of Talma in the French tragedies. We had many occasions,
however, to see that this effect was to be attributed chiefly to the
genius of this great actor, and that it was only when entrusted to him,
that the influence of these plays was so deeply felt.

The great difference, then, between the acting of Talma, and of the
other actors on the French stage, is his constant attention to the means
by which the impression, which the general tendency of the play will
produce, may be increased. Whatever may be the character which the
nature of the tragedy seems to require, his whole powers are employed to
pursue that character inviolably during the progress of the play, and to
add to the effect it is fitted to produce: The character of profound
grief, for instance, is so completely sustained, that the very act of
speaking seems an exertion too great for a mind which suffering has
nearly exhausted, and where, in consequence, the pomp and energy of
declamation, and many of the most natural aids by which passion is wont
to express itself, are all disregarded in the intensity of mental agony.
It is not uncommon, accordingly, to see Talma perform parts of a tragedy
in a manner which might seem tame and unmeaning to one who had not been
present at the preceding parts, but which is most interesting to those
who have seen the character which he adopts from the first, and feel the
propriety and effect of the manner in which that character is sustained.
Some of the most striking effects we have ever seen produced in any
acting, are in those scenes, in many plays in which he performs, in
which, from his powerful and affecting personation of character, his
exhausted mind seems unable to enter into any events which are not
either to relieve his sufferings, or terminate an existence which
appears beset with such hopeless misery. Other actors may have succeeded
in expressing as strongly the influence of present suffering, or the
despair of intense grief. It is Talma alone who knows how to express,
what is so much more grand, the effects of long suffering; to remind you
of the misery he has endured by the spectacle of an exhausted frame and
broken spirit; and by exhibiting the overwhelming consequence of those
sufferings which the poet has not dared to describe, nor the actor
ventured to represent to interest the mind far more profoundly than any
representation of present passion could possibly effect. The influence
of the exertions of other actors is limited to the effects of the
emotions they represent, and of the suffering they exhibit: the genius
of Talma has imitated the efforts of ancient Greece in her matchless
sculpture, and, in every situation which put it within his power,
chosen, as the proper field for the display of the actor's powers, not
the mere representation of excess in suffering, but that moment of
greater interest, when the struggle of nature is past, and the mind has
sunk under the pressure of affliction, which no fortitude could sustain,
and which no ray of hope had cheered.

Every one knows the peculiar manner in which, in general, the verses of
the French tragedy are repeated, and the delight which the French people
take in the uniform and balanced modulation of voice with which they are
accompanied. In an ordinary actor, this peculiar tone is often, to many
foreigners, extremely fatiguing, but it is defended in France, as
securing a pleasure in some degree independent of the merits of the
actor, and defending the audience from the harshness of tone, and
extravagancies of accent, to which otherwise, in bad actors, they would
be exposed; and certainly no one can listen, in the National Theatre, to
the beautiful and splendid declamations of the most celebrated
compositions in French literature, delivered in the manner which has
been selected as best adapted to the character of the plays and the
taste of the people, with any feeling of indifference. In the skilful
hands of Talma, who preserves the beauty of the poetry nearly unimpaired
in the very _abandon_ of feeling, the French verse acquires beauties
which it never before could boast, and loses all that is harsh or
painful in the uniformity of its structure, or the monotony of
artificial taste. The description which Le Baron de Grimm has given of
Le Kain may be well applied to Talma. "Un talent plus precieux sans
doute et qu'il avait porté au plus haut degré c'etait celui de faire
sentir tout le charme des beaux vers sans nuire jamais a la verité de
l'expression. En dechirant le cœur, il enchantait toujours l'oreille, sa
voix pénétrait jusqu'au fond de l'ame, et l'impression qu'elle y
faisait, semblable a celle du burin, y laissait des traces et longs
souvenirs."

The tragedy of Hamlet, in which we saw Talma perform for the first time,
is one which must be interesting to every person who has any
acquaintance with French literature; and it will not probably be
considered as any great digression in a description of Talma's
excellencies as an actor, to add some further remarks concerning that
celebrated play in which his powers are perhaps most strikingly
displayed, and which is one of the greatest compositions undoubtedly of
the French theatre. It can hardly be called a translation, as many
material alterations were made in the story of the play; and though the
general purport of the principal speeches has been sometimes preserved,
the language and sentiments are generally extremely different. The
character of Shakespeare's Hamlet was wholly unsuited to the taste of a
French audience. What is the great attraction in that mysterious being
to the feelings of the English people, the strange, wild, and
metaphysical ideas which his art or his madness seems to take such
pleasure in starting, and the uncertainty in which Shakespeare has left
the reader with regard to Hamlet's real situation, would not perhaps
have been understood--certainly not admired, by those who were
accustomed to consider the works of Racine and Voltaire as the models of
dramatic composition. In the play of Ducis, accordingly, Hamlet thinks,
talks, and acts pretty much as any other human being would do, who
should be compelled to speak only in the verse of the French tragedy,
which necessarily excludes, in a great degree, any great incoherence or
flightiness of sentiment. In some respects, however, the French Hamlet,
if a less poetical personage, is nevertheless a more interesting one,
and better adapted to excite those feelings which are most within the
command of the actor's genius. M. Ducis has represented him as more
doubtful of the reality of the vision which haunted him, or at least of
the authority which had commissioned it for such dreadful
communications; and this alteration, so important in the hands of Talma,
was required on account of other changes which had been made in the
story of the play. The paramour of the Queen is not Hamlet's uncle, nor
had the Queen either married the murderer, or discovered her criminal
connexion with him. Hamlet, therefore, has not, in the incestuous
marriage of his mother, that strong confirmation of the ghost's
communication, which, in Shakespeare, led him to suspect foul play even
before he sees his father's spirit. In the French play, therefore,
Hamlet is placed in one of the most dreadful situations in which the
genius of poetry can imagine a human being: Haunted by a spirit, which
assumes such mastery over his mind, that he cannot dispel the fearful
impression it has made, or disregard the communication it so often
repeats, while his attachment to his mother, in whom he reveres the
parent he has lost, makes him question the truth of crimes which are
thus laid to her charge, and causes him to look upon this terrific
spectre as the punishment of unknown crime, and the visitation of an
offended Deity. Ducis has most judiciously and most poetically
represented Hamlet, in the despair which his sufferings produce, as
driven to the belief of an over-ruling destiny, disposing of the fate of
its unhappy victims by the most arbitrary and revolting arrangement, and
visiting upon some, with vindictive fury, the whole crimes of the age in
which they live. There is in this introduction of ancient superstition,
something which throws a mysterious veil round the destiny of Hamlet,
that irresistibly engrosses the imagination, and which must be doubly
interesting in that country where the horrors of the revolution have
ended in producing a very prevalent, though vague belief, in the
influence of fatality upon human character and human actions, among
those who pretend to ridicule, as unmanly prejudice and childish
delusion, the religion of modern Europe.

The struggle, accordingly, that appears to take place in Hamlet's mind
is most striking; and when at last he yields to the authority and the
commands of the spirit, which exercises such tyranny over his mind, it
does not seem the result of any farther evidence of the guilt which he
is enjoined to revenge, but as the triumph of superstition over the
strength of his reason. He had long resisted the influence of that
visionary being, which announced itself as his father's injured spirit,
and in assuming that sacred form, had urged him to destroy the only
parent whom fate had left; but the struggle had brought him to the brink
of the grave, and shaken the empire of reason; and when at last he
abandons himself to the guidance of a power which his firmer nature had
long resisted, the impression of the spectator is, that his mind has
yielded in the struggle, and that, in the desperate hope of obtaining
relief from present wretchedness, he is about to commit the most
horrible crimes, by obeying the suggestions of a spirit, which he more
than suspects to be employed only to tempt him on to perdition. No
description can possibly do justice to the manner in which this
situation of Hamlet is represented by Talma; indeed, on reading over the
play some time afterwards, it was very evident that the powers of the
actor had invested the character with much of the grandeur and terror
which seemed to belong to it, and that the imagination of the French
poet, which rises into excellence, even when compared with the
productions of that great master of the passions whom he has not
submitted to copy, has been surpassed by the fancy of the actor for whom
he wrote. The Hamlet of Talma is probably productive of more profound
emotion, than any representation of character on any stage ever excited.

One other alteration ought to be mentioned, as it renders the
circumstances of Hamlet's situation still more distressing, and affords
Talma an opportunity of displaying the effects of one of the gentler
passions of human nature, when its influence seemed irreconcileable with
the stern and fearful duties which fate had assigned to him. The Ophelia
of the French play, so unlike that beautiful and innocent being who
alone seems to connect the Hamlet of Shakespeare with the feelings and
nature of ordinary men, has been made the daughter of the man for whose
sake the king has been poisoned, and was engaged to marry Hamlet at that
happier period when he was the ornament of his father's court, and the
hope of his father's subjects. In the first part of the play, though no
hint of the terrible revenge which he was to execute on her father has
escaped, the looks and anxiety of Talma discover to her that her fate is
in some degree connected with the emotions which so visibly oppress him,
and she makes him at last confess the insurmountable barrier which
separates them for ever. Nothing can be greater than the acting of Talma
during this difficult scene, in which he has to resist the entreaties of
the woman whom he loves, when imploring for the life of her father, and
yet so overcome with his affection, as hardly to have strength left to
adhere to his dreadful purpose.

The feelings of a French audience do not permit the spirit of Hamlet's
father to appear on the stage: "L'apparition se passe, (says Madame de
Stael)[3], en entier dans la physionomie de Talma, et certes elle n'en
est pas ainsi moins effrayante. Quand, au milieu d'un entretien calme et
melancolique, tout a coup il aperçoit le spectre, on suit tout; ses
mouvemens dans les yeux qui le contemplent, et l'on ne peut douter de la
presence du fantome quand un tel regard l'atteste." The remark is
perfectly just, nothing can be imagined more calculated to dispel at
once the effect which the countenance of a great actor, in such
circumstances, would naturally produce, than bringing any one on the
stage to personate the ghost; and whoever has seen Talma in this part,
will acknowledge that the mind is not disposed to doubt, for an instant,
the existence of that form which no eye but his has seen, and of that
voice which no ear but his has heard. We regretted much, while
witnessing the astonishing powers which Talma displayed in this very
difficult part of the play, that it was impossible to see his genius
employed in giving effect to the character of Aristodemo, (in the
Italian tragedy of that name by Monti), to which his talents alone could
do justice, and which, perhaps, affords more room for the display of the
actor's powers, than any other play with which we are acquainted.

But the soliloquy on death is the part in which the astonishing
excellence and genius of Talma are most strikingly displayed. Whatever
difficulty there may often be to determine the particular manner in
which scenes, with other characters, ought to be performed, there is no
difference of opinion as to the manner in which soliloquies ought in
general to be delivered. How comes it, then, that these are the very
parts in which all feel that the powers of the actors are so much tried,
and in which, for the most part, they principally fail? No one can have
paid any attention to the English stage, without being struck with the
circumstance, that while there may be much to praise in the performance
of the other parts, many of the best actors uniformly fail in
soliloquies; and that it is only of late, since the reputation of the
English stage, has been so splendidly revived, that we have seen these
difficult and interesting parts properly performed. It is in this
circumstance, more than any other, in which the talents of Talma are
most remarkably displayed, because he is peculiarly fitted, by his
complete personation of character, and the deep interest which he seems
himself to take in the part he is sustaining, to excel in performing
what chiefly requires such interest. He is, at all times, so fully
impressed with the feelings, which, under such circumstances, must have
been really felt, that one is uniformly struck with the truth and
propriety of every thing he does; and of course, in soliloquies, which
must be perfect, when the actor appears to be seriously and deeply
interested in the subjects on which he is meditating, Talma invariably
succeeds. In this soliloquy in Hamlet, he is completely absorbed in the
awful importance of the great question which occupies his attention, and
nothing indicates the least consciousness of the multitude which
surrounds him, or even that he is giving utterance to the mighty
thoughts which crowd upon his mind. "Talma ne faisoit pas un geste,
quelquefois seulement il remuoit la tête pour questioner la terre et le
ciel sur ce que c'est que la mort! Immobile, la dignité de la meditation
absorboit tout son etre."--De l'Allemagne, 1. c. We could wish to avoid
any attempt to describe the acting of Talma in those passages which the
eloquence of M. de Stael has rendered familiar throughout Europe; yet we
feel that this account of the tragedy of Hamlet would be imperfect, if
we did not allude to that very interesting scene, which corresponds, in
the history of the play, to the closet scene in Shakespeare. Talma
appears with the urn which contains the ashes of his father, and whose
injured spirit he seems to consult, to obtain more proof of the guilt
which he is to revenge, or in the hope that the affections of human
nature may yet survive the horrors of the tomb, and that the duty of
the son will not be tried in the blood of the parent who gave him birth.
But no voice is heard to alter the sentence which he is doomed to
execute; and he is still compelled to prepare himself to meet with
sternness his guilty mother. After charging her, with the utmost
tenderness and solemnity, with the knowledge of her husband's murder, he
places the urn in her hands, and requires her to swear her innocence
over the sacred ashes which it contains. At first, the consciousness
that Hamlet could only _suspect_ her crime, gives her resolution to
commence the oath with firmness; and Talma, with an expression of
countenance which cannot be described, awaits, in triumph and joy, the
confirmation of her innocence,--and seems to call upon the spirit which
had haunted him, to behold the solemn scene which proves the falsehood
of its mission. But the very tenderness which he shews destroys the
resolution of his mother, and she hesitates in the oath she had begun to
pronounce. His feelings are at once changed,--the paleness of horror,
and fury of revenge, are marked in his countenance, and his hands grasp
the steel which is to punish her guilt: But the agony of his mother
again overpowers him, at the moment he is about to strike; he appeals
for mercy to the shade of his father, in a voice, in which, as M. de
Stael has truly said, all the feelings of human nature seem at once to
burst from his heart, and, in an attitude humbled by the view of his
mother's guilt and wretchedness, he awaits the confession she seems
ready to make: and when she sinks, overcome by the remorse and agony
which she feels, he remembers only that she is his mother; the affection
which had been long repressed again returns, and he throws himself on
his knees, to assure her of the mercy of Heaven. We do not wish to be
thought so presumptuous as to compare the talents of the French author
with the genius of Shakespeare, but we must be allowed to say, that we
think this scene better managed for dramatic effect: and certainly no
part of Hamlet, on the English stage, ever produced the same impression,
or affected us so deeply. We are well aware, however, how very different
the scene would have appeared in the hands of any other actors than
Talma and Madle Duchesnois, and that a very great part of the merit
which the play seemed to possess, might be more justly attributed to the
talents which they displayed. At the conclusion of this great tragedy,
which has become so popular in France, and in which the genius of Talma
is so powerfully exhibited, the applause was universal; and after some
little time, to our surprise, instead of diminishing, became much
louder; and presently a cry of Talma burst out from the whole house. In
a few minutes the curtain drew up, and discovered Talma waiting to
receive the applause with which they honoured him, and to express his
sense of the distinction paid to him.

The part of Orestes in Andromaque, is another character in which the
acting of Talma is seen to much advantage: and to a foreigner, it is
peculiarly interesting, as it displays, more than any other almost, that
uncommon power of recitation which distinguishes his acting from the
tame and monotonous declamation of the ordinary actors; and which gives
to the splendid language, and elevated sentiments of the French
tragedies, an effect which cannot easily be understood by any one who
has never seen them well performed. The part is one which is remarkably
popular at present in Paris, as there is something in the history of
that fabulous being, who has been represented as the victim of a
capricious and arbitrary Providence, and exposed during his whole life
to the most unmerited and horrible torments, which seems greatly to
interest the French people; and Talma has thus been led to bestow upon
the character a degree of reflection and preparation, which the parts
in a French tragedy do not in general require. There is a passage which
occurs in the first scene, which exhibits very strikingly the judgment
and genuine feeling which uniformly marks his acting. After mentioning
what had happened to him after his disappointment, with regard to
Hermione, and his separation from Pylades, he says, that he had hastened
to the great assembly of the Greeks, which the common interest of Greece
had called together, in the hope, that the ardour, the activity, and the
love of glory which had distinguished the period of youth, might revive
with the animating scene which was again presented to his mind.

    "En ce calme trompeur J'arrivai dans la Grece
    Et Je trouvois d'abord ces princes rassemblès,
    Qu'un peril assez grand sembloit avoir troublès.
    J'y courus. Je pensai que la guerre et la gloire
    De soins plus importants remplissoit ma memoire
    Que mes sens reprenant leur premiere vigueur
    L'amour acheveroit de sortir de mon cœur.
    Mais admire avec mois le sort, dont la pursuite
    Me fait courir alors au piege que j'evite."

There is a similar passage in Othello, in which, when the passion of
jealousy had seized upon his mind, the Moor laments the degradation to
which he had fallen, when all the objects of his former ambition ceased
to interest his imagination, or animate his exertions. In enumerating
the occupations which formed the pomp and glorious circumstance of war,
but for which the misery of his situation had completely unmanned him,
the actors who have attempted this character, fire with the description
of the arms which he now abandons, and of the scenes in which his renown
had been acquired. In this analogous passage, Talma repeats these scenes
with much greater propriety and effect. He appeared overwhelmed by a
deep sense of the degradation to which a foolish and unmanly attachment
had reduced him; no gesture or tone of voice, expressive of the
slightest animation, escaped him, when he described the objects of his
youthful ambition; every thing denoted the shame and regret of a man who
felt that his glory and his occupation were gone, and who no longer
dared to look up with pride to the remembrance of those better days,
when his valour and his resolution were the admiration of Greece.

The scene between Orestes and Hermione on their first meeting, is one in
which Talma displays very great power: with his heart full of the
passion from which he had suffered so much, he begins the declaration of
his constancy in the most ardent and impressive manner, and for a time
seems to flatter himself, that resentment at the neglect which she had
met with from Pyrrhus might have awakened some affection for himself in
the breast of Hermione. At first she is anxious to secure Orestes in
case that Pyrrhus should ultimately slight her, and is at pains to
confirm the hope which she perceives that this passion had created: But
when he urges her to take the opportunity which how offered itself, of
leaving a court where she appeared to be detained only to witness the
marriage of her rival, she betrays at once the state of her mind:--

      "Mais, seigneur, cependant s'il epouse Andromaque.
      _Oreste_. Hé, madame.
      _Her_. Songez quelle honte pour nous,
    Si d'une Phrygienne il devenoit lepoux.
      _Oreste_. Et vous le haissez!"--&c.

The indignant and bitter irony with which Talma delivers this speech,
when he finds that resentment at Pyrrhus, and not affection for himself,
has made her thus anxious to rivet the chains which her former cruelty
had hardly weakened, is most striking, and he seems at once to regain
the independence which he had lost.

There is another passage of very peculiar interest, which we hope it
will not be prolonging these remarks too far to quote, as affording a
very striking instance of the effect which the powers of Talma are able
to produce, under almost any circumstances. When Pyrrhus, at one part of
the play, consents to surrender Astyanax, and by this rupture with
Andromache, resolves to marry Hermione, Orestes is thrown at once into
the utmost despair by this sudden change of plans, and by this
disappointment of his hopes. When he again appears with Pylades, he
threatens to take the most violent measures, to interrupt this marriage,
and to carry off Hermione by force from the court where she was
detained. His friend naturally feels for the wound which his fame must
suffer from such an outrage, and the dishonour which it would bring upon
a name rendered sacred throughout Greece, from the unmerited misfortunes
which he had sustained. "Voila donc le succès qu'aura votre ambassade.
Oreste ravisseur." But such considerations are of no avail in the
intemperance of his present feelings; and Orestes, after alluding to the
injury of a second rejection by Hermione, proceeds to another motive,
which urged him to any means, however violent to secure his object, and
which most powerfully interests the imagination. Every one knows the
supposed history of that mysterious character, whose destiny seemed to
have placed him at the disposal of some unrelenting enemy of the human
race, and who had suffered every misfortune which could oppress human
nature.

    "--Mais, s'il faut ne te rien deguiser
    Mon innocence enfin commence a me peser,
    Je ne sais, de tout tems, quelle injuste puissence
    Laisse le crime en paix, et poursuit l'innocence,
    De quelque part sur moi que je trouve les yeux,
    Je ne vois que malheurs qui condamnent lea Dieux,
    Meritons leur courroux, justifions leur haine,
    Et que le fruit du crime en précéde la peine."

It is a remark of Seneca, that the most sublime spectacle in nature is
the view of a great man _struggling against_ misfortune, and such a
character has ever been considered as the most appropriate subject for
dramatic representation. The extreme difficulty of succeeding, in the
very important passage which I have quoted, is obviously because the
very reverse of such a spectacle is now presented to the mind,--when
Orestes is made to abandon that distinction in _his fate_ which alone
gave him any peculiar hold over the feelings of the spectators, and
because the actor must continue to engage, even more deeply than
before, their _interest_ and their _pity_, at the very time when the
sentiments he utters must necessarily lower the dignity of the character
he sustains, and diminish the compassion he had previously awakened.
How, then, is that ascendency over the mind, which the singular destiny
of Orestes naturally acquires, to be preserved, when he no longer is to
be regarded as the innocent sufferer who claims our interest, and when
he is content to descend to the level of ordinary men? In this very
difficult passage Talma is eminently successful; no vehemence of manner
accompanies the desperate resolution he expresses, the recollection of
the misery he has suffered, and the dread of the greater misfortunes
which his present intentions must bring upon him, seem wholly to
overpower him, and his countenance, marked with the utmost dejection and
wretchedness, appears still to appeal for mercy to the power which
persecutes him. Everything in his appearance and voice conveys the
impression of a person overwhelmed with misfortunes, and hurried on, by
an impulse he cannot controul, into greater calamities, and more
complicated misery. The very sentiment which he avows, seems to proceed
from the over-ruling influence of a destiny which he has in vain
attempted to resist, and to be only another proof of the unceasing
persecution to which he is exposed; and though he no longer commands
admiration, or deserves esteem, he becomes more than ever the object of
the deepest commiseration. Talma appears to attach much importance to
the impression which this passage may produce, as much of the view which
he exhibits of the character of Orestes seems intended to assist its
effect; and we certainly consider it as the greatest and most successful
effort of _genius_, which we have ever seen displayed upon any stage.
After witnessing this representation of the character of Orestes at this
melancholy period of his life, it was with no ordinary interest that we
shortly after saw Talma perform the part of Orestes in Iphigénie en
Tauride, a play which represents very beautifully the only event in his
life, which ever seemed likely to secure his happiness, the discovery of
his sister; and we shall never forget the beautiful expression of
Talma's countenance, and the delightful tones of his voice, when he
described to his sister and his friend, the emotions which the feeling
of happiness so new to him had created, and the hopes of future exertion
and honour, which he now felt himself able to entertain.

The last scene of this interesting tragedy is the most celebrated and
most admired part in the range of Talma's characters, and undoubtedly it
is impossible to find any acting more admirable or more affecting: After
the death of Pyrrhus, he rushes upon the stage to inform Hermione that
he had obeyed her dreadful commission, and to receive the reward of such
a proof of his attachment; the horror of the crime which he had
committed is sunk in his confidence of the claim he has now acquired to
her gratitude, and he triumphantly relates the circumstances of the
scene which had passed, as giving him such undeniable titles to the
reward which had been promised to his firmness.--Madame de Stael has
mentioned the effect he gives to the short and feeble reply which he
makes, when Hermione accuses him of cruelty, and throws all the guilt of
the murder on himself;--but it is in the subsequent part that he appears
so great: After Hermione leaves him, and he recovers in some degree of
the stupor which such an unexpected attack had produced, he repeats, in
a hurried manner, the circumstances of his situation, and dwells on the
perfidy of Hermione; but when he finds no palliation for his crime, and
sees how completely he has been degraded by his unmanly weakness, the
whole enormity of his guilt comes full upon his mind, and he acquires
even dignity in the opinion of the beholder, from the solemn and
emphatic manner in which he curses the folly and inhumanity of his
conduct. But a further blow awaits him; and it is not till Pylades
informs him of the death of Hermione, that the horrors of madness begin
to seize on his mind. At first he remains motionless and thunderstruck
with the dreadful issue of his enterprise; then, in a low and thrilling
tone of voice, he laments the bitterness and misery of that destiny by
which he is doomed to be for ever the victim of fate, (du malheur un
modêle accompli,) till the wildness of madness comes over him: In a
voice hardly heard, he seems to ask himself, "Quelle épaisse nuit tout a
coup m'environne, de quelle coté sortir? D'ou-vient que je frissonne.
Quelle horreur me saisit?"--and at once a shriek, dreadful beyond all
description, announces the destruction of reason, and the agonies of
madness. It is vain to describe the wild, desperate, and horrifying
manner in which he represents Orestes tortured by the frightful visions
with which the furies had visited his mind, till his nature, exhausted
by such intense sufferings, sinks at once into a calm, more dreadful
even than the wildness which had preceded it.

These remarks have been extended so much beyond the limits which can be
interesting to those who have never seen this unrivalled actor, and to
whom they can convey so very inadequate a notion of his powers, that it
is impossible to make any further observations, which his performance in
other characters may have suggested. The most interesting character,
perhaps, in which we saw him perform after these, was Nero in
Britannicus. Every person who has been in Paris, since the collection of
statues was brought there, must have remarked the striking resemblance
of Talma's countenance to the first busts of Nero; and this singular
circumstance, along with the admirable manner in which he represents the
impatient, headstrong, and profligate tyrant, rendered his acting in
this character remarkably interesting. The opportunities Which he
enjoyed of studying the character and the manner of Bonaparte,--who
never forgot the assistance he received from Talma, when he first
entered that city, where he was afterwards to govern with such unbounded
power,--must have been present to his mind when he was preparing this
difficult character; and if it is supposed that he must have been, even
with this advantage, little able to imagine correctly the manner and
deportment of so singular a character as the Roman Emperor, none will
question the judgment, on this point, of that extraordinary person,
under whose tyranny Talma so long lived, and who, as Talma has often
declared, did actually suggest many improvements in the manner in which
he had first acted the part.

Mademoiselle Georges, the great tragic actress, was reckoned at one time
the most beautiful woman in France. She is now grown very large, and her
movements are, from that cause, stiff and constrained; but she is still
a fine woman, and her countenance, though not very striking at first
sight, is capable of wonderful variety and intensity of expression; her
style of acting may be said to be intermediate between the matronly
dignity and majestic deportment of Mrs Siddons, and the enchanting
sweetness and feminine graces of Miss O'Neil. In the delineation of
strong feelings and violent passions, of grief, madness, or despair, she
will not suffer from comparison with either of these actresses; but we
should doubt whether she can ever have inspired as much moral sympathy
and admiration as the one has always commanded, by the elevation and
grandeur of her representation of characters of exalted virtue, and the
other daily wins, by the interesting tenderness of her manner, by the
truth and energy of her impassioned scenes, and the overpowering pathos
of her distress.

The tragedy of Œdipe, by Voltaire, affords room for the display of the
most characteristic qualities of Talma and Mademoiselle Georges; and
when we saw them act Œdipus and Jocasta in this piece, we agreed that
there were certainly no actor and actress, of equally transcendent
merit, who act together in either of the London theatres. The distress
of the play is of too horrible and repulsive a kind, we should conceive,
to be ever admitted on the English stage; but it furnishes occasion for
the display of consummate art in the imitation of the most terrible and
overpowering emotions; and it is difficult to conceive a more powerful
representation than they exhibited of the gloomy forebodings of
suspicion, of the agonizing suspence of unsatisfied doubt, and the
"sickening pang of hope deferred"--heightened, rather than diminished,
by the consciousness of innocent intention, and the feeling of
undeserved affliction, and giving way only to the certainty of
irretrievable misery, and the phrenzy of utter despair.

In concluding these remarks, upon a subject which interested us so much,
we are anxious to offer some general reflections upon the character of
the French stage, which were suggested by the observations we had an
opportunity of making. It is far from being our intention, to enter into
any discussion of the rules upon which the construction of their
tragedies is supposed to depend, or to occupy the time of our readers,
by useless remarks upon the sacrifices which it is said must be made, by
strictly observing the _unities_ in dramatic compositions. Quite enough
is known of the _defects_ of the French tragedy, and it is much to be
regretted, that those who have had an opportunity of attending the
French theatre, have generally carried their national prejudices along
with them, and seem to have been more desirous to confirm the
prepossessions they had previously acquired, than to form any fair and
correct estimate of the merits of that drama. We are a little aware in
general in this country, how much the composition of our own tragedies
might be improved, and how much the effect of the talents which the
stage displays might be increased, were we as candid in admitting the
very great excellencies which the French stage possesses, as we have
been desirous to discover its imperfections. Without presuming to
attempt an examination of the French theatre, in the view of correcting
what appear to us the errors in the public taste, we mean merely to
state in what respects it appeared to us, that the impression left on
the mind by the French tragedies is stronger and more lasting than any
that we have experienced from attending our own theatres. Our conviction
of the general superiority of the English stage has been already
expressed, and therefore we hope we shall not be misapprehended in the
object which we have in view in such remarks.

1. In the first place, then, we would mention--what we hope is not
necessary to illustrate at any length--the very great impression which
must be made upon every thoughtful mind, by the unity of emotion which
the French tragedies are fitted to produce. The effect which may result
from this unity of emotion appears to excite much deeper interest, than
can be produced by the mere exertion of the actors' power, when it is
not uniformly directed to the expression of one general character. It is
also worthy of consideration, whether the very important purposes to
which the drama may be rendered subservient, may not be more easily
accomplished, when the whole tendency of the composition, and the
influence of acting, are employed in one general and consistent design.
No such principle seems to have been kept in view in the composition of
the greater part of the English tragedies. They resemble much, in truth,
as we have before observed, the scene of human affairs, which the
general aspect of the world presents,--full of every variety of
incident, and depending upon the actions of a number of different
characters. In the principal subject of the play, many seem to perform
parts nearly of equal importance, and to be equally concerned in the
issue of the story; each personage has his separate interest to claim
our attention, and peculiar features of character, which require nice
discrimination; and in general, no one character, or one subject, is
sufficiently presented to view. The minds of the spectators, therefore,
are oppressed and distracted by the variety of _feelings_ which are
excited, and their interest interrupted and dissipated, in some degree,
from the _variety of objects_ which claim it. The _general impression_,
therefore, left upon the mind, is less pointed, less profound, and must
produce less influence upon character, than when the feelings have been
steadily and powerfully interested in the consequences of one marked
and important event, or in the illustration of one great moral truth.

2. We must be permitted to state, in the second place, that we think the
French theatre is decidedly superior to our own, in the propriety and
discrimination with which they keep out of view many of those
exhibitions, which, on the English stage, are studiously brought forward
with a view to effect: It would be altogether useless, to enter into any
discussion of a question which has often been the subject of much idle
controversy; nor should we be able, we know, to suggest any thing which
could have any influence with those who think, that all the murders, and
battles, and bustle, which occur in many of the grander scenes in the
English tragedies, can increase the interest which such tragedies might
produce, or contribute to the effect of theatrical illusion. We were not
fortunate enough to see Talma in Ducis' play of Macbeth, where the
difference between the French and English stage in this particular is
very strongly illustrated; but from every thing we have, understood, of
the wonderful impression which is produced, when he describes his
interview with the weird sisters--the terrors which accompanied their
appearance, and the feelings which their predictions awakened, we are
persuaded that the effect must be much finer than any thing which can
result from the feeble attempt to represent all this to the eye.
Macbeth, however, without the witches, and all the clumsy machinery
which is employed on the stage to carry through so impracticable a
scene, would appear stripped of its principal beauties to the taste of a
great part of an English audience; and yet we are perfectly convinced,
that there is no one imperfection, in the plan or composition of the
French tragedies, so deserving of censure, as the taste which can admit
such representations on the stage. We allude, of course, entirely to the
attempt to introduce this celebrated scene upon the stage; none can
admire more than we do, the powerful and creative imagination which it
displays.

3. The next circumstance to which we allude, is that very remarkable
one--of the dignity of sentiment, and elevation of thought, which
uniformly characterise the compositions of the French stage. This is a
perfection which, we believe, has never been denied by any one who is in
any degree acquainted with these productions; and therefore we are
anxious, as that very excellence has sometimes been thought to unfit
them for actual representation, merely to state, from our own
experience, the very great impression which such lofty and dignified
sentiments, in the composition of the play, are fitted to produce. For
ourselves we can say, that no dramatic representation on the English
stage produced the same permanent effect with some of the greater
compositions of the French tragedy; and we cannot but consider much of
their influence to be owing to the sublime and elevating sentiments with
which they abound. We could wish to see the tone of the tragedies which
are _now_ presented for the English stage, animated by the same strain
of dignified thought, and become more worthy of the approbation of a
great, and enlightened, and virtuous people.

Simple as these observations may appear, they yet suggest what we must
consider as most important improvements in the composition and character
of the English drama: The only tragedies which have been written for
many years for our stage are, with a few exceptions, undeniably the
feeblest productions in any branch of the national literature, and have
in general carried, to the utmost extreme, the imperfections which
existed in the works of those earlier writers whose genius and natural
feeling they have never been able to equal. Whenever any change does
occur in the character and tone of the tragedies of the English stage,
we are persuaded that much will be gained by further acquaintance with
the dramatic representations of the French theatre; and that the defects
of our own theatre can only be avoided, by imitating some of the
perfections of that drama, which we are accustomed at present so hastily
to censure.

We have only now to remark, that while the works of Corneille, of
Racine, and Voltaire, must ever remain conspicuous in the French drama,
we shall judge very erroneously of the present character of the French
stage, if we are only acquainted with these compositions of earlier
times. The consequences of the revolution have been felt in the tone of
dramatic composition, as in every other branch of literature, and in
every condition of society. The misfortunes which all classes of the
people have sustained,--the anxiety, and suspence, and terror, which
they so often felt, and the insecurity which so long seemed to attend
every enjoyment of human life, accustomed them so much to scenes of deep
interest, and to profound emotion, that it became necessary, in the
theatre, to have recourse to more powerful means of exciting their
compassion, and engaging their interest, than was always afforded by
the tragedies of the old writers. The same change, then, which is
observable in many other branches of the French literature of late
years, seems to have taken place, to a considerable extent, in
compositions for the stage; and from the serious and melancholy turn
which was often given to the public mind, it has become requisite, in
later writings, to introduce subjects of deeper interest, and more
fitted to affect the imagination in moments of strong popular feeling,
and of great national danger. Many of the reflections, therefore, which
such circumstances suggested, have been introduced into the tragedies
which have been composed during the very eventful period which has
elapsed since the commencement of the revolution; and the authors have
adapted, in a considerable degree, the interest, or the management of
their plays, to those peculiar sentiments which the character of that
period had given to the people. These sentiments may not always indicate
very sound principle, or very elevated feeling, but, in the turn which
has sometimes been given to the French plays, they are made to favour
the introduction of much poetical beauty, and much dramatic interest. We
have already mentioned, that there appears to be a vague, but general
impression of the influence of _fatality_ upon human conduct, floating
in the public mind; and though such a notion, probably, is seldom
admitted in the shape of a distinct doctrine, many circumstances
indicate, that among the body of the people, and among the army in
particular, the influence of this superstition is very considerable. It
is appealed to in many of those political writings which best indicate
the feelings of those to whom they are addressed; and we have all
remarked how much and how artfully their late ruler availed himself of
this belief, to connect the ascendancy of his arms, and the prosperity
of his dynasty, with the destiny of human affairs. On several very
important occasions, the utmost possible interest has been given to the
history of particular characters, in many recent tragedies, by employing
this powerful feeling in the public mind; and it was very apparent, that
the spectators took peculiar interest in the denouement of the plays in
which this subject was introduced.

In the works of Ducis, of Raynouard, and of several other recent
writers, and in many of the plays formed from tragedies of the German
school, very strong indications are to be found of the effect of the
circumstances in which the people have been placed, in giving, in some
respects, a new tone to dramatic compositions, and in calling forth
productions of deeper interest, and capable of exciting more profound
emotion, than could generally be produced by the works of the earlier
periods of French literature.

It is an animating proof of the ascendancy of virtuous feeling, and a
striking illustration of the tendency of great assemblies of men, when
not actuated by particular passions, to join in what is generous and
elevated in human thought, that not only have the tragedies of the
earlier writers continued to be universally admired, and constantly
acted during the whole period of the revolution, but that the standard
of sentiment has not been lowered in those productions which have been
designed expressly for the French stage during that period, and that the
dignity of ancient virtue, and the elevation of natural feeling, still
ennoble the tone of French tragedy.

* * *

The French comedies and comic acting are not less characteristic of the
people than their tragedies. They are a gay and lively, but not a
humorous people. A Frenchman enters into amusements with an eagerness
and relish, of which, in this country, we have no conception; all his
cares and sorrows are forgotten; all his serious occupations are
postponed; all his unruly passions are calmed;--he thinks neither of his
individual misfortunes, nor of his national degradation; neither of the
friends whom he has lost in the war, nor of the foreign soldiers whom it
has placed at his elbow; his whole soul is absorbed in the game, in the
dance, or in the _spectacle_. But his object is not laughter, or passive
enjoyment, or relaxation; it is the excitation of his spirits, the
occupation, and interest, and agitation of his mind, the varied
gratification of his senses, the exercise of his fancy, the display of
his wit, and taste, and politeness.

The exhibitions at the theatres are accommodated to this taste. With the
exception of some of Moliere's works, such as the Bourgeois Gentilhomme,
and M. de Pourceaugnac, (which are seldom acted, at least at the Theatre
Français), there are hardly any French comedies which are characterised
by what we call humour,--which have for their main object the
representation of palpably ludicrous peculiarities of character and
manner. You never hear, in a French theatre, the same loud
uncontrollable bursts of laughter, which are so often excited by
representations of this kind in London. There are no such actors, at the
principal theatres, as Matthews, or Liston, or Bannister, or Munden, or
Emery, whose principal merit lies in mimicry and buffoonery. There are
hardly any entertainments corresponding in character to our farces; the
after-pieces are short comedies, and characters in low life are
introduced into them, not as objects of derision, but of interest and
sympathy.

On the other hand, operas and genteel comedies, which are esteemed only
by the higher ranks in England, are a favourite amusement of all ranks
in France. The qualities which are most highly prized in the comedies,
are, interest and variety of incident and situation, wit and liveliness
of dialogue, and a certain elevation and elegance of character.

Regarding the character of the French tragedies, there will always be
much difference of opinion; and many, probably, of those who have had
the best opportunities of studying them, as performed upon the stage at
Paris, may yet retain nearly the same judgment concerning them which
they formed in reading them in the closet. And we are willing to admit,
that admirable as they appear to us in many respects, they are not well
adapted to become popular in this country. But the excellencies and
unrivalled elegance of the French comedy, have been at all times
universally admitted, while there is this great distinction between
them and the tragedies of the French school, that however great the
pleasure we may take in reading them, no one ever saw them well
performed, without acknowledging, that until then, he had no conception
of the astonishing field which they afford for the display of the
actor's power, or of the innumerable charms which they possess as
dramatic compositions.

Everything that ever was amiable and engaging in the character of the
French people; the elegance and _bon-hommie_ of their manners, which
served as a passport to the French in every country in Europe, and
softened the feelings of national resentment with which their ambition
and their arrogance to other nations had taught many to regard them as a
people; their well-known superiority to other nations in those
circumstances, which render them agreeable and pleasant in society, in
their constant attention and accommodation to the wishes and pursuits of
others, in that anxiety to please, to entertain, and to promote the
interests and happiness of others, which costs so little to those who
are never subject to that unhappy irregularity of temper and spirit, so
visible to all foreigners in the character of the English people, and
which never fails to secure esteem, and to interest the affections,
while superior worth, less happily gifted for the common purposes and
intercourse of life, may be regarded with no warmer feeling than that of
distant respect; the _loyauté_ and frankness once so closely associated
with the history and character of the French people; the manliness which
taught them at once to admit and to repair the wrongs which their
impetuosity of spirit, or their harshness of feeling, might have
occasioned, and the gallantry with which they were wont to defend with
their sword what their honour bound them to maintain; and above all,
that delightful and touching _abandon_ of feeling, which seemed the
result of genuine simplicity, and which appeared to know no reserve,
only because it knew no guilt; all these beautiful and interesting
traits, which adorned the character of former and of later days, are
still preserved in the comedies of their greater writers; the purity of
former character seems to animate the pages which they write, and the
spirit of earlier times seems yet to retain its ascendancy, when they
wish to pourtray the manners of the present day.

In the degradation of the present period, they delight to recall the
splendour and the renown of the period that is past; and, by preserving
in their works the character which adorned the French people before the
profligacy and the insidious policy of a corrupt court disarmed the
nation of its virtue, to reconcile it to slavery, they attempt to awaken
a nobler spirit, and lay the foundation of future grandeur. Whatever has
delighted us in reading the history of the earlier periods of the French
monarchy, when the elevation of chivalrous feeling, and the
disinterestedness of simple manners, distinguished the French people,
and when the character of the great Henry displayed, in a more
conspicuous station, the virtues which ennobled the duties of private
life, is yet to be found in their best comedies. Among the many
thousands who crowd to their numerous theatres, there are many, one
would hope, who can feel the sad contrast which the last century of
French history, "fertile only in crime," presents to the honour of
former times, and in whom may be reviving that lofty and generous spirit
which may yet redeem the character they have lost.

It seems not a little singular, that this taste in comedy should have
survived all the disorders of the revolution, and remained unchanged
amid the general diffusion of military habits and manners. This may be
partly explained by the circumstance, that the judges by whom theatrical
exhibitions are mainly regulated, are stationary at Paris, while the
men, whose actions have stamped the French character of the present day,
have been dispersed over the world. But it must certainly be admitted,
that the _taste_ of the French has not undergone an alteration
corresponding with that which is so obvious in their _manners_; and has
not degenerated to the degree that might have been expected, from the
diffusion of revolutionary ideas and licentious habits. The Theatre
Français affords perhaps the best specimen that now remains of the style
of conversation, and manners, and costume, of the old school of French
politeness.

For the representation of pieces bearing the general character which we
have described, the French are certainly better fitted than any other
people,--their native gaiety and sprightliness of disposition,--the
polish which their manners so readily acquire,--their irrepressible
confidence and self-conceit,--their love of shewing off, and attracting
attention, give really a stage effect to many of their serious actions,
and to almost all their trifling conversation and amusements. Hence, a
stranger is particularly struck with the uniform excellence of the comic
acting on the French stage; all the inferior parts ate sustained with
spirit, and originality, and discriminating judgment; all the actors are
at their ease, and a regular genteel comedy is as well acted
throughout, as a farce is on the London stage.

The greatest comic actor at the Theatre Français is Fleury. He is an
actor completely fitted for the French style of comedy. He gives you the
idea of a perfect gentleman, with much wit and liveliness, and
consummate confidence and self-possession; who delivers himself with
inimitable archness and pleasantry, but without the least exaggeration
or buffoonery; who has too high an opinion of himself and his powers, to
descend to broad jokes or allusions belonging to the lower kinds of
humour. Those who have an accurate recollection of the admirable acting
of Irish Johnstone, in the characters of Major O'Flaherty, or Sir Lucius
O'Trigger, will have a better conception, than any description of ours
can convey, of the style of acting in which Fleury so eminently excels.

Whatever may be thought of the other performers, none can see without
pleasure the performances of that celebrated actress, who has so long
been the ornament of the national theatre, and to whom the support of
their comedy has been so long entrusted. During the greatest period of
the revolution, Mademoiselle Mars has been the favourite and the
delight of the people of Paris, and there is perhaps no feeling among
them stronger, or more national, than the pride which they take in her
incomparable acting; all the grace, and elegance, and genuine feeling
which she so beautifully displays, they consider as belonging to her
only because she is a French woman; and nothing would ever convince them
that, had she been born in any other country, it would have been
possible that she should possess half the perfections which they now
admire in her.

Mademoiselle Mars is probably as perfect an actress in comedy as any
that ever appeared on any stage. She has united every advantage of
countenance, and voice, and figure, which it is possible to conceive,
and no one can ever have witnessed her incomparable acting, without
feeling that the imagination can suggest nothing more completely
lovely--more graceful, or more natural and touching than her
representation of character. Mademoiselle Mars has been most exquisitely
beautiful; and though the period is past when that beauty had all the
brilliancy and freshness of youth, time appears hardly to have dared to
lay his chilling hand on that lovely countenance, and she still acts
characters which require all the naïveté, and gaiety, and tenderness of
youthful feeling, with every appearance of the spring of human life. It
is remarked by Cibber, that a woman has hardly time to become a perfect
actress, during the continuance of her personal attractions. If there
ever was an exception to this remark, Mademoiselle Mars is one. She was
an admired actress, we were assured, before the revolution; yet she has
still, at least on the stage, a light elegant figure, and a countenance
of youthful animation and beauty, while long experience has given that
polish and perfection to her acting, which can be derived from no other
source.

It were in vain to attempt describing the innumerable excellencies which
render her acting so perfectly enchanting;--the admirable manner in
which the French comedies are performed is so particular to the stage of
that country, that it would be quite fruitless to attempt to describe a
style of acting unknown to the people of Britain; and of that style
Mademoiselle Mars is the model. Every thing that can result from the
truest elegance and gracefulness of manners--from the most genuine and
lively _abandon_ of feeling,--from the most winning sweetness of
expression, and the greatest imaginable gaiety and benevolence,
displayed in one of the most beautiful women ever seen, and endowed with
the most delightful and melodious voice, is united in Mademoiselle
Mars; and all words were in vain, which would pretend to describe the
bright and glittering vision which captivates the imagination. It is
impossible to conceive any thing more perfect as a specimen of art, or
more beautiful as an imitation of nature, than her representation of the
kind of heroine most commonly to be found in a French comedy; lively and
playful, yet elegant and graceful; entering with ardour into amusements,
yet capable of deep feeling and serious reflection: fond of admiration
and flattery, yet innocent and modest; full of petty artifice and
coquetry, yet natural and unaffected in affairs of importance;
capricious and giddy in appearance, but warm-hearted and affectionate in
reality. It is a character to which there is a kind of approximation
among many French women; and if it were as well supported by them in
real life, as by her on the stage, it would be difficult even for French
vanity to describe the fascination of their manner, in terms of
admiration which would not command general assent. There is much
variety, it must be added, in her powers. On one occasion, we saw her
act Henriette in Les Femmes Savantes of Moliere, and Catau La Partie de
Chasse de Henri IV, an£ it was difficult to say whether most to admire
the wit, and elegance, and police raillery of the woman of fashion, or
the innocent gaiety, and interesting naïveté of the simple peasant girl.

There is no actress at present on the English stage of equal eminence in
a similar line of parts. The exhibition which can best convey to an
English reader some slight notion of her enchanting acting, is the
manner in which Miss O'Neil performs the scene in Juliet with the old
nurse; because it is probably exactly the manner in which Mademoiselle
Mars would perform that scene, but cannot afford any conception of her
excellence in scenes of higher interest and greater feeling. Mrs Jordan
may have equalled her in gaiety, and probably excelled her in humorous
expression, but we suspect she must always have been deficient in
elegance and refinement. The actress who, we think, comes nearest to her
in genteel comedy, is Mrs Henry Siddons, in her beautiful representation
of such parts as Beatrice or Viola; but she has not the same appearance
of natural light-hearted buoyancy and playfulness of disposition; you
see occasional transient indications of a serious thoughtful turn of
mind, which assumes gaiety and cheerfulness, rather than passes
naturally into it; which you admire, because it places the actress in a
more amiable light, but which takes off from the fidelity and perfection
of her art.

Wherever Mademoiselle Mars has acted, in every part of France, the
enthusiasm which she inspires, and the astonishing interest which they
take in her acting, is such as could be felt only in France. We were
fortunately in Lyons when she came there, on leaving Paris during the
course of last summer; and during the few days we were there, nothing
appeared to be thought of but the merits of this unrivalled actress. The
interest which the recent visit of _Madame_ had created, was altogether
lost in the delight which the performance of Mademoiselle Mars had
occasioned: She was crowned publicly in the theatre with a garland of
flowers, and a fete was celebrated in honour of her by the public bodies
and authorities of the town.

* * *

Corresponding to the Opera House in London, there are three theatres in
Paris; the Odeon, the Opera Comique, and the Academie de Musique. At the
first of these there is an immense company of musicians, of all kinds;
and Italian Operas are admirably performed. It is the handsomest, and
perhaps the most genteelly attended of any of the Parisian theatres.
The music here, as well as the musicians, are all Italian; and there
can certainly be no comparison between it and the French, which is
generally feeble and insipid in pathetic expression, and extravagant and
bombastic in all attempts at grandeur. The first singer at the Odeon was
Madame Sessi, who has since been in London; but Madame Morelli, with a
voice somewhat inferior in power, appeared to us a more elegant actress.
The performance of Girard on the flute was wonderful, and met with
extravagant applause, but it was somewhat too laboured and artificial
for our untutored ears:

The Opera Comique is confined almost exclusively to the sort of
entertainment which the name expresses: the scenes are generally laid in
the country, and the characters introduced are of the lower orders: the
pieces commonly represented belong to the same class, therefore, as the
English operas, Love in a Village, Rosina, &c. but the dialogue is in
general more animated, less vulgar in the lower parts, and less
sentimental in the higher. The number of performers at this theatre is
not very great; but there are some good singers and dancers, and the
acting is almost uniformly excellent. Indeed, the French character is
peculiarly well fitted for assuming the gay and lively tone that
pervades their _opera buffa_, which may be characterised as amusing and
interesting in general, rather than comic; as full of spirit and
vivacity, rather than of humour. Occasionally, however, characters and
incidents of true humour are introduced; but these are in general
considered as belonging to a lower species of amusement; and are to be
found in higher perfection, we believe, in some of the inferior
theatres, particularly the Theatre des Varietés.

The acting at the Opera Comique appeared to us deserving of the same
encomiums with the comic acting at the Theatre Français: every part is
well supported, not with the elegance that characterises the latter
theatre, but with perfect adaptation to the situation of the characters.
A Mademoiselle Regnaud, of this theatre, acts with admirable liveliness
and spirit. Her quarrel and reconciliation with her lover, in "Le
Nouveau Seigneur du Village," appeared to us a chef d'œuvre of the light
and pleasing style of acting, which suits the character of the French
comic opera.

The Academie de Musique, (which is celebrated for dancers, not for
musicians), is on a very different plan from the opera in London. The
performers being in part supported by government, the prices of
admission are made very low; and the company, particularly in the
parterre, or pit, is therefore of a much lower class than in London,
though perfect decorum is, as usual, uniformly observed. The
performances at this theatre are, we think, decidedly superior to those
in the London opera. This superiority consists partly in the pre-eminent
merits of the first-rate dancers; but chiefly in the uniform excellence
of the vast number of inferior performers, the beauty of the scenery,
and the complete knowledge of stage effect, which is displayed in all
the arrangements of the representations.

We believe there are not at present, on the London stage, any dancers of
equal merit with Madame Gardel, or Mademoiselle Bigottini. The former of
these is said to be 45 years of age, and has long been reckoned the best
figuranté on this stage. Her face is not handsome, but her figure is
admirably formed for the display of her art, of which she is probably
the most perfect mistress to be found in Europe. The latter, an Italian
by birth, is much younger, and if she does not yet quite equal her rival
in artificial accomplishments, she at least attracts more admirers by
her youth and beauty; by the exquisite symmetry of her form, and the
natural grace and elegance of her movements. The one of these is
certainly the first dancer, and the other is perhaps the most beautiful
woman in Paris.

But the same unfortunate peculiarity of taste which we formerly noticed
in the painting and in the gardening of the French, extends to their
opera dancing; indeed it may be said to be the worst feature of their
general taste. They are too fond of the exhibition of art, and too
regardless of the object, to which art should be made subservient.
Dancing should never be considered as a mere display of agility and
muscular power. It is then degraded to a level with Harlequin's tricks,
wrestling, tumbling, or such other fashionable entertainments. The main
object of the art unquestionably is, to display in full perfection the
beauty and grace of the human form and movements. In so far as perfect
command of the limbs is necessary, or may be made subservient to this
object, it cannot be too much esteemed; but when you pass this limit, it
not only ceases to be pleasing, but often becomes positively offensive.
Many of the _pirouettes_, and other difficult movements, which are
introduced into the _pas seuls, pas de deux_, &c. in which the great
dancers display their whole powers, however wonderful as specimens of
art, are certainly any thing but elegant or graceful. The applause in
the French opera seemed to us to be in direct proportion to the
difficulty, and to bear no relation whatever to the beauty of the
performances. A Frenchman regards, with perfect indifference, dances
which, to a stranger at least, appear performed with inimitable grace,
because they are only common dances, admirably well executed; but when
one of the male performers, after spinning about for a long time, with
wonderful velocity, arrests himself suddenly, and stands immoveable on
one foot; or when one of the females wheels round on the toes of one
foot, holding her other limb nearly in a horizontal position--he breaks
out into extravagant exclamations of astonishment and delight: "Quel a
plomb! Ah diable! Sacre Dieu!" &c.

But although the principal dances at the Opera, and those on which the
French chiefly pride themselves, are much injured, in point of beauty,
by this artificial taste, the execution of the less laboured parts of
these dances, and of nearly the whole of their common national dances,
is quite free from this defect, and is, we should conceive, the most
beautiful exhibition of the kind that is any where to be seen. It is
only in a city where amusements of all kinds are sought for, not merely
by way of relaxation, but as matters of serious interest and national
concern, and where dancing, in particular, is an object of universal and
passionate admiration, that such numbers of first-rate dancers can be
found, as perform constantly at the Academie de Musique. The whole
strength of the company there, which often appeared on the stage at the
time we speak of, was certainly not less than 150; and there were hardly
any of these whose performance was not highly pleasing, and did not
present the appearance of animation and interest in the parts assigned
them.

Many of the serious operas performed here are exceedingly beautiful;
they are got up, not perhaps at more expense, nor with more
magnificence, than the spectacles in London, but certainly with more
taste and knowledge of stage effect. Tie scenery is beautifully painted,
and is disposed upon the stage with more variety, and in such a manner
as to form a more complete illusion, than on any other stage we have
seen. The music and singing are certainly inferior to what is heard at
the Odeon, but the acting, where it is not injured by the effect of the
recitative, is very generally excellent; and the number and variety of
dances introduced, afford opportunities of displaying all the
attractions of this theatre.

The pantomimes are uniformly executed with inimitable grace and effect.
We were particularly pleased with that called L'Enfant Prodigue, in
which the powers and graces of Mademoiselle Bigottini are displayed to
all possible advantage. One of the most splendid of the serious operas,
is that entitled Le Caravansera de Cairo, the scenery of which was
painted in Egypt, by one of the artists who accompanied Napoleon
thither, and is beyond comparison the most highly finished and beautiful
that we have ever seen, and gives an idea of the aspect of that country,
which no other work of art could convey. Another opera, which attracted
our attention, was called "Ossian, ou les Bardes." One of the scenes,
where the heroes and heroines of departed times are seen seated on the
clouds, displayed a degree of magnificence which made it a fit
representation of "the dream of Ossian." Some of the Highland scenery in
this opera was really like nature; and the dresses, particularly the
cambric and vandyked kilts, bore some distant analogy to the real
costume of the Highlanders; and although we could not gratify the
Parisians who sat by us, by admitting the resemblance of the female
figures, who skipped about the stage with single muslin petticoats, and
pink and white kid slippers, to the "Montagnardes Ecossaises _c'est a
dire demi-sauvages_," whom they were intended to represent, we at least
flattered their vanity, by expressing our wish that the latter had
resembled the former.

But the most beautiful of all the exhibitions at the Academie de
Musique, are the ballets which represent pastoral scenes and rural
fetes, such as Colinette a la Cour, L'Epreuve Villageoise, &c. It is
singular, that in a city, the inhabitants of which have so entire a
contempt for rural enjoyments, pieces of this kind should form so
favourite a theatrical entertainment; but it must be confessed, that
such scenes as form the subject of these ballets, occur but seldom in
the course of a country life, and never in the degree of perfection in
which they are represented in Paris. The union of rustic simplicity and
innocence, with the polish and refinement which are acquired by
intercourse with the world, may be conceived by the help of these
exhibitions, but can hardly be witnessed in real life. The illusion,
however, when such scenes are exhibited, is exceedingly pleasing; and no
where certainly is this illusion so perfect as in the Academie de
Musique, where the charming scenery, the enlivening music, the number
and variety of characters, which are supported with life and spirit, the
beauty of the female performers, and the graceful movements, and lively
animated air of all;--if they do not recall to the spectator any thing
which he has really witnessed, seem to transport him into the more
delightful regions in which his fancy has occasionally wandered, and to
realize for a moment to him, those fairy scenes to which his youthful
imagination had been familiarized, by the beautiful fictions of poetry
or romance.

* * *

The Parisian theatres are at all times sources of much amusement and
delight; but at the time of which we speak, they were doubly
interesting, as affording opportunities of seeing the most distinguished
characters of this eventful age; and as furnishing occasional strong
indications of the state of popular feeling in France. The interest of
occurrences of this last kind is now gone by, and it is almost
unnecessary for us to bear testimony to the strong party that uniformly
manifested itself when any sentiment was uttered expressive of a wish
for war, of admiration of martial achievements, and of indignation at
foreign influence, or domestic perfidy, (under which head the conduct of
Talleyrand and of Marmont was included); and more especially, when the
success, and glory, and _eternal, immutable, untarnished_ honour of
France, were the theme of declamation. The applause at passages of this
last description seemed sometimes ludicrous enough, when the theatres
were guarded by Russian grenadiers, and nearly half filled with allied
officers, loaded with honours which had been won in combating the French
armies.

The majority of the audience, however, appeared always delighted at the
change of government, and in the opera in particular, the first time
that the King appeared, the expression of loyalty was long, reiterated,
and enthusiastic, far beyond our most sanguine anticipations. It would
have been absurd to judge of the real feelings of the majority of the
Parisians, still more of the nation at large, from this scene; and it
was certainly not to be wished, that a blind and devoted loyalty to one
sovereign should take the place of infatuated attachment to another; yet
it was impossible not to sympathize with the joy of people who had been
agitated, during the best part of their lives, by political convulsions,
or oppressed by military tyranny, but who fancied themselves at length
relieved from both; and who connected the hope of spending the
remainder of their days in tranquillity and peace, with the
recollections which they had received from their fathers, of the
happiness and prosperity of their country under the long line of its
ancient kings. It was impossible to hear the national air of "Vive Henri
Quatre," and the enthusiastic acclamations which accompanied it, without
entering for the moment into the feeling of unhesitating attachment, and
unqualified loyalty, which has so long prevailed in most countries of
the world, but which the citizens of a free country should indulge only
when it has been deserved by long experience and tried virtue.

It was with different, but not less interesting feelings, that we
listened to the same tune from the splendid bands of the Russian and
Prussian guards, as they passed along the Boulevards; on their return to
their own countries; It was a grand and moving spectacle of political
virtue, to see the armies which had been arrayed against France,
striving to do honour to the government which she had assumed:--instead
of breathing curses, or committing outrages on the great and guilty
city, which had provoked all their vengeance, to see them march out of
the gates of Paris with the regularity of the strictest military
discipline, to the sound of the grand national air, which spoke "peace
to her walls, and prosperity to her palaces,"--leaving, as it were, a
blessing on the capital which they had conquered and forgiven: It was a
scene that left an impression on the mind worthy of the troops who had
bravely and successfully opposed the domineering power of France,--who
had struggled with it when it was strongest, and "ruled it when 'twas
wildest," but who spared it when it was fallen;--who forgot their wrongs
when it was in their power to revenge them;--who cast the laurels from
their brows, as they passed before the rightful monarch of France, and
honoured him as the representative of a great and gallant people, long
beguiled by ambition, and abused by tyranny, but now acknowledging their
errors, and professing moderation and repentance.




CHAPTER VIII.

PARIS--THE FRENCH ARMY AND IMPERIAL GOVERNMENT.


IT is certainly a mistake to suppose, that the military power of France
was first created by Napoleon, or that military habits were actually
forced on the people, with the view of aiding his ambitious projects.
The French have a restless, aspiring, enterprising spirit, not
accompanied, as in England, by a feeling of individual importance, and a
desire of individual independence, but modified by habits of submission
to arbitrary power, and fitted, by the influence of despotic government,
for the subordination of military discipline. Add to this, the
encouragement which was held out by the rapid promotion of soldiers
during the wars of the revolution, when the highest military offices
were not only open to the attainment, but were generally appropriated to
the claims of men who rose from the ranks; and the general
dissemination, at that period, of an unbounded desire for violence and
rapine: And it will probably be allowed, that the spirit of the French
nation, at the time when he came to the head of it, was truly and almost
exclusively military. He was himself a great soldier; he rose to the
supreme government of a great military people, and he availed himself of
their habits and principles to gratify his ambition, and extend his
fame; but he ought not to be charged with having created the spirit,
which in fact created him; a spirit so powerful, and so extensively
diffused, that in comparison with it, even his efforts might be said to
be "dashing with his oar to hasten the cataract;" to be "waving with his
fan to give speed to the wind." The favourite saying of Napoleon, "Every
Frenchman is a soldier, and as such, at the disposal of the Emperor,"
expresses a principle which was not merely enforced by arbitrary power,
but engrafted on the character and habits of the French people.

The French are certainly admirably fitted for becoming soldiers: they
have a restless activity, which surmounts difficulties, a buoyancy and
elasticity of disposition, which rises superior to hardships, and
calamities, and privations, not with patient fortitude, but with ease
and cheerfulness. A Frenchman does not regard war, merely as the serious
struggle in which his patriotism and valour are to be tried; he loves it
for its own sake, for the interest and agitation it gives to his mind;
it is his "game,--his gain,--his glory,--his delight." Other nations of
Europe have become military, in consequence of threats or injuries, of
the dread of hostile invasion, of the presence of foreign armies, or the
galling influence of foreign power; but if the origin of the French
military spirit may be traced to similar sources, it must at least be
allowed, that the effect has been out of all proportion to the cause.

It is probable, however, that the effervescence of military ideas and
feelings, which arose out of the revolution, would have gradually
subsided, had it not been for the fostering influence of the imperial
government. The turbulent and irregular energies of a great people let
loose from former bonds, received a fixed direction, and were devoted to
views of military ascendancy and national aggrandizement under Napoleon.
The continued gratification of the French vanity, by the fame of
victories and the conquest of nations, completed the effect on the
manner and habits of the people, which the events of the revolution had
begun. Napoleon well knew, that in flattering this ruling propensity, he
took the whole French nation on their weak side, and he had some reason
for saying, that their thirst for martial glory and political influence
ought to be a sufficient apology to them for all the wars into which he
plunged them.

It is impossible to spend even a few days in France without seeing
strong indications of the prevailing love of military occupations, and
admiration of military merit. The common peasants in the fields shew, by
their conversation, that they are deeply interested in the glory of the
French arms, and competent to discuss the manner in which they are
conducted. In the parts of the country which had been the seat of war,
we found them always able to give a good general description of the
military events that had taken place; and when due allowance was made
for their invariable exaggeration of the number of the allied troops,
and concealment of that of the French, these accounts, as far as we
could judge by comparing them with the official details, and with the
information of officers who had borne a part in the campaign, were
tolerably correct. The fluency with which they talked of military
operations, of occupying positions, cutting off retreats, defiling over
bridges, debouching from woods, advancing and retreating, marching and
bivouacking, shewed the habitual current of their thoughts; and they
were always more willing to enter on the details of such operations,
than to enumerate their own losses, or dwell on their individual
sufferings.

A similar eagerness to enter into conversation on military subjects, was
observable in almost all Frenchmen of the lower orders, with whom we had
any dealings. Our landlord at Paris, a quiet sickly man, who had no
connection with the army, and who had little to say for himself on most
subjects, displayed a marvellous fluency on military tactics; and seemed
to think that no time was lost which was employed in haranguing to us on
the glory and honour of the French army, and impressing on our minds its
superiority to the allies.

Indeed, the whole French nation certainly take a pride in the deeds of
their brethren in arms, which absorbs almost all other feelings; and
which is the more singular, as it does not appear to us to be connected
with strong or general affection or gratitude for any particular
individual. It was not the fame of any one General but the general
honour of the French arms, about which they seemed anxious. We never met
with a Frenchman, of any rank, or of any political persuasion, who
considered the French army as fairly overcome in the campaign of 1814;
and the shifts and contrivances by which they explained all the events
of the campaign, without having recourse to that supposition, were
wonderfully ingenious. The best informed Frenchmen whom we met in Paris,
even those who did not join in the popular cry of treason and corruption
against Marmont, regarded the terms granted by Alexander to their city,
as a measure of policy rather than of magnanimity. They uniformly
maintained, that the possession of the heights of Belleville and
Montmartre did not secure the command of Paris: that if Marmont had
chosen, he might have defended the town after he had lost these
positions; and that, if the Russians had attempted to take the town by
force, they might have succeeded, but would have lost half their army.
Indeed, so confidently were these propositions maintained by all the
best informed Frenchmen, civil or military, royalist of imperialist,
whom we met, that we were at a loss whether to give credit to the
statement uniformly given us by the allied officers, that the town was
completely commanded by those heights, and might have been burnt and
destroyed, without farther risk on the part of the assailants, after
they were occupied. The English officers, with whom we had an
opportunity of conversing on this subject, seemed divided in opinion
regarding it; and we should have hesitated to which party to yield our
belief, had not the conduct of Napoleon and his officers in the campaign
of the present year, the extraordinary precautions which they took to
prevent access to the positions in question, by laying the adjacent
country under water, and fortifying the heights themselves, clearly
shewn the importance, in a military point of view, which is really
attached to them.

The credulity of the French, in matters connected with the operations of
their armies, often astonished us. It appeared to arise, partly from the
scarcity of information in the country; from their having no means of
confirming, correcting, or disproving the exaggerated and garbled
statements which were laid before them; and partly from their national
vanity, which disposed them to yield a very easy assent to every thing
that exalted their national character. In no other country, we should
conceive, would such extravagant and manifestly exaggerated statements
be swallowed, as the French soldiers are continually in the habit of
dispersing among their countrymen. From the style of the conversation
which we were accustomed to hear at _caffés_ and _tables d'hôte_, we
should conceive, that the French bulletins, which appeared to us such
models of gasconade, were admirably well fitted, not merely to please
the taste, but even to regulate the belief, or at least the professions
of belief, of the majority of French politicians, with regard to the
events they commemorate.

The general interest of a nation in the deeds and honours of its army,
is the best possible security for its general conduct; and it must be
admitted, that in those qualities which are chiefly valued by the French
nation, the French army was never surpassed; while it is equally
obvious, that both the army and the people have at present little regard
for some of the finest virtues which can adorn the character of
soldiers.

The grand characteristic of the French army, on which both the soldiers
and the people pride themselves, is what was long ago ably pointed out
by the author of the "Caractere des Armées Europeennes Actuelles"--the
individual intelligence and activity of the soldiers. They were taken
at that early age, when the influence of previous habit is small, and
when the character is easily moulded into any form that is wished; they
were accustomed to pride themselves on no qualities, but those which are
serviceable against their enemies, and they had before them the most
animating prospect of rewards and promotion, if their conduct was
distinguished. Under these circumstances, the native vigour, and
activity, and acuteness of their minds, took the very direction which
was likely, not merely to make them good soldiers, but to fit them for
becoming great officers; and this ultimate destination of his
experience, and ability, and valour, has a very manifest effect on the
mind of the French soldier. We hardly ever spoke to one of them, of any
rank, about any of the battles in which he had been engaged, without
observing, that he had in his head a general plan of the action, which
he always delivered to us with perfect fluency, in the technical
language of war, and with quite as much exaggeration as was necessary
for his purpose. What he wanted in correct information, he would
assuredly make up with lies, but he would seldom fail to give a general
consistent idea of the affair; and it was obvious, that the manœuvres
of the armies, and the conduct of the generals, on both sides, had
occupied as much of his consideration and reflection, as his own
individual dangers and adventures.

When we afterwards entered into conversation with some English private
soldiers, at Brussels and Antwerp, concerning the actions they had seen,
we perceived a very marked difference. They were very ready to enter
into details concerning all that they had themselves witnessed, and very
anxious to be perfectly correct in their statements; but they did not
appear ever to have troubled their heads about the general plan of the
actions. They had abundance of technical phrases concerning their own
departments of the service; but very few words relative to the
manœuvring of large bodies of men. Their rule seemed to be, to do their
own duty, and let their officers do theirs; the principle of the
division of labour seemed to prevail in military, as well as in civil
affairs, much more extensively in England than in France.

The soldiers of the French imperial guard, in particular, are remarkably
intelligent, and in general very communicative. We entered into
conversation with some of these men at La Fere, and from one of them,
who had been in the great battle at Laon, we had fully as distinct an
account of that action as we are able to collect, the next day, from
several officers who accompanied us from St Quentin to Cambray, and who
had likewise been engaged in it. When we asked him the numbers of the
two armies on that day, he replied without the least hesitation, that
the allied army was 100,000 and the French 30,000.--Another of these men
had been at Salamanca, and after we had granted his fundamental
assumption, that the English army there was 120,000 strong, and the
French 40,000, he proceeded to give us a very good account of the
battle.

These men, as well as almost all the French officers and soldiers with
whom we had opportunities at different times of conversing, gave their
opinions of the allied armies without any reserve, and with considerable
discrimination. Of the Russians and Prussians they said, "Ils savent
bien faire la guerre; ils sont de bons soldats;" but of the common
soldiers of these services in particular, they said, "Ils sont tres
forts, et durs comme l'ame du diable--mais ils sont des veritables
betes; ils n'ont point d'intelligence. La puissance de l'armée
Française," they added, with an air of true French gasconade, "est dans
l'intelligence des soldats."--Of the Austrians, they said, "Ils brillent
dans leur cavalerie, mais pour leur infanterie, elle ne vaut rien."

From these soldiers we could extract no more particular character of the
English troops, than "Ils se battent bien," But it is doing no more than
justice to the French officers, even such as were decidedly imperialist,
who conversed with us at Paris, and in different parts of the country,
to acknowledge that they uniformly spoke in the highest terms of the
conduct of the English troops. The expression which they very commonly
used, in speaking of the manner in which the English carried on the war
in Spain, and in France, was, "loyauté." "Les Russes, et les Prussiens,"
they said, "sont des grands et beauxhommes, mais ils n'ont pas le cœur
ou la loyauté des Anglais. Les Anglais sont la nation du monde qui font
la guerre avec le plus de loyauté," &c. This referred partly to their
valour in the field, and partly to their humane treatment of prisoners
and wounded; and partly also to their honourable conduct in France,
where they preserved the strictest discipline, and paid for every thing
they took. Of the behaviour of the English army in France, they always
spoke as excellent:--"digne de leur civilization."

A French officer who introduced himself to us one night in a box at the
opera, expressing his high respect for the English, against whom, he
said, he had the honour to fight for six years in Spain, described the
steadiness and determination of the English infantry in attacking the
heights on which the French army was posted at Salamanca, in terms of
enthusiastic admiration. Another who had been in the battle of Toulouse,
extolled the conduct of the Highland regiments in words highly
expressive of

    "The stern joy which warriors feel,
    In foemen worthy of their steel."

"Il y a quelques regimens des Ecossais sans culottes," said he, "dans
l'armée de Wellington, qui se battent joliment." He then described the
conduct of one regiment in particular, (probably the 42d or 79th), who
attacked a redoubt defended with cannon, and marched up to it in perfect
order; never taking the muskets from their shoulders, till they were on
the parapet: "Si tranquillement,--sacre Dieu! c'etoit superbe."

Of the military talents of the Duke of Wellington they spoke also with
much respect, though generally with strong indications of jealousy. They
were often very ingenious in devising means of explaining his
victories, without compromising, as they called it, the honour of the
French arms. At Salamanca, they said, that in consequence of the wounds
of Marmont and other generals, their army was two hours without a
commander. At Vittoria again, it was commanded by Jourdan, and any body
could beat Jourdan. At Talavera, he committed "les plus grandes sottises
du monde; il a fait une contre-marche digne d'un bete." Some of the Duke
of Wellington's victories over Soult they stoutly denied, and others
they ascribed to great superiority of numbers, and to the large drafts
of Soult's best troops for the purpose of forming skeleton battalions,
to receive the conscripts of 1813.

The French pride themselves greatly on the _honour_ of their soldiers,
and in this quality they uniformly maintain that they are unrivalled, at
least on the continent of Europe. To this it is easy to reply, that,
according to the common notions of honour, it has been violated more
frequently and more completely by the French army than by any other. But
this is in fact eluding the observation rather than refuting it. The
truth appears to be, that the French _soldiers_ have a stronger sense of
honour than those of almost any other service; but that the _officers_,
having risen from the ranks, have brought with them to the most exalted
stations, no more refined or liberal sentiments than those by which the
private soldiers are very frequently actuated; and have, on the
contrary, acquired habits of duplicity and intrigue, from which their
brethren in inferior situations are exempt.

When we say of the French soldiers that they have a strong sense of
honour, we mean merely to express, that they will encounter dangers, and
hardships, and privations, and calamities of every kind, with wonderful
fortitude, and even cheerfulness, from no other motive than an _esprit
du corps_--a regard for the character of the French arms. Without
provocation from their enemies, without the prospect of plunder, without
the hope of victory, without the conviction of the interest of their
country in their deeds, without even the consolation of expecting care
or attention in case of wounds or sickness,--they will not hesitate to
lavish their blood, and sacrifice their lives, _for the glory of
France_. Other troops go through similar scenes of suffering and danger
with equal fortitude, when under the influence of strong passions, when
fired by revenge, or animated by the hope of plunder, or cheered by the
acclamations of victory; but with the single exception of the British
army, we doubt whether there are any to whom the mere spirit of military
honour is of itself so strong a stimulus.

We have already noticed the state of the French sick and wounded, left
in the hospitals at Wilna during the retreat from Russia; a state so
deplorable, as to have excited the strongest commiseration among their
indignant enemies. This, however, was but a single instance of the
system almost uniformly acted on, we have understood, by the French
medical staff in Russia, Germany, and Spain, of deserting their
hospitals on the approach of the enemy, so as to leave to him, if he did
not chuse to see the whole of the patients perish before his eyes, the
burden of maintaining them. The miseries which this system must have
occasioned, in the campaign of 1813 in particular, require no
illustration.

Another regulation of the French army, during the campaign of that year,
will shew the utter carelessness of its leaders, in regard to the lives
or comforts of the soldiers. When the men who were incapacitated for
service by wounds or disease, were sent back to France, they were
directed, in the first instance, to Mentz, where their uniforms, and any
money they might have about them, were regularly taken from them, and
given to the young conscripts who were passing through to join the
armies; they were then dressed in miserable old rags, which were
collected in the adjacent provinces by Jews employed for that purpose,
and in this state they were sent to _beg_ their way to their homes.
Such, as we were assured by some of our countrymen, who saw many of
these men passing through Verdun, was the reward of thousands of the
"_grande nation_" who had lost their limbs or their health in vainly
endeavouring to maintain the glory and influence of their country in
foreign states. In the campaign of 1814, which was carried on during the
continuance of a frost of almost unprecedented intensity, and in so
rapid and variable a manner, and with so large bodies of troops, as to
prevent the establishment of regular hospitals or of any thing like a
regular Commissariat, the French troops, particularly the young
conscripts and national guards, suffered dreadfully; and numbers of them
who escaped the swords of their enemies, perished miserably or were
disabled for life, in consequence of hardships, and fatigues, and
privations.

All these examples were known to the French soldiers--they took place
daily before their eyes, and, in the last instance, the allies took
pains to let them know, that the only obstacle to honourable peace was
the obstinacy of their commander; yet their ardour continued unabated;
the young soldiers displayed a degree of valour in every action of both
campaigns, which drew forth the warm applause even of their enemies; and
it is not to be doubted, that the troops whom Napoleon collected at
Fontainbleau, at the end of the campaign in France, were
enthusiastically bent on carrying into effect the frantic resolution of
attacking Paris, then occupied by a triple force of the allies, from
which his officers with difficulty dissuaded him.

In like manner, there is probably no general but Napoleon, who would not
have attempted to terminate the miseries of the army during the retreat
from Moscow, by entering into negotiation with the Russians; nor is
there any army but the French which would have tamely consented to be
entirely sacrificed to the obstinacy of an individual. But to have
concluded a convention with the Russians would have been _compromising
the honour of the French arms_; and this little form of words seemed to
strike more terror to the hearts of the French soldiers, than either the
swords of the Russians, or the dreary wastes and wintry storms of
Russia, which might have been apostrophised in the words of the poet,

    "Alas! even your unhallowed breath
    May spare the victim fallen low,
    But man will ask no truce to death,
    No bounds to human woe."

"He saw, without emotion, (says Labaume), the miserable remains of an
army, lately so powerful, defile before him; yet his presence never
excited a murmur; on the contrary, it animated even the most timid, who
were always tranquil when in presence of the emperor." At the present
moment, from all the accounts that we have received, as well as from our
own observations of those French soldiers whom we have ourselves seen
after their return from Moscow, the sentiments of the survivors of that
expedition with regard to Napoleon remained unchanged; and no person who
has read any of the narratives of the campaign can ascribe their
constancy to any other cause, than that feeling of attachment to the
glory of their country, to which the French, however improperly, give
the name of military honour.

If the character of the French soldiers is deserving of high admiration
for their constancy and courage, it must be observed, on the other
hand, that there is a mixture of _selfishness_ in it, an utter disregard
of the feelings, and indifference as to the sufferings, not merely of
their enemies, or of the inhabitants of the countries which they
traverse, but even of their best friends and companions, which forbids
us to go farther in their praise. It is as unnecessary, as it would be
painful, to enter on an enumeration of the instances of wanton cruelty,
violence, and rapacity, which have sullied the fame of their most
brilliant deeds in arms. It will be long before the French name will
recover the disgrace which the remembrance of such scenes as Moscow, or
Saragossa, or Tarragona, has attached to it, in every country of Europe;
and it is impossible to have a more convincing proof of the tyrannical
and oppressive conduct of the French armies in foreign states, than the
universal enthusiasm with which Europe has risen against them,--the
indignant and determined spirit with which all ranks of every country
have united to rid themselves of an oppression, not less galling to
their individual feelings, than degrading to their national character.
But it is particularly worthy of remark, that the latest and most
authentic writers in France itself, who have given any account of the
French armies, have, noticed selfishness, and disregard of the feelings
of their own comrades, as well as of all other persons, as one of the
most prominent features of their character. We need only refer to
Labaume's book on the expedition to Russia, to Miot's work on the
Egyptian campaigns, or to Rocca's history of the war in Spain, for ample
proofs of the correctness of this observation. Whether this peculiarity
is to be ascribed chiefly to their national character, or to the nature
of the services in which they have been engaged, it is not very easy to
decide.

The dishonourable conduct of the French officers, particularly of the
superior officers, in the present year, is much more easily explained
than excused. They had risen from the ranks--they had been engaged all
their lives in active and iniquitous services--they had been accustomed
to look to success as the best criterion of merit, and to regard
attachment to their leaders and their colours, as the only duties of
soldiers;--they had never thought seriously on morality or
religion--they had been applauded by their countrymen and
fellow-soldiers, for actions in direct violation of both--and they had
been taught to consider that applause as their highest honour and
legitimate reward. Under these circumstances, it is easy to see, that
they could have little information with regard to the true interests of
France, and that they would regard the most sacred engagements as
binding only in so far as general opinion would reprobate the violation
of them; and when a strong party shewed itself, in the nation as well as
the army, ready to support them and to extol their conduct in rising
against the government, that their oaths would have no influence to
restrain them. It is to be considered, likewise, that a large proportion
of the officers had been originally republicans. They had been engaged
in long and active military service, and been elated with military
glory; in the multiplicity of their duties, and the intoxication of
their success as soldiers, they had ceased to be citizens; but during
the repose that succeeded the establishment of the Bourbons, when they
again found themselves in the midst of their countrymen, their original
political feelings and prejudices returned, embittered and exasperated
by the influence of their military habits, and the remembrance of their
military disgraces. We have ourselves conversed with several officers,
who were strongly attached to Napoleon, but whose political views were
decidedly republican; and have heard it stated, that the officers of
artillery and engineers are supposed to be particularly democratic in
their principles.

It is much easier to account for the conduct of the French army since
the dethronement of Napoleon, than to point out any means by which that
conduct could have been altered. It was stated to us at Paris, that the
number of military officers to be provided for by government, was
upwards of 60,000. These would certainly comprise a very large
proportion of the talents and enterprise of the French nation. The
number of them that can have been sincerely devoted to the Bourbons, or
that can have been otherwise disposed of since that time, cannot be
great; nor do we see by what means it will be possible to reconcile the
majority of this very important class of men, to a government which has
twice owed its elevation to the discomfiture and humiliation of the
French arms.

It may be easily conceived, that in an army, the officers of which have,
for the most part, risen from the ranks, the principles of strict
military subordination cannot be enforced with the same punctilious
rigour as in services where a marked distinction is constantly kept up
between officers and soldiers. There is a more gradual transition from
the highest to the lowest situations of the French army--a more
complete amalgamation of the whole mass, than is consistent with the
views of other governments in the maintenance of their standing armies.

It is true, that a change has taken place in the composition of the
French army, in this respect, under the imperial government. A number of
military schools were established and encouraged in different parts of
the country, and a great number of young men were sent to these by their
parents, under the understanding, that after being educated in them they
should become officers at once, without passing through the inferior
steps, to which they would otherwise have been devoted by the
conscription. A great number of officers, therefore, have of late years
been appointed from these schools to the army, who have never served in
the ranks; but the manners and habits which they acquire at the schools
are, we should conceive, very little superior to what they might have
learnt from the private soldiers, who would otherwise have been their
associates. A comparison of the appearance and manner of the pupils of
the Ecole Militaire, with those of the young men at the English military
colleges, would shew, as strongly as any other parallel that could be
drawn, the difference in respectability and gentlemanlike feeling
between the English and French officers.

There is so little of uniformity in dress, of regard to external
appearance, or of shew of subordination, and inferiority to their
officers, in the French soldiers, that a stranger would be apt to
consider them as deficient in discipline. The fact is, that they know
perfectly, from being continually engaged in active service, what are
the essentials of military discipline, and that they are quite careless
of all superfluous forms. Whatever regulations are necessary, in any
particular circumstances, are strictly enforced; and the men submit to
them, not from any principle of slavish subjection to their officers,
but rather from deference to their superior intelligence and
information, and from a regard to the good of the service.

The French army may, in fact, be said to have little of the feelings
which are truly military. The officers have not the strong feeling of
humanity, and the high and just sense of honour, not merely as members
of the army, but as individuals; the soldiers have not the habit of
implicit obedience and attachment to their peculiar duties; and the
whole have not the lively sense of responsibility to their country, and
dependence on their sovereign, which are probably essential to the
existence of an army which shall not be dangerous, even to the state
that maintains it. The French army submitted implicitly to Napoleon,
because he was their general; but we should doubt if they ever
considered themselves, even under his dominion, as the _servants of
France_. They appear, at present, at least, to think themselves an
independent body, who have a right to act according to their own
judgment, and are accountable to nobody for their actions. In this idea
of their own importance they were, of course, encouraged by Napoleon,
who, on his return from Elba, spoke of the injuries done by the Bourbons
to the _army and people_, and assigned the former the most honourable
place in his Champ de Mai. And it will appear by no means surprising,
that they should have acquired these sentiments, when we consider the
importance which has been attached to their exploits by their
countrymen, the encouragement to which they have been accustomed, the
preference to all other classes of men which was shewn them by the late
government, and the nature of the services in which they have been
engaged, and for which they have been rewarded; circumstances fitted to
assimilate them, in reality as well as appearance, rather to an immense
band of freebooters, having no principle but union among themselves,
and submission to their chiefs, than to an established and responsible
standing army.

This observation applies to the feelings and principles of the soldiers
taken as a body, not to their individual habits; for, excepting in the
case of the detachment of the imperial guard, quartered at Fontainbleau,
we never understood that the French soldiers in time of peace, at least
among their own countrymen, were accused of outrage or rapine.

There is considerable variety in the personal appearance of the French
soldiers. The infantry are generally little men, much inferior to the
Russians and Prussians in size and weight; but as they are almost all
young, they appear equally well fitted for bearing fatigues, and they
have an activity in their gait and demeanour, which accords well with
their general character. In travelling through the country, we could
almost always tell a French soldier from one of the allies at a
distance, by the spring of his step. They have another excellent
quality, that of being easily fed. Nothing appeared to excite more
astonishment or indignation in France, than the quantity of food
consumed by the allied troops. We found at Paris, that the Russian
convalescents, occupying the hospitals which had formerly been
appropriated to French troops, actually eat three times the rations
which the French had been allowed. Frenchmen of the middling and higher
ranks appear to have generally very keen appetites, and often surprise
Englishmen by the magnitude and variety of their meals; but the
peasantry and lower orders are accustomed to much poorer fare than the
corresponding classes, at least in the southern part of our island, and
the ordinary diet of the French soldiers is inferior to that of the
English. In garrison, they are never allowed animal food, at least when
in their own country; and the better living to which they are accustomed
in foreign countries, and on active service, is a stronger
recommendation of war to these volatile and unreflecting spirits, than
it might at first be thought.

The French cavalry are almost universally fine men, much superior to the
infantry in appearance. The horses of the _chasseurs à cheval_, and
hussars, are small, but active and hardy; and even those of the
cuirassiers have not the weight or beauty of the English heavy dragoons,
though we have understood that they bear the fatigues and privations,
incident to long campaigns, much better.

The imperial guard was composed, like the Russian guard, of picked men,
who had already served a certain length of time, and the pay being
higher than of the regiments of the line, and great pains being
uniformly taken to preserve them as much as possible, from the hardships
and dangers to which the other troops were exposed, and to reserve them
for great emergencies, it was at once an honour and a reward to belong
to them. We saw a review of the elite of the imperial guard on the 8th
of May 1814, in presence of the King of France; the regiments of
cavalry, of which a great number passed, were very weak in numbers, but
the men were uncommonly fine, and the horses strong and active. The
finest regiment of infantry of the old guard, with some pieces of
cannon, did not defile before the King, but passed out of the Cour de
Carousel by a back way, on account, as we understood, of its having
shewn strong symptoms of disgust on the entrance of the King into Paris.
That regiment, as well as all the rest of the infantry of the old guard,
then called the Grenadiers Français, whom we had ever occasion to see,
was composed of the finest men, not merely in point of strength, but of
activity and apparent intelligence. The few pieces of artillery of the
guard that we saw were in very bad condition, and their equipment
particularly mean; but this branch of the service had not then had time
to repair the losses it had sustained in the campaign.

The cavalry of the guard appeared to have been the most fashionable
service under Napoleon. There were cuirassiers, heavy and light
dragoons, chasseurs, hussars, grenadiers à cheval, and lancers of the
guard, all of whom had different and splendid uniforms, and presented an
uncommonly varied and magnificent appearance when reviewed together.
Their magnificence and variety was evidently intended to gratify the
taste of the French people for splendid shows, and to attract young men
of fortune and expensive habits.

The imperial guard had much more of the air and manner, as well as
dress, of regular soldiers, than any other part of the French army;
indeed it is impossible to conceive a more martial or imposing figure
than that of one of the old grenadiers, (commonly called the _vieux
moustaches_,) in his striking and appropriate costume, armed with his
musket and sword, the cross of the legion of honour on his breast, his
rough and weather-beaten countenance bearing the impression of the sun
of Italy and the snows of Russia, while his keen and restless eye
shows, more expressively than words, that he is still "ready, aye
ready, for the field."

We thought we could discern in the countenances of the troops of
different nations, whom we saw reviewed about this time, the traces of
the difference of national character. The general expression of the
Russians, we thought, was that of stern obstinate determination; of the
Prussians, warm enthusiastic gallantry; of the French, fierce and
indignant impetuosity. This may have been fancy, but all who have seen
the troops of these different nations, will allow a very striking
difference of expression of countenance, as well as of features.

* * *

No measure was omitted by Napoleon to secure, the services, in the army,
of all who could be of any use in it. The organization of the garde
d'honneur was intended to include as large a number as possible of the
young men, whose circumstances had enabled them to avoid the
conscription. No act of the Imperial Government seemed to have given
more general offence in France than the formation of this corps, the
number of which was stated to have amounted at one time to 10,000. They
were, in the first instance, invited to volunteer, under the assurance
that they were to be employed as a guard for Maria Louisa, and under no
circumstances to be sent across the Rhine. A maximum and minimum number
were fixed for each _arrondissement_, some number between which was to
be made up by voluntary enrolments; but when any deficiency was
discovered, as for example in Holland, where the young men were very
little disposed to voluntary service in the French army, a balloting
immediately took place, and a number greater than the maximum was
compelled to come forward. Exemption from this service was impossible;
immense sums were offered and refused. They were all mounted, armed, and
clothed at their own expense; those who did not chuse to march, were
sent off under an escort of gens-d'armes; and all were conducted to the
fortresses on the Rhine, were they were regularly drilled. Some of them
were induced to volunteer for extended service, by a promise, that after
serving one campaign, they should be made officers; and in the course of
the campaign of 1813, _all_ of them were brought up to join the army;
and these young men, taken only a few weeks before from their families,
where many of them had been accustomed to every luxury and indulgence,
were compelled to go through all the duties and fatigues of common
hussars. Some regiments of them, which were very early brought into
action, having misconducted themselves, were immediately disbanded;
their horses, arms, and uniforms, were taken from them for the use of
the other troops, and they were dismissed, to find the best of their way
to their homes. Those who remained were distributed among the different
corps of cavalry, and suffered very severely in the campaign in France.
We spoke to some of them at Paris, who said they had bivouacked, at one
period of the campaign, _on snow_, fourteen nights successively, and
described to us the action at Rheims, one of the last that was fought,
where half of their regiment were left on the field. These men
complained loudly of the treacherous conduct of Napoleon to them and
their brethren of the same corps; yet they expressed their willingness
to undergo all their sufferings again, if they could thereby transfer
the date of the peace to the other side of the Rhine.

The effect of this measure on the middling and higher ranks was not more
oppressive than that of the conscription on the lower ranks, and even on
persons in tolerably good circumstances; for we have heard of £.400
Sterling, being twice paid to rescue an individual, whom a third
conscription had at length torn from his family. The impression produced
in France, however, by either of these measures, cannot be judged of
from a comparison with the feelings so often manifested in this country,
under circumstances of less aggravated affliction. The same careless,
unthinking, constitutional cheerfulness, which is so commendable in
those Frenchmen whose sufferings are all personal, displays itself in a
darker point of view, when they are called on to sympathise with the
sufferings of their friends. It is a disposition, allied indeed to
magnanimity on the one hand, but to selfishness on the other. The
sufferings of the French on such an occasion as the loss of a near
relation, may be acute; but they are of very short duration. In Paris,
mourning is at present hardly ever worn. At the time when we were there,
although a bloody campaign had only recently been concluded, we did not
see above five or six persons in mourning, and even these were not
certainly French. We understood it to be a principle all over France,
never to wear mourning for a son; but whether this was adopted in
compliance with the wishes of Napoleon, as was stated by some, or was
general before his time, as others maintained, we were not sufficiently
informed.

* * *

It may be a question, whether the real, as well as professed motive of
the policy of Napoleon, while he directed the affairs of France, was
some ill-conceived and absurd idea of the superior happiness and
prosperity which France might enjoy, if placed indisputably at the head
of the civilized world, and especially if elevated above the rivalship
of England; but if the good of France was really his end, it is quite
certain that it engaged very little of his attention, and that he
occupied himself almost exclusively with regard to the means which he
held to be necessary to its attainment. The causes of the wars in which
he engaged were of little importance to him; but the immediate object of
all of them was the glory and aggrandizement of France; and to this
object his whole soul was devoted, and all the energies of the state
were directed.

In a general view, the imperial government may be said to have rested on
the following foundations.

In the first place, it rested on the principle which was universally
acted on, of giving active employment, and animating encouragement, to
all men of talents or enterprise--to all whose friendship might be
useful, or whose enmity might be dangerous. The conscription carried off
the flower of the youthful population; parents were encouraged to send
their children; if they shewed any superior abilities, to the military
schools, whence they were rapidly promoted in the army. The formation of
the garde d'honneur effectually prevented all danger from a numerous
class of men, whose circumstances might have enabled them to exert
themselves in opposing public measures. In the civil administration of
the country, it was the system of Napoleon, from the beginning of his
career, to give employment to all who might be dangerous, if their
services were not secured. The prefects of towns and _arrondissements_,
were generally men of intelligence and information regarding the
characters of the inhabitants; and the persons recommended by them to
the immense number of situations in the police, in the collection of
taxes, &c. were always men of activity, enterprise, and ability: Birth,
education, and moral character, were altogether disregarded, and
religious principle was rather considered a fault than a recommendation.

The consequence was, that the young, the bold, the active, the
enterprising, the independent, were either attached to the imperial
government, or at least prevented from exerting themselves in opposition
to it; while those whom family cares, or laborious occupations, or
habits of indolence, or want of energy of mind, rendered unfit for
resistance to any government, were the only people whose interest it
was to resist that of Napoleon.

In the next place, while much was done by these means to secure the
support of the most important part of the nation to the imperial
government, the most effectual precautions were taken to prevent danger
to it, from those whom either principle might lead, or injuries might
provoke to disaffection. The police was everywhere so powerful, and the
system of espionage so universally extended, that it was almost
impossible for different individuals to combine against the government.
Without including the hosts of douaniers, who were under the orders of
the collectors of taxes, the gens d'armerie, who were at the disposal of
the police, and had no other duties to perform, amounted to above 10,000
men, cavalry and infantry, all completely armed and equipped. As soon,
therefore, as any individual excited suspicion, there was no difficulty
as to his apprehension. The number of police officers was very great,
and they were all low born, clever, unprincipled men, perfectly fitted
for their situations. The extent and accuracy of the information
possessed by them was almost incredible. Indeed, we regard the system of
espionage, by which this information was procured, as the most complete
and damning proof of the general selfishness and immorality of the
French people, of which we have received any account. It was not merely
that a number of persons were employed by the police as spies; but that
no man could put any confidence even in his best friends and nearest
relations. The very essence of the system was the destruction of all
confidence between man and man; and its success was such, that no man
could venture to express any sentiments hostile to the government, even
in the retirement of his own family circle. That sacred sanctuary was
every where invaded, not by the strong hand of power, but by the secret
machinations of bribery and intrigue.

We were particularly informed, with respect to the establishment of the
police in Amsterdam, where the sentiments of the people being known to
be averse to French dominion, it was of course made stronger than in
less suspicious parts of the country. Within a week after the annexation
of Holland to France, the police was in full force, and the spies every
where in motion. No servant was allowed to engage himself who had not a
certificate from the police, implying his being a spy on his master. At
the _tables d'hôte_, persons were placed to encourage seditious
conversation, and those who expressed themselves strongly, were soon
after seized and committed to prison. No person could leave Amsterdam,
even to go three miles into the country, without a passport from the
police, which was granted only to whom they pleased. When a party went
out on such an excursion, they were sure to be met by some of the gens
d'armerie, who already knew their names and destination, and who fixed
the time of their return. From the decisions of the police there was no
appeal; and those who were imprisoned by them, (as so many of the
inhabitants of Amsterdam were, that it ceased to be any reproach,) had
no method of bringing on a trial, or even of ascertaining the crimes of
which they were accused. Frequently individuals were transported from
one part of the country to another, without any reason being assigned,
and set down among strangers, to make their bread as they best could,
under the inspection of the police, who instantly arrested them on their
attempting to escape. This system was probably more strictly enforced in
Holland than over the greater part of France, but its most essential
parts were every where the same, and the information, with respect to
the private characters and sentiments of individuals, was certainly
more easily obtained in France than in Holland.

Such, according to the information of the most intelligent and best
informed persons with whom we had an opportunity of conversing, were the
principal means by which the power of Napoleon was maintained, and his
authority enforced. But it must be owned that he did more than
this,--that during the greater part of his reign, he not only commanded
the obedience, but obtained the admiration and esteem of the majority of
his subjects.

In looking for the causes of this, we shall in vain attempt to discover
them in real benefits conferred on France by Napoleon. It is true, that
agriculture made some progress during his reign, but this was decidedly
owing to the transference of the landed property from nobles and
churchmen, to persons really interested in the cultivation of the soil,
which had taken place before his time, and not to the empty and
ostentatious patronage which he bestowed on it; the best proof of which
is, that the main improvement that has taken place has not been, as
already observed, in the principles or practice of agriculture, but in
the quantity of land under tillage. It is true also, that certain
manufactures have been encouraged by the exclusion of the English
goods; but this partial increase of wealth was certainly not worth the
expense of a year's war, and was heavily counterbalanced by the distress
occasioned by his tyrannical decrees in the commercial towns of France,
and of the countries which were subjected to her control.

As a single instance of this distress, we may just notice the situation
of the city of Amsterdam during the time that Holland was incorporated
with France. Out of 200,000 inhabitants of that city, more than one
half, during the whole of that time, were absolutely deprived of the
means of subsistence, and lived merely on the charity of the remainder,
who were, for the most part, unable to engage in any profitable
business, all foreign commerce being at an end, and supported themselves
therefore on the capital which they had previously acquired; and, lest
that capital should escape, two-thirds of the national debt of Holland
were struck off by a single decree of Napoleon. The population of the
town fell off about 20,000 during the time of its connection with
France; the taxes, while the two countries were incorporated, were
enormous; the income-tax, which was independent of the droits reunis, or
assessed taxes, having been stated to us at one-fifth of every man's
income. It was during the pressure of these burdens that the tremendous
system of police which we have described was enforced; and to add to the
miseries of the unfortunate inhabitants of this and the other commercial
towns of Holland, they were not allowed to manifest their sufferings.
Every man who possessed or inhabited a house was compelled to keep it in
perfect repair; so that even at the time of their liberation, these
towns bore no external mark of poverty or decay. The consequence of that
decree, however, had been, that persons possessing houses at first
lowered their rents, then asked no rents at all; happy to get them off
their hands, and throw on the tenants the burden of paying taxes for
them and keeping them in repair; and lastly, in many instances, offered
sums of money to bribe others to live in their houses, or even accept
the property of them.

The taxes of France, under Napoleon, it would have been supposed, were
alone sufficient to exasperate the people against them. They were
oppressive, not merely from their amount, but especially from the
arbitrary power which was granted to the prefects of towns and
_arrondissements_, and their agents, in collecting them. A certain sum
was directed to be levied in each district, and the apportioning of this
burden on the different inhabitants was left almost entirely to the
discretion of these officers.

It is quite obvious, therefore, as we already hinted; that the
popularity of Napoleon in France, during at least the greater part of
his reign; can be traced to no other source than the national vanity of
the French. As they are more fond of shew than of comfort in private
life, so their public affections are more easily won by gaudy
decorations than by substantial benefits. Napoleon gave them enough of
the former; they had victories abroad and _spectacles_ at home--their
capital was embellished--their country was aggrandised--their glory was
exalted; and if he had continued successful, France would still have
continued to applaud and admire him, while she had sons to swell her
armies, and daughters to drudge in her fields.

As it was not Napoleon who made the French a military and ambitious
people, so it is not his fall alone that can secure the world against
the effects of their military and ambitious spirit. It is not merely the
removal of him who has so long guided it, but the extinction of the
spirit itself that is necessary. The effect of the late events on the
active part of the population of France, cannot be accurately judged of
in the present moment of irritation and disorder; but whatever
government that country may ultimately assume, it may surely be hoped
that their experience of unsuccessful and calamitous war has been
sufficient to incline them to peace; that they will learn to measure
their national glory by a better standard than mere victory or noise;
that they will reflect on the true objects, both of political and
military institutions, and acknowledge the happiness of the people they
govern to be the supreme law of kings, and the blessings of the country
they serve to be the best reward of soldiers.




CHAPTER IX.

JOURNEY TO FLANDERS.


When we left Paris, we took the road to Soissons and Laon, with a view
to see the seat of war during the previous campaign, and examine the
interesting country of Flanders. After passing the village of La
Villette, and the heights of Belleville, the country becomes flat and
uninteresting, and is distinguished by those features which characterise
almost all the level agricultural districts of France. The road, which
is of great breadth, and paved in the centre, runs through a continued
plain, in which, as far as the eye can reach, nothing is to be discerned
but a vast expanse of corn fields, varied at intervals by fallows, and
small tracts of lucerne and sainfoin. No inclosures are to be met with;
few woods are seen to vary the uniformity of the view; and the level
surface of the ground is only broken at intervals by the long rows of
fruit-trees, which intersect the country in different directions, or the
tall avenues of elms between which the _chaussèes_ are placed.

These elm trees would give a magnificent appearance to the roads, both
from their age and the immense length during which they fringe its
sides, were it not that they are uniformly clipt to the very top, for
firewood, by the peasantry, and that all their natural beauty is in
consequence destroyed. The elm, indeed, pushes out its shoots to replace
the branches which have been destroyed, and fringes the lofty stem with
a cluster of foliage; but as soon as these young branches have become
large, they too are in their turn sacrificed to the same purpose. When
seen from a distance, accordingly, these trees resemble tall May-poles
with tufts at their tops, and are hardly to be distinguished from the
Lombardy poplars, which, in many parts of the country, line the sides of
the principal roads.

One most remarkable circumstance in the agricultural districts of
France, is here to be seen in its full extent. The people do not dwell
in detached cottages, placed in the centre of their farms or their
properties, as in all parts of England; they live together in aged
villages or boroughs, often at the distance of two or three miles from
the place of their labour, and wholly separated from the farms which
they are employed in cultivating. It is no uncommon thing accordingly,
to see a farmer leaving a little town in the morning with his ploughs
and horses, to go to his piece of ground, which lies many miles from the
place of his residence.

This circumstance, which exists more or less in every part of France, is
characteristic of the state in which the people were placed in those
remote periods, when their habits of life were originally formed. It
indicates that popular degradation and public insecurity, when the poor
were compelled to unite themselves in villages or towns for protection
from the banditti, whom the government was unable to restrain, or from
the more desolating oppression of feudal power. In every country of
Europe, in which the feudal tyranny long subsisted; in Spain, in France,
in Poland, and in Hungary, this custom has prevailed to a certain
extent, and the remains of it are still to be seen in the remoter parts
of Scotland. It is in countries alone whose freedom has long subsisted;
in Switzerland, in Flanders, and in England, that no traces of its
effects are to be discerned in the manners and the condition of the
peasantry; that the enjoyment of individual security has enabled the
poor to spread themselves in fearless confidence over the country; and
that the traveller, in admiring the union of natural beauty with general
prosperity, which the appearance of the country exhibits, blesses that
government, by the influence of whose equal laws that delightful union
has been effected.

In the neighbourhood of Paris, and in those situations which are
favourable for vineyard or garden cultivation, this circumstance gives a
very singular aspect to the face of the country. As far as the eye can
reach, the sloping banks, or rising swells, are cultivated with the
utmost care, and intersected by little paths, which wind through the
gardens, or among the vineyards, in the most beautiful manner; yet no
traces of human habitation are to be discerned, by whose labour, or for
whose use, this admirable cultivation has been conducted. The labourers,
or proprietors of these gardens, dwell at the distance of miles, in
antiquated villages, which resemble the old boroughs which are now
wearing out in the improved parts of Scotland. In the greater part of
France, the people dwell in this manner, in crowded villages, while the
open country, every where cultivated, is but seldom inhabited. The
superiority, accordingly, in the beauty of those districts, where the
cottages are sprinkled over the country, and surrounded by fruit-trees,
is greater than can well be imagined: and it is owing to this
circumstance that Picardy, Artois, and Normandy, exhibit so much more
pleasing an appearance, than most of the other provinces of France.

In the district between Paris and Soissons, as in almost every other
part of the country, the land is now in the hands of the peasantry, who
became proprietors of it during the struggles of the revolution. We had
every where occasion to observe the extreme industry with which the
people conduct their cultivation, and perceived numerous instances of
the truth of Mr Young's observation, "that there is no such instigator
to severe and incessant labour, as the minute subdivision of landed
property." But though their industry was uniformly in the highest degree
laudable, yet we could not help deploring the ignorant and unskilful
manner in which this industry is directed. The cultivation is still
carried on after the miserable rotation which so justly excited the
indignation of Mr Young previous to the commencement of the revolution.
Wheat, barley or oats, sainfoin, lucerne or clover, and fallow, form
the universal rotation. The green crops are uniformly cut, and carried
into the house for the cattle; as there are no inclosures, there is no
such thing as pasturage in the fields; and, except once on the banks of
the Oise, we never saw cattle pasturing in those parts of France. The
small quantity of lucerne and sainfoin, moreover, shews that there are
but few herds in this part of France, and that meat, butter, or cheese,
form but a small part of the food of the peasantry. Normandy, in fact,
is the only pasture district of France, and the produce of the dairy
there is principally intended for the markets of Paris.

The soil is apparently excellent the whole way, composed of a loam in
some places, mixed with clay and sand, and extremely easily worked.
Miserable fallows are often seen, on which the sheep pick up a wretched
subsistence--their lean sides and meagre limbs exhibit the effects of
the scanty food which they are able to obtain. The ploughing to us
appeared excellent; but we were unable to determine whether this was to
be imputed to the skilfulness of the labourer, or the light friable
nature of the soil.

The property of the peasantry is not surrounded by any enclosures, nor
are there any visible marks whereby their separate boundaries could be
determined by the eye of a stranger. The plain exhibits one unbroken
surface of corn or vineyards, and appears as if it all formed a part of
one boundless property. The vast expanse, however, is in fact subdivided
into an infinite number of small estates, the proprietors of which dwell
in the aged boroughs through which the road occasionally passes, and the
extremities of which are marked by great stones fixed on their ends,
which are concealed from a passenger by the luxuriant corn in which they
are enveloped. This description applies to the grain districts in almost
every part of France.

Although the condition of the peasantry has been greatly ameliorated, in
consequence of the division of landed property since the revolution, yet
their increased wealth has not yet had any influence on the state of
their habitations, or the general comfort of their dwellings. This rises
from the nature of the contributions to which they were subjected during
the despotic governments which succeeded the first years of the
revolution. These contributions were levied by the governors of
districts in the most arbitrary manner. The arrondissement was assessed
at a certain sum by the government, or a certain contribution for the
support of the war was imposed; and the sum was proportioned out among
the different inhabitants, according to the discretion of the collector.
Any appearance of comfort, accordingly, among the peasantry, was
immediately followed by an increased contribution, and heavier taxes;
and hence the people never ventured to make any display of their
increased wealth in their dwellings, or in any article of their
expenditure, which might attract, the notice of the collectors of the
imperial revenue. The burdens to which they were subjected, moreover,
especially during the last years of the war, were extremely severe,
arising both from the enormous sums requisite to save their sons from
the conscription, and the heavy unequal contributions to which they were
subjected.

From these causes, the division of landed property has not yet produced
that striking amelioration in the habits and present comfort of the
peasantry, which generally attend this important measure; and their
wealth is rather hoarded up, after the eastern custom, for future,
emergencies or spent in the support of an early marriage; and never
lavished in the fearless enjoyment of present opulence.

In some respects, however, their appearance evidently bears the mark of
the improvement in their situation. Their dress is upon the whole neat
and comfortable, covered in general by a species of smock frock of a
light blue colour, and exhibiting none of that miserable appearance
which Mr Young described as characterising the labouring classes during
his time. They evidently had the aspect of being well fed, and both in
their figures and dress, afforded a striking contrast to the wretched
and decrepid inhabitants of the towns, in whom the real poverty of the
people, under the old regime, was still perceptible. In some of these
towns, the appearance of the beggars, their extraordinary figures, and
tattered dress, exhibited a spectacle which would have been
inconceivably ludicrous, were it not for the melancholy ideas of abject
poverty which it necessarily conveyed.

About twenty miles from Soissons, the road passes through the
magnificent forest of Villars Coterets, which, in the luxuriance and
extent of its woods, rivals the forest of Fontainbleau. The place on
which it stands is varied by rising grounds, and the distance exhibits
beautiful vistas of forest scenery and gentle swells, adorned by rich
and varied foliage. It wants, however, those grand and striking
features, that mixture of rock and wood, of forest gloom and savage
scenery, which give so unrivalled a charm to the forest of
Fontainbleau.

From Villars Coterets, the road lies over a high plateau, covered with
grain, and exhibiting more than ordinary barrenness and desolation.
After passing over this dreary track, you arrive at the edge of a steep
declivity, which shelves down to the valley in which the Aisne wanders.
The appearance of this valley is extremely beautiful. It is sheltered by
high ridges, or sloping hills, covered with vineyards, orchards, and
luxuriant woods: the little plain is studded with villas and neat
cottages, embosomed in trees, or surrounded by green meadows, in which
the winding course of the Aisne can at intervals be discerned. When we
reached this spot, the sun had newly risen; his level rays illuminated
the white cottages with which the valley is sprinkled, or glittered on
the stream which winded through its plain; while the Gothic towers of
Soissons threw a long shadow over the green fields which surrounded its
walls. It reminded us of those lines in Thomson, in which the effect of
the morning light is so beautifully described:

      "Lo, now apparent all,
    Aslant the dew-bright earth and coloured air,
    He looks in boundless majesty abroad,
    And sheds the shining day, that burnished plays
    On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering streams,
    High gleaming from afar."

The descent to Soissons is through a declivity adorned by thriving
gardens and neat cottages, detached from each other, which afforded a
pleasing contrast to the solitary, uninhabited, though cultivated plains
through which our route had previously lain. The Fauxbourgs of the town
were wholly in ruins, having been totally destroyed in the three
assaults which they had sustained during the previous campaign. The town
itself is small, surrounded by decayed fortifications, and containing
nothing of note, except the Gothic spires, which bear testimony to its
antiquity.

On leaving Soissons on the road to Laon, you go for two miles through
the level plain in which the town is situated; after which you begin to
ascend the steep ridge by which its eastern boundary is formed. It was
on the summit of this ridge that Marshal Blucher's army was drawn up,
80,000 strong, at the time when a detachment of his troops, under Count
Langeron, was defending Soissons against the French army. Immediately
below this position, there is placed a small village, which bore the
marks of desperate fighting; all the houses were unroofed or shattered
in every part by musket balls; and many seemed to have been burnt during
the struggles of which it was formerly the theatre. There is an old
castle a little higher up the ascent, which was garrisoned by the allied
troops; in the neighbourhood of which, we perceived numerous traces of
the immense bivouacs which had been made round its walls; particularly
the bodies of horses and oxen, which the Russians had left on the
ground, and which the peasants had taken no pains to remove.

From thence the road runs over a high level plateau, covered with
miserable corn, or worse fallows, and having an aspect of sterility very
different from what we were accustomed to in the rich provinces of
France. In the midst of this dreary country, we beheld with delight
several deep ravines, formed by streams which fall into the Aisne,
sheltered from the chilling blasts that sweep along the high plains by
which they are surrounded, the steep sides of which were clothed with
luxuriant woods, and in the bottom of which are placed many little farms
and cottages, which exhibited a perfect picture of rural beauty. Even
here, however, the terrible effects of war were clearly visible; these
sequestered spots had been ravaged by the hostile armies; and the ruined
walls of the peasants dwellings presented a melancholy spectacle in the
midst of the profusion of beauty with which they were surrounded.

Half way between Soissons and Laon, is placed a solitary inn, at which
Bonaparte stopt six hours, after the disastrous termination of the
battle of Laon. The people informed us, that during this time, he was in
a state of great agitation, wrote many different orders, which he
destroyed as fast as they were done, and covered the floor with the
fragments of his writing. Many Cossacks and Bashkirs had been quartered
in this inn; the people, as usual, would not allow them any good
qualities, but often repeated, with evident chagrin--"Ils mangent comme
des diables; ils ont mangé tous les poulets."

The features of the country continue with little variety, till you begin
to descend from the high plateau, over which the road has passed into
the wooded valley, in the centre of which the hill and town of Laon are
placed. The dreary aspect of this plateau, which, though cultivated in
every part, exhibited few traces of human habitation, was enlivened
occasionally by herds of pigs, of a lean and meagre breed, (followed by
shepherds of the most grotesque appearance,) wandering over the bare
fallows, and seemingly reduced to the necessity of feeding on their
mother earth.

At the distance of six miles from Laon, the descent begins to the plain
below, down the side of a deep ravine, beautifully clothed with woods
and vineyards. On the other side of this ravine lies the plateau on
which the battle of Craon was fought, whose level desolate surface
seemed a fit theatre for the struggle that was there maintained. At the
bottom of the ravine the road passes a long line of villages, surrounded
with wood and gardens, which had been wholly ruined by the operations of
the armies; and among the neighbouring woods we were shewn numerous
graves both of French and Russian soldiers.

The approach to Laon lies through a great morass, covered in different
places with low brushwood, and intersected only by the narrow chaussèe
on which the road is laid. The appearance of the town is very striking;
standing on a hill in the centre of a plain of 10 or 12 miles in
diameter, bounded on all sides by steep and wooded ridges. It is
surrounded by an old wall, and some decayed towers, and is adorned by
some fine Gothic spires, whose apparent magnitude is much increased by
the elevated station on which they are placed.

In crossing this chaussèe, we were immediately struck with the
extraordinary policy of Bonaparte, in attacking the Russian army posted
on the heights of Laon, where his only retreat was by the narrow road
we were traversing, which for several miles, ran through a morass,
impassible for carriages or artillery. This appeared the more wonderful,
as the army he was attacking was more numerous than his own, composed of
admirable troops, and posted in a position where little hopes of success
could be entertained. It was an error of the same kind as he committed
at Leipsic, when he gave battle to the allied armies with a single
bridge and a long defile in his rear. It is laid down as one of the
first maxims of war, by Frederic the Great, "never to fight an enemy
with a bridge or defile in your rear: as if you are defeated, the ruin
of the army must ensue in the confusion which the narrowness of the
retreat creates." We cannot suppose so great a general as Bonaparte to
have been ignorant of so established a principle, or a rule which common
sense appears so obviously to dictate; it is more probable, that in the
confidence which the long habit of success had occasioned, he never
contemplated the possibility of a defeat, nor took any measures whatever
for ensuring the safety of his army in the event of a retreat. Be this
as it may, it is certain that he fought at Laon with a morass, crossed
by a single chaussèe, in his rear, and that if he had been totally
defeated, instead of being repulsed in the action which then took
place, his army must have been irretrievably ruined, in the narrow line
over which their retreat was of necessity conducted.

At the foot of the hill of Laon is placed a small village named Semilly,
in which a desperate conflict had evidently been maintained. The trees
were riddled with the cannon-shot; the walls were pierced for the fire
of infantry, and the houses all in ruins, from the showers of balls to
which they had been exposed. The steep declivity of the hill itself was
covered with gardens and vineyards, in which the allied army had been
posted during the continuance of the conflict; but though three months
had not elapsed since the period when they were filled with hostile
troops, no traces of desolation were to be seen, nor any thing which
could indicate the occurrence of any extraordinary events. The vines
grew in the utmost luxuriance on the spot where columns of infantry had
so recently stood, and the garden cultivation appeared in all its
neatness, on the very ground which had been lately traversed by all the
apparatus of modern warfare. It would have been impossible for any one
to have conceived, that the destruction they occasioned could so soon
have been repaired; or that the powers of Nature, in that genial
climate, could so rapidly have effaced all traces of the desolation
which marked the track of human ambition.

The town of Laon itself contains little worthy of note; but the view
from its ramparts, though not extensive, was one of the most pleasing
which we had seen in France. The little plain with which the town is
surrounded, is varied with woods, corn fields, and vineyards; the view
is closed on every side by a ridge of hills, which form a circular
boundary round its farthest extremity, while the foreground is finely
marked by the decaying towers of the fortress, or the dark foliage which
shades its ramparts.

We walked over the field of battle with a degree of interest, which
nothing but the memorable operations of which it had formerly been the
theatre, could possibly have excited. The accounts of the action, which
we received from the inhabitants of the town, and peasantry in its
vicinity, agreed perfectly with the official details which we had
previously read; and although we could not give an opinion with
confidence on a military question, it certainly appeared to us, that the
operations of the French army had been ill combined. Indeed, some
French officers with whom we conversed on the next day, allowed that the
battle had been ill fought, but, as usual, laid all the blame upon
Marmont. The main body of the French army, advancing by the road from
Soissons, attacked the villages of Ardon and Semilly in front of the
town, on the centre of Marshal Blucher's position, and his right wing,
which was posted in the intersected ground to the west of the town, on
the morning of the 9th of March. These parts of the position were
occupied chiefly by the corps of Woronzoff and Buloff, and as they were
very strong, no impression was made on them, and the troops who defended
them maintained themselves, without support from the reserves, during
the whole day. Late in the evening, the corps of Marmont, with a body of
cavalry under Arrighi, appeared on the road from Rheims, advancing
apparently without any communication or concert with the troops under
Napoleon in person, (who were drawn up, for the most part, in heavy
columns, in the immediate vicinity of the Soissons road), and made a
furious attack on the extreme left of Marshal Blucher's position. The
Marshal being satisfied by this time, that the troops in position about
the town were adequate to the defence of it against Napoleon's force,
was enabled to detach the whole corps of York, Kleist, and Sacken, with
the greater part of his cavalry, to oppose Marmont, who was instantly
overthrown, cut off from all communication with Napoleon, and driven
across the Aisne, with the loss of four or five thousand prisoners, and
forty pieces of cannon. The only assistance which Napoleon could give
him in his retreat, was by renewing the attack on Ardon and Semilly,
which he did next morning, and maintained the action during the whole of
the 10th, with no other effect, than preventing the pursuit of Marmont
from being followed up by the vigour which might otherwise have been
displayed by the Silesian army, notwithstanding the fatigues which they
had undergone at that time, during six weeks of continued marching and
fighting.

The village of Athies, where the contest with Marmont's corps was
decided, containing about 200 houses, had been completely burnt in the
time of the action; and, when we were there, little progress had been
made in rebuilding it, but the inhabitants, then living in temporary
sheds, displayed their usual cheerfulness and equanimity; they were very
loud in reprobation of the military conduct of Marmont, and very anxious
to convince us, that the French had been overwhelmed only by great
superiority of numbers, and that the allies might have completely cut
off the retreat of Marmont towards Rheims, if they had known how to
profit by their success.

June 8th, we left Laon at sunrise, and took the road to St Quentin. For
a few miles the road passes through the plain in which the town is
placed, after which it enters a pass, formed between the sloping hills,
by which its boundary is marked. These hills are, for the most part,
soft and green, like those on the banks of the Yarrow in Scotland, but
varied, in some places, by woods and orchards; and their lower
declivities are every where covered by vineyards and garden cultivation.
Near their foot is placed the village of Cressy, which struck us as the
most comfortable we had seen in France. The houses are all neat and
substantial, covered with excellent slated roofs, and lighted by large
windows, each surrounded by a little garden, and exhibiting a degree of
comfort rarely to be met with among the dwellings of the French
peasantry. On inquiry, we found that these peasants had long been
proprietors of their houses, with the gardens attached, and had each a
vineyard on the adjoining heights. The effects of long established
property were here very apparent in the habits of comfort and industry,
which, in process of time, it had ingrafted upon the dispositions and
wishes of the people.

After passing the ridge of little hills, through banks clothed with
hanging woods, the road descends into a little circular valley,
surrounded on all sides by rising grounds, which presented a scene of
the most perfect rural beauty. The upper part of the hills were covered
with luxuriant woods, whose flowing outline suited the expression of
softness and repose by which the scene was distinguished; on the
declivities below the wood, the vineyards, gardens, and fruit-trees,
covered the sunny banks which descended into the plain, while the lower
part of the valley was filled with a village, embosomed in fruit-trees,
ornamented only by a simple spire. It is impossible for language to
convey an adequate idea of the beauty of this exquisite scene; it united
the interest of romantic scenery with the charm of cultivated nature,
and seemed placed in this sequestered valley, to combine all that was
delightful in rural life. When we first beheld it, the sun was newly
risen; his increasing rays threw a soft light over the wooded hills, and
illuminated the summit of the village spire; the grass and the vines
were still glittering in the morning dew, and the songs of the peasants
were heard on all sides, cheering the beginning of their early labour.
The marks of cultivation harmonized with the expression by which the
scene was characterised; they were emblematic only of human happiness,
and had a tendency to induce the momentary belief, that in this
sequestered spot the human species shared in the fulness of universal
joy.

As we descended into the valley, we perceived a great chateau near the
western extremity of the village of Foudrain, which appeared still to be
inhabited, and had none of the appearance of decay by which all that we
had hitherto seen were distinguished. It belongs to the Chevalier
Brancas, who is proprietor of this and seven or eight of the adjoining
villages, and whose estates extend over a great part of the surrounding
country. On enquiry, we found that this great proprietor had, long
before the revolution, pursued a most enlightened and indulgent conduct
towards his peasantry, giving them leases of their houses and gardens of
20 or 30 years, and never removing any even at the expiration of that
period, if their conduct had been industrious during its continuance.
The good effects of this liberal policy have appeared in the most
striking manner, not only in the increased industry and enlarged wealth
of the tenants; but in the moderate, loyal conduct which they pursued,
during the eventful period of the revolution. The farmers on this estate
are some of the richest in France; many being possessed of a capital of
15,000 or 16,000 francs, (from £. 750 to £. 800 Sterling,) a very large
sum in that country, and amply sufficient for the management of the
farms which they possessed. Their houses are neat and comfortable in the
most remarkable degree, and the farm-steadings as extensive and
substantial as in the most improved districts of England. The ground is
cultivated with the utmost care, and the industry of the peasants is
conspicuous in every part of agricultural management. It was impossible,
in comparing these prosperous dwellings with the decayed villages in
most other parts of the country, not to discern, in the clearest manner,
the salutary influence of individual security upon the labouring
classes; and the tendency which the certainty of enjoying the fruits of
their labour has, not merely in increasing their present industry, but
awakening those wishes of improvement, and engendering those habits of
comfort; which are the only true foundation of public happiness.

During the revolution, when the peasants of all the adjoining estates
violently dispossessed their landlords of their property; when every
adjoining chateau exhibited a scene of desolation and ruin; the peasants
of this estate were remarkable for their moderate and steady conduct; so
far from themselves pillaging their seigneur, they formed a league for
his defence "--Ils l'ont soutenùs," as they themselves expressed
it--_and he continued throughout, and is now in the quiet possession of
his great estate_. It is not perhaps going too far to say, that had the
peasants throughout the country been treated with the same indulgence,
and suffered to enjoy the same property, as in this delightful district,
France would have been spared from all the horrors and all the
sufferings of her revolution.

From Foudrain to La Fere, the country is, for the most part, flat; and
the road, which is shaded by lofty trees, skirts the edge of a great
forest, which stretches as far as the eye can reach to the left; and
joins with the forest of Villars Coterets. For many miles the road is
bordered by fruit-trees, and the cottages have a most comfortable
thriving appearance. To St Quentin the face of the country is flat,
though the ridge over which you pass is high; the villages have an
appearance of progress and opulence about them, which is rarely to be
met with in other parts of France. All the peasantry carry on
manufactures in their own houses; and probably their gains are very
considerable, as their houses are much more neat and comfortable than in
districts which are solely agricultural, and their dress bears the
appearance of considerable wealth. The cultivation in the open country
still continues, in general, to be wheat, barley, clover, and fallow;
but the approach to French Flanders is very obvious, both from the
increased quantity of rye under cultivation, from the occasional fields
of beans which are to be met with, and from the numbers of potatoes and
other vegetables which are to be discerned round the immediate vicinity
of the villages. In these villages the houses are white-washed,
surrounded by gardens, and have a smiling aspect.

La Fere is a small town, surrounded with trifling fortifications,
containing a considerable arsenal of artillery. We were much amused,
while there, with the spectacle which the market exhibited. A great
concourse of people had been collected from all quarters, to purchase a
number of artillery horses which the government had exposed at a low
price, to indemnify the people for the losses they had sustained during
the continuance of the war. The crowds of grotesque figures which
thronged the streets, the picturesque appearance of the horses that were
exposed to sale, and the fierce martial aspect of the grenadiers of the
old guard, a detachment of whom were quartered in the town, rendered
this scene truly characteristic of the French people.

St Quentin is a neat, clean, and thriving town, resembling, both in the
forms of the houses, and the opulence of the middling classes, the
better sort of the country towns in England. It is the seat of
considerable manufactures, which throve amazingly under the imperial
government, in consequence of the exclusion of the English commodities
during the revolutionary wars. The linen manufacture is the staple
branch of industry, and affords employment to the peasantry in their own
houses, in every direction in the surrounding country, which is probably
the cause of the thriving prosperous appearance by which they are
distinguished. The great church of St Quentin, though not built in fine
proportions, is striking, from the coloured glass of its windows, and
its great dimensions.

The French cultivation continues without any other change than the
increased quantity of rye in the fields, and vegetables round the
cottages, to the frontier of French Flanders. Still the country exhibits
one unbroken sheet of corn and fallow; no inclosures are to be seen, and
little wood varies the uniformity of the prospect. In crossing a high
ridge which separates St Quentin from Cambray, the road passes over the
great canal from Antwerp to Paris, which is here carried for many miles
through a tunnel under ground. This great work was commenced under the
administration of M. Turgot, but it was not completed till the time of
Bonaparte, who employed in it great numbers of the prisoners whom he had
taken in Spain. The magnitude of the undertaking may be judged of from
the immense depth of the hollow which was cut for it, previous to the
commencement of the tunnel, which is so great, that the canal, when seen
from the top, has the appearance of a little stream. The course of the
tunnel is marked on the surface of the ground by a line of chalky soil,
which is spread above its centre, and which can be seen as far as the
eye can reach, stretching over the vast ridge by which the country is
traversed.

At the distance of three miles from the town of Cambray, the road
crosses the ancient frontiers of French Flanders. We had long been
looking for this transition, to discover if it still exhibited the
striking change described by Arthur Young, "between the effects of the
despotism of old France, which depressed agriculture, and the free
spirit of the Burgundian provinces, which cherished and protected it."
No sooner had we crossed the old line of demarcation between the French
and Flemish provinces, than we were immediately struck with the
difference, both in the aspect of the country, the mode of cultivation,
and the condition of the people. The features of the landscape assume a
totally different aspect; the straight roads, the clipt elms, the
boundless plains of France are no longer to be seen; and in their place
succeeds a thickly wooded soil and cultivated country. The number of
villages is infinitely increased; the village spires rise above the
woods in every direction, to mark the antiquity and the extent of the
population: the houses of the peasants are detached from each other, and
surrounded with fruit trees, or gardens kept in the neatest order, and
all the features of the landscape indicate the long established
prosperity by which the country has been distinguished.

Nor is the difference less striking in the mode of cultivation which is
purified. Fallows, so common in France, almost universally disappear;
and in their place, numerous crops of beans, pease, potatoes, carrots
and endive, are to be met with. In the cultivation of these crops manual
labour is universally employed; and the mode of cultivation is precisely
that which is carried on in garden husbandry. The crops are uniformly
laid out in small patches of an acre or thereby to each species of
vegetable; which, combined with the extreme minuteness of the
cultivation, gives the country under tillage the appearance of a great
kitchen garden. This singular practice, which is universal in Flanders,
is probably owing to the great use of the manual labour in the
operations of agriculture. Rye is very much cultivated, and forms the
staple food of the peasantry. The crops of wheat, barley, oats, rye, and
clover, struck us as exceedingly heavy, but not nearly so clean as those
of a similar description in the best agricultural districts of our own
country.

But it is principally in the condition, manners, and comfort of the
people, that the difference between the French and Flemish provinces
consists. Every thing connected with the lower orders, indicates the
influence of long-established prosperity, and the prevalence of habits
produced by the uninterrupted enjoyment of individual opulence. The
population of Flanders, both French and Austrian, is perfectly
astonishing; the villages form an almost uninterrupted line through the
country; the small towns are as numerous as villages in other parts of
the world, and seem to contain an extensive and comfortable population.
These small towns are particularly remarkable for the number and
opulence of the middling classes, resembling in this, as well as other
respects, the flourishing boroughs of Yorkshire and Kent, and affording
a most striking contrast to those of a very opposite description, which
we had recently passed through in France.

The cottages of the peasantry, both in the villages and the open
country, are in the highest degree, neat, clean, and comfortable; built
for the most part of brick, and slated in the roof; nowhere exhibiting
the slightest symptoms of dilapidation. These houses have almost all a
garden attached to them, in the cultivation of which, the poor people
display, not only extreme industry, but a degree of taste superior to
what might be expected from their condition in life: The inside bore the
marks of great comfort, both from the cleanness which every where
prevailed, and the costly nature of the furniture with which they were
filled. Nothing could be more pleasing than the appearance of the
windows, every where in the best repair, large and capacious, and
furnished with shutters on the outside, painted green, which, together
with the bright whiteness of the walls, gave the whole the appearance of
buildings destined for ornamental purposes, rather than the abode of the
lower orders of the people.

Cambray is a neat comfortable town, containing 15,000 inhabitants, and
surrounded by fortifications in tolerable repair, but which, when we
passed them, were not armed. It was once celebrated for its magnificent
cathedral, reckoned the finest in France; but a few ruins of this great
building alone have escaped the fury of the people, during the
commencement of the revolution. These trifling remains, however, were
sufficient to convey some idea of the beautiful proportions in which the
whole had been constructed; they resembled much the finest part of
Dryburgh Abbey, in Scotland. The modern cathedral, built near the site
of the old one, has a mean exterior, but possesses considerable
splendour in the inside.

From Cambray to Valenciennes, the features of the country continue the
same as those we have just described. The surface of the ground is still
flat, and cultivated in every part with the utmost care, in the garden
style of husbandry. We were particularly struck, in this district, by
the quantity of drilled crops, the admirable order in which they are
kept, and the vast numbers of people, both men, women, and children, who
appeared engaged in their cultivation. Nothing, indeed, but the great
demand for labour, occasioned by the use of manual labour in husbandry,
could have produced, or could support, the great population by which
Flanders has always been distinguished.

Valenciennes, situated in one of the finest districts of Flanders, is
likewise a well built, comfortable town, built entirely of brick, and
surrounded by magnificent fortifications, in admirable repair. As this
was the first well fortified town which we had seen, it was to us a
matter of no ordinary interest, which was encreased by the remembrance
of the celebrated siege which it had undergone from the English army at
the commencement of the revolutionary war. We were shewn the point at
which the English forced their entrance; and the numberless marks of
cannon-balls which their artillery had occasioned during the siege were
still uneffaced. Though the modern fortifications, built after the model
of Vauban, have not the romantic or picturesque aspect which belongs to
the aged towers of Montreuil, Abbeville, or Laon, or the more ruinous
walls of the town of Conway in Wales, yet they present a pleasing
spectacle, arising partly from the regularity of the forms themselves,
and partly from the association with which they are connected.

From Valenciennes to Mons, the country is still flat, though the
cultivation and the aspect of the scene is somewhat varied from what had
been exhibited by the districts of French Flanders, through which we had
previously passed. It lies lower, and appears more subject to
inundation: Ditches appear at intervals, filled with water, and
extensive meadows are to be seen, covered with rank and luxuriant grass.
The cultivation of grain and green crops is less frequent, and in their
stead, vast tracks of rich pasture cover the face of the country. Much
wood is to be seen on all sides, often of great dimensions; and the
population appears still as great as before. The villages succeed one
another so fast, as almost to form a continued street; and the
numberless spires which rise over the woods in every direction, prove
that this number of inhabitants extends over the whole country. The
cottages still continue neat and comfortable; not picturesque to a
painter's eye, but exhibiting the more delightful appearance of
individual prosperity. Their beauty is much increased by the quantity
of wood, or the variety of fruit-trees, with which the villages are
interspersed. There are many coal-pits in this country, and a great deal
of carriage of this valuable mineral on the principal roads. They
present a scene of infinitely more bustle and activity than the richest
parts of France. We met a great number of waggons, harnessed and
equipped like those in England; and the numbers of carriages reminded
us, in some degree, of the extraordinary appearance, in this respect,
which the approach to our own capital presents; a state of things widely
different from the desolate _chaussèes_ which the interior of France
exhibits. Every thing in the small towns and villages bore the marks of
activity, industry, and increasing prosperity. We passed with much
interest over the celebrated field of battle of Jemappe, where the
remains of Austrian redoubts are still visible.

Mons, the frontier town of Austrian Flanders, was once a place of great
strength, and underwent a dreadful siege during the wars of the Duke of
Marlborough; but its ramparts are now dismantled, according to the
ruinous policy of Joseph II. The square in the town is large, and has a
striking appearance, owing to the picturesque and varied forms of the
houses and public buildings of which it is formed. From the summit of
the great steeple, to which you are conducted by a stair of 353 steps,
there is a magnificent view over the adjacent country to a great
distance. It is for the most part green, owing to the immense quantity
of land under pasturage, and clothed in every direction with extensive
woods. At a considerable distance we were shewn the woods and heights of
_Malplaquet_, the scene of one of the Duke of Marlborough's great
victories, of which the people still spoke, as if it had been one of the
recent occurrences of the war. This town, when we visited it, was
completely filled with Prussian and Saxon troops, whose intrepid martial
appearance bespoke that undaunted character by which they have been
distinguished in the memorable actions of which this country has since
been the theatre.

On leaving Mons, on the road to Brussels, you quit the low swampy plain
in which the town is situated, and ascend a gentle hill, clothed with
wood, in the openings of which many beautiful views of the spires of the
city are to be seen. The hill itself is composed entirely of sand, and
would be reckoned a rising ground in most other countries, but it forms
a pleasing variety to the level plains of Flanders. From thence to
Brussels, a distance of 35 miles, the scenery is beautiful in the
greatest degree. Unlike the flat surface which prevails over most parts
of this country, it is charmingly varied by hills and vallies, adorned
by beautiful woods, whose disposition resembles rather that of trees in
a gentleman's park, than what usually occurs in an agricultural country.
The cottages, over the whole of this district, are particularly
pleasing; every where white-washed, clean and comfortable; half hid by a
profusion of fruit-trees, or the aged stems of elm and ash.

Brain-le-Compte, Halle, and a number of smaller towns through which the
road passes, are distinguished by the neatness of the houses, and the
number and opulence of the middling classes of society. The vallies are
admirably cultivated in agricultural or garden husbandry, and
interspersed with numerous cottages; the gentle slopes are laid out in
grass or pasture, and the uplands clothed with luxuriant woods. Upon the
whole, the scenery between Mons and Brussels was the most delightful we
had ever seen of a similar description, both from the richness and
extent of the cultivation; the appearance of public and private
property, which was unceasingly exhibited; the beautiful variety of the
ground, and the charming disposition of the woods which terminate the
view. The village spires, whose summits rise above the distant woods in
every direction, increased the effect which the objects of nature were
fitted to produce, both from the beauty of their forms themselves, and
the pleasing reflections which they awaken in the mind.

We passed through this beautiful country in a fine summer evening in the
middle of June. The heat of the day had passed: The shades of evening
were beginning to spread over the lowland country; the forest of
Soignies was still illuminated by the glow of the setting sun, while his
level rays shed a peaceful light over the woods which skirt the field of
WATERLOO. We little thought that the scene, which was now expressive
only of rest and happiness, should hereafter be the theatre of mortal
combat: that the same sun which seemed now to set amid the blessings of
a grateful world, should so soon illuminate a field of agony and death;
and that the ground which we now trod with no other feelings than
admiration for the beauty of nature, was destined to become the field of
deathless glory to the British name.

The state of agriculture from Cambray to Brussels, both in French and
Austrian Flanders, is admirable. No fallows are any where to be seen,
and in their place, green crops, of which beans, peas, carrots, &c. form
the principal part. These green crops are kept very clean, and all
worked by the spade or hoe, which furnishes employment to the immense
population which is diffused over the country. Crops of rye, which, when
we passed them in the middle of June, were in full ear, are every where
very common; indeed, rye bread seems to be the staple food of the
peasantry. Much wheat, barley, and oats, are also cultivated, with a
great deal of sainfoin and clover, which is never pastured, but cut, and
carried green into the stalls of the cattle. No inclosures are to be
seen, except round the orchards and gardens which surround the villages;
and, indeed, fences would be a useless waste of ground in a country
where every corner is valuable, and no cattle are ever to be seen in the
open fields. The soil seemed to be excellent throughout the whole
country; sometimes sandy, and sometimes, a rich loam; and the crop, both
of corn, beans, and grass, heavy and luxuriant. With the exception,
however, of the grain crops, which are generally drilled, the fields are
not nearly so clean as in the best parts of England.

The farm steadings and implements of husbandry in all parts of Flanders,
are greatly superior to those in France. The waggons are not only more
numerous on the roads, but greatly neater in their construction than in
France; the ploughs are of a better construction, and the farm offices
both more extensive, and in better repair. Every thing, in short,
indicated a much more improved and opulent class of agriculturists, and
a country in which the fundamental expenses of cultivation had long been
incurred.

Near Cambray, the wages of labour are one franc a-day. Near
Valenciennes, and from that to Mons, they are from 1 franc to 25 sous,
that is, from 10d. to 12-1/2d. From Mons to Brussels, and round that
town, from 1 franc to 30 sous, that is, from 10d. to 15d. The rent of
land was stated in French Flanders at 20 francs, and the price 1000
francs _per marcoti_; and from Valenciennes to Mons, from 35 to 50
francs; but we could never accurately ascertain what proportion a
marcoti bore to the English acre.

The size of the farms is exceedingly various in the districts of
Flanders which we have visited. From Cambray to Valenciennes, they were
called from 200 to 300 _marcotis_; but from Mons to Brussels, an
exceedingly well-cultivated district, they seldom exceed from 50 to 100
_marcotis_; which, as far as we could judge, was not above from 25 to 50
acres. That the size of the farms is in general exceedingly small,
appears obviously from the immense number of farm-houses which are every
where to be seen. The course and mode of cultivation appears to be
precisely the same on the great and the small farms.

The state of the people, both in French and Austrian Flanders, was most
exceedingly comfortable. Not the smallest traces of dirt are to be seen,
either in the exterior or the interior of the peasants dwellings. Their
dress, as in France, is in general neat and substantial, covered with a
light blue smock-frock, and without any appearance of abject want. The
women in general appeared handsome, and very well clad. Every thing, in
short, bespoke a rich, prosperous, and happy population.

BRUSSELS is a large, populous, and in many respects a handsome town. It
stands upon the side of a hill, the lower part being the old town, and
the higher the fashionable quarter. Near the centre of the old town is
placed a square of considerable size, surrounded by high antiquated
buildings of a most remarkable construction; and the _Hotel de Ville_,
which occupies nearly one of its sides, is ornamented by a high Gothic
spire of the lightest form, and the most exquisite proportions. The
Cathedral is large, and has two massy towers in front; but the effect of
the interior, which would otherwise be very grand, from its immense
size, is much injured by statues affixed to the pillars, and an
intermixture of red and white colours, with which the walls are painted.
In this Cathedral, as well as in the churches throughout Flanders which
we visited, we were much struck by the numbers of people who attended
service, and the earnestness with which they seemed to participate in
religious duty;--a spectacle which was the more impressive, from the
levity or negligence with which we had been accustomed to see similar
services attended in France.

The _Parc_, which is an immense square of splendid buildings, inclosing
a great space, covered with fine timber, is probably the most
magnificent square in Europe. The Royal Palace, and all the houses of
the nobility, are here situated. There is nothing of the kind, either in
Paris or London, which can be compared with this square, either in
extent, the beauty of the private houses, or the richness and variety of
the woods.

At Brussels, we saw 1500 British troops on parade in the great square.
We were particularly struck with the number and brilliant appearance of
the officers. It would be going too far to say, that they understood
their duty better than those of the allied armies; but they
unquestionably have infinitely more of the appearance and manners of
gentlemen. The proportion of officers to privates appeared much greater
than in the other European armies; but the common soldiers had not
nearly so sun-burnt; weather-beaten an appearance. Among the British
troops, the Highlanders resembled most nearly the swarthy aspect of the
foreign soldiers. The discipline of these troops was admirable; they
were much beloved by the inhabitants, who recounted with delight
numerous instances of their humanity and moderation. In this respect
they formed a striking contrast to the Prussians, whose abuses and
voracity were uniformly spoken of in terms of severe reprobation.

The ramparts at Brussels, especially in the upper parts of the town, are
planted with trees, and afford a delightful walk, commanding an
extensive view over the adjacent country. The favourite promenade at
Brussels, however, is the Allee Verte, situated two miles from the town,
on the road to Antwerp, which forms a drive of two miles in length,
under the shade of lofty trees. It was filled, when we saw it, with
numerous parties of officers of all nations, principally German and
British; and we could not help observing, how much more brilliant the
appearance of our own countrymen was, than that of their brethren in any
other service. Indeed they are taken from a different class of society:
in the continental states, men, from inferior situations, enter the army
with a view to obtain a subsistence; in the British service alone, men
of rank and fortune leave the enjoyment and opulence of peaceful life,
to share in the toils and the hardships of war.

The Chateau of Lacken, now the royal dwelling, stands on an eminence in
the vicinity of Brussels, commanding a delightful view over the environs
of the city. There are few views in Flanders so magnificent as that from
the summit of this palace. It is surrounded by beautiful gardens and
shrubberies, laid out in the English style, and arranged with much
taste.

The vicinity of Brussels is so much clothed with wood, as to resemble,
when seen from the spires of the city, a continued forest. To the
south-west, indeed, the whole country is covered with the vast forest of
_Soignies_, clothing a range of gentle hills, which stretch as far as
the field of Waterloo. The varieties of wood scenery which it exhibits,
are exceedingly beautiful; and in many places, the oaks grow to an
immense size, and present the most picturesque appearance. It was from
this forest that Bonaparte obtained the timber for his great naval
arsenal at Antwerp.

To the south of Brussels, in the direction of Liege, and in the environs
of that town, the country is covered with innumerable cottages, in the
neatest order, inhabited by manufacturers, who carry on, _in their own
houses_, the fabrics for which that city is so celebrated. These
cottagers have all their gardens and houses in property; and the
appearance of prosperity, which their dwellings uniformly exhibit, as
well as the neatness of their dress, and the costly nature of their
fare, demonstrate the salutary influence, which this intermixture of
manufacturing and agricultural occupation is fitted to have on the
character and habits of the lower orders of society. It resembles, in
this particular, the state of the people in the West Riding of
Yorkshire, and in the beautiful scenes of the vale of Gloucester.

In the neighbourhood of Brussels, the condition of the peasantry
appeared exceedingly comfortable. Their neat gardens, their substantial
dwellings, their comfortable dress, indicated here, as elsewhere in
Flanders, the effects of long-continued and general prosperity. Most of
these houses and gardens belong in property to the peasants; others are
hired from the proprietors of the ground; but when this is the case,
they generally have the advantage of a long lease. The peasants
complained, in the bitterest terms, of the taxes and contributions of
the French, stating that the public burdens had been more than
quadrupled since they were separated from the Austrian Government, of
which they still spoke in terms of affection and regret. The _impot
fonciere_, or land-tax, under the French, amounted to one-fifth of the
rent, or 20 _per cent_. The wages of labour were from 15 sous to one
franc a-day; but the labourer dined with the farmer, his employer. Most
of the land was laid out in garden cultivation, and every where tilled
with the utmost care. The soil appeared rich and friable; and the
crops, both of agricultural and garden produce, were extremely heavy.
The rent was stated as varying from 60 to 150 francs _journatier_,
which appeared to be about three-fourths of an acre.

One thing struck us extremely in the condition of the people, both here
and in other parts of Flanders--the sumptuous fare on which they live.
It is a common thing to see artisans and mechanics sitting down to a
dinner, at a table d'hôte, of ten or twelve dishes; such a dinner as
would be esteemed excellent living in England. The lower orders of the
people, the day labourers and peasants, seemed to live, generally
speaking, in a very comfortable manner. Vegetables form a large portion
of their food, and they are raised in large quantities, and great
perfection, in all parts of the country.

On leaving Brussels, we took the road to Malines and Antwerp. The
surface of the ground the whole way is perfectly flat, and much
intersected by canals, on whose banks much rich pasture is to be seen.
For the first six miles, the road is varied by chateaus and villas, laid
out in the stiff antiquated style of French gardening. The cultivation
between Brussels and Malines is all conducted in the garden style, and
with the most incomparable neatness; but the cottages are formed of wood
and mud, and exhibited more symptoms of dilapidation, than in any other
part of the country which we had seen. Whether this was the consequence
of the materials of which they are built, or was the result of some
local institution, we were unable to determine.

We saw a body of 3000 Prussian _landwehr_ enter Brussels, shortly before
we left the city. The appearance of these men was very striking. They
had just terminated a march of 14 miles, under a burning sun, and were
all covered with dust and sweat. Notwithstanding the military service in
which they had been engaged, they still bore the appearance of their
country occupations; their sun-burnt faces, their rugged features, and
massy limbs, bespoke the life of laborious industry to which they had
been habituated. They wore an uniform coat or frock, a military cap, and
their arms and accoutrements were in the most admirable order; but in
other respects, their dress was no other than what they had worn at
home. The sight of these brave men told, in stronger language than words
could convey, the grievous oppression to which Prussia had been
subjected, and the unexampled valour with which her people had risen
against the iron yoke of French dominion. They were not regular
soldiers, raised for the ordinary service of the state, and arrayed in
the costume of military life; they were not men of a separate
profession, maintained by government for the purposes of defence; they
were the _people of the country_, roused from their peaceful employments
by the sense of public danger, and animated by the heroic determination
to avenge the sufferings of their native land. The young were there,
whose limbs were yet unequal to the weight of the arms which they had
to bear; the aged were there, whose strength had been weakened by a life
of labour and care; all, of whatever rank or station, marched alike in
the ranks which their valour and their patriotism had formed. Their
appearance suited the sacred cause in which they had been engaged, and
marked the magnitude of the efforts which their country had made. They
were still, in some measure, in the garb of rural life, but the
determination of their step, the soldier-like regularity of their
motions, and the enthusiastic expression of their countenances,
indicated the unconquerable spirit by which they had been animated, and
told the greatness of the sufferings which had at last awakened

    "The might that slumbers in a peasant's arm."

There is no spectacle in the moral history of mankind more interesting
or more sublime, than that which was exhibited by the people of the
north of Germany in the last war. During the progress of the disastrous
wars which succeeded the French revolution, the states of Germany
experienced all the miseries of protracted warfare, and all the
degradation of conquered power; but amidst the sufferings and
humiliation to which they were subjected, the might of Germany was
concentrating its power; the enthusiasm of her people was animating the
soldier's courage, and the virtue of her inhabitants was sanctifying the
soldier's cause: and when at last the hour of retribution arrived, when
the sufferings of twenty years were to be revenged, and the disgrace of
twenty years was to be effaced; it was by the energy of her people that
these sufferings were revenged, and by the sacrifices of her people,
that these victories were obtained. Crushed as they had been beneath the
yoke of foreign dominion; shackled as they were by the fetters of
foreign power, and unprotected as they long continued to be from the
ravages of hostile revenge; the people of PRUSSIA boldly threw off the
yoke, and hesitated not to encounter all the fury of imperial ambition,
that they might redeem the glory which their ancestors had acquired, and
defend the land which their forefathers had preserved. While Austria yet
hung in doubt between the contending Powers; while the fate of the
civilized world was yet pending on the shores of the Vistula, the whole
body of the Prussian people flew to arms; they left their homes, their
families, and all that was dear to them, without provision, and without
defence: they trusted in God alone, and in the justice of their cause.
This holy enthusiasm supported them in many an hour of difficulty and of
danger, when they were left to its support alone; it animated them in
the bloody field of Juterbock, and overthrew their enemies on the banks
of the Katzback; it burned in the soldier's breast under the walls of
Leipsic, and sustained the soldier's fortitude in the plains of
Vauchamp: it terminated not till it had planted the Prussian eagle
victorious on the ruins of that power, which had affected to despise the
efforts of the Prussian people.

The town of Malines is exceedingly neat, and ornamented by a great
tower, of heavy architecture, producing a striking effect from every
part of the adjoining country. The interior of the church, like that of
all the other Catholic churches, is impressive to an English spectator,
from the effect of its vast dimensions. The town was entirely filled by
Prussian soldiers, and landwehr of the Prussian corps d'armee of Bulow,
who went through their evolutions in the exactest discipline.

From Malines to Antwerp the country is under a higher system of
management, than in any other district of Flanders which we had seen. It
is thickly planted with trees, insomuch as, from an eminence, to have
the appearance of a continued forest. The landscape scenery, seen
through the openings of the wood, and generally terminating in a village
spire, is exceedingly beautiful, and reminded us of the scenes in
Waterloo's engravings. Great quantities of potatoes and beans are to be
seen in the fields, which are kept in the highest state of cultivation.
The number of villages is extremely great; but the people, though so
numerous, had all the appearance of being in a prosperous and happy
condition.

On approaching Antwerp, the trees and houses are all cut down, to give
room for the fire of the cannon-shot from the ramparts of the fortress.
We passed over this desolated space in the evening, soon after sunset,
when the spires of the city had a beautiful effect on the fading colours
of the western sky. High over all rose the spire of the cathedral, a
most beautiful piece of the lightest Gothic, of immense height, and the
most exquisite proportions. Though this building has stood for seven
centuries, the carving of the pinnacles, and the finishing of the
ornaments, are at this moment as perfect as the day they were formed;
and when seen in shadow on an evening sky, present a spectacle which
combines all that is majestic and graceful in Gothic architecture.

After passing through the numerous gates, and over the multiplied
bridges which surround this fortress, we found ourselves in the interior
of Antwerp; a city of great interest, in consequence of the warlike
preparations of which it had been the theatre, and the importance which
had been attached to it by both parties in the recent contest. It is an
extensive old city, evidently formed for a much more extensive commerce
than it has now for a long period enjoyed. The form of the houses is
singular, grotesque and irregular, offering at every turn the most
picturesque forms to a painter's eye. We were soon conducted to the
famous dockyard, constructed by Bonaparte, which had been the source of
so much uneasiness to this country; and could not help being surprised
at the smallness of the means which he had been able to obtain for the
overthrow of our naval power. The docks did not appear to us at all
large; but they are very deep, and during the siege, by the English and
Prussian troops, contained 20 ships of the line, besides 14 frigates.
When we saw them they were lying in the Scheldt, and being all within
two miles of each other, presented a very magnificent spectacle.

In the arsenal were 14 ships of the line on the stocks, of which seven
were of 120 guns; but these vessels were all demolished except one,
shortly after we left them, in virtue of an article in the treaty of
Paris. Bonaparte had for long been exerting himself to the utmost to
form a great naval depot at Antwerp; he had not only fortified the town
in the strongest possible manner, but collected immense quantities of
timber and other naval stores for the equipment of a powerful fleet. The
ships first built, however, had been formed of wood, which was so ill
seasoned, that, ever since their construction, above 200 carpenters had
been employed annually to repair the beams which were going to decay.

In the citadel, which is a beautiful fortification in the finest order,
we conversed with various English soldiers who had been in the attack on
Bergen-op-Zoom, of which they all spoke in terms of the utmost horror.
Its failure they ascribed not to any error in the plan of attack, which
they all agreed was most skilfully combined, but to a variety of
circumstances which thwarted the attack, after its success appeared to
have been certain. Our troops, they said, went round the ramparts, and
carried every battery; but neglecting to spike the guns, the French came
behind them, and turned the guns they had recently captured against
themselves. Much also was attributed to the hesitation occasioned by the
death of the principal officers, and the unfortunate effect of the
discovery of some spirit cellars, from which the soldiers could not be
restrained. We were much gratified, by hearing the warm and enthusiastic
manner in which even the private soldiers spoke of their gallant
commander, Sir Thomas Graham; While we admired the frank, open and
independent spirit which these English soldiers in garrison at Antwerp
evinced, we could not help observing, that they did not converse on
military matters with nearly the same intelligence, or evince the same
reflection on the manœuvres of war, as those of the French imperial
guard, with whom we had spoken in a former part of our journey.

Though such extensive naval preparations had been going forward for
years at Antwerp, there was not the slightest appearance of bustle at
activity in the streets, or on the quays of the city. These were as
deserted, as if Antwerp had been reduced to a fishing village,
indicating, in the strongest manner, that nothing but the habits of
commerce, and the command of the seas, can nurse that body of active
seamen, who form the only foundation of naval power.

There is a fine picture, by Oels, in the church of St Paul's at Antwerp;
but the church itself is built in the most barbarous taste. The
cathedral is a most magnificent building, both in the outside and
inside; and its spire, which is 460 feet in height, is probably the
finest specimen of light Gothic in the world. Its immense aisles were
filled at every hour of the day, by numbers of people, who seemed to
join in the service with sincere devotion, and exhibited the example of
a country, in which religious feeling was generally diffused among the
people--which formed a striking contrast to the utter indifference to
these subjects which universally prevails in France.

It was not a mere vain threat on the part of Napoleon, that he would
burn the English manufactures. We were informed at Antwerp by
eye-witnesses, that they had seen £. 90,000 worth of English goods
burnt at once in the great square of that city; all of which _had been
bought and paid for_ by the Flemish merchants. The people then spoke in
terms of great sorrow, of the ruin which this barbarous policy had
brought upon the people of the countries in which it was carried into
effect.

In the vicinity of Antwerp, we walked over the _Counter Dyke of
Couvestein_, which was the scene of such desperate conflicts between the
army of the Prince of Parma, and the troops of the United Provinces, who
were advancing to the relief of Antwerp. The interest arising from the
remembrance of this memorable struggle, was increased by the narrowness
of the ground on which the action was maintained, being a long dyke
running across the low country which borders the banks of the Scheldt
near Fort Lillo, and which alone of all the surrounding country, at the
time of the action, was not immersed in water. Every foot, therefore, of
the ground of this dyke which we trod, must have been the spot on which
a desperate struggle had been maintained. In casting our eyes back to
the distant spires of the city of Antwerp, we could not help entering
for an instant, into the feelings of the people who were then besieged;
and remembering that these spires, which now rose so beautifully on the
distant horizon, were then crowded with people, who awaited with
dreadful anxiety, in the issue of the action which was then pending, the
future fate of themselves and their children.

To those who take an interest in the delightful study of political
economy, and who have examined the condition of the people in different
countries, with a view to discover the causes of their welfare or their
suffering, there is no spectacle so interesting as that which the
situation of the people in Flanders affords. The country is uniformly
populous in the extreme; go where you will, you every where meet with
the marks of a dense population; yet no where are the symptoms of
general misery to be found; no where does the principle of population
seem to press beyond the limits assigned for the comfortable maintenance
of the human species. Flanders has exhibited, for centuries, the
instance of a _numerous, dense, and happy population_. It would perhaps
not be unreasonable to conclude, from this circumstance, that the
doctrines now generally admitted in regard to the increase of the human
species have been received with too little examination. Man possesses
in himself the principles requisite for the regulation of the increase
of the numbers of mankind; and where the influence of government does
not interfere with their operation, they are sufficient to regulate the
progress of population according to the interest and welfare of all
classes of the people.


END OF VOLUME FIRST.

EDINBURGH: Printed by JOHN PILLANS, James's Court.




TRAVELS IN FRANCE,

DURING THE YEARS 1814-15.

COMPRISING A

RESIDENCE AT PARIS DURING THE STAY OF THE ALLIED ARMIES,

AND

AT AIX, AT THE PERIOD OF THE LANDING OF BONAPARTE.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

SECOND EDITION, CORRECTED AND ENLARGED.

EDINBURGH:

PRINTED FOR MACREADIE, SKELLY, AND MUCKERSY, 52, PRINCE'S STREET;

LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN; BLACK, PARRY AND CO. T.
UNDERWOOD, LONDON; AND J. CUMMING, DUBLIN.

1816.




CHAPTER I.

JOURNEY TO AIX.


IT was thought advisable, by the gentleman who is now about to commence
his journal, to avoid making many remarks on the state of the country,
or the manners of the inhabitants, until he should have remained fixed
for a few months in France. In no country is it so difficult as there,
to obtain information regarding the most interesting points, whether
commerce, manufactures, agriculture, manners, or religion; and this
arises from the multitude of people of all descriptions, who are
willing, and who at least appear able, to afford you information.
Strange paradox. A Frenchman makes it a rule, never to refuse
information on any subject when it is demanded of him; and although he
may, in fact, never have directed his attention to the matter in
question, and may not possess the slightest information, he will yet
descant most plausibly, and then seeking some opportunity of bidding you
good day, he will fly off with the velocity of an arrow, leaving you
astonished at the talent displayed: But sit down and analyse what he has
said, and you will commonly find it the most thorough trifling--"_vox et
prœterea nihil_." This observation, however, I mean only to apply to the
information which a traveller obtains _en passant_; for there are
undoubtedly to be found in France, men of eminent talents and of solid
information; but these you can only pick out from the mass of common
acquaintances, by dint of perseverance, and by the assistance of time.
The result of the observations collected during a residence of five
months at Aix, in Provence, will be given at the end of the following
Journal.


JOURNAL.

As our present journey was undertaken principally for the benefit of my
health, it was necessary that we should travel slowly, and take
occasional rests. After our journey from Dieppe to the capital, we
remained five days in Paris for this purpose. The first part of this
book having conducted the reader by another route to Paris, and given a
better description of that city than I am able to supply, I have not
thought it necessary to insert the details of our journey thither; I
shall content myself with remarking, that we had already gained
considerable experience in French travelling, and were pretty well
prepared to commence our journey toward the south.--On the 7th of
November, therefore, we arranged matters for our departure with the
_voiturier_, or carriage-hirer, who agrees to carry us (six in number),
with all our baggage, which weighs nearly four cwt. to Lyons, a distance
of 330 miles, for the sum of 630 francs, or, at our exchange, nearly
L.30. As this bargain was made for us by Mr B----, a French gentleman,
it may afford a good standard for this style of travelling.

We travel at the rate of 10 or 12 leagues a-day; and for invalids or
persons wishing to see the country, this is by far the most pleasant, as
well as the most economical way. There are two other methods of
travelling, namely, _en poste_, which, though rapid, is very expensive;
the charge being, at least a horse, often more, for each person, and
very little baggage being taken; and the other is in a diligence, which,
as it travels night and day, would not do for us. The carriage we now
have is a large and commodious coach, very neat and clean, and we have
three good strong horses. Our journey has as yet been varied by very
little incident. The amusement derived from travelling in a foreign
country, and becoming gradually familiarised to foreign manners,--the
contrast between the style of travelling here, and that which you are
accustomed to in England,--the amusing groupes of the villagers, who
flock out of their houses, to see the English pass,--the grotesque and
ludicrous figures of the French beggars, who, in the most unbounded
variety of costume, surround the carriage the moment we stop,--and the
solemn taciturnity of Monsieur Roger, our coachman, who is an
extraordinary exception to the general vivacity of his nation; these are
the only circumstances which serve at present to exhilarate our spirits,
and to remove the tedium of French travelling.

Between Paris and Montargis, as we travelled during the day, we had a
good opportunity of seeing the country. But we passed through it, to be
sure, at an unfavourable season of the year. The vines were all
withered, and their last leaves falling off. The elm, oak, and maple,
were almost bare. There is not much fine wood in that part of the
country through which we passed; and on the side of the road, there were
many wild and sad looking swamps, with nothing but willow and poplars
docked off for the twigs. The chief produce seems to be in grapes and
wheat; the wheat here is further advanced than between Dieppe and Paris.
The cows are of the same kind, the horses smaller, weaker, and yet
dearer than those of Normandy; the agricultural instruments are massy
and awkward; their ploughing is, however, very neat and regular, though
not deep; their plough here has wheels, and seems easily managed; they
harrow the land most effectually, having sometimes 10 or 12 horses in
succession, each drawing a separate harrow over the same ground. The
farm-horses, though very poor to an English eye, are fortunately much
better than the horses for travelling. The stacks of grain, though
rarely seen, are very neatly built. We left the grand road at
Fontainbleau, and took the route by Nevers to Lyons. We have found it
hitherto by no means equal to the other. No stone causeway in the
middle, and at this time of the year, I should fear it is always as we
found it, very heavy and dirty.

Our journey hitherto has not allowed of our mixing much among or
conversing with the people; but still we cannot but be struck with the
dissimilarity of manners from those of our own country. The French are
not now uniformly, found the same merry, careless, polite, and sociable
people they were before the revolution; but we may trust that they are
gradually improving; and although one can easily distinguish among the
lower ranks, the fierce uncivilized ruffians, who have been raised from
their original insignificance by Napoleon to work his own ends, yet the
real peasantry of the country are generally polite.

At the inns, the valets and ostlers were for the most part old soldiers
who had marched under Napoleon; they seemed happy, or at least always
expressed themselves happy, at being allowed to return to their homes:
one of them was particularly eloquent in describing the horrors of the
last few months; he concluded by saying, "that had things gone on in
this way for a few months longer, Napoleon must have made the women
march." They affirm, however, that there is a party favourable to
Bonaparte, consisting of those whose trade is war, and who have lived by
his continuance on the throne; but that this party is not strong, and
little to be feared: Would that this were true! When we were in Paris,
there were a number of caricatures ridiculing the Bourbons; but these
miserable squibs are no test of the public feeling. Napoleon certainly
has done much for Paris; the marks of his magnificence are there every
where to be seen; but the further we travel, the more are we convinced
that he has done littler for the interior of the country.

There is about every town and village an air of desolation; most of the
houses seem to have wanted repairs for a long time. The inns must strike
every English traveller, as being of a kind entirely new to him. They
are like great old castles half furnished. The dirty chimneys suit but
ill with the marble chimney-pieces, and the gilded chairs and mirrors,
plundered in the revolution; the tables from which you eat are of ill
polished common wood; the linen coarse though clean. The cutlery, where
they have any, is very bad; but in many of the inns, trusting, no doubt,
to the well known expedition of French fingers, they put down only forks
to dinner.

We left Montargis at seven in the morning, and travelled very slowly
indeed. At five o'clock, after a very tedious journey, we arrived at
Briare, a distance of only 27 miles from Montargis. The landlord here
was the most talkative, and the most impudent fellow I ever saw.
Although demanding the most unreasonable terms, he would not let us
leave his house; at last he said that he would agree to our terms,
namely, 18 francs for our supper and beds: It is best to call it supper
in France, as this is their own phrase for a meal taken at night.

The road between Montargis and Briare, though not of hard mettle and
without causeway, is yet level and in good condition. The country,
except in the immediate vicinity of Briare, is flat and uninteresting;
no inclosures; the soil of a gravelly nature, mixed in some parts with
chalk. It seems, from the stubble of last year and the young wheat of
this, to be very poor indeed. There is here an odd species of wheat
cultivation, in which the grain, like our potatoes, is seen growing on
the tops of high separate ridges. It struck me that the deep hollows
left between each ridge, might be intended to keep the water. The
instruments of agriculture are quite the same as we have seen all along.
Almost all of the peasants whom we saw to-day wore cocked hats, and had
splendid military tails; we supposed, at first that they had all
_marched_. There are great numbers of soldiers returning to their homes,
pale, broken down and wearied. Some of them very polite, many of them
rough and ruffian-looking enough. About Briare, there are innumerable
vineyards, and yet we had very bad grapes; but that was our landlord's
fault, not that of the vines.

The rooms at this inn (Au Grand Dauphin), smoke like the devil, or
rather like his abode. It is a wretched place; the inn opposite, called
La Poste, is said to be better. The weather is now as cold here (10th of
November), as I have ever felt it in winter at home, and it is a more
piercing and searching cold.

We had last night a good deal of rain. The weather is completely broken
up, and we are at least three weeks or a month later than we ought to
have been.

* * *

We have arrived at Cosne to-night, (the 11th), after a journey through a
country better wooded, more varied, and upon the whole, finer than we
have seen yet on this side of Paris, though certainly not so beautiful
as Normandy. The road is pretty good, though not paved, excepting in
small deep vallies. It lies along-side of the river Loire, and on each
side, there are well cultivated fields, chiefly of wheat, but
interspersed with vineyards.

For the first time, this day we had a very severe frost in the morning,
but with the aid of the sun, which shone bright and warm, we enjoyed one
of the finest days I ever saw. I sat and chatted with the coachman, or
rather with Monsieur le Voiturier. I led the conversation to the past
and present state of France, and the character of Napoleon, and
immediately he, who till this moment appeared to be as meek and gentle
as a lamb, became the most eloquent and energetic man I have seen. It is
quite wonderful, how the feelings of the people, added to their habits
of extolling their own efforts, and those of Bonaparte, supply them with
language. They are on this subject all orators. He declared, that Paris
was sold by Marmont and others, but that we English do not understand
what the Parisians mean when they say that Paris was sold. They do not
mean that any one was paid for betraying his trust by receiving a bribe,
but that Marmont and others having become very rich under Bonaparte,
desired to spend their fortunes in peace, and had, therefore, deserted
their master. He said that Bonaparte erred only in having too many
things to do at once; but that if he had either relinquished the Spanish
war for a while, or not gone to Moscow, no human power would have _been
a match for him_, and even we in England would have felt this. He seemed
to think, that it was an easy thing for Bonaparte to have equipped as
good a navy as ours. He was quite insensible to the argument, that it
was first necessary to have commerce, which nourishes our mariners, from
among whom we have our fighting seamen. He said, that though _this was a
work of years for others, it would have been nothing for Napoleon_: In
short, he venerates the man, and says, that till the day when he left
Paris, he was the greatest of men. He says, he knows well that there is
still a strong party favourable to him among the military; yet that if
they can once be set down at their own firesides, they will never wish
to quit them, but that the danger will be, while they remain together in
great bodies.

To-day we saw several soldiers wounded, and returning to their homes in
carts; they were fierce swarthy looking fellows, but very merry, and
travelled singing all the way. To-morrow we expect to be at Nevers. At
Cosne, the only objects of curiosity to the traveller are the
manufactories of cutlery and ship anchors. The cutlery seems as good as
any we have seen, but far inferior to even our inferior English cutlery:
It is also dear. Thousands of boxes, with cutlery, were, immediately on
our arrival at the inn, presented to us. Their great deficiency is in
steel, for their best goods are nearly as highly polished as in England.
We bought here some very pretty little toys for children, made of small
coloured beads. We start to-morrow at six.----Distance about 19
miles to Cosne.

* * *

This day's journey (the 12th), was the most fatiguing and the least
interesting we have had. The country between Cosne and Nevers is, with
the exception of one or two fine views from the heights on the road, the
poorest, and, though well cultivated, has the least pretensions to
beauty of any we have seen, particularly in the vicinity of Pouilly. It
seems also to be nearly as poor as it is ugly. The soil is gravelly,
with a mixture of chalk, and there occurs what I have not yet elsewhere
seen, a great deal of fallow land, and even some common. The face of the
country is considerably diversified by old wood, but we have only seen
one plantation of young trees since we left Paris. The instruments of
agriculture and carriage the same as before mentioned. The farm horses
good. There seems a scarcity of milk, but this may be from the winter
having set in. At the inn here I met with a young officer, who although
only (to appearance) 17 or 18, had been in the Spanish war, at Moscow,
and half over the world. He struck his forehead, when he said, [4]"Nous
n'avons plus la guerre." There were at the inn here a number of officers
and soldiers of the cavalry. Their horses are not to be compared with
ours, either in size or beauty, and those of their officers are not so
good, by any means, as the horses of our men in the guards.----
Distance, 34 miles--to Nevers.

* * *

We went to walk in the town this morning, the 13th. The description of
one French town on the Sunday will serve for all which we have seen.
They are every day sufficiently filthy, but on Sunday, from the
concourse of people, more than commonly so. They never have a pavement
to fly to for clean walking, and for safety from the carriages. If you
are near a shop, a lane, or entry when a carriage comes along, you may
fly in, if not, you must trust to the civility of the coachman, who, if
polite, will only splash you all over. On Sundays, their markets are
held the same as on other days, and nearly all the shops had their doors
open, but _their windows shut_. Thus they cheat the Devil, and, as they
think, render sufficient homage to him who hath said, on that day "thou
shalt do no manner of work." Yet while all this is going on, the
churches are open, and those who are inclined go in, and take a minute,
a quarter, half an hour, or an hour's devotion, as they think fit. We
entered the nearest of these churches, and saw, what is always to be
seen in them, a great deal, at least, of the outward shew of religion,
and something in a few individuals of the congregation which looked like
real devotion. After church, we went to the convent of St Mary, and were
all admitted, both ladies and gentlemen. The nuns there are not, by any
means, strictly confined; they are of that description who go abroad and
attend the sick. Their pensioners (chiefly children from four to
sixteen) are allowed to go and see their friends; and they were all
presented to us. They are taught to read, write, work, &c. and are well
fed and clothed. This convent was very neat and clean. The building
formed a complete square, and the ground in the interior was very
beautifully laid out as a garden. The cloisters were ornamented with
pots of roses and carnations in full bloom, with the care of which the
young pensioners amused themselves. They have a very pretty small
chapel, over the outer door of which is written, [5]"Grand silence;" and
over the inner this inscription; whose menacing promises is so ill
suited to the spirit and temper of its conclusion: "Ah, que ce maison
est terrible, c'est la maison de Dieu, et la porte du ciel." The holy
sisters were of all ages, and many of them pretty--one, the handsomest
woman I have seen in France.

The ladies are just returned from a longer walk, and report the town to
be ugly, and the streets insufferably dirty. Its manufactures are china,
glass, and enamelled goods; toys of glass beads, and little trifles. The
shopkeepers are, as in every town we have been at, perfect Jews, devoid
of any thing like principle in buying and selling. We are every day
learning more and more how to overcome our scruples with regard to
_beating them down_. They always expect it, and only laugh at those who
do not practise it.

* * *

This day we left Nevers at six in the morning. It appears to be a large
town, when viewed from the bridge over which we crossed; but it is far
from being a fine town in the interior. The streets are, like all French
streets, narrow, and the houses have a look of antiquity, and a want of
all repair; nothing like comfort, neatness, or tidiness, in any one of
them. This is a melancholy desideratum in France, a want for which
nothing can compensate. The road this day conducted us through a finer
district than we have observed on this side of Paris; more especially
between Nevers and St Pierre, where we have travelled through a richer
and more beautiful country than we have yet seen. No longer the sand,
and gravel, and chalk, which we have long been accustomed to, but a dark
rich soil over a bed of freestone. Here also all the land is well
enclosed. I have not yet been able to find the reason of this sudden
change in the manner of preserving the fields: The face of the country
is also more generally wooded; but from the necessity the French are
under of cutting down whatever wood they find near the towns for their
fires, all the fine trees are ruined in appearance, by their branches
being lopped off: The effect of this on the appearance of the country is
very sad.--Still we find a want of that agreeable alternation of hill
and dale, of the enclosed meadows, and wooded vallies; of the broad and
beautiful rivers and the small winding streams, which, as the finest
features in their native landscape, have become necessary to a Scotch or
an English eye.

The dress of the women is here different from what we have elsewhere
seen: the peasants' wives wearing large gipsey straw hats, very much
turned up behind and before; the men have still the immense
broad-brimmed black felt affairs, more like umbrellas than Christian
hats. At the inn here, I saw a number of wounded soldiers returning to
their homes; one of them, I observed, had his feet outside of his shoes.
On entering into conversation with him, he told me that his toes had
been nearly frozen off, but _that he expected to get them healed_: poor
fellow, he was not above twenty. He told me that all the _young
conscripts_ were delighted to return to their homes, and that only the
old veterans were friends to the war.--I hope this may be true, but I
doubt it. The country here shows that the winter is not so far advanced;
many of the trees are still green; the roads had become heavy with the
rain that has fallen; we have had two days hard frost, but to-day the
weather is mild, and the air moist. We were recommended to the Hotel des
Allies here, but preferred stopping at the first good-looking inn we
found, as in great towns things are very dear at the houses of great
resort; we have had a very good supper and tolerable lodgings for 18
francs.

To-morrow, we set out at seven.--We find our way of travelling tedious;
but I think in summer it would be by far the best. Our three horses
seldom take less than 10, sometimes 13 hours to their day's journey, of
from 28 to 32 miles; but our carriage is large and roomy; and had we any
thing like comfort at our inns, as at home, we should find the
travelling very pleasant. The greatest annoyance arises from your having
always to choose from the two evils, of being either shamefully imposed
upon, or of having to bargain before-hand for the price of your
entertainment.

* * *

It was near eight o'clock this morning, the 16th, before we got under
weigh, and according to our coachman's account, we had been delayed by
the horses being too much fatigued the night before. He continued to
proceed so slowly, that we only reached Varrenes at four o'clock, a
distance of 22 miles from Moulins, where we had last slept. Moulins is
the finest town we have seen since we left Paris. The streets are there
wider, and the houses, though old and black, are on a much better plan,
and in better repair than any we have passed through; there is also
somewhat of neatness and cleanliness about them. It is famous for its
cutlery, and has a small manufacture of silk stockings; we saw some of
the cutlery very neat and highly polished in some parts, but coarse and
ill finished in others. The variety of shapes which the French give
their knives is very amusing.

The road between Moulins and Varrenes is through a much prettier country
than we have seen since we left Paris; there is more wood, with
occasional variety of orchards and vineyards and corn fields. The
ploughing, is here carried on by bullocks, and these are also used in
the carts. All the country is enclosed, and the lands well dressed. The
wheat is not nearly so far advanced here, which must arise from its
being more lately sowed, for the winter is only commencing; many of the
trees are still in fall leaf.

We cannot well judge of any change of climate, as we have just had a
change from hard frost to thaw; but every thing has the appearance of a
milder atmosphere. I enquired into the reason of the want of hedges
hitherto, and their abundance here, and was told, that it arose from the
greater subdivision of property as well as from the number of cows: that
every man almost had his little piece of land, and his cow, pigs, hens,
&c. and that they could not afford to have herds. The yoke of the
bullocks here, is not, as in India, and in England, placed on the neck
and shoulders, but on the forehead and horns: this, though to appearance
the most irksome to the poor animals, is said here to be the way in
which they work best. The sheep are very small, and of a long-legged and
poor kind: the hogs are the poorest I have ever seen; they are as like
the sheep as possible, though with longer legs, and resembling
greyhounds in the drawn-up belly and long slender snout; they seem
content with wondrous little, and keep about the road sides, picking up
any thing but wholesome food.

The cottages on the road, and in the small towns, are generally very
dirty, and inhabited by a very motley and promiscuous set of beings; the
men, women, children, indeed pigs, fowls, &c. all huddled together. The
pigs here appear so well accustomed to a cordial welcome in the houses,
that when by chance excluded, you see them impatiently rapping at the
door with their snouts.

* * *

We left Varrenes this morning, at six o'clock, and entered on a new
country, which presented to us a greater variety of scenery. The road
between Varrenes and St Martin D'Estreaux is almost all the way among
the hills, which are often covered to the top with wood. After
travelling for so long a time through a country which was almost
uniformly flat, our sensations were delightful in again approaching
something like a hilly district. The roads we found extremely bad, and
although we have had rain, I do not think that their condition is to be
ascribed to the weather. They want repair, and appear to have been
insufficient in their metal from the first. We were obliged here to have
a fourth horse, which our coachman ordered and paid for; he went with us
as far as Droiturier, and then left us. We made out 28 miles of bad
road, between six in the morning and four in the evening. The hilly
country throughout is extremely well cultivated, and the soil apparently
pretty good. France has indeed shewn a different face from what an
Englishman would expect, after such a draining of men and money.

In our route to-day, the country became very interesting, the swelling
hills were beautiful, and the first clear stream we have seen in France
winded through a wooded valley, along whose side we travelled. Many
little cottages were scattered up and down in the green intervals of the
woods, or crept up the brows of the hills; and after the monotonous
plains we had passed, the whole scene was truly delightful. At the inn
at La Palisse, I met with a very pleasant French lady, who strongly
advised me to avoid Montpellier, as the winds there are very sharp in
winter; she said two friends of her's had been sent from it on account
of complaints contracted there. She recommended Nice.

* * *

(_Thursday_, 17th.)--The road to-day was through ranges of hills, and,
for the latter part of it, we were obliged to have a fourth horse. The
road very heavy in most places, and in some wretchedly ill-paved, with
stones of unequal size, and not squared. From the top of these hills the
view of the several vallies through which we passed was very beautiful,
though certainly not equal in beauty to Devonshire, or to some parts of
Perthshire, and other of the more fertile districts in Scotland: the
soil far from good, and the crops of wheat thin;--yet there is not an
atom of the soil lying waste, the hills being cultivated up to the
summit. The cultivation is still managed by oxen, as is the carriage of
farm produce, and all kinds of cart-work. They have had a sad mortality
among the cattle about St Germain L'Epinàsse; and all things appear to
have been affected by this disaster, for we found the milk, butter,
fowls, grain, every thing very dear indeed. In France, when a disease
seizes the cattle, parties of soldiers are sent to prevent the people
from selling their cattle, or sending them to other parts of the
country. One of these parties (a small troop of dragoons) we met on the
road.

On our route to-day, we crossed the Loire at a pretty large and busy
town, called Roanne. The river here is very large, but has only a wooden
bridge over it: there are some fine arches, forming the commencement of
a most magnificent new stone bridge, the work of Napoleon; the work had
the appearance of having been some time interrupted. Alas, that the good
King cannot continue such works!

Here, for the first time, we saw coals, and in great quantity; the boats
on which they are carried, are long, square flat-bottomed boxes.
Although in a mountainous country, and with a poor soil, the houses of
the peasants were here much better than any we have seen, though a good
deal out of repair; they are high and comfortable, having many of them
two flats, and all with windows. We saw a number of fields in which the
people were turning up and dressing the soil with spades: This, and
indeed many other things in this mountainous part of the country,
reminded me of parts of the Highlands of Scotland, and the island of St
Helena. But it would not be easy to conceive yourself transported to
those parts of the world, when here you every now and then encounter a
peasant in a cocked hat, with a red velvet coat, or with blue velvet
breeches: this proclaims us near Lyons, the country of silks and
velvets. The climate is very delightful at present; during a great part
of to-day, I sat on the box with _Monsieur le Voiturier_, who is now
become so attached to us, that I think he will go with us to our
journey's end. He is a most excellent, sober and discreet man, and has
given us no trouble, and ample satisfaction. To-day, we passed two very
pretty clear streams. The country seats are numerous here, but none of
those that we have yet seen are fine; they are either like the very old
English manor-houses, or if of a later date, are like large
manufactories; a mass of regular windows, and all in ruinous condition;
nothing like fine architecture have we yet met with. To-morrow we start
again at six, and hope to sleep within four leagues of Lyons.----
Distance 34 miles--to St Simphorien de Lay.

* * *

This morning, we set off, as usual, at six, and only made out in five
hours a distance of 16 miles, arriving at the small town of Tarrare,
which is beautifully situated in the bosom of the hills. This difficulty
in travelling is occasioned by the road being extremely precipitous. It
winds, however, for several miles very beautifully through the valley,
by the banks of a clear stream; and the hills which rise on each side,
are in many places cultivated to the top, while others are richly
wooded: towards the bases they slope into meadows, which are now as
green as in the middle of summer, and where the cows are grazing by the
water-side. The air is warm and pleasant, the sky unclouded, and the
light of a glorious sun renders every object gay and beautiful. This
valley is, I think, much more beautiful than any part of France we have
yet seen. Through the passes in the hills, we have had some very fine
peeps at the country to which we are travelling. Every inch of the
ground on these mountains is turned to good account; as the grass, from
the soil and exposure, is very scanty, the peasants make use of the same
method of irrigating as at St Helena. Where there is found a spring of
water, they form large reservoirs into which it is received, and from
these reservoirs they lead off small channels, which overflow the field,
and give an artificial moisture to the soil. The houses of the peasants
are still excellent, but there appears a great want of cattle. The
fields are ploughed with oxen, very small and lean; we had two of them
to assist us on the way from St Simphorien to Pain Bouchain.

At Tarrare, I am sorry to say, we found a want of almost every comfort.
It is a pretty large town, neater in exterior appearance than any we
have seen, but very dirty within; it is famous for its muslins and
calicoes.----All this day we have had nothing but constant ascending
and descending; the country occasionally very fine, and always well
cultivated. The ploughs here are very small and ill made; they have no
wheels, and are drawn by oxen. Some of the valleys in our route to-day
would be beyond any thing beautiful, if varied with a few of those fine
trees, which we are accustomed to meet with every day in England and
Scotland; but the manner in which the French trees are cut, clipped, and
hacked, renders them very disgusting to our eyes. I have not seen one
truly fine tree since we left Paris, about the environs of which there
are a few. There is also a great scarcity of gentlemen's seats, of
castles and other buildings, and of gardens of every kind. France, one
would suppose, ought to be the country of flowers; but not one flower
garden have we yet seen.----Distance about 31 miles--to the
Half-way-House, between Arras and Salvagny.

* * *

(_Saturday, 18th._)--We left the inn at the half-way village, whose name
I forgot to ask, between Arras and Salvagny, at six this morning, and
arrived at Lyons at half-past ten. On the subject of to-day's route very
little can be said. The first part of it conducted over a long
succession of very steep hills, for about four miles, after which we
descended through a fine varied country to the city of Lyons.----
Distance, 16 miles to Lyons.

Lyons is certainly a fine town, although, like Paris, it has only a few
fine public buildings, among a number of very old and ruinous-looking
houses. It is chiefly owing to the ideas of riches and commerce with
which both of these towns _are connected_, that we would call them
_fine_, for they have neither fine streets nor fine ranges of houses. I
need not mention, that Lyons is the place of manufacture for all kinds
of silks, velvets, ribbons, fringes, &c. But here, as at many
manufactories, things bought by retail are as dear, or even dearer, than
at Paris. The ladies of our party had built castles in the air all the
way to Lyons; but they found every thing dearer than at Paris, and
almost as dear as in England.

Now that I have seen a little of the manners and dress of the people in
the two largest towns in France, I may hazard a few observations on
these subjects. I think it is chiefly among the lower ranks that the
superior politeness of the French is apparent. Although you still find
out the ruffians and banditti who have figured on the stage under
Napoleon, yet the greater, by far the greater number, are mild,
cheerful, and obliging. A common Frenchman, in the street, if asked the
way to a place, will generally either point it out very clearly, or say,
"Allow me to accompany you, Sir." Among the higher ranks of society you
will find many obliging people; but you will also discover many whose
situation alone can sanction your calling them gentlemen. There
appears, moreover, in France, to be a sort of blending together of the
high and low ranks of society, which has a bad effect on the more
polite, without at all bettering the manners of the more uncivilized. To
discover who are gentlemen, and who are not, without previously knowing
something of them, or at least entering into conversation, is very
difficult. In England, all the middling ranks dress so well, that you
are puzzled to find out the gentleman. In France, they dress so ill in
the higher ranks, that you cannot distinguish them from the lower. One
is often induced to think, that those must be gentlemen who wear orders
and ribbons at their buttons, but, alas! almost every one in France at
the present day has one of these ribbons. In the dress of the women
there is still less to be found that points out the distinction of their
ranks. To my eye, they are all wretchedly ill dressed, for they wear the
same dark and dirty-looking calicoes which our Scotch maid-servants wear
only on week days. This gives to their dress an air of meanness; but
here the English ought to consider, that these cotton goods are in
France highly valued, and very dear, from their scarcity. Over these
dresses they wear (at present) small imitation shawls, of wool, silk,
or cotton. They have very short petticoats, and shew very neat legs and
ankles, but covered only with coarse cotton stockings, seldom very
white; often with black worsted stockings. I have not seen one
handsomely dressed woman as yet in France; the best had always an air of
shabbiness about her, which no milliner's daughter at home would shew.
They are said to dress much more gaily in the evening. When we mix a
little more in French society, we shall be able to judge of this.

This want of elegance and richness in dress, is, I think, one of the
marks of poverty in France. I have mentioned before the ruinous
appearance of the villages and houses. The excessive numbers of beggars
is another. The French themselves say that there is a great want of
money in France; they affirm that there is no scarcity of men, and that
with more money the French could have fought for many years to come.
They certainly are the vainest people in the universe; they have often
told me, _that could Bonaparte have continued his blockade of the
Continental trade a few months more, England would have been undone_.
They sometimes confess, that they would have been rather at a loss for
Coffee, Sugar, and Cotton, had we continued our war with the Americans,
who were their carriers. The want of the first of these articles would
annoy any country, but in France they cannot live without it: in England
they might.

* * *

This day, _Monday_ the 20th, we left Lyons at one o'clock in the
forenoon, travelling in most unfavourable weather, and through almost
impassable streets. The situation of Lyons is beautiful; the site of the
town is at the conflux of the Soane and the Rhone; a fine ridge of hills
rises behind the city; the innumerable houses which are scattered up and
down the heights, the fine variety of wood and cultivation, and the
little villages which you discern at a distance in the vallies, give it
the appearance of a romantic, yet populous and delightful neighbourhood.

We were not able to see much of the interior of the town; but in passing
once or twice through the principal streets, and more particularly in
leaving the town, we had a good view of the public buildings. Many of
them are very fine, and the whole town has an appearance of wealth, the
effect of commerce. But a better idea of the wealth is given, by the
innumerable loads of goods of different kinds, which you meet with on
the roads in the vicinity of this favoured city, on the Paris and
Marseilles sides of the town. The roads are completely ploughed up at
this season of the year, and almost impassable. The waggoners are even a
more independent set of men than with us in England; they keep their
waggons in the very middle of the road, and will not move for the
highest nobleman in the land; this, however, is contrary to the police
regulations. The land carriage here is almost entirety managed by mules.
These are from 13 to 14 hands high, and surpass in figure and limb
anything I could have imagined of the sons and daughters of asses. The
price of these animals varies from L.10 to L.40, according to size and
temper. They are found of all colours; but white, grey, and bay are the
most uncommon. Our journey this day was only as far as Vienne, a pretty
large village, or it might be called a town. We entered it at night, and
the rain pouring down upon us. These are two very great evils in French
travelling; for either of them puts you into the hands of the
innkeepers, who conceive, that at night, and in such weather, you must
have lodging speedily, at any price. At the first inn we came to, we met
with a reception, (which, to those accustomed to the polite and grateful
expression, with which in arriving at an English inn, you are received
by the attentive host or hostess), was altogether singular. The landlady
declared, with the voice and action of a virago, that at this time of
night, the highest guests in the land should not enter her roof upon any
terms. The landlord, on the contrary, behaved with great politeness,
entreated not to take offence at his wife's uncommon appearance. "C'est
seulement un tête chaud, Monsieur, mais faites moi l'honeur d'y entrer."
We accordingly did so; and this was the signal for the commencement of a
scene in the interior of the inn, which was probably never equalled in
the annals of matrimonial dissension. The landlady first gave a kind of
prefatory yell, which was only a prelude of war-whoop, introductory to
that which was to follow. She then began to tear her hair in handfuls;
and kept alternately brandishing knives, forks, pots, logs of wood, in
short, whatever her hand fell upon in the course of her fury, at her
poor passive help-mate, who appeared to consider the storm with a
nonchalance, which evidently could only have been produced by very long
experience; while he kept saying to us all the time, [6]_"Soyez
tranquille, Monsieur; ce n'est rien que cela."_ At length he commenced
getting ready our supper, and I entered into conversation with a very
great man, the mayor of the village, who, _adorned with a splendid order
at his breast_, was quietly bargaining for his supper. Nothing more
completely astonishes an Englishman than this extraordinary mixture of
all ranks of society, which takes place at the kitchen fire of a French
inn. You will there see, not only sitting, but familiarly conversing
together, officers and gentlemen, coachmen, waggoners, and all classes
of people, each addressing the other as _Monsieur_. The mayor here,
being, to all appearance, a most communicative fellow, was easily got on
the politics of the day. I began by enumerating the blessings of peace,
and by extolling the character of the present King, in all of which he
seemed to join with heart and soul. He told me how Bonaparte treated the
mayors of the different towns,--how he would raise them up at all hours
of the night,--how he forced them to seize on grain wherever it was
found. In short, he abused him in the vilest terms. I put in an
observation or two in his favour, when suddenly my friend whispered
me,--"Sir, to be frank with you, he was the greatest man ever lived, and
the best ruler for France." I encouraged him a little, by assenting to
all he said, and I found him a staunch friend of Napoleon, anxious for
his return: I have no doubt, that time-serving gentlemen like these,
would wish for nothing more. It appeared to me, that his highness, the
mayor, was in very high spirits, either from wine, or that it was his
nature--however, "In vino veritas."----Distance, nineteen miles to
Vienne.

* * *

We had a miserable lodging at this vile inn, (Hotel du Parc at Vienne.)
We left it with pleasure, this morning, (_Tuesday_ the 21st), although
the weather continued most unfavourable; yet any thing was better than
remaining in such a house. The day continued to rain without
intermission; and we made out with difficulty about 30 miles, to St
Vallier. The country through which we passed to-day, is the most bare
and barren we have seen, particularly when we approached St Vallier. The
soil, a deep gravel, producing nothing but grapes, and a wretched scanty
crop of wheat. The grapes, however, are here the finest for wine in
France. It is here that the famous wines of Cotè Rotie and Hermitage are
made. To the very summits of the hills, you see this wretched looking
soil enclosed with stone dykes, and laid out in vineyards. We tasted
some of the grapes here, and though out of season, we found them very
fine; they were of a small black kind called Seeràn.

The woman at the inn here, was sent for from the church, to see whether
she would receive us on our terms of 18 francs, which is what we now
always pay; having asked 20, we settled with her, and she went back to
her devotions. We have now had three days of continued rain, which
renders travelling very uncomfortable, and the roads most wretched. We
still rise every morning at five, and are on the road at six. The air is
mild, but very damp. The honey of Narbonne, got at Lyons, is the finest
in France. I forgot to mention, that at Lyons we tried the experiment of
going to the _table d'hôte_. We ought not, however, to form the opinion
of a good _table d'hôte_ from the one of the Hotel du Parc. It was
mostly composed of what are here called _Pensionaires_; people who dine
there constantly, paying a smaller sum than the common rate of three
francs. The company was, therefore, rather low, and the table scantily
provided; but I should think, that for gentlemen travellers, a _table
d'hôte_, where a good one is held, would be the best manner of
dining.----Distance 30 miles to St Vallier.

* * *

_Wednesday_, the 22d.--We left St Vallier at half past six in the
morning, and only reached St Valence, a distance of 23 miles, by five
o'clock. This delay was occasioned by the heavy fall of rain during
these four last days, and by there being no bridge over the Isere,
within four or five miles of Valence. The former bridge, (a most
beautiful one, though only of wood), had been burnt down, by General
Augereau to intercept the progress of the Austrians. The French appear
to hate Augereau as much as Marmont; they say he was a traitor to
Napoleon, to whom he owed every thing. The country through which we
passed to-day, was as plain and uninteresting as yesterday's, though
still all cultivated. Nothing but vines on the hills, and the plains
almost bare--still gravelly. We found the Isere much swollen by the
rain. The contrivance for carrying over the carts and carriages, is
exceedingly simple and beautiful: Three very high trees are formed into
a triangle, such as we raise for weighing coals. One of these is placed
on each side of the river, and a rope passes over a groove at the top,
and is fixed down at each side of the river; to this rope that crosses
the river is attached a block and pulley, and to this pulley is fixed
the rope of the boat. The stream tries by its rapidity to carry the boat
down; the rope across prevents this; and it therefore slides across,
with a regular though rapid motion.

It appears to me that we are getting into a poorer country in every
respect; for the inns are worse, the food worse, the roads worse, &c.
There seems a want of poultry as well as butcher meat. Mutton here is
very poor. Our inn to-night is the best we have seen since we left
Lyons; it is at the Golden Cross, outside the town of Valence, and is
neatly kept and well served. The waiter here had served in the army for
six years. He says, there are indeed many of the soldiers who wish for
war; but that he really believes there are as many who wish for peace: I
have little faith in this. We observed this morning a large party of men
returning from the galleys, having passed the time of their
imprisonment. They were all uniformly dressed in red flannel clothes and
small woollen caps, and attended by gens-d'armes.----Distance 23
miles--to St Valence.

* * *

_Thursday_, the 23d.--We left St Valence well enough pleased with our
lodging at the Golden Cross. It is, however, an exception to the bad set
of inns we have lately been at. In the kitchen here, which I entered
from curiosity, as the ladies went up stairs to the parlour, I found, as
usual, a most extraordinary mixture of company. I listened, without
joining at all in the conversation. The theme of discourse was a report
that had been circulated, that all the young troops were to hold
themselves in readiness again to take up arms. The only foundation I
could find for this report was, _that a drum had been beat for some
reason or other that evening._ This was a good opportunity of attending
to the state of the public feeling here;--all and every one seemed
delighted at the thoughts of war, provided it was with the Austrians.
One man (a shopkeeper to appearance), said, that his son, a trumpeter,
when he heard the drum, leapt from his seat, and, dancing about the
room, exclaimed, [7]"La guerre! la guerre!" On the route this morning,
we met with a small party of five or six soldiers returning to their
homes; two of them had lost their right arms, and two others were lamed
for life. They all agreed that they would never have wished for peace;
and that even in their present miserable state they would fight. They
were very fine stout fellows, about 40 years of age; but they had the
looks of ruffians when narrowly examined.

In the same inn the hostler, who had only fought one year, was as
anxious for a continuation of peace as the others were for war. The wife
of one of these soldiers gave a most lamentable description of the
horrors of the last campaign, and ended by praying for a continuation of
the peace.

At a little village near Montelimart (our lodging place to-night), we
were accosted in very bad English by a good-looking young Frenchman,
who, from our appearance, knew us to be English. He told us that he had
been four years a prisoner at Plymouth; he complained of bad treatment,
and abused both the English and England very liberally, saying that
France was a much finer country. Poor fellow! in a prison-ship at
Plymouth he had formed his opinion of England. He gave us some good
hints about the price of provisions in this part of the country. Wine
(the vin ordinaire) is here at six sous, or three-pence the bottle. I
had been very much astonished (on ordering some wine for the soldiers in
the morning), to find that I had only ten sous to pay for each bottle.

The country through which we passed to-day is rather more interesting,
with a considerable variety of hill and dale, wood and water, but the
soil is still a miserable gravel. Both to-day and yesterday we observed
that the fields on each side of the road were planted with clumsy cropt
trees, somewhat like fruit-trees. We could not make out what these were
until to-day, when we learnt that they were mulberry trees, and that
this was a silk country. The trees are of the size of our orchard
trees; their branches, under the thickness of an inch, are all lopped
off, and from the wounds thus made, spring up the tender young branches
which produce the leaves. The trees have a most unnatural appearance
from this cause. Under these the fields here are ploughed for a most
wretched crop of wheat. The ploughs miserably constructed, but with
wheels.

This part of the country abounds with mule, which are used in carriages,
carts, waggons, ploughs, &c. These animals are of a remarkable size
here. The roads, ever since we left Lyons, excepting where we met with a
hundred or two hundred yards of pavement, have been uniformly bad.
To-day, however, we made out about 33 miles between six and five
o'clock. This town of Montelimart is celebrated for one manufacture
only, viz. a sort of cake made of almonds and white sugar, called
Nagaux. This article is sent from this place all over France!------
Distance 33 miles--to Montelimart.

* * *

Our journey to-day (_Friday_ the 24th) though rather more rapid, was not
by any means comfortable. The country hereabout has a great want of
milk and butter;--not a cow to be seen. The soil is still to appearance
wretchedly poor, yet it gives a rich produce, in grapes, figs, olives,
and mulberry leaves, for the silk worms. The wine (vin ordinaire) sells
here at six sous the bottle; it is poor in quality, yet by no means
unpalatable. The roads continue as bad as ever, rather worse indeed, for
the thin creamy mud has become thick doughy clay.

We did not arrive at Orange till half past five, but were fortunate in
finding a civil reception at the Palais Royal, the first inn on entering
the town. We met with no adventures to-day of any kind. The language of
the people has now become completely unintelligible; it is a Patois of
the most horrible nature. Many of the better sort of people among the
peasants, are able to speak French with you, but where they have only
their own dialect, you are completely at a loss. I had conceived, that
there would be no more difference between French and Patois, than
between the better and the lower dialects of Scotch and English; but the
very words are here changed: A carter asked the landlord with whom we
were conversing, for a [8]"Peetso morcel du bosse,"--_"petit morceau du
bois."_ The landlord, a respectable-looking man, gave us a good deal of
news regarding the state of the country. He says, that the people in the
south are all anxious for peace, and that those in France, who wish for
war, are those who have nothing else to live on; that nobody with a
house over his back, and a little money, desires to have war again.

The people here seem to amuse themselves with a perpetual variety of
reports. The story to-day is, that Alexander has declared his intention
of sending 60,000 men to Poland, to take possession of that country for
himself; and that Talleyrand would not hear of such a thing. The
villages that we passed to-day have a greater appearance of desolation
than any we have yet seen. Scarce a house which does not seem to be
tumbling to pieces, and those which we were unlucky enough to enter,
were as dirty and uncomfortable inside as they appeared without. On
entering the town, or rather at a little distance from the town of
Orange, we saw a beautiful triumphal arch, said to have been raised to
commemorate the victories of Marius over the Cimbri. The evening was
too gloomy for us to observe in what state of preservation the sculpture
is now, but the architecture is very grand. To-morrow we breakfast at
Avignon. But alas, the weather will not permit of our visiting
Vaucluse.----Distance 39 miles--to Orange.

* * *

_Saturday_, the 25th.--We left Orange at half past six. Our road to-day
lay through the same species of country, to which we have been condemned
for four days, producing vines, olives, and mulberries; the soil is to
all appearance a most wretched one for corn--gravel and stones. The
roads have, ever since our leaving Lyons, been very bad. After breakfast
at Avignon, we proceeded to see the ruins of the church of Notre Dame.
There are now remaining but very few vestiges of a church; the ground
formerly enclosed by the church, is now formed into a fruit garden, and
a country house has been built on the ruins. The owner of this house
wishes to let it, and hearing that a friend of ours was in need of a
house, he offered it to him for two hundred a-year. The house was such
as one could procure near London for about L.80, and such as we ought to
have in France for L.20. But the French do really think, that the
English will give any sum they ask, and that every individual is a kind
of animated bag of money.

The owner of the house was, to appearance, a broken-down gentleman; he
had been ordered to Marseilles by his physician for an affection of the
lungs; yet he strongly recommended the climate of Avignon. For my own
part, I think the situation is too low and windy to be healthy. The town
is one of the cleanest we have seen, and there are some excellent houses
in it; of the rent we could not well judge from the account of this
gentleman. We went through his garden, and were by him shewn the spot
under which the tomb of Laura is now situated. A small cypress tree had
been planted by the owner of the garden to mark the spot. He had heard
the story of Laura, and recollected many particulars of it; but still he
had not been at the pains to have the spot cleared, and the tomb exposed
to view. To any one who was acquainted with the story of Petrarch, or
who had perused his impassioned effusions, the dilapidation of this
church, and the barbarous concealment of Laura's tomb, were most
mortifying circumstances. But, neither the memory of Laura, nor of the
brave Crillon, whose tomb is also here, had any effect in averting the
progress of the revolutionary barbarians. The tomb of Crillon is now
only to be distinguished by the vestiges of some warlike embellishments
in the wall opposite which it was situated. There is a large space now
empty in the midst of these ornaments, from which a large marble slab
had lately been taken out. On this slab, the owner of the garden said,
an inscription, commemorating the virtues of Crillon, had been engraved.
A small stone, with his arms very beautifully engraved, was shewn us in
the garden. I could not leave the garden without stealing a branch from
the cypress which shaded Laura's tomb.

Through this garden runs the rivulet of Vaucluse. Its course is through
the town of Avignon; where we remained for three hours, and then
continued our journey; but the day was far advanced, and by the evening
we only arrived at a wretched, little inn called Bonpas. We were here
told that we could have no lodging. Luckily for us the moon was up, and
very clear; we therefore pushed on for Orgon, which, although said in
the post-book to be two posts and a half from Bonpas, we reached in
about an hour and a half. On our arrival we were fortunate enough to
find lodging; and had scarcely seated ourselves in our parlour, when the
people told us, that last night the mail had been robbed, and both the
postillion and conducteur killed on the spot,----Distance 42 miles--to
Orgon.

* * *

_Sunday_, the 26th,--We left Orgon, as usual, at six o'clock, and
travelled before breakfast to Font Royal, a distance of 11 miles. Here
the unfortunate _conducteur_ of the mail was lying desperately wounded;
the surgeon, however, expected him to live. The postmaster here was not
well satisfied with the conduct of the soldiers or gens-d'armes who
attended the mail. The robbers were only four in number, and the
attendants, viz. the postillion, conducteur and gens-d'armes, he
thought, ought to have been a match for them. The robbers were
frightened off while searching for the money, and fled without taking
any thing of consequence.

It is a very bad arrangement which they have in France, of sending large
sums of money in gold and silver by the mail; for it holds out a much
stronger inducement than would otherwise be given to the robbers. The
mail, in France, is a very heavy coach, and has only three horses. The
roads to-day were worse than any we have yet passed; and the country,
for the first part of our journey, is as dull and insipid as it is
possible to conceive. The soil most wretched, but still producing great
riches in olives, grapes, figs, and mulberries. The grapes are
delightful, even now when almost out of season, and the wine made from
them is very fine. Within a mile or two of Aix, (from the top of a steep
descent over a very barren, and bleak hill), you are delighted with the
most complete change in the scene: In a moment, an extensive valley,
highly cultivated, opens on the view. It is divided into a beautiful
variety of vineyards, wheat fields, gardens, plantations of olives and
figs, and is enclosed by hedge-rows of almond and mulberry trees. Round
the valley rise a succession of romantic hills, covered with woods, and
forming a fine conclusion to the view. It was altogether an enchanting
picture. If this is the case in winter, what must it be in summer? The
town of Aix, situated in this valley, is, as far as we have seen, the
cleanest, neatest, and most comfortable-looking town in France--we are
as yet all delighted with it; but when we shall have seen it for a day
or two, I shall be better able to give an account of it.----Distance 33
miles--to Aix.




CHAPTER II.

RESIDENCE AT AIX, AND JOURNEY TO BOURDEAUX.


MONDAY, the 27th.--Having been employed the whole day in searching for
furnished lodgings, I had no time to ride about and see the town. I
shall describe it afterwards.--I saw, however, a little of the manners
of some ranks of French society.

After this, I went into the best coffeehouse in the town here, and sat
down to read the newspapers. I found in it people of all
descriptions--several of a most unprepossessing appearance, and others
really like gentlemen. One of the best dressed of these last, decorated
with the white cockade and other insignia, and having several rings of
precious stones on his fingers, a watch, with a beautiful assortment of
seals and other trinkets, was playing at Polish drafts, with an officer,
also apparently a gentleman. I entered into conversation with him; and
was surprised at his almost immediately offering me his watch, trinkets,
and rings for sale. Still I thought this might arise from French
manners: I had not a doubt he was a gentleman.--How great was my
surprise, when a gentleman from the other side of the room called him by
name, and bid him bring a cup of coffee and a glass of liqueur--My
friend was one of the waiters of the coffeehouse. Such is the mixture of
French society--such is the effect of citizenship.

Our landlord, Mr A----, keeps a retail shop for toys, perfumery,
cutlery, and all manner of articles. I did not think that we had given
him any encouragement on our first arrival; but he is now become a pest
to us: he honours us with his company at all hours, and comes and seats
himself with our other acquaintances, of whatever rank they may be. I
have been forced at last to be rude to him, in never asking him to sit
down when any one is with us. _The physician shakes him by the hand--so
does the banker_. When I had purchased my horse, our banker spoke to a
little mean-looking body, a paper-maker, to buy some corn and hay for
it. I was astonished when the banker ended his speech by an
affectionate[9] "_Adieu, a revoir a souper_." I am told, however, that
this mixture of ranks, and this condescension on the part of superiors,
is only practised at times, and to serve a purpose; and that, although
the nobleman will sit down in the kitchen of an inn, and converse
familiarly with the servants there, and though he will sit down in a
shop, and prattle with the Bourgeoise, yet he keeps his place most
proudly in society, inviting and receiving only his equals and
superiors. The familiarity of all ranks with their own servants is most
disgusting; but, from their poverty, the higher classes must condescend.

Yesterday evening, I had an interesting conversation with Mr L. B. an
intelligent and well informed man, of good family, eminent in his
profession, and high in the opinion of all the society here; he is a
devoted royalist. Among other interesting anecdotes which he related, I
can only recollect these:

Bonaparte had got into some scrape at Toulon, where he was well known as
a bad and troublesome character; he was arrested, and put under a guard
commanded by a near relation of Mr L. B. Barras, then at the height of
his power in Paris, not knowing what to do with some of his royalist
enemies, sent for Bonaparte, and proposed to him to collect a body of
troops, and to fire on the royalists. Jourdan, and many other officers
were applied to, but refused so base an employment. Bonaparte willingly
accepted it--acquitted himself to Barras's satisfaction, and Barras then
offered him the command in Italy, provided he would marry his cast-off
mistress, Madame Beauharnois. To this Bonaparte consented. Bonaparte's
mother had been, about this time, turned out of the Marseilles Theatre,
on account of her bad character; for it was well known, that she
subsisted herself and one of her daughters on the beauty of her other
daughter. Shortly after Bonaparte's appointment to the Italian army, the
same magistrate (the Mayor of Marseilles), who had formerly turned out
Madame Bonaparte, perceived her again seated in one of the front boxes;
he went up to her, and turned her out. She immediately wrote to her son,
and the poor mayor was dismissed. This anecdote is, I find, mentioned by
Goldsmith, who refers, in proof of its truth, to the newspapers of the
time, in which the conduct, and sentence of the mayor are fully
discussed.

Bonaparte, extremely dissipated himself, would yet often correct any
propensities of that kind in his relations. Pauline, the Princess
Borghese, had formed an attachment for a very handsome young Florentine;
he was one night suddenly surprised by Bonaparte's emissaries, put into
a carriage, and removed to a great distance, with orders not to return.

One of Bonaparte's relations had formed an attachment to Junot, who was
one of the handsomest men in France; Junot was immediately after sent to
Portugal, and upon his defeats there, he was disgraced publicly by
Bonaparte, and killed himself, it was believed, in a fit of despair.

The Princess Borghese, though vain, fond of dress, of extravagance, and
of pleasure of every sort, whether honest or otherwise, has yet a good
heart. A cousin of Mr L. B.'s was ordered to join the Garde d'Honneur:
One of the last and most cruel acts of Bonaparte, was the constitution
of this corps, which was meant to receive the young men of noble or rich
families. The mother and relations of this young man were inconsolable,
and the sum of money which would have been required as a ransom, was
more than they could give; for Bonaparte, well knowing that the better
families would rather pay than allow of their sons serving in his guard,
had made the price of ransom immense. In their distress, they applied to
Mr L. B., who had been at one time of service to the Princess Borghese
in his legal capacity, and he paid a visit to the Princess. She received
him most kindly, but told him that Bonaparte strictly forbade her
interfering in military matters; that she would willingly apply for the
situation of a prefect for Mr L. B. but could be of no service to his
relation. She was, however, at last prevailed on; she wrote most warmly
to her friends, and in three or four days the young man was sent back to
his happy family.

The French here date Bonaparte's downfall from the time when he first
determined on attacking the power of the Pope. They say that this attack
and the Spanish War, were both contrary to the advice of Talleyrand. In
a conversation which took place between the Emperor Alexander and
Napoleon, Alexander represented his own power as superior to Napoleon's,
because he had no Pope to, controul him; and Bonaparte then replied,
that "he would shew him and the world that the Pope was nobody."

Our conversation turned on the difference between the penal codes of
France and England. The French code, as revised, and, in many parts,
formed by Napoleon, is much more mild than ours. There are not more than
twelve crimes for which the punishment is death. In England, according
to Blackstone, there are 160 crimes punished by death; on these
subjects, I shall afterwards write more fully when I have received more
information. Mr L. B. related a curious anecdote, from which the
abolition of torture is said to have been determined.

A judge, who had long represented the folly of this method of trial,
without any success, had recourse to the following stratagem:--He went
into the stable at night, and having taken away two of his own horses,
he had them removed to distance. In the morning his coachman came
trembling to inform him of the theft. He immediately had him confined.
He was put to the torture, and, unable to bear the agony, he said that
he had stolen the horses. The judge immediately wrote to the King, and
informed him, that he himself had removed the horses. The man was
pardoned, and the judge settled a large pension on him. The subject of
the torture was considered, and the result was its abolition.

I found that the opinions as to some parts of their criminal
jurisprudence in France, were the same as are entertained on the same
subject in England. Mr L. B., who has had occasion professionally to
attend many criminal trials, is of opinion, that in this country,
terrible punishments ought to be avoided, or at least performed in
private. It is generally thought, that the horror of these punishments
deters the robber and murderer, and has a good effect on the multitude;
but I am afraid, said Mr L. B., that the multitude compassionate the
sufferer, and think the laws unjust: and experience shews, that
punishments, however horrid, do not deter the _hardened_ criminal. My
father, said he, filled the situation of judge in his native city. A
very young man, son of his baker, was convicted before the court, and
condemned to die, for robbery with murder. After sentence, my father
visited him, and asked him how he had been led to commit such a crime?
Since I was a child, said the boy, I have always been a thief. When at
school, I stole from my school-fellows,--when brought home, I stole from
my father and mother. I have long wished to rob on the high-way; the
fear of death did not prevent me. The worst kind of death is the rack,
but by going to see every execution, I have learnt to laugh even at the
rack. When young, it alarmed me, but habit has done away its terrors.

Mr L. B. is certainly a man of gentlemanly manners, and of much general
information. He is received at Aix in the first society of the old
nobility; and was, I afterwards found, reckoned a model of good
breeding, and yet, (which, in the present condition of French manners,
is by no means uncommon), I have frequently witnessed him, in general
company, introducing topics, and employing expressions, which, in our
country, would not have been tolerated for a moment, but must have been
considered an outrage to the established forms of good breeding.

The day after our conversation with Mr L. B. we received a visit from
the daughter of a Scotch friend, who is married to one of the first
counsellors here. We returned home with her to hear some music. We were
received in a very neat and very handsomely furnished house. The mother
and daughter appeared to us polite and elegant women. But I was
astonished to observe, seated on a sofa near them, a young man, whose
costume, contrasted with the ease and confidence of his manners, gave me
no small surprise. He wore an old torn great coat, a Belcher
handkerchief about his neck, a pair of, worn-out military trowsers,
stockings which had once been white, and shoes down in the heel. What my
astonishment to find this shabby looking object was a brother of the
counsellor's, and a correct model of the morning costume of the French
noblemen!

From Mr L. B. I learnt, that the worst land in Provence, when well
cultivated, produces only three for one. The common produce of tolerably
good ground, is from five to seven for one. The greatest produce known
in Provence is ten for one. But for this, the best soils are weeded, and
plenty of manure used. Our banker's account of the soil here is more
favourable; but I am doubtful whether he is a farmer. Mr L. B. has a
farm, and superintends it himself.

I had the good fortune to attend a trial, which had excited much
interest here. In the conscription which immediately preceded the
downfall of Bonaparte, it appears, that the most horrid acts of violence
and tyranny had been committed. People of all ranks, and of all ages,
had been forced at the point of the bayonet to join the army. Near
Marseilles, the _gens-d'armes_, in one of the villages, after exercising
all kinds of cruelty, had collected together a number of the peasantry,
and were leading them to be butchered. The peasants, in Provence, are
naturally bold and free. The party contrived to escape, and all but one
man hid themselves in the woods. This poor fellow was conducted alone;
his hands in irons. His comrades lay in wait for the party who were
carrying him away, and in the attempt to deliver him, three of the
gens-d'armes were killed. The unfortunate conscript was only released to
die of his wounds. Three of his comrades were seized, and indicted to
stand trial for the murder of the gens-d'armes.

I judged this a most favourable opportunity of ascertaining the public
feeling, and attended the trial accordingly. The court was a special
one, for this is one of the subjects which Bonaparte did not trust to a
jury. It was composed of five civil and three military members. The
forms of proceeding were the same as I have fully noticed in a
subsequent chapter,--the same minute interrogations were made to the
unhappy prisoners--the same contest took place between these and the
Judges. One was acquitted, and the other two found guilty of "_meurtre
volontaire, mais sans premeditation_."--Voluntary, but unpremeditated
murder. These two were condemned to labour for life, but a respite was
granted, and an appeal made to the King in their behalf. I was not
disappointed in the ebullitions of public feeling which many of the
incidents of the trial called forth. Mr L. B. and another young advocate
pleaded very well. They both touched, though rather slightly, on the
state of the country; but it was left to Mr Ayeau, the most celebrated
pleader in criminal trials, and a zealous royalist, to develope the real
condition of France, at the time of this last conscription. His speech
was short, but I think it was the most energetic, and the most eloquent
I ever heard. He began in an extraordinary manner, which at once shewed
the scope of his argument, and secured him the attention of every one
present--"Gentlemen, if that pest of society, from whom it has pleased
God to release us, was a usurper and a tyrant, it was lawful to resist
him. If Louis the XVIII. was our legitimate prince, it was lawful to
fight for him." He then shewed, in a most ingenious argument, that the
prisoners at the bar had done no more than this. Some parts of his
speech were exceedingly beautiful. He ended by saying, that "he dared
the Judges to condemn to death those who would have died for "_Louis le
desiré_."--It is generally thought here, that they will all be
pardoned.

The situation of the town of Aix, and the scenery in the valley, is
truly beautiful. It is now the middle of December, yet the air is even
warmer, I think, than with us in summer. We sit with open windows, and
when we walk, the heat of the sun is even oppressive. The flowers in the
little gardens in the valley are in full bloom; and the other day we
found the blue scented violet, and observed the strawberries in blossom.
The fields are quite green, and the woods still retain their variegated
foliage. When the mistral (a species of north-west wind, peculiar to
this climate), blows, it is certainly cold; but since our arrival, we
have only twice experienced this chilling interruption to the general
beauty and serenity of our weather. The scenery in the interior of the
hills which surround the valley, is very romantic; and the little grassy
paths which lead through them, are so dry, that our party have had
several delightful expeditions into the hills. Many of our French
friends, although probably themselves no admirers of the country,
profess themselves so fond of English society, that they insist upon
accompanying us; and it is curious to witness the artificial French
manners, and the noisy volubility of French, tongues introduced into
those retired and beautiful scenes, which, in our own country, we
associate with the simplicity and innocence of rural life.

Amidst these peaceful and amusing occupations, the easy tenor of our
lives gliding on from day to day, interrupted by no variety of event,
except the entertaining differences occasioned by foreign manners and a
foreign country; we were surprised one morning by the entrance of our
landlord, who came into our parlour with a face full of anxiety, and
informed us, that Napoleon had landed at Cannes from Elba, and had
already, with five hundred men, succeeded in reaching Grace. Mr L. B.
soon came in and confirmed the report. Although certainly considerably
alarmed at this event, especially as the greater portion of our party
was composed of ladies, I could not help feeling, that we were fortunate
in having an opportunity thus offered of ascertaining the state of
public opinion, and the true nature of the political sentiments of that
part of the country in which we are at present residing; for we are here
at Aix, within twenty-five miles of the small town where Napoleon has
landed.

I shall first detail the circumstances under which this singular event
took place; afterwards attempt to give some idea of the effects
produced by it on the multitude. On the 1st of March 1815, Napoleon
landed near Cannes, in the gulf of Juan. His first step was, to dispatch
his Aide-de-Camp, Casabianca, with another officer and 25 men, to ask
admittance into the Fort of Antibes; admitted into the Fort, they
demanded its surrender to Bonaparte. The Governor paraded his garrison,
and having made them swear allegiance to their Sovereign, he secured the
rebels. Casabianca leaped from the wall and broke his back. In the
meantime, Napoleon, finding his first scheme fail, marched straight to
Grace, with between 700 and 800 men. He there encamped with his small
force on the plain before the town, and summoned the mayor to furnish
rations for his men; to which the mayor replied; that he acknowledged no
orders from any authority except Louis XVIII. This conduct was the more
worthy of praise, as the poor mayor had not a soldier to support him.
The Emperor then attempted to have printed a proclamation in writing,
signed by him, and counter-signed by General Bertrand, in which, among
other rhodomontades, he tells the good people of France, that he comes
at the call of the French nation, who, he knew, could not suffer
themselves to be ruled by the Prince Regent of England, in the person of
Louis XVIII.--The printer refused to print it. Napoleon proceeded from
Grace to Digne, from Digne to Sisteron, and from Sisteron to Gap, where
he slept on the 6th of March. In all the villages, he endeavoured,
apparently without success, to inflame the minds of the people, and
strengthen, by recruits, his small body of troops. He has, as yet, got
no one to join him; but, on the other hand, he has met with no
resistance. This day, the 8th, he must meet with three thousand men,
commanded by General Marchand. It is thought, that if these prove true
to their allegiance, he will make good his way to Lyons; but if, on the
contrary, they oppose him, he is ruined. The commotion excited in Aix,
by this news, is not to be conceived. The hatred and detestation in
which Bonaparte is held here, becomes, I think, more apparent as the
danger is more imminent. With a very few exceptions, all ranks of people
express these sentiments. The national guard were immediately under
arms, and entreated their commanding officer and the civil authorities,
to permit them to go in pursuit of the ex-Emperor. Unfortunately the
chiefs were not well agreed on the measures which ought to be adopted.
From the excessive _sang froid_ with which Massena conducted himself, I
should not be surprised if there were some truth in the report which was
current here, that he had intelligence of the whole scheme, and kept
back, in order that he might join Bonaparte. The first and second day,
nothing was done; on the 3d, the 83d regiment was dispatched in pursuit
from Marseilles. I accompanied them for four miles, during which, they
had made two short halts. I had an opportunity of talking with a number
of the men: they were certainly liberal in their abuse of the
ex-Emperor; but several of them remarked, that it _was a hard thing to
make them fight against each other_. The French here are all of opinion,
that the troops of the line are not to be trusted. Like all other
soldiers, they long for war, and as they would be more likely to have
war Under Napoleon, than under Louis XVIII. I have little doubt they
would join him. On the first news, the whole society of Aix were in the
deepest affliction--the men agitated and disturbed--the women and
children weeping. Each hour these feelings changed, for every hour there
was some new report. The French believe every thing, and though each
report belied the other, I saw no difference in the credit attached to
them. There is no newspaper published in Aix, and the prefect, who is a
person much suspected, has taken no steps to give the public correct
information, but allows them to grope, in the dark; they have invented
accordingly the most ridiculous stories, converting hundreds into
thousands, and a few fishing boats and other small craft, into first a
squadron of Neapolitans, and then a fleet of English ships. This report
of the English ships is, I am sorry to say, still current, and the
English are looked on with an evil eye by the lower orders. Even among
our more liberal friends, there were some who asked me, what interest
the English could have in letting him escape? After some cool reasoning,
however, they acknowledged the folly of this story. The King is
universally blamed for employing, in the most responsible situations,
the Generals attached to Napoleon. The populace declare, that Soult, the
Minister of War, is at the bottom of this attempt. Now, that one can
reason on the matter, and that the impression of the magnanimity which
dictated the conduct of the allied Powers to Napoleon, is somewhat
diminished, it must be allowed, that there is some sense in the remark,
that it was folly to dismiss him to Elba, with all the appointment,
"pomp, and circumstance" of a little Sovereign, instead of confining him
in a prison, or leaving him no head to plan mischief. The people affirm
here, that this was done purposely by the English, to keep France in
continual trouble.

_15th_.--All possibility of continuing this little Journal is precluded
by the alarming progress of Napoleon, and the consequent necessity of
taking immediate steps for our departure from this country. The
ex-Emperor is every day making rapid strides to the capital; and we have
to-day intelligence that it is believed the troops in Lyons are
disaffected. I have now given up all hope, for I see plainly that every
thing is arranged--not a blow has been struck. The soldiers have every
where joined him, and there cannot be a doubt that he will reign in
France. He may not, indeed, reign long; for it is to be hoped that the
English will not shut their eyes, or be deceived by the fabricated
reports of the journals--It is to be hoped that the allied Powers are
better acquainted with the character of Napoleon than the too-good Louis
XVIII. In the mean time, it is high time for us to be off; and I think
we shall take the route of Bourdeaux. This unfortunate town (Aix), is
now a melancholy spectacle; for all the thinking part believe that the
cause of the Bourbons is lost. Our poor landlord, a violent royalist,
has just been with us. He affirms that he could have predicted all this;
for when he sold the white cockades to the military, they often said,
[10]"Eh bien; c'est bon pour le moment, mais cela ne durera pas long
temps."--Poor man, he is in perfect agony, and his wife weeps all day
long. If all the people of France thought as well as those at Aix,
Napoleon would have little chance of success; but alas, I am much afraid
he will find more friends than enemies.

The whole town is still in the greatest confusion. The national guard,
amongst whom were many of our friends, were not allowed to march till
the seventh day after the landing of Napoleon. By day-break, we were
awoke by the music of the military bands, and saw, from the windows, the
different companies, headed by their officers, many of whose faces were
familiar to us, march out, seemingly in great spirits. It was a
melancholy sight to us. There was something in our own situation; placed
in a country already involved in civil commotion, finding our poor
French friends, whose life seemed before this to be nothing but one
continued scene of amusement, now weeping for the loss of their sons and
husbands and brothers, who had marched to intercept Napoleon, and
involved in uncomfortable uncertainty as to our future plans, which for
some time made every thing appear gloomy and distressing. The interval
between the 8th and the 12th has been occupied by a constant succession
of favourable and unfavourable reports; gloomy conjectures and fearful
forebodings, have, however, with most people here, formed the prevailing
tone of public opinion. The report which was, a few days ago, circulated
here, that the escape of the ex-Emperor was a premeditated plan,
invented and executed by the English, gains ground every day. It is
completely credited by the lower classes here; and such is the enmity
against the English, that we are now obliged to give up our country
walks, rather than encounter the menacing looks and insulting speeches
of the lower orders. To-day is the 8th, and we are in a state of the
most extreme anxiety, waiting for the arrival of a courier. In this
unfortunate country, owing to the imperfection of the system of posts,
public news travel very slowly; and in proportion to the scarcity of
accurate information, is the perplexing variety of unfounded reports.
The prefect of Aix has just been here to tell us that as yet there
appears to be nothing decided; but that upon the whole, things look
favourably for the Bourbons. Bonaparte, he informs us, slept at Gape on
Sunday, and dispatched from that town three couriers with different
proclamations. Not a man joined him, and it is said he left Gape enraged
by the coolness of his reception. In the course of the day, another mail
from Gape has arrived, but still brings no intelligence, which looks as
if this unfortunate business would be speedily decided. Monsieur has
arrived at Lyons, and intends, we hear, to proceed to Grenoble. Last
night it was quite impossible for us to sleep. The crowds in the
streets, and the confusion of the mob who parade all night, expecting
the arrival of a new courier, creates a continual uproar. During the
night, we heard our poor landlady weeping; and we found out next morning
that her husband had been called off in the night to join the national
guard, which had marched in pursuit of the ex-Emperor.

_Friday_, the 10th.--Still no decisive intelligence has arrived. Every
thing, it is said, looks well, but there is a mystery and stillness
about the town to-day which alarms us.

_Saturday_, the 11th.--We have this day received from Mr L. B., who
marched with the national guard, a very interesting letter from
Sisteron. The crisis, which will determine the result of this last
daring adventure of the ex-Emperor, seems to be fast approaching. Our
friend tells us all as yet looks well. Bonaparte is surrounded and
hemmed in to the space of two leagues by troops marching from all sides.
These, however, how strong soever they may be, appear to maintain a
suspicious kind of inaction, and he continues his progress towards
Grenoble. Every thing depends on the conduct of the troops there, under
General Marchand. Their force is such, that if they continue firm, his
project is ruined. On the contrary, if their allegiance to the Bourbons
is but pretended, and if their attachment to their old commander should
revive, it is to be dreaded that this impulse will have an irresistible
effect upon the troops; and if Marchand's division joins him, all is
irretrievably lost: He will be at the head of a force sufficient to
enable him to dictate terms to Lyons, and the pernicious example of so
great a body of troops will poison the allegiance of the rest of the
army.

_Sunday_, the 12th.--Our fears have been prophetic. We have heard again
from Mr L. B. This letter is most melancholy; Marchand's corps have
joined the ex-Emperor, and he is on his march to Lyons, the second town
in the kingdom, with a force every day increasing. It is absolutely
necessary now to form some decided plan for leaving this devoted
country. Whether it will be better to embark from Marseilles or to
travel across the country to Bourdeaux, is the question upon which we
have not yet sufficient information to decide. We expect to hear
to-morrow of an engagement between the troops commanded by the Prince
D'Artois at Lyons, and the force which has joined Napoleon. Every moment
which we now remain in this kingdom is time foolishly thrown away.
Bonaparte may have friends in the sea-port towns; the organization of
this last scheme may be, and indeed every hour proves, that it has been
deeper than we at first imagined, and the possibility of escape may in a
moment be entirely precluded.

_Monday_, the 13th.--This has been a day of much agitation; a courier
has arrived, and the intelligence he brings is as bad as possible. Every
thing is lost. The Count d'Artois harangued his troops, and the answer
they made, was a universal shout of _Vive l'Empereur_. The Prince has
been obliged to return to Paris; Bonaparte has entered Lyons without the
slightest opposition, and is now on his march to the capital. We have
just been informed, that the Duc d'Angouleme is expected here this
evening or to-morrow. The guarde nationale has been paraded upon the
_Cours_, and a proclamation, exhorting them to continue faithful to the
King, read aloud to the soldiers. We hear them rapturously shouting Vive
le Roi; and they are now marching through the streets to the national
air of Henrie Quatre. Every house has displayed the white flag from its
windows.

_Thursday_, the 16th.--We have determined now to run the risk of
travelling across the country to Bourdeaux, trusting to embark from that
town for England. I have visited Marseilles, and find that there are no
vessels in that port; and in the present uncertain state of Italy, it
would be hazardous attempting to reach Nice. Bonaparte, we hear, is near
Paris, and is expected to enter that capital without opposition; but we
now receive no intelligence whose accuracy can be relied on, as the
couriers have been stopt, and all regular intercourse discontinued. The
preparations, for the arrival of the Duc d'Angouleme, continued till
this morning; and in the evening we witnessed his entry into Aix: It was
an affecting sight. At the gate of the town, he got out of his carriage,
mounted on horseback, and rode twice along the Cours, followed by his
suite. The common people, who were assembled on each side of the street,
shouted Vive le Roi, Vivent les Bourbons, apparently with enthusiasm.
The attention of the Duke seemed to be chiefly directed to the regiments
of the line, which were drawn up on the Cours. As he rode along, he
leant down and seemed to speak familiarly to the common soldiers; but
the troops remained sullen and silent. No cries of loyalty were heard
amongst them--not a single murmur of applause. They did not even salute
the Duke as he past, but continued perfectly still and silent. In the
midst of this, we could hear the sobs of the women in the crowd, and of
the ladies, who waved their handkerchiefs from the windows. As he came
near the balcony where we and our English friends were assembled, we
strained our voices with repeated cries of Vive le Roi. He heard us,
looked up, and bowed; and afterwards, with that grateful politeness, the
characteristic of the older school of French manners, he sent one of his
attendants to say, that he had distinguished the English, and felt
flattered by the interest they took in his affairs. Although it was
positively asserted by our French friends here, that Marseilles was in
the greatest confusion; and that on account of the prevalence of the
report of the English having favoured the escape of Bonaparte, all our
countrymen were liable to be insulted; I yet found the town perfectly
tranquil. Massena, I heard, had sent for some troops from Toulon; and
the 3000 national guards employ themselves night and day, in shouting
_Vive le Roi_. We shall leave Aix to-morrow morning, taking the route to
Bourdeaux.

_Friday_, the 17th of April.--Our leaving Aix this morning was really
melancholy. French friends, hearing of our approaching departure,
flocked in to bid us farewell. They were in miserably low spirits,
deploring the state of their unhappy country, weeping over the fate of
their sons and husbands, who had marched with the national guard in
pursuit of the ex-Emperor; and full of fears as to the calamities this
might bring upon them. You are happy English, said they, and are
returning to a loyal and secure country, and you leave us exposed to all
the calamities of a civil war.

After a long day's journey, we have at last arrived at Orgon, at seven
in the evening. There has been little travelling on the road to-day. The
country has nearly the same aspect as in November last. The only
difference is, that the almond trees are in full blossom, and some few
other trees, such as willows, &c. in leaf; the wheat is about half a
foot to a foot high: The day was delightfully mild; and as we drove
along, we met numberless groups of peasants who lined the road, and were
anxiously waiting for their Prince passing by. The road was strewed with
lilies, and the young girls had their laps filled with flowers as we
passed. As we past, they knew us to be English, and shouted Vive le Roi.

We are now in Languedoc, but as yet I cannot say that it equals, or at
all justifies Mrs Radcliffe's description: Flat and insipid plains of
_vignoble_ or wheat. However, there is here, as every where in France,
no want of cultivation. Napoleon had commenced, and nearly finished, a
very fine quay and buttresses between the two bridges of boats. That man
had always grand, though seldom good views. The walls of the inn here
were covered with a mixture of "Vive le Roi!" and "Vive Napoleon!" this
last mostly scratched out. National guards in every town demanded our
passport. These men and the gens-d'armes are running about in every
direction. No courier from Paris arrived here these three days. This
looks ill. The houses are better in appearance than in Provence. The
country very productive: Potatoes the finest I have seen in
France.----Distance 34 miles.

* * *

_Sunday_, 19th.--We left Nismes at six o'clock this morning, and
breakfasted at Lunel, where they appear to be full of loyalty. It was a
subject to us of much regret, that more time was not allowed us to
examine a magnificent Roman amphitheatre, half of which is nearly
entire, although the remaining part is quite ruinous. The troops in the
town were drawn up on the parade, expecting the Duke d'Angouleme. We
received a small printed paper from an officer on the road, containing
the information last received from Paris, which secured us a good
reception at the inn. The people were delighted to procure a piece of
authentic intelligence, (a thing they seldom have); they flocked round
us, and upon their entreaty, I gave them the paper to carry to the
caffèe. In the inn we found a number of recruits for the army forming by
the Duke d'Angouleme; it is said that he has already collected at Nismes
nineteen hundred men, all volunteers. The country does not improve in
romantic beauty as we advance in Languedoc; but what is better, the
cultivation is very superior; large fields of fine wheat. There seems to
be all over the south the same want of horned cattle; horses also are
very scarce and very bad:--milk never to be had unless very early, and
then in small quantity. No land wasted here. All the houses about
Montpellier are better than near Aix, and we even saw some neat country
seats, a circumstance almost unknown in all the parts of France where we
have hitherto been. The olive trees are here much larger and finer than
in Provence; but the country, although covered with olives, vines, and
wheat, is flat, ugly, and insipid. The instruments of agriculture are
even inferior to those in Provence, which last are at least a century
behind England. The plough here is as rude as in Bengal, and is formed
of a crooked branch of a tree shod with iron. As we approached near
Montpellier, the appearance of the country began to display more
beautiful features. The ground is more varied, the fields and meadows of
a richer green, a distant range of hills closes in the view, and the
olive groves are composed of larger and more luxuriant trees. Nearer to
the town, the country is divided into small nursery gardens, which,
although inferior to those in the environs of London, give an unusual
richness to the landscape. We arrived at Montpellier at six o'clock, and
from the crowd in the town, found much difficulty in procuring an hotel.

* * *

_Monday_, 20th April.--We have better news to-day; letters from the Duke
d'Angouleme announce that the whole conspiracy has been discovered, and
that Soult (Ministre de Guerre) and several other generals have been
arrested. In consequence of which, it is expected that the plans of the
conspirators will be in a great measure defeated. The French change in a
moment from the extreme of grief to the opposite, that of the most
extravagant joy. To-day they are in the highest spirits;--but things
still look very ill. No courier from Paris for these last four days. The
ex-Emperor still marching uninterruptedly towards that city, yet no one
can conceive that he will succeed, now that the King's eyes are
open;--his clemency alone has occasioned all this--he would not consent
to remove the declared friends of Napoleon.

We passed this day at Montpellier; but were prevented by the intense
heat of the sun from seeing as much of the environs as we could have
wished. The town is old and the streets shabby; but the Peyroue is one
of the most magnificent things I ever saw. It is a superb platform,
which forms the termination of the Grand Aqueduct built by Louis XIV.
and commands a magnificent extent of country. In front, the view is
terminated by a long and level line of the Mediterranean. To the
south-west the horizon is formed by the ridge of the Pyrenees; while, to
the north, the view is closed in by the distant, yet magnificent summits
of the Alps. Immediately below these extends, almost to the border of
the Mediterranean, a beautiful _paysage_, spotted with innumerable
country seats, which, seen at a distance, have the same air of neatness
and comfort as those in England. At the end of this fine platform, is a
Grecian temple, inclosing a basin, which receives the large body of
water conveyed by the aqueduct, and which empties itself again into a
wide basin with a bottom of golden-coloured sand. The limpid clearness
of the water is beyond all description. The air, blowing over the basin
from a plain of wheat and olives (evergreens in this climate), has a
charming freshness. The Esplanade here is also a fine promenade,
although the view which it commands is not so fine as that from the
Peyroue. The manufactures of Montpellier are, verdigris, blankets and
handkerchiefs; little trade going on. The climate is delightful, though
now too warm for my taste. Every thing is much farther advanced here
than at Aix. They have some very pretty gardens here, though nothing
equal to what we see every day in England. The botanical garden is very
small. We start to-morrow at six for Beziers, where we expect to find
water carriage to Toulouse.

* * *

_Tuesday_, 21st April.--We left Montpellier at five in the morning, and
although the country round the town is certainly more beautiful than the
greater part of Languedoc we have yet seen, it in a short time became
very uninteresting; an extended plain, covered with uninclosed fields of
wheat, and occasionally a plantation of olives. Before reaching Maize, a
small town situated within a mile of the shore of the Mediterranean, we
passed through a fine forest, the only considerable one we have seen in
Languedoc. The road winded along the shore; the day was delightful, and
as warm as with us in July; and the waters of the Mediterranean lay in a
perfect calm, clear and still, and beautiful, under the light of a
glorious sun. The general appearance of the country is certainly not
beautiful. It improves much upon coming near Pezenas, where the fields
are divided into green meadows, and interspersed with little gardens, in
which, although it is now only April, the fruit trees are in full
blossom, and giving to the view an uncommon beauty. The blossom of the
pears, peach, and apple-trees, is, I think, richer than I ever saw in
England. The season is not only much more advanced here than at Aix, but
the warmth and mildness of the climate gives to the fields and flowers a
more than common luxuriancy. Many of the meadows are thickly sown with
the white narcissus, and the hedges, which form their inclosures, are
covered with the deepest verdure, which is finely contrasted with the
pink-flowers of the almond trees, rising at intervals in the hedge-rows.
The wheat round Montpellier was now, in the middle of April, in the ear.
We set off to-morrow at half-past five, in order to get into the _coches
d'eau_ at Beziers before 12 (the hour of starting). Hitherto we have
proceeded without the slightest molestation. The English, I am now
thoroughly convinced, are not popular amongst the lower orders; but as
we are the couriers of good news, we are at present well received. Could
it be believed by an Englishman, that we, who travel at the miserable
rate of 30 miles a-day, _should be the first to spread the news wherever
we go_. The reason is, that we get the authentic news through our
friends and bankers, and circulate it in the inns, instead of the
ridiculous stories invented by those groping in ignorance. The feelings
of the people seem excellent every where; the troops alone maintain a
gloomy silence. The country, from Montpellier, is the same as hitherto,
flat and insipid: but the crops are much farther advanced than in
Provence. We had some fine peeps at the Mediterranean this morning. The
town of Pezenas is prettily situated, and is surrounded by numbers of
beautiful gardens, though on a small scale. All the fruit trees are here
in blossom: Green peas a foot and a half high. The ploughs in this part
of the country are more antiquated than any I have seen. The ploughing
is very shallow; but nature does all in France.----Distance about 34
miles.

* * *

_Wednesday_, 22d.--Left Pezenas at half past five, and arrived to
breakfast at half past nine at Beziers. We went to see the _coches
d'eau_, described as _superbes_ and _magnifiques_ by our French friends.
Their ideas differ from ours. It would be perfectly impossible for an
English lady to go in such a conveyance; and few gentlemen, even if
alone, would have the boldness to venture. The objections are: there is
but one room for all classes of people; they start at three and four
each morning; stop at miserable inns, and if you have heavy baggage, it
must be shifted at the locks, which is tedious and expensive. Adieu to
all our airy dreams of gliding through Languedoc in these _Cleopatrian
vessels_. They are infested with an astonishing variety of smells; they
are exposed to all the inclemencies of the weather; and they are filled
with bugs, fleas, and all kinds of bad company. The country to-day,
though still very flat, is much improved in beauty. Very fine large
meadows, bordered with willows, but too regular. Bullocks as common as
mules in the plough. Wheat far advanced, and barley, in some small
spots, in the ear. I learnt some curious particulars, if they can be
depended upon, concerning this conspiracy of Bonaparte from a Spanish
officer, who had taken a place in our cabriolet. He says, that one of
the chief means he has employed to create division in France, and to
make himself beloved, has been by carrying on a secret correspondence
with the Protestants, and persuading them that he will support them
against the Catholics; and by representing the King as wishing to
oppress them. To the army he has promised, that he will lead them again
against the allied Powers, who have triumphantly said they have
conquered them; this is a tender point with the French: At the present
time, when the troops are deserting their King, and flying to the
standard of the usurper, still even the most loyal among the people
cannot bear the idea that the allies should assist in opposing him.

We have continued with our coachman, and carry him on to Toulouse. He is
an excellent fellow, has a good berlin, with large cabriolet before, and
three of the finest mules I ever saw. He takes us at a round pace, from
15 to 20 miles before breakfast, and the rest after it, making up always
30 miles a-day. The pay for this equipage per mile is not much above a
franc and a half. We have found it the most comfortable way of
travelling for so large a party. He carries all our baggage, amounting
to more than 400 pounds, without any additional expence. The country
between Pezenas and Beziers, and between Beziers and Narbonne, is richer
and more beautiful than any part of Languedoc which we have yet seen. It
is divided into fields of wheat, which is now in the ear, divisions of
green clover grass, meadows enclosed with rows of willows, and orchards
scattered around the little villages. These orchards, which are now all
in blossom, increase in number as you approach the town of Narbonne. We
have enjoyed to-day another noble view of the distant summits of the
Pyrenees, towering into the clouds.----Distance, 34 miles--to Narbonne.

* * *

_Thursday, 23d._--We left Narbonne at half past five, and have travelled
to-day, through a country more ugly and insipid than any in the south;
barren hills, low swampy meadows, and dirty villages. There is a total
want of peasants houses on the lands; but still a very general
cultivation. Ploughs, harrows, and other instruments, a century behind.
Fewer vines now, and more wheat. At Moux, one of the police officers
read out a number of proclamations, sent by the prefect of the
department, exciting the people to exertions in repelling the usurper.
The cries of "Vive le Roi" were so faint, that the officer harangued the
multitude on their want of proper feeling. He did not, however, gain any
thing. One of the mob cried out, that they were not to be forced to cry
out "Vive le Roi." Wherever we have gone, I have heard from all ranks
that the English have supported Bonaparte, and that they are the
instigators of the civil war. In vain I have argued, that if it were our
policy to have war with France, why should we have restored the
Bourbons? Why made peace? Why wasted men and money in Spain? It is all
in vain--they are inveterately obstinate.----Distance 39 miles.

* * *

_Friday, 24th._--We left Carcassone at seven, as we have but a short
journey to-day. Arrived at Castelnaudry at half past five, and found the
inn crowded with gentlemen volunteers for the cavalry. The volunteers
are fine smart young men, and all well mounted. Their horses very
superior to the cavalry horses in general. We passed a cavalry regiment
of the line this morning, the 15th dragoons. Horses miserable little
long-tailed Highland-like ponies, but seemingly very active. The whole
country through which we have travelled since the commencement of our
journey in France, is sadly deficient in cattle. We meet with none of
these groupes of fine horses and cows, which delight us in looking over
the country in England, in almost every field you pass. This want is
more particularly remarkable in the south. The country to-day is the
same; a total want of trees, and of variety of scenery of any kind. No
peasants houses to be seen scattered over the face of the country; the
peasantry all crowd into the villages.--Yet there is no want of
cultivation. The situation of the lower classes is yet extremely
comfortable. The girls are handsome, and always well drest. The men
strong and healthy. The young women wear little caps trimmed with lace,
and the men broad-brimmed picturesque-looking hats: both have shoes and
stockings. The parish churches in this part of France are in a miserable
condition. It is no longer here, as in England, that the churches and
_Curès'_ houses are distinguished by their neatness. Here, the churches
are fallen into ruins; the windows soiled, and covered with cobwebs. The
order of the priesthood, from what I have seen, are, I should conceive,
little respected.----Distance 29 miles.

* * *

_Saturday_, the 25th.--We left Castelnaudry at five o'clock, and have
travelled to-day through a country, which, from Castelnaudry to
Toulouse, is uniformly flat and bare, and uninteresting. We were
surprised to-day by meeting on the road a party of English friends, who
had set out for Bourdeaux, returning by the same road. They informed us,
they had heard by private letters, that Bonaparte was at the gates of
Paris, on which account they had returned, and were determined to pass
into Spain. They told us, that the roads were covered by parties of
English flying in every direction; and that all the vessels at Bourdeaux
were said to have already sailed for England. It was, however,
impossible for us now to turn back; and we continued our route to
Bourdeaux with very uncomfortable feelings, anxious lest every moment
should confirm the bad news, and put a stop to our progress to the
coast, or that, when we arrived, we should find the sea-ports under an
embargo. Near Toulouse, are seen a few country seats, which relieve the
eye; but the town is old and ugly, and situated, to all appearance, in a
swampy flat. We shall see more of it to-morrow. The road from
Castelnaudry to this is very bad, the worst we have seen yet in the
south of France; it has been paved, but is much broken up.----Distance
41 miles.

* * *

_Sunday_, 26th.--It has become necessary now to change all our plans of
travelling. Upon visiting our banker this morning, I received from him a
full confirmation of the bad news--Napoleon is in Paris, and again
seated on the throne of France. Our banker has procured for us, and
another party, forming in all 29 English, a small common country boat,
covered over only with a sail. In this miserable conveyance we embarked
this afternoon at two, and arrived the first night at Maste. Our passage
down the Garonne is most rapid, and as the weather is delightful, the
conveyance is pleasant enough; but our minds are in such a state we
cannot enjoy any thing. To-morrow I shall continue more connectedly.

* * *

_Monday_, the 27th.--We are now gliding down the Garonne with the utmost
rapidity and steadiness. The scene before us presents the most perfect
tranquillity. The weather which we now enjoy is heavenly,--the air soft
and warm,--and the sun shedding an unclouded radiance upon the glassy
waters of the Garonne, in whose bosom the romantic scenery through which
we pass, is reflected in the most perfect beauty. On each side, are the
most lovely banks covered with hanging orchards, whose trees, in full
blossom, reach to the brink of the river. We have passed several small
villages very beautifully situated; and where we have not met with
these, the country is more generally scattered with the cottages of the
peasantry, which are seen at intervals, peeping through the woods which
cover the banks. As our boat passes, the villagers flock from their
doors, and place themselves in groups on the rocks which overhang the
river, or crowd into the little meadows which are interspersed between
the orchards and the gardens. At the moment in which I now write, the
sun is setting upon a scene so perfectly still and beautiful, that it is
impossible to believe we are now in the devoted country, experiencing,
at this very hour, a terrible revolution; the most disastrous political
convulsion, perhaps, which it has ever yet undergone. In former times,
the changes from the tranquillity it enjoyed under a monarchial
government, to the chaos of republicanism, and from that to the sullen
stagnation of a firm-rooted military despotism, were gradual; they were
the work of time. But the unbounded ambition of Bonaparte, after a
series of years, had brought on his downfall, by a natural course of
events, and France had begun to taste and to relish the blessings of
peace. On a sudden, that fallen Colossus is raised again, and its dark
shadow has over-spread the brightening horizon. Could it be credited,
that within one short month, that man whom we conceived detested in
France, should have journeyed from one extremity of that kingdom to
another, without meeting with the slightest resistance? I say journeyed,
for he had but a handful of men, whom, at almost every town, he left
behind him, and he proceeded on horseback, or in his carriage, with much
less precaution than at any former period of his life. France has now
nothing to hope, but from the heavy struggle that will, I trust,
immediately take place between her and the allied powers. It will be a
terrible, but, I trust, short struggle, if the measures are prompt: but
if he is allowed time to levy a new conscription; if even he has
sufficient time to collect the hordes of disbanded robbers whom his
abdication let loose in France, he possesses the same means of
conducting a long war that he ever possessed. The idea so current in
France, that this event will only occasion a civil war, is unworthy of a
moment's attention. Every inhabitant in every town he passed, was said
to be against him. We heard of nothing but the devoted loyalty of the
national guards; but at Grenoble, at Lyons, and at Paris, was there
found a man to discharge his musket? No! against a small number of
regular and veteran troops, no French militia, no volunteers will ever
fight, or if they do, it will be but for a moment; each city will yield
in its turn.

The country is improving; the banks, in many places, are beautiful; for
some days past we have been in the country of wheat, but now we are
again arrived among the vines. Very little commerce on this river,
although celebrated as possessing more than any one in France. It
reminds me of the state of commerce in India,--boats gliding down
rapidly with the stream, and toiling up in tracking. The shape, also, of
the boats is the same. We have this moment passed a boat full of
English, and the sailors have shouted out, that the white flag is no
longer flying at Bourdeaux. If the town has declared for the ex-Emperor,
I dread to think of our fate.

* * *

_Tuesday_, the 28th.--This morning, at three, I left my party, and took
a very light gig, determined (as the news were getting daily worse, and
the road full of English hurrying to Bourdeaux), to post it from Agen. I
was attended by a friend. By paying the post-boys double hires, we got
on very fast, and although, from their advanced age and infirmities, the
generality of French conveyances will not suffer themselves to be
hurried beyond their ordinary pace, this was no time to make any such
allowances. We accordingly hurried on, and after having broke down four
times, we arrived at Bourdeaux at six in the evening, a distance of more
than a hundred miles; and were delighted to see the white flag still
displayed from all the public buildings. The country from Agen to
Bourdeaux is the richest I have seen in France, chiefly laid out in
vines, dressed with much more care than any we have yet seen; many
fields also of fine wheat, and some meadows of grass pasture. Every
thing is much further advanced than in Languedoc, even allowing for the
advance in the days we have passed in travelling. Barley not only in
the ear, but some fields even yellowing. Bourdeaux is a noble town,
though not so fine, I think, as Marseilles. We arrived just in time: a
few hours later, and I should have found no passage.

* * *

_Wednesday_ morning, the 29th.--I have settled for the last
accommodations to be had, viz. a small cabin in a brig, for which I pay
L.130. The owner, like every other owner, is full of great promises; but
in these cases, I make it a rule to believe only one half. Bourdeaux
shews the most determined loyalty; but, alas! there are troops of the
line in the town, and in the fort of Blaye. Instead of sending these
troops away, and guarding the town by the national guards, they content
themselves with giving dinners to each other, and making the drunken
soldiers cry, "Vive le Roi!" In England, every thing is done by a
dinner; perhaps they are imitating the English: but dinners will not do
in this case; decided measures must be taken, or Bourdeaux will fall, in
spite of its loyalty, and the noise it makes. The journal published
here, of which I have secured most of the numbers, from Napoleon's
landing to this day, is full of enthusiastic addresses:--The general
commanding the troops to the national guards,--the national guards to
the troops,--the mayor to his constituents,--the constituents to the
mayor;--all this is well, but it will do nothing. Although every thing
is yet quiet, I am determined to hurry our departure, for I do not think
there is a doubt of the issue. Since I entered Bourdeaux, I have always
thought it would yield on the first attack.

_Thursday_, the 30th.--Things look very ill. The fort of Blaye has
hoisted the tri-coloured flag. Thank heaven our vessel passed it to-day;
we should otherwise probably have been fired upon. We go to Poillac,
where we are to embark by land, as a party of English, who attempted to
go by water, were stopt and made prisoners. The town of Bourdeaux is in
a dead calm; the sounds of loyalty have ceased, and a mysterious silence
reigns throughout the streets: I am sure all is not well. Suddenly after
all this silence, there has been a most rapid transition to sentiments
of the most devoted loyalty. This has been occasioned by a great
entertainment given by the national guards to the troops of the line; so
that I am afraid that although these regular soldiers of the regular
army, when elated with wine, choose to be devoted loyalists, their
political sentiments may undergo many different changes upon their
return to sobriety. At present, the shout of Vive le Roi, from the
different troops of the line and national guards which are patroling the
streets, is loud and reiterated. Napoleon has sent to-day his addresses
and declarations to Bourdeaux, but the couriers have been imprisoned,
and the civil authorities have sworn to continue faithful to their King.
This loyalty will be immediately put to the test, for Clausel is
advancing to the walls. The Dutchess d'Angouleme passed through the
streets, and visited the _casernes_ of the troops: Indeed her exertions
are incessant. To her addresses the people are enthusiastic in their
replies, but the troops continue, as I expected, sullen and silent; they
answered, that they would not forget their duty to her, as far as not
injuring her. I trust that she passed our hotel this evening for the
last time, and that she has left Bourdeaux for England. Every individual
in this city, the troops excepted, appears to hate and detest Napoleon
as cordially as he detests them. They expect immediate destruction if he
takes the town. Their commerce must be ruined; yet there is no
exertion--nothing but noise. Vive le Roi is in every heart, but they
are overawed by the troops; it costs nothing. Subscriptions, however,
for arming the militia, go on slowly. They seem always to keep a sharp
eye to their pockets, although, as far as shouting and bellowing is
required, they are willing to levy any contribution on their lungs. The
French are indeed miserably poor, but they are also miserably
avaricious. There is nothing even approaching to national spirit; yet
their prudence sometimes gets the better even of their economy. One
instance, which I witnessed to-day, will shew the way in which a
Frenchman acts in times like these: I was in a shop when one of the
noblesse entered, bearing a subscription paper. He addressed the
shopkeeper, saying, that he begged for his subscription, as he knew he
was a royalist. I never _subscribe_ my name in times like these, said
the cautious Frenchman, but I will give you some money. The gentleman
entreated, urging, that respectable _subscriptions_, more than money,
were wanted; but all in vain. The shopkeeper paid his ten shillings,
saying, _he would always be the first to support his King_.

I entered a bookseller's shop, and asked for the political writings of
the day. The man looked me cautiously in the face, and said he had none
of them. I happened to see one on the table, and asked him for it,
telling him that I was an Englishman, and wished to carry them with me;
he then bid me step in, and from hidden corners of the inner-shop, he
produced the whole mass of pamphlets.--All this denotes that a change is
immediately expected.

This last night has been passed as might be expected, owing to the
circumstances in which we were placed, in much agitation. Clausel is
every moment advancing up the town. Every thing is in confusion. The
troops declare they will not fire a shot. The national guards are
wavering and undecided, and this moment (five in the morning) our
coachman has knocked at our door to tell us that we cannot remain
another moment safe in the town.

* * *

_Friday_, the 31st.--We set off accordingly at sunrise, before any one
was abroad in the street. Our coachman reported, that General Clausel
had reached the gates, and that the national guard had been beat off. We
have arrived, therefore, at the most critical moment, and may be
grateful that we have escaped. The road between Bourdeaux and Poillac
is very bad. Arrived at the inn at half way, we met with the Marquis de
Valsuzenai, prefect of the town, who confirmed the bad news: We learnt
from him, that at three in the morning of the 30th, the town had
capitulated without a shot having been fired. Two men were killed by a
mistake of the soldiers firing, upon their own officers; a miserable
resistance! But it could not be otherwise, as no militia could long
stand against regulars. Still I expected tumults in the streets--rising
among the inhabitants--weeping and wailing. But no: the French are
unlike any other nation, they have no energy, no principle. Miserable
people! We arrived at Poillac just as it grew dark, and owing to the
sullen insolence of our coachman, who was a complete revolutionist, and
to his hatred for the English, which evinced itself the moment he found
that Bourdeaux had capitulated, we found it difficult to get any thing
like accommodation. I am happy to add, that this same fellow, meeting
another party of English, and beginning to be insolent, an Irish
gentleman, with that prompt and decisive justice which characterises his
country, by one blow of his fist laid him speechless upon the pavement.

Upon meeting the Prefect of Bourdeaux, between that town and the little
sea-port Poillac, in disguise, and hurrying to the shore, he informed us
that before leaving the city, he had fallen on his knees before the
Dutchess d'Angouleme, to persuade her to embark for England, and had,
after much entreaty, succeeded. That before setting out himself, he had
sent her post-horses, and most anxiously expected her arrival, although
he had doubts whether she would be permitted to leave the town. As we
pursued our route, we passed the Chateau Margot. The Marquis, to whom it
belonged, was watching on the road with his young daughter; and the
moment our carriage came in sight, he rushed up in great agitation, and
exclaiming, "Where is the Dutchess? Why does she not come. She must be
concealed at my house to-night. There are troops stationed at a league's
distance from this to prevent her escape." Then observing the fair
complexion of one of the ladies of our party, he cried out, "It is the
Dutchess, it is my beloved Princess. Oh! why have you no avant garde;
you must not proceed." The poor old man was in a state of extreme
agitation, and his daughter weeping. It was a few minutes before we
could undeceive him, and his assurances that we should be stopt by the
troops on the road, afforded us no very cheering prospect as we
proceeded on our journey. No troops, however, appeared, and we arrived
safely at Poillac at seven o'clock.

The Dutchess did not appear that night; but early next morning, we were
called to the window, by hearing a great bustle in the street. It was
occasioned by the arrival of this unfortunate Princess. She had three or
four carriages along with her, filled with her attendants, and was
escorted by a party of the national guards. Their entry into Poillac
formed a very mournful procession; she herself looked deadly pale,
although seemingly calm and collected. We saw many of the officers of
the national guard crowding round her with tears in their eyes. There
was a little chapel close to where we were lodged, and while the other
ladies went down to the frigate to prepare for the embarkation, we heard
that the Dutchess herself had gone to mass. After we imagined that the
service would be nearly concluded, two of the ladies of our party
entered the chapel, and placed themselves near to where they knew she
would pass. As she came near them, observing that they were English, and
much affected, she held out her hand to them; one of them said, "Oh, go
to our England, you will be cherished there." "Yes, yes," replied she,
"I am now going to your country;" and when they expressed a wish that
this storm would be quickly over, and that when she again returned to
France it would be for lasting happiness. The Dutchess replied with an
expression which was almost cheerful, "Indeed, I hope so." This was the
last time that any of us saw her. There was then in her expression a
look of sweet and tranquil suffering, which was irresistibly affecting.

* * *

We embarked, this morning, _Saturday_, the 1st, on board the William
Sibbald, after a night of troubles. Most fortunately for me, I had not
trusted entirely to the owner's word, and had provided three beds and
some provisions; for the captain told us, he could not provide ship
room, and neither mattress nor provision of any kind.----Here we are
then, in no very comfortable circumstances, yet thankful to escape from
this miserable country. There are others in much greater misery than we.
The Count de Lynch, Mayor of Bourdeaux, his brother, and another
relation, the General commanding the national guard, and four or five
French fugitives, have been sent on board here, by the Consul and the
English Captain of the frigate; and they have neither clothes, nor beds,
nor victuals: they leave their fortunes and their families behind them.
"Alas! what a prospect," one of them exclaimed to-day; "this is the
third fortune Bonaparte has lost to me." The unfortunate Dutchess
d'Angouleme is now safe on board the English frigate. On leaving
Bourdeaux, the Dutchess printed an address to the inhabitants, stating
the reasons of her leaving them, to prevent the town from becoming a
scene of blood and pillage. Alas! she knows not her own countrymen; they
would not fight an hour to save her life: yet it is not because they do
not love her--she is adored--the whole family are adored. The good among
the nation wish for peace, but the troops are for war, and they are
all-powerful. It is unjust to say that France ought to be allowed to
remain under Napoleon, as she has desired his return: the army chiefly
have desired it, and plotted it. They burn for pillage and for revenge
on the allies, who had humbled their pride. If the allies are not
prompt, he will again be master of his former territory. Something might
even yet be done at Bourdeaux by an English army.

We are now in the mouth of the English channel, and in full hopes, that
as our stock, of water and of patience is almost exhausted, the Captain
will put us into the first English port. May God grant us soon the sight
of an English inn, and an English post-chaise, and in a day we shall
forget all our troubles.

END OF THE JOURNAL.




CHAPTER III.

STATE OP FRANCE UNDER NAPOLEON.


To trace, with accuracy, the effects of the revolution and of the
military despotism of Napoleon on the kingdom of France, it would be
necessary to attend to the following subjects:--the state of
commerce--wealth of the nation, and division of this wealth--the state
of agriculture--the condition of the towns and villages--of the noblesse
and their property--the condition of the lower ranks, namely, the
merchants, tradesmen, artificers, peasants, poor, and beggars--the state
of private and public manners--the dress of the people--their
amusements--the state of religion and morality--of criminal delinquency
and the administration of justice.

But to treat all these different subjects, and to diverge into the
necessary observations which they would naturally suggest, would form of
itself a voluminous work. In order, however, to judge fairly of the
state of France, and of the character of the people, we must select and
make observations on a few of the most material points. In my Journal,
which accompanies this, I have purposely said but little on the state of
the people and their character, as I intended to finish my travels
before I formed my opinion. I did not wish to be guilty of the same
mistake with another traveller, who, coming to an inn in which he had a
bad egg for breakfast, served by an ugly girl, immediately set down in
his Journal, "In this country, the eggs are all bad, and the women all
ugly." My readers are already aware of the opportunities I possessed of
obtaining information. They are such as present themselves to almost
every traveller in France; and they will not therefore be surprised if
my remarks are somewhat common-place. They will recollect that our party
disembarked at Dieppe, and travelled from one coast to the other by
Rouen, Paris, Lyons and Aix. By travelling very slowly, never above 30
miles a-day, I had, perhaps a better opportunity than common of seeing
the country, and of conversing with the inhabitants; and I have been
more than commonly fortunate in forming acquaintance with a number of
very well informed men in the town, which we selected as the place of
our residence in the winter: This was Aix, in Provence. I have described
it before in my Journal, and have only to add, that the head court for
four departments is held there; that there is a College for the study of
Law and Divinity, and that it is remarkable for possessing a society of
men better informed, and of more liberal education, than most other
towns in France.

The inhabitants of Provence have always been marked by excesses of
affection or disaffection. They do nothing in moderation; "Les têtes
chaudes de Provence," is an expression quite common in France. In the
commencement of the revolution, the bands of Provençals, chiefly
Marseillois, were the leaders in every outrage. And when the tyrant,
Napoleon, had fallen from his power, they were among the first to cry
"Vivent les Bourbons!" They would have torn him to pieces on his way to
Frejus, had he not been at times disguised, and at other times well
protected by the troops and police in the villages through which he
passed. It will then easily be imagined that the English were received
with open arms at Aix. They heaped on us kindnesses of every
description, and our only difficulty was to limit our acquaintance. From
among the most moderate and best informed of our friends at Aix, I
attempted to collect a few traits and anecdotes of Napoleon, and with
their assistance, I shall, in the first instance, attempt giving a
sketch of his character. It would be tedious, as well as unnecessary, to
detail all the circumstances of his life; for most of these are
generally known. I shall therefore only mention such as we are not
generally acquainted with.

* * *

NAPOLEON was born at Ajaccio, in Corsica, not, as is generally supposed,
in August 1769, but in February 1768. He had a motive for thus
falsifying even the date of his birth; he conceived that it would assist
his ambitious views, if he could prove that he was born in a province of
France, and it was not till 1769 that Corsica became entitled to that
denomination. His reputed father was not a _huissier_ (or bailiff) as is
generally stated, but a _greffier_ (or register of one of the courts of
justice). His mother is a Genoese; she is a woman of very bad
character; and it is currently reported that Napoleon was the son of
General Paoli; and that Louis and Jerome were the sons of the Marquis de
Marbeuf, governor of the island. The conduct of the Marquis to the
family of Bonaparte, then in the utmost indigence, would sanction a
belief in this account; he protected the whole family, but particularly
the sons, and he caused Napoleon to be placed at the Military School of
Brienne, where he supplied him with money. This money was never spent
among his companions, but went to purchase mathematical books and
instruments, and to assist him in erecting fortifications. The only
times when he deigned to amuse himself with others was during the
attacks of these fortifications, and immediately on these being
finished, he would retire and shut himself up among his books and
mathematical instruments. He was, when a boy, always morose, tyrannical
and domineering. "[11]Il motrait dans ces jeux cet esprit de domination
qu'il a depuis manifestée sur le grand theatre du monde; et celui qui
devoit un jour epouvanter l'Europe a commencè par etre le maitre et
l'effroi d'une troupe d'enfans[12]."

He left the military college with the rank of lieutenant of artillery,
and bearing a character which was not likely to recommend him among good
men. He had very early displayed principles of a most daring nature. In
a conversation with the master of the academy, some discussion having
taken place on the subject of the difficulty of governing a great
nation, the young Corsican remarked, "that the greatest nations were as
easily managed as a school of boys, but that kings always studied to
make themselves beloved, and thus worked their own ruin." The infant
despot of France was certainly determined that no such foolish humanity
should dictate rules to his ambition. He was once in a private company,
where a lady making some remarks on the character of Marshal Turenne,
declared that she would have loved him had he not burned the Palatinate.
"And of what consequence was that, Madame," said the young Napoleon,
"provided it assisted his plans?" We may here trace the same unfeeling
heart that ordered the explosion of the magazine of Grenelle, which, if
his orders had been executed, must have laid Paris in ruins. Some of my
readers may, perhaps, not have seen an authentic statement of this most
horrid circumstance, I shall therefore give a translation of the letter
of Maillard Lescourt, major of artillery, taken from the Journal des
Debats of the 7th April: "I was employed, on the evening before the
attack of Paris, in assembling the horses necessary for the removal of
the artillery, and was assisted in this duty by the officers of the
'Direction Generale.' At nine at night a colonel gallopped up to the
gate of the grating of St Dominique, where I was standing, and asked to
speak to the Directeur d'Artillerie. On my being shewn to him, he
immediately asked me if the powder magazine at Grenelle bad been
evacuated? I replied that it had not, and that there was neither time
nor horses for the purpose. Then, Sir, said he, it must be blown up. I
turned pale, and trembled, not reflecting that there was no occasion to
distress myself for an order which was not written, and with the bearer
of which I was unacquainted. Do you hesitate? said the Colonel.--It
immediately occurred to me, that the same order might be given to
others, if I did not accept of it; I therefore calmly replied to him,
that I should immediately set about it. Become master of this frightful
secret, I entrusted it to no one." At Paris we met with persons of much
respectability, who vouched for the truth of this statement.

There can be no doubt that this order was given by Napoleon, for at this
time the other ruling authorities had left Paris. It is by no means
inconsistent with the character of the man; never, in any instance, has
he been known to value the lives of men, where either ambition or
revenge instigated him. Beauchamp, in his history of the last campaign,
gives the following anecdote;[13] "Sire, (lui disoit un general, en le
felicitant sur la victoire de Montmirail), quel beau jour, si nous ne
voyions autour de nous tant de villes et de pays devastès. Tant mieux,
replique Napoleon, cela me donne des soldats!!"

The second capture of Rheims in that campaign was an object of little
consequence to him, but he now determined it should suffer by fire and
sword. From the heights he looked down on the town, then partly on fire,
and smiling said, [14]"Eh bien, dans une heure les dames de Rheims
auront grand peur." His resentment against the towns that declared for
the Bourbons was beyond all bounds; The following account of the murder
of the unfortunate De Goualt is taken from Beauchamp's interesting
work:[15] "On le saisit, on le conduit à l'hotel de ville, devant une
commission militaire, qui proçede à son jugement, on plutôt à sa
condamnation. Une heure s'etait à peine ecoulee qu'un officier survient
se fait ouvrir les portes, et demande si la sentence est prononçee. Les
juges vont aller aux voix, dit on. "Qu'on le fusille, sur le champ," dit
l'officier; "l'Empereur l'ordonne." Le malhereux Goualt est condamne.
Le deuil est génerale dans la ville. Le proprietaire de la maison,
qu'avoit choisi Bonaparte pour y etablir son quartier, solicite une
audience; il l'obtient. "Sire, (dit Monsieur du Chatel à Napoleon), un
jour de triomphe doit etre un jour de clemence. Je viens de supplier
votre Majesté d'accorder à toute la ville de Troyes la grace d'un de nos
malheureux compatriotes qui vient d'etre condamne a mort." "Sortez," dit
le tyran, d'un air faronche, "Vous oubliez qui vous etes chez moi." Il
etait onze heures et cet infortune sortait de l'hotel de ville, escorte
par des gens-d'armes, portant, attache à son dos, et à sa poitrine un
ecriteau en gros caracteres, dans ces mots, "Traitre a la patrie,"
qu'on lisait à la lueur des flambeaux. Le dechirant et lugubre cortege
se dirigeait vers la place du marche destine aux executions criminelles.
La on veut bander les yeux au condamne. Il s'y refuse, et dit d'une voix
ferme qu'il saura mourir pour son Roi. Lui meme donne le signal de tirer
et c'est en criant, "Vive le Roi! Vive Louis XVIII!" qu'il rend le
dernier soupir."

Tacitus, in describing the Corsicans, gives us three of the principal
ingredients in the character of Napoleon, when he says, [16]"Ulcisci,
prima lex est, altera, mentiri, tertia, negare Deos." To these we may
add unlimited ambition, insatiable vanity, considerable courage at
times, and the most dastardly cowardice at others. It must be owned,
that this last is an extraordinary mixture; but I am inclined to
believe, in despite of the many proofs of rash and impetuous courage,
that Napoleon was in the main, and whenever life and existence was at
stake, a cool and selfish coward. His rival Moreau always thought so.
Immediately before the campaign of Dresden, in a conversation on
Napoleon's character, this General observed, [17]"Ce qui characterise
cet homme, ce'st le mensonge et l'amour de la vie; Je vais l'attaquer,
je le battrai, et je le verrai a mes pieds me demander la vie."--It
pleased Providence that a part only of this prediction should be
accomplished; but we have seen that Bonaparte dared not court the death
of Moreau. Never was more decided cowardice shewn by any man than by
Napoleon after the entry of the allies into Paris. How easily might he
have fought his way, with a numerous band of determined followers, who,
to the last minute, never failed him; but he preferred remaining to beg
for his life, and to attend to the removal _of his wines and
furniture_!! But we must proceed more regularly in developing the traits
of this extraordinary man. A gentleman of Aix, one of whose near
relations had the charge of Napoleon, when his character was suspected
at Toulon, gave me the following particulars of his first employment.
During the siege of Toulon, he had greatly distinguished himself, and
had applied to the "Commissaires de Convention," who at that time
possessed great power in the army, to promote him; but these men
detesting Bonaparte's character, refused his request.--On this occasion,
General De Gominier said to them, [18]"Avancez cet officier; car si vous
ne l'avancez pas, il saura bien s'avancer lui meme." The Commissaries
could no longer refuse, and Bonaparte was appointed colonel of
artillery. Shortly after this, having got into some scrape from his
violent and turbulent disposition, he was put under arrest; and it was
even proposed that he should be tried and executed (a necessary
consequence of a trial at that period). His situation at this time was
extremely unpromising; Robespierre and his accomplices, Daunton, St
Juste, Barrere, &c. were all either put to death or forced to conceal
themselves. Bonaparte now perceived, that for the accomplishment of his
views, it was necessary that he should forsake his haughty and
domineering tone, and flatter those in power. He immediately commenced a
series of intrigues, and by the assistance of his friends at Paris, and
that good fortune which has always befriended him, he soon found an
opportunity of extricating himself from the danger which surrounded him.
Barras, who was then at the head of the administration, under the title
of Directeur, alarmed by the distracted state of Paris, and dreading the
return of the Bourbons, assembled a council of his friends and
associates in crime; it was then determined that an attack should
immediately be made on the Parisian royalists, or, as the gentleman who
gave me this account expressed it, [19]"Dissiper les royalistes, et
foudroyer les Parisiens jusque dans leurs foyers."

But where were they to find a Frenchman who would take upon him the
execution of so barbarous an order? One of the meeting mentioned
Bonaparte, and his well-known character determined the directors in
their choice. He was ordered to Paris, and the hand of Madame
Beauharnois, and the command of the army of Italy, held out to him as
the reward of his services, provided he succeeded in _dissipating_ the
royalists. It is well known that he did succeed to his utmost wish; the
streets of Paris were strewed with dead bodies, and the power of the
Directory was proclaimed by peals of artillery.

Shortly after this, Bonaparte commenced that campaign in Italy, in which
he so highly signalised himself as a great general and a brave soldier.
It is the general opinion of the French that this was the only campaign
in which Napoleon shewed personal courage; others allege, that he
continued to display the greatest bravery till the siege of Acre. To
reconcile the different opinions with respect to the character of
Napoleon in this point, is a matter of much difficulty. After having
heard the subject repeatedly discussed by officers who had accompanied
him in many of his campaigns; after having read all the pamphlets of the
day, I am inclined to think that the character given of him in that
work, perhaps erroneously believed to be written by his valet, is the
most just. This book certainly contains much exaggeration, but it is by
no means considered, by the French whom I have met, as a forgery. The
author must, from his style, be a man of some education; and he asserts
that he was with him in all his battles, from the battle of Marengo to
the campaign of Paris. He declares, that Napoleon was _courageous only
in success, brave only when victorious_; that the slightest reverse made
him a coward. His conduct in Egypt, in abandoning his army, his
barbarous and unfeeling flight from Moscow, and his last scene at
Fontainbleau, are sufficient proofs of this.

The battle of Marengo is generally instanced as the one in which
Napoleon shewed the greatest personal courage; but this statement
neither agrees with the account given in the above work, nor by Monsieur
Gaillais. From the work of the last mentioned gentleman, entitled
"Histoire de Dix huit Brumaire," I shall extract a few lines on the
subject of this battle.[20] "A la pointe du jour les Autrichiens
commencerent l'attaque, dabord assez lentement, plus vivement ensuite,
et enfin avec une telle furie que les Français furent enfoncès de tous
cotès. Dans ce moment affreux ou les morts et les mourants jonchaiènt la
terre, le premier Consul, placè au milieu de sa garde, semblait
immuable, insensible, et comme frappè de la foudre. Vainement les
generaux lui depechaient coup sur coup leurs Aides de Camp, pour
demander des secours; vainement les Aides de Camp attendaient les
ordres; il n'endonnait aucune; il donnait a peine signe de la vie.
Plusieurs penserent que croyant la battaille perdue, il voulut se faire
tuer. D'autres, avec plus de raison, se persuaderent qu'il avoit perdu
la tête, et qu'il ne voyait et n'entendait plus rien de se qui se disoit
et de ce qui se passait autour de lui. Le General Berthier vint le prier
instamment de se retirer; au lieu de lui repondre il se coucha par
terre. Cependant les Français fuyerent a toutes jambes, la bataille
etoit perdue lorsque tout a coup on entendait dire que le General
Dessaix arrive avec une division de troupes fraiches. Bientot apres on
le voit paroitre lui meme a leur tête; les fuyards se ralliaient
derrierè ses colonnes--leur courage est revenuè--la chance tourne--les
Français attaquent a leur tour avec la meme furie qu'ils avoient etê
attaquè--et brulent d'effacer la honte de leur defaite du matin."

Desaix fell in this battle, and the whole glory of it was given to
Napoleon. The last words of this gallant man were these: [21]"Je meurs
avec le regret de n'avoir pas assez vecu pour ma patrie.".

This account of Napoleon's behaviour at Marengo was confirmed to me at
Aix, by two French officers of rank who had been present at the battle.

I do not mean to give a life of Napoleon; ere a year is past, I have not
a doubt that we shall have but too many; indeed, already they are not
wanting in England. I mean only to give such anecdotes as are not so
generally known, and to attempt an explanation of the two most
interesting circumstances in his career, viz. the means he has employed
in his aggrandisement, and the causes of his downfall. It is only when
we survey the extent of his power, without reflecting on the gradual
steps which led to it, that we are astonished and confounded; for, in
reality, when his means are considered, and the state of France at the
time is placed before our eyes, much of the difficulty vanishes; and we
perceive, that any daring character, making use of the same means, might
have arrived at the same end. It is foolish to deny him (as many of his
biographers do), great military talent, for that he certainly possessed,
as long as his good fortune allowed him to display it. This talent he
not only evinced in the formation of his plans, but in the execution
also. No man knew better the means of calling forth the inexhaustible
military resources of France. The people of that country were always
brave; but Bonaparte alone knew how to make them all soldiers. The
desire of glory has ever characterized the nation, and the state of
tyranny and oppression in which they were kept under his government, had
no effect in diminishing this passion. The French people under Napoleon
furnish a striking exception to the maxim of Montesquieu, when he says,
[22]"On peut poser pour maxime, que dans chaque etat le desir de la
gloire existe avec la liberté de sujets, et diminue avec elle; la gloire
n'est jamais compagne de la servitude."

The French forget their misfortunes almost immediately. After the
campaign of Moscow, one would have thought that the hardships they
endured might have given them a sufficient disgust, and that it was
likely they would forsake one who shewed so little feeling for them. I
happened once to meet with several of the poor wretches who had been
with him; they were then on their road home; most of them were entirely
disabled; one had his toes frozen off--they declared that they _would
again fight under him if they were able_. At one of the inns, I met with
a young officer who had also been with him at Moscow: I happened to
enquire how they could bear the cold? "We were as comfortable," said he,
"as you and I are at this fire-side." The poor fellow was not twenty-one
years old. [23]"La jeunesse d'aujour-d'hui est elevee dans d'autres
principes; l'amour de la gloire sur tout a jetè des profondes racines;
il est devenu l'attribut le plus distinctif du caractere national,
exaltè par vingt ans de succes continues. Mais cette gloire meme etoit
devenue notre idole, elle absorboit toutes les pensees des braves mis
hors-de-combat par leurs blessures, toutes les esperances des jeunes
gens qui faisaient leur premieres armes. Un coup imprevu l'a frappè,
nous trouvons dans nos cœurs une vide semblable a celui qui trouve un
amant qui a perdu l'objet de sa passion; tout se qu'il voit, tout ce
qu'il entende renouvelle sa douleur. Ce sentiment rend notre situation
vague et penible; chacun cherche a se dissimuler la place qu'il sente
exister au fond de son cœur. On le regarde comme humilie, apres vingt
ans des triomphes continues, pour avoir perdu une seule partie
malhereusement etait la partie d'honneur; et qui a fait la regle de nos
destinees."--Such is the language of the military.

In conversation one evening with one of the noblesse, who had suffered
in the revolution, he told me that this military spirit extended not
only to all ranks and professions, but to all ages. He said that the
young men in the schools refused to learn any thing but mathematics and
the science of arms; and that he recollected many instances of boys ten
and twelve years of age, daily entreating their fathers and mothers to
permit them to join Napoleon. It was in vain to represent to them the
hardships they must suffer; their constant reply was, "If we die, we
will at least find glory." Read the campaign of Moscow, said another
gentleman to me, you will there see the French character:[24] "Les
François sont les seuls dans l'univers qui pourroient rire meme en
gelant."

Napoleon certainly greatly encreased the military spirit of the people:
Before his time, you heard of commerce, of agriculture, of manufactures,
as furnishing the support of the community; under him, you heard of
nothing but war. The rapid destruction of the population of France
occasioned constant promotion, and the army became the most promising
profession. It was a profession in which no education was wanting--to
which all had access. Bonaparte never allowed merit to go unrewarded.
The institution of the Legion of Honour alone was an instrument in his
hands of sufficient power to call forth the energy of a brave people; to
this rank even the private soldier might arrive. In this organization
of the army, therefore, we may trace his first means of success.

The next was his military _tactique_:--The great and simple principle on
which this was founded, is evident in every one of the pitched battles
which he gained;--he out-numbered his opponents,--he sacrificed a
troop,--a battalion,--a division,--or a whole army without bestowing a
moment's thought. Bonaparte has sometimes, though very seldom, shewn
that his heart could be touched, but never, on any occasion, did the
miserable display of carnage in the field of battle call forth these
feelings; never was he known to pity his soldiers. On seeing a body of
fresh recruits join the army, his favourite expression was always,
[25]"Eh bien, voyez encore de matiere premiere, du chair a cannon."
After a battle, when he rode over the ground, he would smile, and say,
[26]"Ma foi, voyez une grande consommation." The day after the battle of
Prusse-Eylau, his valet thus describes his visit to the field of blood:
[27]"Il faisoit un froid glacial, des mourants respiroient encore; la
foule des cadavres et les cavitès noiratres qui le sang des hommes avoit
laisse dans la neigè faisoit un affreux contraste. L'etat Major etoit
peniblement affectè. L'Empereur seul contemplait froidement cette scene
de deuil et de sang. Je poussai mon cheval quelques pas devant le sien;
j'etois eurieux de l'observer dans un pareil moment. Vous eussiez dit
qu'il etoit alors detachè de toutes les affections humaines, que tout ce
qui l'environnait n'existoit pour lui. Il parloit tranquillement des
evenemens de la veille. En passant devant une groupe des grenadiers
Russes massacrès, le cheval d'un Aide-de-Camp avoit peur. Le Prince
l'appercevait: "Ce cheval, lui dit il, froidement, est un lache."

It cannot be doubted that such a man would sacrifice regiment after
regiment to obtain his purpose; we may indeed wonder, that when known to
possess such a heart, he was obeyed by his men: But a little thought, a
little reflection on the means he took to ingratiate himself with his
troops will remove this difficulty. Look also at his dispatches, his
proclamations, and orders; they appear the effusion of the father of a
family addressing his children: "Their country required the sacrifices,
which he deplored." All thought is at an end when they are thus attacked
on their weak side. At other times, the hope of plunder was held out to
them. The words, _glory, honour, their country, laurels, immortal
fame_--these words, fascinating to the ear of any people, are more
peculiarly so to the French. When conversing with an old French officer,
who had served under the Prince of Condè in the emigrant army, on this
subject, he made this remark: "Sir, you do not know the French;
assemble them together, and having pronounced the words _glory, honour
and your country_, point to the moon, and you will have an army ready to
undertake the enterprise." Napoleon was well aware of this weakness of
the French. He would ride through the ranks on the eve of a battle,
would recall their former victories to one body; make promises to a
second; joke with a third,--cold, distant, and forbidding at all other
times, he is described as affable in the extreme on all such occasions.
The meanest soldier might then address him.

The rapid military promotion may be given as another cause of Napoleon's
success. The most distinguished corps were, of course, the greatest
sufferers; and the young man who joined the army, as a lieutenant, on
the eve of an action, was a captain the next day, perhaps a colonel
before he had seen a year's service. [28]"Des ouvriers sortis de leurs
atteliers (says Monsieur Gaillais in his "Histoire de Dix Huit
Brumaire,") des paysans echappes de villages, avec un bonnet sur la tête
et un baton a la main, devenaient au bout de six mois des soldats
intrepides, et au bout de deux ans des officiers agueris, et des
generaux redoubtables au plus anciens generaux de l'Europe." Nothing
struck me more forcibly than the youth of the French officers. The
generals only are veterans, for Bonaparte well knew, that experience is
as necessary as courage in a General.

Next, we may direct our attention to the means which this despot
possessed, by filling the war department with his own creatures; by
giving liberal salaries and unlimited power to the prefects of the
different departments, he amassed both troops and pay to support them.
The tyrannic measures for levying these became at last insupportable;
the people were rising in the villages, and by force of arms rescuing
their companions; and it is very probable that he might have found,
latterly, a want of men; but for years he has had at his disposal three
hundred thousand men annually. In describing the effects of the
conscription, one of the members of the Senate made use of the
following expression:--[29]"On moissonne les homines trois fois
l'anneé."

With such supplies, what single power could resist him? War with him
became a mere mechanical calculation. Among the causes of his elevation,
the use he made of the other continental Powers must not be forgotten;
whether gained by corruption, treachery, or force, they all became his
allies; they were all compelled to assist him with troops. When the
Sovereigns of these countries consented to his plans, they were
permitted to govern their own kingdoms, otherwise the needy family of
Bonaparte supplied the _roitelets_ at a moment's warning. These little
monarchs, he is said to have treated with the utmost contempt.

My readers may perhaps be inclined to smile, when I mention among the
causes of Napoleon's elevation, the use made by him of ballad-singers,
newsmongers, pedlars, &c. But really, on a deliberate view of his system
of juggling and deception, I am inclined to believe, that it was one of
his most powerful engines. The people of France are not only the most
vain, but the most credulous in the world. To work on their feelings,
he kept in constant pay author of every description, from the man who
composed the Vaudeville, which was sold for half a sous, to the authors
of the many clever political pamphlets which daily appear in France: for
the dissemination of these, he had agents, not only in France, but in
distant countries. When he aimed at the subjugation of any part of the
continent, his first endeavour was always to disseminate seditious and
inflammatory pamphlets against its Government. It is never doubted in
France, that even in _England_, he had his emissaries.

Editors of newspapers, in every part of the globe, were in his pay. The
method in which the newspaper, called the Argus, was published, is an
extraordinary proof of this fact. The Argus, whose principal object was
to abuse the English, was first of all written in French, by one of the
"Commissaires de Police;" it was then translated into English, and a few
copies were circulated in this language, to keep up the idea, that it
was smuggled over from England; after these found their way, the French
copy, or in other words, the original, was widely circulated. A more
infamous trick can scarce be conceived. Extracts from this paper were,
by express order of Napoleon, published in every French paper. Nothing
was considered by him as beneath his notice. He encouraged dancing,
feasting, gaming. The theatres, concerts, public gardens, were under his
protection. The traiteurs, the keepers of caffès, of brothels, of
ale-houses, the limonadiers, and the wine-merchants, were his particular
favourites. His object in this was, to produce a degree of profligacy in
the public manners, and a disgust at industry; and the consequence was,
the resort of all ranks to the army, as the easiest and most lucrative
profession.

With regard to the many other causes which will suggest themselves to my
readers in reading a history of his campaigns, I shall say nothing; for
on all of these, as well as on the causes of his downfall, which I shall
merely enumerate, I leave them to make their own observations. I have
already been very tedious, and have yet much to observe on different
points of his character.

To the last rigorous measures for the conscription, to the institution
of the "Droits Reunis;" to the formation of the garde d'honneur; and to
his attack on the religion of France, Bonaparte owed his first
unpopularity. The hatred of the French is as impetuous as their
admiration. They exclaimed against every measure when they were once
exasperated against him: still he had many friends; still he possessed
an army which kept the nation in awe. This army he chose to sacrifice in
Spain and Russia. The nation could no longer supply him, and the strong
coalition which took place against him, was not to be repelled by a
broken-down army. His military talent seemed latterly to have forsaken
him, and never was the expulsion of a tyrant so easily accomplished.

His excessive vanity never left him--of this, the Moniteur for the last
ten years is a sufficient proof; but in reading the accounts of him, I
was particularly struck with the instances which follow.

Anxious to impress on the minds of the Directors, the necessity of the
expedition to Egypt, he made a speech, in which the meanest flattery was
judiciously mingled with his usual vanity. [30]"Ce n'est que sous un
gouvernement aussi sage aussi grand que le votre, qu'un simple soldat
tel que moi pouvait conçevoir le projet de porter la guerre en
Egypte.--Oui, Directeurs, à peine serais je maitre d'Egypte, et des
solitudes de la Palestine, que l'Angleterre vous donnera un vaisseau de
premier bord pour un sac de bled."

Some days before his celebrated appearance among the "Cinq Cents," his
friends advised him to repair thither well armed, and attended with
troops. [31]"Si je me presente avec des troupes (disait Napoleon), c'est
pour complaire à mes amis, car en verité j'ai la plus grande envie d'y
paraitre comme fit jadis Louis XIV. au Parlement, en bottes, et un fouet
à la main."

In his speech to the Corps Legislatif, on the 1st of January 1814, he
made use of the following words at the close of an oration, composed of
the same unmeaning phrases, strung together in fifty different shapes.
[32]"Je suis de ces homines qu'on tue, mais qu'on ne dishonore pas.
Dans trois mois nous aurons la paix, ou l'enemi sera chasse de notre
territoire--ou, je serai mort."

A further specimen of Napoleon's style, will, I think, amuse my readers;
I shall, therefore, copy out an extract of his speech to the Legislative
Body: [33]"Je vous ai appellè autour de moi pour faire le bien, vous
avez fait le mal, vous avez entre vous des gens devouès à l'Angleterre,
qui correspondent avec le Prince Regent par l'entremise de l'avocat
Deseze. Les onze-douziemes parmi vous sont bons; les autres sont des
factieux. Retournez dans vos departments;--je vous y suivrai de l'œil.
Je suis un homme qu'on peut tuer, mais qu'on nè saurait deshonnorer.
Quel est celui d'entre vous qui pouvait supporter le fardeau du
pouvoir; il a ecrasè l'Assemble Constituante, qui dicta des loix à un
monarque faible. Le Fauxbourg St Antoine nous aurait secondé, mais il
vous est bientot abandonnè. Que sont devenus les Jacobins, les
Girondins, les Vergniaux, les Guadets, et tant d'autres? Ils sont morts.
Vous avez cherché à me barbouiller aux gens de la France. C'est un
attentat;--qu'est que le trone, au reste? Quatre morçeaux de bois dorè
recouverts de velours. Je vous avais indiqué un Commité Secret; c'etait
là qu'il fallait laver notre linge. J'ai un titre, vous n'en avez point.
Qui etes vous dans la Constitution? Vous n'avez point d'autorite. C'est
le Trone qui est la Constitution. Tout est dans le trone et dans moi.
Je vous le repete, vous avez parmi vous des factieux. Monsieur Laisnè
est un mechant homme; les autres sont des factieux. Je les connais, et
je les poursuivrai. Je vous le demande, Etait ce cependant que les
ennemies sont chez nous qu'il fallait faire de pareilles choses? La
nature m'a doué d'un courage fort; il peut resister à tout. Il en a
beaucoup coutè a mon orgueil, je l'ai sacrifiè. Je suis au dessus de vos
miserables declamations. J'avais demandé des consolations et vous m'avez
dishonoré. Mais non; mes victoires ecrasent vos criailleries. Je suis de
ceux qui triomphent ou qui meurent. Retournez dans vos departments."

The vanity of Napoleon led him to suppose that he was fitted to lay
down the law to the most eminent among the French philosophers; that he
could improve the French language, the theatre, the state of society,
the public seminaries, the weights and measures of the realm. He
meddled, in short, with every thing. Under the walls of Moscow, he
composed a proclamation in the morning, declaring that he would soon
dictate a code of laws to the Russians; and, in the evening, he dictated
a code of regulations for the theatres of Paris. His ardent wish was, to
have it thought that he had time and capacity for every thing. It arose
from this, that he trusted to no one, and having himself every thing to
do, that he did nothing well. If he went to visit a college, he prepared
Latin and Greek sentences for the occasion; in many of his speeches he
introduced scrapes of classic lore. His love of Greek terms is admirably
described in a little epigram, made on his new _tarif_ of weights and
measures, in which the _grams_ and _killograms_, and _metres_ and
_killometres_ are introduced.

    Les Grecs pour nous ont tant d'attraits
    Qui pour se faire bien entendre,
    Et pour comprendre le Français
    Ce'st le Greque qu'il faut apprendre.

He was particularly anxious that his police should be perfect. He
pursued, for the accomplishment of his views, the same plan so
successfully employed under the celebrated Sartine. He had spies in
every private family, and every rank and denomination. These he did not
employ as Sartine did, for the detection of thieves and robbers; with
him, the dreadful machine of espionage was organised, in order that he
might always know the state of public feeling; that knowing also the
character of each individual, he might be the better able to select
instruments fit for his purposes. Fouche had brought this system to the
utmost perfection. Bonaparte distrusted him, and demanded proofs of his
activity. Fouche desired him to appoint a day, on which he should give
him a full account of every action performed by him. The day was
appointed, the utmost precaution was used by the Emperor; but the spies
gave an account of his every action from six in the morning till eight
at night. They refused to inform Fouche what had become of Bonaparte
after eight; but said, that if the Emperor desired it, they would inform
him in person. The Emperor did not press the subject farther, but
confessed _that he had not spent the remainder of the evening in the
best of company_. Ever after this he was satisfied with the state of
the police. To give some idea of the activity of this system, I may
mention a curious anecdote, which I received from our banker: One of the
most respectable bankers in Paris, whose name I have forgot, was sitting
at supper with his chief _commis_ or clerk. They were served by one
faithful old servant, who, during 30 years, had been tried, and had
always been found worthy of confidence. The conversation turned on the
subject of the last campaign--this was before the campaign of Paris. The
_commis_ happened to remark, that he thought Bonaparte's career was
nearly finished, and that he would meet his fate presently. The next
morning the banker received a letter from the Police Department,
instructing him to order the departure of his _commis_ from Paris within
24 hours, and from France within a month.

The same gentleman gave me a genuine edition of the celebrated story of
Sartine's stopping the travellers at the gates of Paris. It may amuse my
readers, although, I dare say, they have seen it before in other shapes.

A very rich lace merchant from Brussels, was in the habit of constantly
frequenting the fair of St Denis. On these occasions, he repaired to
Paris in the public diligence, accompanied by his trunks of lace. He
had apartments at an hotel in the Rue des Victoires, which he had for
many years occupied; and to secure which, he used always to write some
weeks before. An illness had prevented his visiting the fair during two
years; on the third, he wrote as usual to his landlord, and received an
answer, that the death of the landlord had occasioned a change in the
firm and tenants of the house; but that he was well known to them, and
that they would keep for him his former rooms, and would do their utmost
to give him satisfaction.

The merchant set out--arrived at the barrier of Paris; the diligence was
stopped, and a gentleman whom he had never seen before, accosted him by
name, and desired him to alight. The merchant was a good deal surprised
at this; but you may judge of his alarm, when he heard an order given to
the _conducteur_ to unloose numbers one, two, three--the trunks, in
which was contained his whole fortune. The gentleman desired he would
not be afraid, but trust every thing to him. The diligence was ordered
away, and the lace merchant, in a state of agony, was conveyed by his
new acquaintance to the house of Monsieur de Sartine. He there began an
enumeration of his grievances, but was civilly interrupted by M. de
Sartine--"Sir, you have not much reason to complain; but for your visit
to me here, you would have been murdered this night at twelve." The
minister then detailed to him the plan that had been laid for his
murder, and astonished him by shewing a copy, not only of the letter
which he had written to the landlord of the hotel, but also the answer
returned by the landlord. Monsieur de Sartine then begged that he would
place the most implicit confidence in him, and remain in his house until
he should recover himself from his fright. He would then return to the
coach in waiting, and would be attended to the hotel by one of his
emissaries as valet. The merchant told him that the people of the house
would not be deceived by a stranger, for they were well acquainted with
all his concerns, and even with his writing. "Examine your attendant,"
said M. de Sartine; "you will find him well instructed, and he speaks
your dialect as you do yourself." A few questions convinced the merchant
that the minister had made a good selection. M. de Sartine then
described the reception he would meet with, the rooms he was to occupy,
the persons he should see, and laid down directions for his conduct;
telling him, at the same time, that if at a loss, he should consult his
attendant. On his arrival at the inn, every thing shewed the wonderful
correctness of the information. His reception was kind as ever. Dinner
was served up; and the merchant, according to his practice, engaged
himself till a late hour in his usual occupations. The valet played his
part to a miracle, and saw his master to bed, after repeating to him the
instructions of Monsieur de Sartine. The merchant, as may well be
supposed, did not sleep much. At twelve, a trap door in the floor opened
gently, and a man ascended into the apartment, having a dark lanthorn in
one hand, and in the other, some small rings of iron, used for gagging
people to prevent their speaking. He had just ascended, when the valet
knocked him down and secured him; the room was immediately filled with
the officers of the police. The house had been surrounded to prevent
escape; and in a cellar under the room where the merchant had slept, and
which communicated with the trap door, were found the master, mistress,
and all the members of the gang--they were all secured.

Let us proceed with the character of Napoleon. All the world is well
acquainted with his vices; it is less probable that they have ever heard
of his virtues, of his having shown that he felt as a man. The
following instance is authentic:

After the capture of Berlin, the command of the city was given to one of
the Prussian generals, who had sworn fidelity to Bonaparte. This officer
betrayed his trust, and communicated to the King of Prussia all the
information which he obtained of the motions of the French army.
Bonaparte obtained sufficient proof of his crime, by intercepted
letters. The officer was arrested, a military trial was ordered, and
sentence of death pronounced. The wife of the officer threw herself at
the feet of Bonaparte, and implored the life of her husband. He was
touched, and drawing out from his pocket the letters which proved the
crime, he tore them to pieces, saying, that in thus destroying the
proofs of his guilt, he deprived himself of the power of afterwards
punishing it. The officer was immediately released.

If Napoleon did not possess feeling, or even common humanity, he was at
least anxious that the people of France should believe that he had these
good qualities. It is said that, on the evening before he left Paris on
his last campaign, he sent for the tragedian Talma, and had taught to
him the action, features and aspect which he the next day employed when
he left his wife and child to the care of the national guard. The
following scene will at once show his desire to be esteemed generous,
and his utter meanness of character:--[34]"Un de ses Ministres l'aborde
un jour et lui presente un rapport qu'il avait desiré; il s'agissait
d'une conspiration contre sa personne. J'etais present à cette scene. Je
m'attendais, je l'avoue, à le voir entrer en fureur, fulminer contre les
traitres, menacer les magistrats, et les accuser de negligence. Point du
tout; il parcourt le papier sans donner le moindre signe d'agitation.
Jugez de ma surprise, ou plutôt quelle douce emotion j'eprouvais quand
il fit entendre ces paroles touchantes et sublimes:--"Monsieur le Comte,
l'etat n'a point souffert; les magistrats n'ont point etè insultés; ce
n'est donc qu'à ma personne qu'ils en voulaient; je les plains de ne
point savoir que tous mes vœux tendent au bonheur de la France; mais
tout homme peut s'egarer. Dites aux ingrats que je leurs pardonne. Mons.
le Conte aneantissez la procedure." Maintenant je defie le royaliste le
plus fidele qui seroit temoin d'un proçede si magnanime, de ne point
dire, si le ciel dans sa colere devait un usurpateur a la France;
remercions d'avoir du celui ci. Arrete malhereux, tes yeux ont vu, tes
oreilles ont entendu, ne crois rien de tout; mais deux jours apres
trouve toi, au lever de ce hero, si magnanime, si peu avide de se
veuger--on ouvre, le voici, la foule des courtisans l'environne, tout le
monde fixe les yeux sur lui. Sa figure est decomposée, tous les muscles
de son visage sont en contraction, tout son ensemble est farouche et
colere. Un silence funebre regne dans l'assemblée. Le Prince n'a point
encore parlè, mais il promene des regardes sur la groupe: il appeicoit
le meme officier, qui deux jours avant lui avait presente le rapport,
"Monsieur le Conte, (dit il), ces laches conspirateurs sont ils
executés? Leurs complices sont ils aux fers? Les bourreaux on ils donnè
un nouvel example a qui voudrait imiter ceux qui veuleut a ma personne?"

A distinguishing feature in Napoleon's character was unnecessary
cruelty; of this the campaign in Moscow, (of which Labaume's narrative
is a true though highly-coloured picture), the slaughter of the Turks in
Egypt, the poisoning of his invalids, and the death of every one who
stood in his way, are sufficient and notorious proofs. St Cloud was in
general the scene of his debaucheries. The following anecdote was
related by Count Rumford to a gentleman of my acquaintance, and may be
depended on as correct; for at the time that it happened, Count Rumford
was in lodgings on the spot. Napoleon had brought from Paris a beautiful
girl belonging to the opera; he had carried her into one of the arbours
of the garden. Many of the little boys about St Cloud were in habits of
climbing up among the trees, whether merely as a play, or from curiosity
to see the Emperor. On leaving the arbour with his favourite, Napoleon
saw one of these boys perched upon a high tree above him. He flew
straight to one of the gates, and bringing the sentinel who was
stationed there, he pointed out the boy, exclaiming, "Tirez sur ce b----
la." The order was executed, and the boy never more seen.

But for no one act did he incur the hatred of the French in such a
degree as for the murder of the Duke d'Enghien; in committing this
crime, not only the laws of humanity, but the laws of nations were
violated.

This branch of the Royal Family was under a foreign power; he could by
no means be esteemed a subject of Bonaparte. Even the family of
Bonaparte, who, (as we shall presently see), did not possess many good
qualities, were shocked with this crime; they reproached him with it;
and Lucien said to him, [35]"Vous voulez dont nous faire trainer sur la
claye."

The treatment of the Pope, of Pichegru, of Georges, of Moreau, furnish
us with further instances of his cruelty. Bonaparte did his utmost to
make the Parisians believe that Moreau was connected with Pichegru in
the conspiracy to establish the Bourbons on the throne. This was totally
false. But Napoleon, jealous of a rival like Moreau, could not bear that
he should live. Moreau's bold and unbending character hastened his
downfall. He always called the flat-bottomed boats, [36]"Ces coquilles
de noix;" and after an excellent dinner which he gave at Paris to many
of his fellow Generals, in mockery of the [37]"Epées d'honneur, fusils
d'honneur," &c, which Bonaparte at this time distributed; Moreau sent
for his cook, and with much ceremony invested him with a [38]"casserole
d'honneur."

There are many interesting traits of this noble character, which, if I
had time, I should wish to give my readers. When he had been condemned
to imprisonment for two years, by the express orders of Bonaparte, the
impression made on the mind of the soldiery, of the judges, and of all
the court, was such, that they seemed insensible to what was going on.
Nobody was found to remove him from the bar; he descended the stairs of
the court; walked down the street amid a crowd of admirers; and instead
of escaping, as he easily might, he called a coach, and ordered the
coachman to drive to the Temple. When arrived there, he informed the
Governor of his sentence, and its execution. My readers will, I am sure,
be pleased with a few extracts from the account of Moreau's death, given
by his friends, M. Breton de la Martiniere and M. Rapatel:

"Moreau conversait avec l'Empereur Alexandre, dont il n'etait separé que
le demi longueur d'un cheval. Il est probable qu'on apperçut de la place
ce brillant etat major, et que l'on tira dessus au hazard. Moreau fut
seul frappé. Un boulet lui fraccassa le genou droit et à travers le
flanc du cheval alla emporter le gros de la jambe gauche. Le genereux
Alexandre versa des larmes. Le Colonel Rapatel se preçipitait sur son
General. Moreau poussa un long soupir et s'evanouit. Revenu à lui meme,
il parle avec le plus grand sang froid, et dit à Monsieur Rapatel, "Je
suis perdu, mon ami, mais il est si glorieux de mourir pour une si belle
cause, et sous les yeux d'un aussi grand Prince." Péu d'instants apres
il dit à l'Empereur Alexandre lui meme, "Il ne vous reste que le
tronc--mais le cœur y est, et la tête est à vous." Il doit souffrir des
douleurs aigus--il demanda une cigare et se mit tranquillement à fumer.

"Mons. Wylie, premier chirurgien de l'Empereur Alexandre, se hata
d'amputer la jambe qui etait la plus mal traiteé. Pendant cette cruelle
operation, Moreau montra à peine quelque alteration dans ses traits et
ne cessa point de fumer la cigarre. L'amputation faite, Monsieur Wylie
examina la jambe droite, et la trouva dans un tel etat qu'il ne peut se
defendre d'un mouvement d'effroi. "Je vous entend," dit Moreau, "Il faut
encore couper celle ci, eh bien, faites vite. Cependant j'eusse preferé
la mort." Il voulait ecrire à sa femme. Il ecrivait donc d'une main
assez ferme ces propres expressions. "Ma chere amie,--La bataille se
decide il y a trois jours.--J'ai eu les deux jambes emportées d'un
boulet de canon--ce coquin de Bonaparte est toujours hereux. On m'a
fait l'amputation aussi bien que possible--l'armée a faite un mouvement
retrograde, ce n'est pas par revers, mais par decousu et pour se
rapprocher au General Blucher. Excuse mon griffonage. Je t'aime et
t'embrasse de tout mon cœur. Je charge Rapatel de finir."

"Tout à l'heure il dit: "Je ne suis pas sans danger, je le sais bien,
mais si je meurs, si une fin prematurée m'enleve à une femme, à une
fille aimèe; a mon pays que je voulais servir malgre lui meme; n'oubliez
pas de dire, aux Français qui vous parleront de moi, que je meurs avec
le regret de n'avoir pas accompli mes projets. Pour affranchir ma patrie
du joug affreux qui l'opprime pour ecraser Bonaparte, toutes les armes,
tous les moyens etaient bons. Avec quelle joie j'aurai consacré le peu
de talent que je possede à la cause de l'humanite! Mon cœur appartenoit
a la France."

"Vers sept heurs le malade se trouvant seul avec Monsieur Svinine lui
dit d'une voix affaiblie--" Je veux absolument vous dicter une
lettre.--Monsieur Svinine prit la plume en gemissant et traça ce peu de
lignes sous la dictée de Moreau.

* * *

"SIRE,--Je descends dans le tombeau avec les memes sentiments de
respect, d'admiration, et de devouement que votre Majesté m'a
constamment inspiré, des que j'ai eu le bohheur de m'approcher de votre
personne."

"En pronoçant ces derniers mots, le malade s'interompit et ferma les
yeux M. Svinine attendit, croyant que Moreau meditait sur la suite de sa
depeche--Vain espoir--Moreau n'etait plus."[39]

I am impatient to finish the character of Napoleon, and to get upon some
other more agreeable subject. I shall end by giving an account of his
last appearance in France, as related to me by the Sub-Prefect of Aix,
who accompanied him on his way from Aix to the coast.--After passing
Montlement, the public feeling began to burst forth against him. The
spirit of the Provençals could not be restrained. In every village was
displayed the white cockade, and the fleur de lis. In one, the villagers
were employed at the moment of his passing in hanging him in effigy; at
another they compelled him to call out Vive le Roi, and he obeyed them,
while his attendants refused. For a part of the way he was forced to
mount a little poney in the dress of an Austrian officer. Arrived at the
village of La Calade, the following extraordinary scene passed at the
inn--It was also related to me by our banker, who had it from the
hostess herself: The landlord was called for, and a mean-looking figure
in plain clothes, with a travelling-cap, and loose blue pantaloons,
asked him if he could have dinner for twenty persons who were coming.
"Yes, (said the landlord), if you take what fare I have; but I trust it
is not for that _coquin_ the Emperor, whom we expect soon here." "No,
(said he), it is only for a part of his suite.--Bring here some wine,
and let the people be well served when they arrive." Presently the
landlady entered with the wine, a fine, bold Provençal, and a decided
royalist, as all the Provençal snow are. [40]"Ecoutez, bonne femme, vous
attendez l'Empereur n'est pas?" 'Oui, Monsieur, j'espere que nous le
verrons?' "Eh bien, bonne femme, vous autres que dites vous de
l'Empereur?" 'Qu'il est un grand coquin.' "Eh! ma bonne femme, et vous
meme que dites vous?" 'Monsieur, voulez vous que je vous dise
franchment ce que je pense: Si j'etais le capitaine du vaisseau, je ne
l'embarquerai que pour le noyer."

The stranger said nothing. After an hour or two, the landlord asked his
wife if she would like to see Bonaparte, for that he was arrived. She
was all anxiety to see him. He took her up stairs, and pointed to the
little man in the travelling cap. The surprise of the woman may be
conceived. The Emperor made her approach, and said to her she was a good
woman; but that there were many things told of Bonaparte which were not
true.

I shall continue the Sub-Prefect's narrative in his own words:--[41]"Les
Commissaires, en arrivant à Calade, le trouvoient la tête appuyée sur
les deux mains, et le visage baignè de larmes. Il leur dit qu'on en
voulait decidement à sa vie; que la maitresse de l'auberge, qui ne
l'avait pas reconnu lui avait declaré que l'Empereur etait detesté comme
un scelerat, et qu'on ne l'embarquerait que pour le noyer. Il ne
voulait rien manger ni boire quelque instances qu'on lui fit, et
quoiqu'il dut etre rassurè par l'example de ceux qui etaient a tablé
avec lui. Il fit venir de la voiture du pain et de l'eau qu'il prit avec
avidité. On attendait la nuit pour continuer la route; on n'etait qu'à
deux lieues d'Aix. La population de cette ville n'eut pas eté aussi
facile à contenir que celle des villages ou on avait deja couru tant de
perils. Monsieur, le Sous-Prefét, prenant avec lui le Lieutenant des
gend'armes et six gend'armes, se mit en route vers la Calade. La nuit
etait obscure, et le temps froid; cette double circonstance protegea
Napoleon beaucoup mieux que n'aurait fait la plus forte escorte. Mons.
le Sous-Prefét et la gend'armerie rencontrerent le cortege peu
d'instants apres avoir quitté la Calade, et la suivoient jusqu'à ce
qu'ils arriverent aux portes d'Aix à deux heures du matin. Apres avoir
changé les chevaux, Bonaparte continuant sa route, passa sous les murs
de la ville, au milieu des cris repetés de "Vive le Roi," que firent
entendre les habitants accourus sur les remparts. Il arriva a la limite
du departement à une auberge appellee la Grande Prgere, ce fut là qu'il
s'arreta pour dejeuner. Le General Bertrand proposa a Mons. le
Sous-Prefét de monter, avant que de partir, dans la chambre des
Commissaires ou tout le monde etait à dejeuner. Il y avoit dix ou douzes
personnes. Napoleon etait du nombre; il avait son costume d'officier
Autrichien, et une casque sur la tête. Voyant le Sous-Prefét an habit
d'auditeur, il lui dit, "Vous ne m'auriez pas reconnu sons ce costume?
Ce sont ces Messieurs qui me l'ont fait prendre, le jugeant necessaire à
ma sureté. J'aurais pu avoir une escorte de trois mille homines, qui
j'ai refusé, preferant de me fier à la loyauté Française. Je n'ai pas eu
à me plaindre de cette confiance depuis Fontainbleau jusqu'à Avignon;
mais depuis cette ville jusqu'ici j'ai eté insulté,--j'ai couru bien de
dangers. Les Provençaux se dishonnerent. Depuis qui je suis en France je
n'ai pas eu un bon battaillon de Provençeaux sous mes ordres. Ils ne
sont bons que pour crier. Les Gascons sont fanfarons, mais au moins ils
sont braves." Sur ces paroles, un des convives, qui etait sans dout
Gascon, tira son jabot et dit en riant, "Cela fait plaisir."

Bonaparte continuant à s'addresser an Sous-Prefét, lui dit, "Que fait le
Prefét?" 'Il est parti à la premiere nouvelle du changement survenu à
Paris.' "Et sa femme?" 'Elle etait partie plutôt.'--"Elle avait donc
prit le devant. Paie l'on bien les octrois et les droits reunis?"--'Pas
un sou.'--"Y-a-t-il beaucoup d'Anglais à Marseilles?" Ici Mons. le
Sous-Prefét raconta à Bonaparte tout ce qui s'etait passè naguere dans
ce port, et avec quels transports on avait accueilli les Anglais.
Bonaparte, qui ne prenait pas grand plaisir à ce reçit y mit fin en
disant au Sous-Prefét, "Dites à vos Provençaux que l'Empereur est bien
mecontent d'eux."

Arrivè a Bouilledon, il se s'enferma dans ua apartment avec sa sœur
(Pauline Borghese)--Des sentinels furent places a la porte. Cependant
des dames arriveés dans un galerie qui communiquait avec cette chambre,
y trouverent un militaire en uniform d'officier Autrichien, qui leur
dit, "Que desirez vous voir, Mesdames?" 'Nous voudrions voir Napoleon.'
"Mais ce'st moi, Mesdames." Ces dames le regardant lui dirent en riant,
'Vous plaisantez, Monsieur; ce n'est pas vous qui etes Napoleon.' "Je
vous assure, Mesdames, ce'st moi. Vous vous imaginez donc que Napoleon
avait l'air plus mechant. N'est pas qu'on dit que je suis un scelerat,
un brigand?" Les dames n'eurent garde de le dementir, Bonaparte ne
voulant pas trop les presser sur ce point detourna le conversation. Mais
toujours occupé de sa premier idée, il y revint brasquement: "Convenez
en Mesdames, leur dit il, maintenant que la Fortune m'est contraire, on
dit que je suis un coquin, un scelerat, un brigand. Mais savez vous ce
que c'est que tout cela? J'ai voula mettre la France au dessus de
l'Angleterre, et j'ai echoué dans ce projet."




CHAPTER IV.

STATE OF FRANCE UNDER NAPOLEON--CONTINUED.


AGRICULTURE.


To one unacquainted with the present division of society, and the
condition of each of its branches in France; to one who had only cast
his eye, in travelling, over the immense tracts of cultivated land, with
scarcely an acre of waste to diversify the scene, and who had permitted
first impressions to influence his judgement, it might appear, that in
agriculture, France far excelled every other country in the world. In
England, we have immense tracts of common in many of the counties;--in
Scotland; we have our barren hills, our mosses, and moors;--in America,
the cultivation bears but a small proportion to the wilds, the swamps,
and the forests. In our beautiful provinces in the East Indies, the
cultivation forms but a speck in the wide extent of common, and forest,
and jungle. Why should France furnish a different spectacle? Why should
the face of the country there wear a continual smile, while its very
heart is torn with faction, and its energies fettered by tyranny? There
are many who maintain that this state of the country is the happy effect
of the revolution; but it will, I conceive, not be difficult to shew,
that though certainly a consequence of the great change, it is far from
being a happy one. We surely would not pronounce it a happy state of
things, where the interests of all other branches of the community were
sacrificed to promote the welfare of the peasantry alone.

The peasantry, no doubt, when their rights are preserved to them, as
they are the most numerous, so they become the most important members of
a civil society. "Although," as is well observed by Arthur Young, "they
be disregarded by the superficial, or viewed with contempt by the vain,
they will be placed, by those who judge of things not by their external
appearance, but by their intrinsic worth, as the most useful class of
mankind; their occupations conduce not only to the prosperity, but to
the very existence of society; their life is one unvaried course of
hardy exertion and persevering toil. The vigour of their youth is
exhausted by labour, and what are the hopes and consolations of their
age? Sickness may deprive them of the opportunity of providing the least
supply for the declining years of life, and the gloomy confinement of a
work-house, or the scanty pittance of parochial help, are their only
resources. By their condition may be estimated the real prosperity of a
country; the real opulence, strength, and security of the public are
proportionate to the comfort which they enjoy, and their wretchedness is
a _sure criterion of a bad administration_."

I have quoted this passage at length, in order that I might shew that
France supplies us in this case, as in many others, with a wide
exception from those general rules in politics which time and experience
had long sanctioned. We shall in vain look at the state of the peasantry
of that country as affording a criterion of the situation of any other
branch of the community. It did not remain concealed from the deep and
penetrating eye of Napoleon, that if the peasantry of a country were
supported, and their condition improved, any revolution might be
effected; any measure, however tyrannical, provided it did not touch
them, might be executed with ease. For the sake of the peasantry, we
shall perceive that the yeomanry, the farmers, the _bourgeoisie_, the
nobility, were allowed to dwindle into insignificance. His leading
principle was never to interfere with their properties, however they may
have been obtained; and he invariably found, that if permitted to enjoy
these, they calmly submitted to taxation, furnished recruits for his
conscription, and supported him in every measure.

In tracing the causes and effects of the various revolutions which take
place among civilized nations, political writers have paid too little
attention to the effects of property. France affords us an interesting
field for investigation on this interesting question; but the narrow
limits of our work will not admit of our indulging in such speculations.
We cannot, however, avoid remarking by the way, that the facility of
effecting a revolution in the government of France, so often shewn of
late, has arisen, in a great measure, from this state of the property
of the peasantry. Under the revolution they gained this property, and
they respected and supported the revolutionists. Under Napoleon, their
property was respected, and they bore with him, and admired him. Louis
commenced by encouraging them in the idea that their rights would be
respected, and they remained quiet:--his Ministers commenced their plans
of restoring to the noblesse their estates, and the King immediately
lost the affections of the peasantry. They welcomed Napoleon a second
time, because they knew his principles: They have again welcomed their
King, because they are led to suppose that experience has changed the
views of his Ministers: but they suspect him, and on the first symptom
of another change they will join in his expulsion.

The nobility, the great landed proprietors, the yeomanry, the lesser
farmers, all the intermediate ranks who might oppose a check to the
power of a tyrannical prince, are nearly annihilated. The property of
these classes, but more particularly of the nobility, has been
subdivided and distributed among the peasants; become their own, it has,
no doubt, been much better managed, for it is their immediate interest
that not an acre of waste ground should remain. They till it with their
own hands, and, without any intermediate agents, they draw the profits.
Lands thus managed, must, of course, be found in a very different state
from those whose actual proprietor is perhaps never on the spot, who
manages through stewards, bailiffs, and other agents, and whose rank
prevents the possibility of his assisting, or even superintending, the
labour of his peasantry.

Having shewn the causes of the present appearance of France, we must
describe the effects, by presenting to our readers the picture which was
every where before our eyes in traversing the country. The improvement
in agriculture, or to speak literally, in the method of tilling the
soil, is by no means great. The description of the methods pursued, and
of the routine of crops, given by Arthur Young, corresponds very exactly
with what we saw. It may be observed, however, that the ploughing is
rather more neat, and the harrowing more regular. To an English eye both
of these operations would appear most superficial; but it ought to be
considered, that here nature does almost every thing, little labour is
necessary, and in many parts of the country manure is never used: but
the defect in the quality of the cultivation is somewhat compensated by
the quantity. Scarce an acre of land which would promise to reward the
cultivator will be found untilled. The plains are covered with grain,
and the most barren hills are formed into vineyards. And it will
generally be found, that the finest grapes are the produce of the most
dry, stony, and seemingly barren hills. It is in this extension of the
cultivation that we trace the improvement; but there must also be some
considerable change for the better, though not in the same degree, in
the method of cultivation, which is demonstrated by the fact, that a
considerable rise has taken place in the rent and price of land. In many
places it has doubled within the last twenty-five years; an _arpent_ now
selling for 1000 francs, which was formerly sold for 500.

It is, however, extraordinary, that these improvements have, as yet,
only shewn their influence in the dress of the peasantry, and no where
in the comfort or neatness of their houses. Between Calais and Paris,
their houses are better than we found them afterwards on our way to the
south. In that direction, also, they were almost invariably well
clothed, having over their other clothes (and not as a substitute for a
coat) a sort of blue linen frock, which had an appearance of attention
to dress, not to be seen in other parts of the country, for the
peasantry in most other parts, though neatly clothed, presented, in the
variety of their habits and costumes, a very novel spectacle. The large
tails, which give them so military an appearance, and impress us with
the idea that they have _marched_, are by no means a proof of this
circumstance; for we were informed, that the first thing done in most
instances, was to deprive the conscripts of their superabundant hair.
But the long tail and the cocked hat, are worn in imitation of the
higher orders of older time. It is indeed a sight of the most amusing
kind to the English eye, to behold a French peasant at his work, in
velvet coat and breeches, powdered hair, and a cocked hat. But we do not
mean to give this as the usual dress of the peasants, although we have
frequently met with it. Their dress is very often as plain, neat, and
sufficient, as their houses are the reverse.

In Picardy, the luxuriant fruit-trees which surround the cottages and
houses, give an appearance of comfort, which is not borne out by the
actual state of the houses on a nearer inspection. Near Laon, and
towards the frontiers of French Flanders, the condition of the peasantry
appeared exceedingly comfortable. Their dress was very neat, and their
houses much more substantial, and, in some parts, ornament was added to
strength. In this district, the people had the advantage of being
employed in the linen manufacture in their own houses, besides their
ordinary agricultural occupations; and their condition reminded us of
the effects of this intermixture of occupations presented by a view of
Clydesdale in Scotland, or of the West Riding of Yorkshire.

Towards Fontainbleau, and to the east of Paris, on the road of Soissons,
the peasantry inhabit the old villages, or rather little towns, and no
cottages are to be seen on the lands. No gardens are attached to the
houses in these towns. The houses have there an appearance of age, want
of repair, and a complete stagnation of commerce. And even the peasantry
there seemed considerably reduced, but they were always well dressed,
and by no means answered Arthur Young's description. Still their houses
denoted great want of comfort; very little furniture was to be seen, and
that either of the very coarsest kind, or of the gaudy and gilded
description, which shewed whence it came. The intermixture is hideous.
In the parts of the country above named; the food often consisted of
bread and pork, and was better than what we found in the south. But
even here, the small number of pigs, the poor flocks of sheep, and,
indeed, the absence of any species of pasture for cattle, demonstrated
that there was not a general or extensive consumption of animal food or
the produce of the dairy.

The little demand for butcher meat, or the produce of pasture, is
probably, as Arthur Young has hinted, one great cause of the continuance
of the fallow system of husbandry in France; for where there is no
consumption of these articles, it is impossible that a proper rotation
of crops can be introduced.

In noticing the causes of the decided improvement in the condition of
the peasantry, we may observe in passing, that the great consumption of
human life, during the revolution, and more particularly under
Napoleon's conscription, must have considerably bettered the condition
of those who remained, and who were able for work, by increasing the
price of labour.

The industry of the peasants in every part of the country, cannot be
sufficiently praised--it as remarkable as the apathy and idleness of
tradesmen and artificers. Every corner of soil is by them turned to
account, and where they have gardens, they are kept very neat. The
defects in the cultivation arise, therefore, from the goodness of the
climate, the ignorance or poverty of the cultivators, or from inveterate
prejudice.

We must now say a few words with regard to the state of agriculture and
the condition of the peasantry between Paris and Aix, and more
especially in the south of France. Here also every acre of land is
turned to good account, but the method of tilling the land is very
defective. The improvements in agriculture, in modern times, will be
found to owe their origin to men of capital, of education, and of
liberal ideas, and such men are not to be found here. The prejudices and
the poverty of their ancestors, have not ceased to have their effects in
the present generation, in retarding the improvement in the tillage, and
in the farm instruments. They are, in this respect, at least a century
behind us. From the small subdivisions in many parts of the country,
each family is enabled to till its own little portion with the spade;
and where the divisions are larger, and ploughs used, they will
invariably be found rude, clumsy, enormous masses of wood and iron, weak
from the unskilfulness of the workmanship, continuing from father to son
without improvement, because improvement would not only injure their
purses, but give a deadly wound to that respect and veneration which
they have for the good old ways of their ancestors. There is endless
variety in the shape and size of the French plough; but amid the
innumerable kinds of them, we never had the good fortune to meet one
good or sufficient instrument.

The use of machinery in the farm-stead is unknown, and grain, as of old,
is very generally trodden by oxen, sometimes on the sides of the high
roads, and winnowed by the breath of Heaven.

In the south of France, we met with much more regular enclosure than
around Paris; but even here, little attention is bestowed in keeping the
fences in repair. Hedges are, however, less necessary in the south than
elsewhere; for there is a complete want of live stock of every
description, and no attention paid to the breeding of it. This want does
not strike the traveller immediately, because he finds butcher meat
pretty good in the small towns; excellent in the larger cities, and
cheap everywhere. But he will find, that France is, in this respect,
much in the same state with India. Animal food is cheap, because the
consumption is very limited. In France, but more particularly in the
south, I should say that not one-sixth of the butcher meat is consumed
by each man or woman which would be requisite in England. Bread, wine,
fruit, garlic, onions and oil, with occasionally a small portion of
animal food, form the diet of the lower orders; and among the higher
ranks, the method of cooking makes a little meat go a great way. The
immense joints of beef and mutton, to which we are accustomed in
England, were long the wonder of the French; but latterly, they have
begun to introduce (among what they humorously term _plats de
resistance_) these formidable dishes.

Excepting in the larger towns, butcher meat, particularly beef and
mutton, is generally ill fed. In the part of the south, where we resided
during the winter, the beef was procured from Lyons, a distance of above
200 miles. In the south, the breed of cattle of every description is
small and stinted, and unless when pampered up for the market, they are
generally very poor and ill fed. The traveller is everywhere struck with
the difference between the English and French horses, cows, pigs, sheep,
&c. and in more than the half of France, he will find, for the reasons
formerly assigned, an almost total want of attention to these useful
animals among the farmers. At Aix, where we were situated, there was
only one cow to be found. Our milk was supplied by goats and sheep; and
all the butter consumed there, excepting a very small quantity made from
goat's milk, was also brought from Lyons. This want is not so much felt
in Provence; because, for their cookery, pastry, &c. they use olive oil,
which, when fresh, is very pleasant.

The want of barns, sheds, granaries, and all other farm buildings, is
very conspicuous in the south. The dairy is there universally neglected,
and milk can only be had early in the morning, and then in very small
quantity; nay, the traveller may often journey a hundred miles in the
south of France without being able to procure milk at all; this we
ourselves experienced. The eye is nowhere delighted with the sight of
rich and flourishing farm-steads, nor do the abundant harvests of France
make any shew in regular farm-yards. All the wealth of the peasantry is
concealed. Each family hides the produce of their little estate within
their house. An exhibition of their happy condition would expose them to
immediate spoliation from the tax-officers. In our own happy country,
the rich farm-yard, the comfortable dwelling-house of the farmer, and
the neat smiling cottage of the labourer, call down on the possessors
only the applause and approbation of his landlord, of his neighbours,
and of strangers. They raise him in the general opinion. In France, they
would prove his ruin.

To conclude these few observations on the state of agriculture, we may
remark, that the revolution has certainly tended greatly to promote the
extension of the cultivation, by throwing the property of the lands into
the hands of the peasantry, who are the actual cultivators, and also by
removing the obstructions occasioned by the seignorial rights, the
titles, game laws, corveès; yet I think there cannot be a doubt, that,
aided by capital, and by the more liberal ideas of superior farmers
benefiting by the many new and interesting discoveries in modern
agriculture, France might, without that terrible convulsion, have shewn
as smiling an aspect, and the science of agriculture been much further
advanced.

If, by the revolution, the situation of the peasantry be improved, we
must not forget, on the other hand, that to effect this improvement, the
nobility, gentry, yeomanry, and, we might almost add, farmers, have been
very generally reduced to beggary. The restraint which the existence of
these orders ever opposed to the power of a bad king, of a tyrant, or of
an adventurer, might have remained, and all have been happier, better,
and richer than they are now.

* * *


_COMMERCE._

It was probably the first wish of Napoleon's heart, as it was also his
wisest policy, that the French should become entirely a military, not a
commercial nation. Under his government, the commerce of France was
nearly annihilated. It was however necessary, that at times he should
favour the commercial interest of the towns in the interior, from which
he drew large supplies of money, and his constant enmity against the
sea-port towns of Marseilles and Bourdeaux, induced him to encourage the
interior commerce of France, to the prejudice of the maritime trade of
these ports. Under Napoleon, Paris, Lyons, Rouen, and most of the large
towns which carried on this interior commerce, were lately in a
flourishing state. In these towns, if not beloved, he was at least
tolerated, and they wished for no change of government. But at
Marseilles, and at Bourdeaux, he was detested, and a very strong
royalist party existed, which caused him constant annoyance. At
Bourdeaux, it may be recollected, that the Bourbons were received with
open arms, and that that town was the first to open its gates to the
allies. It was also among the last that held out. I was in that town
while the royalist party were still powerful, while every thing shewed a
flourishing commerce, while the people were happy; the wine trade was
daily enriching the inhabitants, and they blessed the return of peace,
and of their lawful princes. In two days the face of things was changed.
A party of soldiers, 300 strong, were dispatched by Napoleon, under the
command of General Clausel. The troops of the line here, as everywhere
else, betrayed their trust, and joined the rebels, and Bourdeaux was
delivered up to the spoiler.

Never was there a more melancholy spectacle than that now afforded by
the inhabitants of this city. You could not enter a shop where you did
not find the owners in tears. We were then all hastening to leave
France. They embraced us, and prayed that our army might soon be among
them to restore peace and the Bourbons. Here I am convinced that
Bonaparte is hated by all but the military. Yet what could a town like
Bourdeaux effect, when its own garrison betrayed it?

Besides the bad effects of Bonaparte's policy on the commerce of France,
I must notice the wide influence of another cause, which was the natural
result of the revolution. Although at first an attack was only made
against the noblesse, yet latterly, every rich and powerful family was
included among the proscribed, and all the commercial houses of the
first respectability were annihilated. These have never been replaced,
and the upstart race of petty traders have not yet obtained the
confidence of foreigners. The trade of France is therefore very
confined; and even were opportunities now afforded of establishing a
trade with foreign nations, it would be long before France could benefit
by it, from the total want of established and creditable houses.

The manifest signs of the decay of commerce in France cannot escape the
observation of the traveller, more especially if he has been in the
habit of travelling in England. The public diligences are few in number,
and most miserably managed. It is difficult to say whether the
carriage, the horses, or the harness, gives most the idea of meanness.
Excepting in the neighbourhood of large towns, you meet with not a cart,
or waggon, for twenty that the same distance would show in England. The
roads are indeed excellent in most parts; but this is not in France, as
in most countries, a proof of a flourishing commerce. It is for the
conveyance of military stores, and to facilitate the march of the
troops, that the police are required to keep the roads in good repair.
The villages and towns throughout France, are in a state of dilapidation
from want of repair. No new houses, shops, and warehouses building, as
we behold every where in England. None of that hurry and bustle in the
streets, and on the quays of the sea-port towns, which our blessed
country can always boast. The dress of the people, their food, their
style of living, their amusements, their houses, all bespeak extreme
poverty and want of commerce.

I was at some pains in ascertaining whether, in many of their
manufactures, they were likely to rival us or injure our own.--I cannot
say I have found one of consequence. There are indeed one or two
articles partially in demand among us, in which the French have the
superiority; silks, lace, gloves, black broad cloth, and cambric are
the chief among them. The woollen cloths in France are extremely
beautiful, and the finer sorts, I think, of a superior texture to any
thing we have in England; but the price is always double, and sometimes
treble of what they sell for at home, so that we have not much to fear
from their importations. Few of the French can afford to wear these fine
cloths.

French watches are manufactured at about one half of the English price;
but the workmanship is very inferior to ours, and unless as trinkets for
ladies' wear, they do not seem much in estimation in England. The
cutlery in France is wretched. Not only the steel, but the temper and
polish, are far inferior to ours. A pair of English razors is, to this
day, a princely present in France. Hardware is flimsy, ill finished, and
of bad materials. All leather work, such as saddlery, harness, shoes,
&c. is wretchedly bad, but undersells our manufactures of the same kind
by about one half. Cabinet work and furniture is handsome, shewy,
insufficient, and dear. Jewellery equal, if not superior to ours in
neatness, but not so sufficient. Hats and hosiery very indifferent. In
glass ware we greatly excel the French, except in the manufacture of
mirrors. Musical instruments of all descriptions are made as well, and
at half the English price, in France. In every thing else, not here
mentioned, as far as my memory serves me, I think I may report the
manufactures of France greatly inferior to those in England. I have
sometimes heard it stated, that in the manufacture of calicoes, muslins,
and other cotton goods, the French are likely to rival us. On this
subject I was not able to obtain the information I wished for, but one
fact I can safely mention, the price of all these goods is at present,
in most parts of France, nearly double what it is in England or
Scotland, and their machinery is not to be compared with our own.

* * *

_WEALTH OF THE NATION AND ITS DIVISION._

To the traveller in France, every thing seems to denote extreme poverty,
and that extending its influence over all ranks of society; and
certainly, compared with England, France is wretchedly poor. But many of
its resources remain hidden, and it is certain, that on the demands of
its despotic ruler, France produced unlooked-for supplies. His wars have
now greatly exhausted this hidden treasure, and there is, fortunately
for the peace of the world, very little money left in the country. The
marks of the wealth of the country, both absolutely, and in relation to
other countries, are to be found in the manner of living, and extent of
fortunes of its inhabitants; in the size, comfort, and style of their
houses; in their dress and amusements; in the price of labour; the
salaries of office; the trade and commerce of the country; the number of
country houses, of banks, &c. In examining each of these heads, we shall
find that France is a very poor country.

The sum of two thousand pounds a-year is reckoned a noble fortune in
France, and very, very few, there are that possess that sum.

One thousand pounds a-year constitutes a handsome fortune for a
gentleman; and four hundred for a _bourgeois_, or for one employed in
trade or commerce. Few of the nobility are now possessed of fortunes
sufficient to maintain a carriage; and none under the rank of princes,
in France, have _now_ more than one carriage.

The style of living is wretched: only the first, and richest houses, can
afford to entertain company, and those but seldom. It requires a large
fortune to maintain a regular cook; in half the houses they have only a
dirty scullion, who, among her other work, cooks the dinner. In the
other half, a traiteur sends in the dinner; or if a bachelor, the master
of the house dines at a _table d'hôte_, as a _pensionaire_.

The interior management of the French houses denotes extreme poverty.
Some few articles of splendid furniture are displayed for shew in one or
two rooms, while the rest of the house is shut up, and left dirty and
ill furnished.

Of their dress and amusements I have already said enough, to shew that
they denote poverty, and I shall say more when I come to the French
character.

The price of labour is far lower than what we are used to, fluctuating
from fifteen to twenty pence a-day. The salaries of office are,
throughout France, not above one-third what they are in England. Of the
want of trade and commerce I have already spoken. The public banks are
very few in number, and only to be found in very large and commercial
towns. Country houses and fine estates, there are none, or where they
are found, it is in a state of dilapidation.

Where, then, is the wealth of France? I was at some pains to solve this
question. The remaining wealth of France is divided among the generals
of Napoleon; the army furnishers and contractors; the prefects,
sub-prefects; the numerous receivers and collectors of taxes; and,
lastly, but chiefly, the peasantry. It may appear strange to those who
are not acquainted with the present state of France, that I have
mentioned the peasants among the richest; but I am convinced of the
fact. The peasants in France have divided among themselves the lands and
property of the emigrants. Napoleon drew supplies from them; but very
politically maintained them in their possessions. Their condition, and
the condition of the lands, shew them to be in easy circumstances. They
are well clothed, and abundantly, though poorly fed.

France is, in fine, a very poor country, compared with our own; but it
is not without resources, and its wealth will remain concealed as long
as it is under Napoleon; for whoever shewed wealth, was by him marked
out as an object of plunder. By allowing unlimited power to his
emissaries and spies, he was able to discover where the wealth lay, and
by vesting the same power in his prefects, sub-prefects, receivers, and
gend'armes, he seized on it when discovered. In the public prints,
previous to his downfall, we may observe almost continually the thanks
of Government to the farmers, proprietors, and others, for _their
patriotic exertions in supplying horses, grain, &c._ In these cases, the
_patriotic farmers_ had bands of gend'armerie stationed over them, who
drove away their horses, their cattle and grain, without the hope even
of payment or redress of any kind. Nothing denotes more the poverty of
the country, than the want of horses, of cows, and all kinds of live
stock.

In no country in the world is there found so great a number of beggars
as in France; and yet there are not wanting in every town establishments
for the maintenance of the poor. These beggars are chiefly from among
the manufacturing classes; the families of soldiers and labourers. The
peasants are seldom reduced to this state, or when reduced, they are
succoured by their fellow peasants, and do not beg publicly. The
national poverty has had the worst effects on the French character; in
almost every station in life they will be found capable of meanness.
What can be more disgusting, than to see people of fashion and family
reduced to the necessity of letting to strangers their own rooms, and
retiring into garrets and other dirty holes--demanding exorbitant
prices, and with perfect indifference taking half or a third--higgling
for every article they purchase--standing in dirty wrappers at their
doers, seeing the wood weighed in the street, on terms of familiarity
with tradesmen and their own servants. All this you see in France daily;
but on this subject I have elsewhere made observations.

As connected with this part of the subject, a few words must be said on
the condition of the towns and villages; for although I had at first
intended to treat this, and the situation of the different ranks, as
separate subjects; yet they seem to come in more naturally at present,
when speaking of the wealth of France and its division. The towns
throughout France, as well as the villages, particularly in the south,
have an appearance of decay and dilapidation. The proprietors have not
the means of repair. It is customary (I suppose from the heat of the
climate), to build the houses very large; to repair a French house,
therefore, is very expensive: and it will generally be seen, that in
most, houses only one or two rooms are kept in repair, and furnished,
while the rest of the house is crumbling to pieces. This is the case
with all the great houses; in those of the common people we should
expect more comfort, as they are small, and do not need either expensive
repair or gay furniture; but comfort is unknown in France. On entering a
small house in one of the villages, we find the people huddled together
as they are said to do in some parts of England and Scotland. Men,
women, dogs, cats, pigs, goats, &c.--no glass in the windows--doors
shattered--truckle-beds--a few earthen pots; and with all this filth, we
find, perhaps, half a dozen velvet or brocade covered chairs; a broken
mirror, or a marble slab-table; these are the articles plundered in
former days of terror and revolution. All caffés and hotels in the
villages are thus furnished.

The streets in almost every town in France are without pavement. Would
any one believe, that in the great city, as the French call it, there is
a total want of this convenience? On this subject, Mercier, in his
Tableaux de Paris, has this remark: [42]"Dès qu'on est sur le pavè de
Paris, ou voit que le peuple n'y fait pas les loix;--aucune commoditè
pour les gens de pied--point de trottoirs--le peuple semble un corps
separè des autres ordres de l'etat--les riches et les grands qui ont
equipage ont le droit de l'ecraser ou de le mutiler dans les rues--cent
victimes expirent par annee sous les rues des voiture."

Besides the want of pavement to protect us from the carriages, and to
keep our feet dry, we have to encounter the mass of filth and dirt,
which the nastiness of the inhabitants deposits, and which the police
suffers to remain. The state of Edinburgh in its worst days, as
described by our English neighbours, was never worse than what you meet
with in France. The danger of walking the streets at night is very
great, and the perfumes of Arabia do not prevail in the morning.

The churches in all the villages are falling to ruin, and in many
instances are converted into granaries, barracks, and hospitals;
manufacturing establishments are also in ruins, scarcely able to
maintain their workmen; their owners have no money for the repair of
their buildings. The following description of the changes that have
taken place in the French villages, is better than any thing I can give;
and from what I have seen, it is perfectly correct:

[43]"Avant la revolution, le village se composait de quatre mille
habitans. Il fournissait pour sa part, au service general de l'Eglise et
des hopitaux, ainsi qu'aux besoins de l'instruction cinq eclesiastiques,
deux sœurs de la charité, et trois maitres d'ecol. Ces derniers sont
remplacé par un maitre d'equitation, un maitre de dessin et deux maitres
de musique. Sur huit fabriques d'etoffes de laisne et de coton, il ne
reste plus qu'une seule. En revanche il s'est etabli deux caffés, un
tabaque, un restaurat, et un billiard qui prosperent d'une maniere
surprenante. On comptait autrefois quarante charretiers de labour;
vingt-cinq d'entre eux sont devenus couriers, piqueurs, et cochès. Ce
vuide est remplie par autant de femmes, qui dirigent la charette et qui
pour se delasser de tems en tems menent au marché des voitures de paille
ou de charbon. Le nombre de charpentiers, de maçons, et d'autres
artisans est diminué à peu pres de moitie. Mais le prix de tout les
genres de main d'œuvre ayant aussi augmenté de moitie--cela revient au
meme--et la compensation se retablit. Une espece d'individus que le
village fournit en grande abondance, et dans des proportions trop
fortes ce sont les domestiques de luxe et de livrée. Pour peu que cela
dure on achevera de depeupler le campagne de gens utiles qui le
cultivent pour peupler les villes d'individus oisifs et corrompus.
Beaucoup de femmes et de jeunes filles, qui n'etaient que des
couturiers, et des servantes de femmes, ont aussi trouvè de l'avancement
dans la capitale, et dans les grandes villes. Elles sont devenues femmes
de chambre--brodeuses--et marchandes des modes. On dirait que le luxe a
entreprit de pomper la jeunesse; toutes les idèes et tous les regards
sont tournès vers lui à aucun epoque anterieure le contingent du village
en hommes de loi--huissiers--etudiants en droits, mediçins, poetes et
artistes, ne s'etait eleve au dela de trois ou quatre; il s'eleve
maintenant à soixante deux, et une chose qu'on n'aurait jamais su
imaginer autrefois c'est qu'il y a dans le nombre autant de peintres, de
poetes, de comediens, de danseuses de theatre et de musiciens ambulans,
qu'une ville de quatre vingt mille hommes aurait pu en fournir il y a
trente ou quarante ans."

Another mark of the poverty of France at present occurs to me: In every
town, but particularly in the large cities, we are struck with numbers
of idle young men and women who are seen in the streets. Now that the
army no longer carries away the "surplus population of France," (to use
the language of Bonaparte), the number of these idlers is greatly
increased. The great manufacturing concerns have long ceased to employ
them. France is too poor to continue the public works which Napoleon had
every where begun. The French have no money for the improvement of their
estates, the repair of their houses, or the encouragement of the
numerous trades and professions which thrive by the costly taste and
ever-varying fashion of a luxurious and rich community. Being on the
subject of taste and fashion, I must not forget that I noticed the dress
and amusements of the French as offering a mark of their poverty. The
great meanness of their dress must particularly strike every English
traveller; for I believe there is no country in the world where all
ranks of people are so well dressed as in England. It is not indeed
astonishing to see the nobility, the gentry, and those of the liberal
professions well clothed, but to see every tradesman, and every
tradesman's apprentice, wearing the same clothes as the higher orders;
to see every servant as well, if not better clothed than his master,
affords a clear proof of the riches of a country. In the higher ranks
among the French, a gentleman has indeed a good suit of clothes, but
these are kept for wearing in the evening on the promenade, or at a
party. In the morning, clothes of the coarsest texture, and often much
worn, or even ragged, are put on. If you pay a lady or gentleman a
morning visit, you find them so metamorphosed as scarcely to be known;
the men in dirty coarse cloth great coats, wide sackcloth trowsers and
slippers; the women in coarse calico wrappers, with a coloured
handkerchief tied round their hair. All the little gaudy finery they
possess is kept for the evening, but even then there is nothing either
costly or elegant, or neat, as with us. In their amusements also is the
poverty of the people manifested. A person residing in Paris, and who
had travelled no further, would think that this observation was unjust,
for in Paris there is no want of amusements; the theatres are numerous,
and all other species of entertainment are to be found. But in the
smaller towns, one little dirty theatre, ill lighted, with ragged
scenery, dresses, and a beggarly company of players, is all that is to
be found. The price of admittance is also very low. The poverty of the
people will not admit of the innumerable descriptions of amusements
which we find in every little town in England: amateur concerts are
sometimes got up, but for want of funds they seldom last long. My
subscription to one of these at the town where we resided, was five
francs per month, or about a shilling each concert. This may be taken as
a specimen of the price of French amusements.


_STATE OF RELIGION_.

THE order of the priesthood in France had suffered greatly in the
revolution. They were everywhere scouted and reviled, either for being
supporters of the throne, or for being rich, or for being _moderès_.
Napoleon found them in this condition; he never more than tolerated
them, and latterly, by his open attack and cruel treatment of their
chief, he struck the last and severest blow against the church. Unable
to bear the insults of the military, deprived of the means of support,
many of the clergy either emigrated or concealed themselves. In the
principal towns, indeed, the great establishments took the oath of
allegiance to the tyrant; but the inferior clergy and the country
curates met nowhere with encouragement, and were allowed to starve, or
to pick up a scanty pittance by teaching schools in a community who
laughed at education, at morality, and religion.

Many of the churches, convents, and monasteries were demolished; many
were converted into barracks, storehouses, and hospitals. We saw but
_one_ village church in our travels through France, and even in the
larger towns we found the places of public worship in a state of
dilapidation. I went to see the palace of the Archbishop at Aix; out of
a suite of most magnificent rooms, about 30 in number, _one miserable
little chamber was furnished for his highness_. In the rest, the
grandeur of former days was marked by the most beautiful tapestry on
some part of the walls, while other parts had been laid bare and daubed
over with caps of liberty, and groupes of soldiers and guillotines, and
indecent inscriptions. The nitches for statues, and the frames of
pictures, were seen empty. The objects which formerly filled them were
dashed to pieces or burnt.

The conduct of the people at the churches marked the low state of
religion: the higher ranks talked in whispers, and even at times loudly,
on their family concerns, their balls and concerts. The peasantry and
lower ranks behaved with more decency, but seemed to think the service a
mere form; they came in at all hours, and staid but a few minutes; went
out and returned.

We had in our small society some very respectable clergymen; but I am
sorry to say, we had one instance shewing the immoral tendency of the
celibacy of the clergy.

Very few of the convents remain. I have detailed our visit to one of
them in my journal; we found every thing decent and well conducted, but
not with any thing like the strictness and rigour we expected. At Aix
there was a small establishment of Ursulines, a very strict order; there
was also a penitentiary establishment of Magdalenes, the rules of which
were said by the people of Aix to be of the most inhuman nature. The
caterers for the establishment were ordered to buy only spoilt
provisions for food; fasting was prescribed for weeks together; and the
miserable young women lay on boards a foot in breadth, with scarce any
clothing. Their whole dress, when they went out, consisted of a shift
and gown of coarsest hard blanket stuff. They were employed in educating
young children. I once met a party of them walking out with their
charges, who were chanting hymns and decorating these miserable walking
skeletons with flowers.

We had also at Aix a very celebrated preacher named De Coq. I went to
hear him, and, though much struck with his fluency of language, did not
much admire his style of preaching; there was too much of cant and
declamation, and at times he made a most intolerable noise, roaring as
if he were addressing an army. This man, however, succeeded in drawing
tears from the audience; but this did not surprise me, for it is
astonishing how easily this is accomplished. This reminds me of a scene
which I witnessed one evening at the theatre at Aix. We were seated next
an old Marquise with whom we were acquainted. The tragedy of Meropè, and
particularly the part of the son Egistus, was butchered in a very
superior style; the Marquise turned to my sister, and said to her, "Oh
how touching! how does it happen that it does not make you cry? But you
shall see me cry in a minute; I shall just think of my poor son whom
Napoleon took for the conscription." She then by degrees worked herself
up into a fit of tears, and really cried for a pretty tolerable space of
time. A most amusing soliloquy took place at our house the night before
the national guard left Aix, in pursuit of Bonaparte. This lady came to
pay us a visit; and after crying very prettily, she exclaimed, "Oh, the
_barbare_, he has taken away my son--he has ruined my concert which I
had fixed for Thursday--we were to have had such music!--and Jule, my
son, was to have sung; but Jule is gone, perhaps to----_Oh, mon Dieu!
mon Dieu!_--and I had laid out three hundred pounds in repairing my
houses at Marseilles, and not one of them will now be let--and I had
engaged Ciprè (a fiddler), for Thursday; and we should have been so
happy."--But this is a most extraordinary episode to introduce when
talking of the state of religion.

Some measures taken latterly by the King, seem to have been but ill
received by the French, and they then shewed how little attention they
were inclined to pay to religious restraints, which were at variance
with their interests and their pleasures: I allude to the shutting of
the theatres and the shops on Sunday. Perhaps, considering the nature of
their religion, and the long habit which had sanctioned the devoting of
this day to amusement, the measure was too hasty. Certain it is, that
neither this measure, nor the celebration of the death of Louis XVI. did
any good to the Bourbon cause. The last could not fail to awaken many
disagreeable feelings of remorse and of shame: It was a kind of
punishment to all who had in any way joined in that horrid event. At
Aix, the solemn ceremony was repeatedly interrupted by the noise of the
military. We remarked one man in particular, who continued laughing,
and beating his musket on the ground. On leaving the church, our
landlord told us, he was one of those who had led one of the Marseilles
bands at that time; and that there were in that small community, who had
assembled in church, more than five or six others of the same
description. How many of these men must there have been in all France
whose feelings, long laid asleep, were awakened by such a ceremony!


_ADMINISTRATION OF JUSTICE_.

NAPOLEON'S greatest ambition was to inter-meddle with everything in the
kingdom. With most of the changes which his restless spirit has
produced, the French have no great reason to be satisfied; but all
agree, that with regard to the administration of justice, and the
courts, for the trial of civil suits in France, the alterations which he
has introduced, have been ultimately of essential benefit to the
country. Previous to his accession to the government, the sources of
equity were universally contaminated, and the influence of corruption
most deeply felt in every part of the constitution of their courts. On
the accession of Napoleon to the throne, the most respectable and able
men among the judges and magistrates were continued in their
appointments, and the vacancies, occasioned by the dismission of those
found guilty of corruption, (many of whom had, during the confusions of
the revolution, actually seized their situations), were supplied, in
frequent instances, by those of the older nobility, whose characters and
principles were known and respected. In addition to this, the civil and
the criminal codes were both carefully revised. In this revisal, the
greatest legal talents in the nation were employed. The laws of
different nations, more particularly of England, were brought to
contribute in the formation of a new code; and by a compilation from the
Roman, the French and the English law, a new institute, or body of civil
and criminal justice, was formed, intended for the regulation of the
whole kingdom. Previous to this change, it must be observed, that the
laws, in the different provinces of the kingdom, were in some measure
formed _upon_, and always interwoven _with_, the particular observances
and customs of their respective provinces; the inevitable consequence
was, that every province, possessing different usages, had also a
different code. [44]"La bizarrerie des loix," says Mercier, "et la
varieté des coutumes font que l'avocat le plus savant devient un ignore
des qu'il se trouve en Gasgogne, ou en Normandie. Il perd a Vernon, un
procés qu'il avoit gagné a Poissy. Prenez le plus habile pour la
consultation, et la plaidoyerie, eh bien, il sera obligé d'avoir son
avocat et son procureur, si on lui intente un proces dans le resort de
la plupart des autres parlemens." The consequence of this was an
uncertainty, intricacy, and want of any thing like regulating principles
in the laws, and an incoherency and inconsistency in the administration
of both civil and criminal justice.

The improvements introduced by the late Emperor, have therefore,
considered under this point of view, been of no common benefit to the
kingdom, as they have given, to some measure, certainty, principle and
consistency, the essential attributes of good laws, to what was
formerly a mass of confusion.

At Aix, where we resided, the head court is held for four provinces, and
there is a college for the study of law and divinity. Most of the
acquaintances I there formed were gentlemen belonging to the law; many
of them had been liberally educated, were men of talents, and some of
them possessed acquirements which would have done honour to any bar. The
opinion of all these was strongly in favour of the new codes; and they
go so far as to say, that when the matter comes under consideration,
there are very few things which the present government will change, and
very few judges who will lose their situations.

They allowed, however, that latterly, Napoleon had forgotten his usual
moderation, and, incensed against the importation of foreign
merchandise, had instituted a court, and formed a new and most rigorous
code for the trial of all cases of smuggling and contraband trade. But
fortunately for the people, this court had scarcely commenced its severe
inflictions, when the deposition of Napoleon, and the subsequent peace
with England, rendered its continuance unnecessary. The punishments
awarded by this court, were, in their rigour, infinitely more terrible
than that of any other in Europe. There was not the slightest
proportionment of the punishment to the offence. For the sale of the
smallest proportion of contraband goods, the unfortunate culprit was
condemned immediately to eight or ten years labour amongst the
galley-slaves. For the weightier offences, the importation of larger
quantities of forbidden goods, perpetual labour, and even death, were
not unfrequently pronounced.

I was informed, that when Napoleon commanded the Senate to pass the
decree for the institution of this court, one of the members asked him,
if he believed he would find Frenchmen capable of executing his orders,
and enforcing such laws? His answer was, "my salaries will soon find
judges;" and the consequence of this determination, upon his part, was,
that while he paid the judges of the other tribunals at Aix by a
miserable annuity of one hundred and fifty pounds, and two hundred
pounds, the judges of the court of contraband were ordered to receive
seven hundred pounds and eight hundred pounds. Napoleon was perfectly
right in his opinion; that such was the want of honour and principle,
and such the excessive poverty of France, that these salaries would soon
find judges. I have heard from unquestionable authority, that, for the
last vacancy which was filled up in that court, there were ten
candidates.

The court-room, in which this law tribunal was held, is now occupied by
a society of musical amateurs, and a concert was given there, during our
stay at Aix, once every week. One of the lawyers, in talking of this
court, informed me, that in that very room, where the judges of the
court of contraband sat, he had played in comedy and tragedy, pleaded
causes, had taken his part in concerts, and danced at balls, under its
several revolutions, its different political phases of a theatre, a
court of justice, a concert and a ball-room. Exactly similar to this was
the fate of the churches, palaces, and the houses of individuals under
Napoleon, which were alternately barracks, hospitals, stables, courts of
justice, _caffés, restaurats_, &c.

The penal code of the late Emperor breathes throughout a spirit of
humanity, which must astonish every one acquainted with his character.
The punishment of death, which, according to Blackstone, may be
inflicted by the English law in one hundred and sixty different
offences, is now in France confined to the very highest crimes only; the
number of which does not exceed twelve. A minute attention has been
paid to the different degrees of guilt in the commission of the same
crime; and according to these, the punishments are as accurately
proportioned as the cases will permit. One species of capital punishment
has been ordained instead of that multitude of cruel and barbarous
deaths which were marshalled in terrible array along the columns of the
former code. This punishment is decapitation. The only exception to this
is in the case of parricide, in which, previous to decapitation, the
right hand is cut off; and in the punishment for high-treason, in which
the prisoner is made to walk barefoot, and with a crape veil over his
head to the scaffold, where he is beheaded. Torture was abolished by
Louis XVI., and has never afterwards been resumed.

After Napoleon had it in view to form a new code for France, he was at
great pains to collect together the most upright and honourable, as well
as the most able amongst the French lawyers; the principal members of
whom were Tronchet, one of the counsel who spoke boldly and openly in
defence of the unfortunate Louis XVI., Portalis, Malville, and Bigot de
Preameneau. Under such superintendance, the work was finished in a short
time.

The trial by jury has been for some time established in France; but the
Emperor, dreading that so admirable an institution, if managed with an
impartial hand might, in too serious a manner, impose restraint upon his
individual despotism, took particular care to subject those crimes,
which he dreaded might arise out of the feelings of the public, to the
cognisance of special tribunals. All trials originating out of the
conscription, are placed under the care of a special court, composed of
a certain number of the criminal judges and military officers. In
France, there is no grand jury; but its place is supplied by that which
they have denominated the _Juré d'Accusation_. This is a court composed
of a few members amongst the civil judges, assisted by the
Procureur-General or Attorney-General. Their juries for the trial of
criminals are selected from much higher classes in society than with us
in England; a circumstance the effect of absolute necessity, owing to
the extreme ignorance of the middling ranks and the lower classes. In
the conducting of criminal trials, the manner of procedure is in a great
measure different from our English form. A criminal, when first
apprehended, is carried, before the magistrate of the town, generally
the Mayor. He there undergoes repeated examinations; all the witnesses,
are summoned and examined, in a manner similar to the precognitions
taken before the Sheriff of Scotland, and the whole process is nearly as
tedious as upon the trial. All the papers and declarations are then sent
with the accused, to the _Juré d'Accusation_, who also thoroughly
examine the prisoner and the witnesses; if grounds are found for the
trial, the papers are immediately laid before the "_Cour d'Assize_."
Before this court, the prisoner is again specially examined by its
president. His former declarations are compared and confronted with his
present answers, and the strongest evidence against him, is often in
this manner extracted from his own story. It might certainly be
imagined, that with all these precautions, it would be scarcely possible
that the guilty should escape. The very contrary is the case, and I have
been informed by some of the ablest lawyers in the courts here, that out
of ten prisoners, really guilty, six haves good chance of getting clear
off. They ascribe this to two principal causes, 1st, That the
proceedings become so extremely tedious and intricate, that it is
impossible for the jury to keep them all in their recollection, and
that, forgetting the general tenor of the evidence, they suffer the
last impressions, those made by the counsel for the prisoner, to bias
their judgment, and to regulate their verdict. In the 2d place, It is
customary for the president of the court to enter into a long
examination and cross-examination of the prisoner, (assisted and
prompted in his questions by the rest of the judges), in a severe and
peremptory style, and what is too often the case with the judge, in his
anxiety to condemn, to identify himself with the public prosecutor. He
appears, in the eye of the jury, more in the light of an interested
individual, anxious to drag the offender in the most summary manner to
the punishment of the law, than as an upright and unbiassed judge, whose
duty it is coolly to consider the whole case, to weigh the evidence of
the respective witnesses, to consider, with benevolent attention, the
defence of the prisoner, and, after all this, to pronounce, with
authoritative impartiality, the sentence of the law. This naturally
prejudices the jury in favour of the prisoner; and few, even in our own
country, who may have been witness to the common routine of our criminal
procedure, will not themselves have felt that immediate and irresistible
impression, which is made upon the mind of the spectator, when he sees
on one side the solemn array of the court, the judges, the officers, and
all the terrible show of justice; and on the other, the trembling,
solitary, unbefriended criminal, who awaits in silence the sentence of
the law. One difference, however, between the effects produced by the
respective criminal codes of France and England, ought to be here
remarked. In England, owing to the principles and practice of our
criminal law, it too frequently happens, that the most open and
notorious criminals escape, whilst the less able, but more innocent
offenders, those who might be easily reclaimed, who have gone little way
in the road of crime, but who are less able to do themselves justice at
their trial, fall an easy sacrifice to the rigour of our criminal code.
In France, owing to the custom of the cross-examinations of the
prisoner, by the president and the different judges, this can never
happen. The notoriety of his character prevents the common feelings of
compassion in the breasts of the jury; the severity of the
interrogations renders it impossible that any fictitious story, when
confronted with his former examinations before the magistrate and the
_Juré d'Accusation_, can long hold together, and he is, in this manner,
generally convicted by the evidence extracted from his own mouth upon
the trial.

The present style of French pleading is exactly what we might be led to
expect from the peculiar state of manners, and the particular character
of that singular people. It is infinitely further removed from dry legal
ratiocination, and much more allied to real eloquence, than any thing we
met with in England. Any one who is acquainted with the natural inborn
fluency in conversation of every individual whom he meets in France, may
be able to form some idea of the astonishing command of words in a set
of men who are bred to public speaking. One bad effect arises from this,
which is, that if the counsel is not a man of ability, this amazing
volubility, which is found equally in all, serves more to weaken than to
convince; for the little sense there may be, is spread over so wide a
surface, or is diluted with such a dose of verbiage, that the whole
becomes tasteless and insipid to the last degree. But this fluency, on
the other hand, in the hands of a man of talents and genius, is a most
powerful weapon. It hurries you along with a velocity which, from its
very rapidity, is delightful; and where it cannot convince, it amuses,
fascinates, and overpowers you.

One thing struck me as remarkable in the French form of trial, which
perhaps might be with benefit adopted by England. All exceptions and
challenges to jurymen are made in private, and not, as with us, in open
court. This is a more delicate method, and no man's character can suffer
(as is sometimes the case in England) by being rejected. The trial by
jury is very far from being popular in France; indeed, upon an average I
have heard more voices against it than advocates for its continuance.
The great cause for this dissatisfaction is that which leads to various
other calamitous consequences in that kingdom,--the want of public
spirit in France.--The French have literally no idea of any duties which
they must voluntarily, without the prospect of reward, undertake for
their country. It never enters their heads that a man may be responsible
for the neglect of those public duties, for the performance of which he
receives no regular salary.--There is a constant connection in their
minds, between business and payment, between money and obligation: and
as for that noble and patriotic spirit which will undergo any labour
from a disinterested sense of public duty, it is long since any such
feeling has existed, and it will probably, if things continue in their
present state, be long before it will exist again in France.

It might be imagined, from the advantages in the administration of
criminal justice, that France was in this respect equal, if not superior
to Britain.--This, however, is by no means the case. The written
criminal code of France is indeed apparently more humane, and the civil
code less intricate and voluminous than with us in England. But there is
a wide and striking difference between this code, drawn up with all the
luminousness of speculative benevolence, and the manner in which the
same code is carried into execution: What signifies the purity of the
code, if the executive part of the system, the nomination of the judges,
the direction of the sentences, and the reversal of the whole
proceedings, was submitted to the power, and constituted part of the
iron prerogative, of a despotic Sovereign. It was the constant practice
of the late Emperor to appoint, whenever it was necessary for the
accomplishment of his own ends, what he denominated a COUR PREVOITALE--a
species of court consisting of judges of his own selection, who, with
summary procedure, condemned or acquitted, according to the pleasure of
its master. Not only was this court erected, which was in every respect
under the controul of the Emperor, but by means of his police
emissaries, of those pensioned spies whom he insinuated into all the
offices, and the remotest branches of the political administration, he
contrived to overawe the different judges, to keep them in perpetual
fear of the loss of their official situation, and in this manner to beat
down the evidence, to bias the sentence, and finally, to direct the
verdict. The judicial situations became latterly so completely under the
influence of the creatures of the Court, that I was informed by the
lawyers, that no judge was sure of remaining for two months in his
official situation.

Upon the important subject of criminal delinquency, I am sorry to say
the only information I contrived to collect was extremely
unsatisfactory. I had been promised, by an intelligent barrister, with
whom I had the good fortune to become acquainted, a detailed opinion
upon the state of criminal delinquency in France; but in the meantime
Napoleon landed from Elba, and my friend was called away from his civil
duties to join the national guard, who were marched, when it was too
late, in pursuit of Bonaparte.

From the calendar of crimes, however, which I had the opportunity of
examining at the Aix assizes, as well as from the decided opinion of
many of the lawyers there, I should be induced to hazard the opinion,
that the crimes of robbery, burglary, and murder, are infinitely less
frequent than in England. The great cause of this is undoubtedly to be
attributed to the excellence of their police. Wherever such a preventive
as the system of Espionage, and that carried to the perfection which we
find it possessing in that country, exists, it is impossible that the
greater crimes should be found to any alarming decree. There is a power,
a vigour and an omnipresence in this effective police, which can check
every criminal excess before it has attained any thing like a general or
rooted influence throughout the kingdom; and its power, under the
administration of Napoleon, was exerted to an excessive degree in
France. Such a mode, however, of diminishing the catalogue of crimes,
could exist only under a state of things which the inhabitants of a free
country would not suffer for a moment; and indeed, to anyone possessing
but the faintest idea of what liberty is, there is something in the idea
of a system of espionage which is dreadful. It is like some of those
dark and gigantic dæmons, embodied by the genius of fiction, the form of
which you cannot trace, although you feel its presence, which stalks
about enveloped in congenial gloom, and whose iron grasp falls upon you
the more terrible, because it is unsuspected. Fortunately such a monster
can never be met with in a free country. It shuns the pure, and
untainted atmosphere of liberty, and its lungs will only play with
freedom in the foul and thick air of a decided despotism.

The effects of this system of espionage, in destroying every thing upon
which individual happiness in society depends; the free and unrestrained
communication of opinion between friends, and even the confidence of
domestic society, can hardly be conceived by any one who has lived in a
free country. Upon this subject, I had an opportunity of conversing with
a most respectable and intelligent British merchant, who, previous to
the revolution, had been a partner in a banking-house in the French
metropolis; and afterwards had the misfortune of being kept a prisoner
in Paris for the last twelve years. The accounts he gave us regarding
the excessive rigour of the police, and the jealousy of every thing like
intercourse, were truly terrible. It had become a maxim in Paris, an
axiom whose truth was proved by the general practice and conduct of its
inhabitants, to believe every third person a spy. Any matter of moment,
any thing bordering upon confidential communication, was alone to be
trusted _entre quatre yeux_. The servants in every family, it was well
known, were universally in the pay of government. They could not be
hired till they produced their licenses, and these licenses, to serve as
domestics, they all procured from the office of the police. From that
office their wages were as certain, and probably (if the information
they conveyed was of importance), more regularly paid than those they
received from their masters. Even, therefore, in the most secret
retirement of your own family, you could never speak with perfect
freedom. Mr B----, the gentleman above mentioned, informed me, that
before he dared to mention, even to his wife or family, any subject
connected with the affairs of the day, or when they wished to speak
freely and unrestrainedly upon any point whatever, every corner of the
room was first examined, the chinks of the doors, and the walls of the
adjoining apartments underwent a similar scrutiny; and even then they
did not dare to introduce any subject which was nearly connected with
the political government of the country.

A lawyer, who lived upon the same floor with this gentleman, was
astonished, one morning, by the entry of the police officers into his
room at four in the morning, without the slightest previous warning.
They pulled him out of bed--hurried him away to the police office, kept
him in strict custody for several days, seized all his papers; and
having at last discovered that their suspicions were ill-founded, and
that he had been secured upon erroneous information, he was brought back
to his lodgings by the same hands, and in the same summary manner in
which he had been removed; and he is to this day ignorant of the cause
of his detention, or the nature of the offence of which he had been
suspected.

Amongst the few English who, along with Mr B. were detained in Paris, it
was naturally to be expected, that the precautions taken to deceive the
police, and to prevent the suspicion of any secret intercourse, were
still more severe and rigorous than were used by the native French. As
the subjects of this country, they naturally became the objects of
continual suspicion, and were more strictly watched than any other
persons. They contrived, however, to procure, although at distant
intervals, the sight of an English newspaper. Nine or ten months
frequently elapsed without their receiving any intelligence from
England. When they had the good fortune to procure one, the precautions
necessary to be adopted were hardly to be believed. The same gentleman
informed me, that upon receiving an English paper, he did not venture to
mention the circumstance even to his wife and children, lest, in their
joy, some incautious words might have escaped from them before the
servants of the family, in which case, detection would have been
immediate, and imprisonment inevitable. Keeping it, therefore, entirely
to himself, he concealed it from every eye during the day, and at night,
after the family had gone to bed, he sat up, lighted his taper, and,
when every thing was still and silent about him, ventured, only then, to
read over the paper, and to get by heart the most important parts of the
intelligence regarding England; and he afterwards transmitted the
invaluable present to some secret friend, who, in the same manner, dared
only to peruse it at midnight, and with the same precautions.

A very sensible distinction has been made in the French code, in the
difference of punishment which is inflicted upon robbery, when it has or
has not been accompanied by murder; and the consequence of such
distinction is, that in that country the most determined robberies are
seldom, as they often are with us, accompanied with murder; whilst the
accurate proportionment of punishment to the crimes, encourages persons
possessing information to come forward, and removes those natural
scruples which all must feel, when they reflect that they may be the
chief instruments in bringing down a capital penalty upon the head of an
individual, whose trivial offence was in no respect deserving of this
last and severest punishment of the law.

The crime of which I heard most frequently, and of which the common
occurrence may be traced to the miserable condition to which trade and
commerce were, during the last few years, reduced in France, and to that
general laxity of moral conduct which even now distinguishes that
country, was _Fraudulent Bankruptcy_. The merchant, no longer possessing
the means of making his fortune by fair speculation, has recourse to
this nefarious mode of bettering his condition. He settles with his
creditors for a small per centage; disposes of his property by
fictitious sales, _ventes simulees_, and thus enriches himself upon the
ruin of his creditors. At a small town in the south of France, where I
for sometime resided, there were several individuals, who, it was well
known, had made their fortunes in this manner; and at Marseilles it
had, as I understood, become in some measure a common practice. The
crime is seldom discovered, attended at least with those circumstances
of corroborative evidence which are necessary in bringing it to trial.
Upon detection, accompanied by complete proof, the punishment is severe.
It consists in being condemned for fourteen years, or for life, to the
galleys, and in branding the delinquent with letters denoting his crime:
_B F_ for Fraudulent Bankruptcy. At one of the trials of the Aix
assizes, at which I was present, a young man of excellent family, son of
the Chevalier de St Louis, was convicted of this crime, and although it
was proved that he had been deceived by his partner, a man of decidedly
bad character, but possessed of deep cunning, he was condemned for
fourteen years to the galleys: Owing to a flaw in the process, the
sentence was set aside by the Cour de Cassation, or Supreme Court of
Appeal at Paris, and a new trial was ordered.

From the same cause, which I have mentioned above, the perfection of
their police, petty theft is not of such common occurrence in France as
in England. The country, in short, at the time when we passed through
it, was very quiet, and few crimes were committed; but on the
disbanding of the troops, a great change may be expected. These restless
creatures must find work, or they will make it for themselves. It is a
hard question how the un-warlike Louis is to employ them. Many talk of
the necessity of sending an immense force to St Domingo; and it would
appear wise policy to devise some expedition of this nature, which would
swallow up the restless, the profligate, and the abandoned.

It is not our intention, nor indeed would the limits of our work permit,
of entering into the question of what ought to be the conduct of the
King. But there is another question, from answering which we can
scarcely escape.

Are the majority of the French nation well affected to the Bourbons?
This is a question which is put to every person who returns from France.
It is a natural, a most important, but a most difficult one to answer. I
endeavoured, by every method in my power, by a communication with those
gentlemen of the province where I resided, whose characters and
situations entitled them to implicit credit; by endeavouring to satisfy
myself as to the real sentiments of the peasantry, and by a perusal of
those documents regarding the state of the country, which were believed
the most authentic, to acquire upon this subject something like
satisfactory information. As to the sentiments entertained at present by
the generality of the French people upon this subject, I cannot speak,
but with regard to the period which I passed in France, which began in
November 1814, and ended at the time of the landing of Napoleon from
Elba, I have no hesitation in declaring, that it appeared to me, that
the majority of the French nation were at that time hostile to the
interests of the Bourbons. On the other hand, in consulting the same
sources of information as I have above enumerated, it was as evident
that they are not generally favourable to the restoration of the
Imperial Government under Napoleon. What appeared at that period to be
the general desire of the nation, was the establishment of a new
constitution, formed upon those principles, embracing those new
interests, and compatible with that new state of things which had been
created by the revolution. It was on this account that they favoured
Napoleon.

The situation of France then exhibited perhaps one of the most singular
pictures ever presented to view by a civilized nation; a people without
exterior commerce, and whose interior trade and manufactures, except in
some favourite spots, was almost annihilated; whose youth was yearly
drained off to supply the army, but whose agriculture has been
constantly improving, which, for the last twelve years, had been
subjected to all the complicated horrors of a state of war, but which,
after all this, could yet earnestly desire a continuance of this state.
A nation where there was scarcely to be found an intermediate rank
between the Sovereign and the peasantry--for since the destruction of
the _ancienne noblesse_, and more particularly, since all ranks have
been admitted to a participation in the dignities conferred on the
military, all have become equally aspiring, and all consider themselves
upon the same level:--A nation where, notwithstanding the division into
parties, possessing the most opposite interests and opinions, and
pulling every different way, the greater part certainly desired a
government similar to Napoleon's, and would even unite to obtain it:--A
nation who talked of nothing but liberty, and yet suffered themselves to
be subjected to the conscription, to the loss of their trade, to the
severest taxes, the greatest personal deprivations, and the most
complete restraint in the expression of their opinions--to the continued
extortions of a military chief, the most despotic who ever reigned in a
European country, and whose acts of oppression are truly Asiatic; and
who tamely bore all this oppression, supported by their national vanity,
because they wish to bear the name _of the great people_: Great, because
their ambition is unbounded; great as a nation of rapacious and
blood-thirsty soldiers; great in every species of immorality and vice!
Who, led away by this miserable vanity, have been false to their oaths,
so recently pledged to a mild and virtuous prince, very unfit to rule
such a race of villains, because he is mild and virtuous.

But it is not generally believed, that the majority in France favoured
Napoleon, though it is but a natural consequence of the state of the
country; I shall therefore enumerate the divisions of ranks, and the
sentiments of each.--All allow that the army were his friends; on that
subject, therefore, I shall say nothing.--Next to the army, let us look
to the civil authorities.--All these were in his favour--all that part
of the civil authorities at least, who have the immediate management of
the people.--It is in vain that the heads of office in Paris, the
miserable bodies styled the Chambers of Parliament and the Counsellors
of the realm, were favourably inclined towards the King.--Napoleon well
knew that these were not the men who rule France.--France, as an entire
kingdom, may be said to be governed by these men; but France,
subdivided, is governed by the prefects, and the gens-d'armes of
Napoleon.--Not a man of these was displaced by the King, and although
they were all furious in their proclamations against the usurper, they,
with few exceptions, joined him, and these few exceptions were removed
by him.--The most powerful men in France under Napoleon were these
prefects and gens-d'armes, and knowing their power, he was always
cautious in their selection; wherever he conceived that they really
favoured the Bourbon interest, he removed them.

Next, the whole class of Receveurs were his devoted friends.--These men
were all continued in place under the un-warlike reign of Louis, but
where no conscription and no droits reunis were to be enforced, they had
poverty staring them in the face.--Is it unnatural that they should
favour him whose government enriches them?

To the shadows of nobility, to the ghost of aristocracy which had
re-appeared under the King, no power or influence can be
attributed,--they dared not think, and could not act.

The better classes of the inhabitants of the cities, whether the traders
and manufacturers, or the bourgeoise of France, are those who were the
most decided enemies of Bonaparte: but let us look how their arm is
weakened and palsied by the situation of their property.--They have many
of them purchased the lands of the emigrants at very low prices, and, in
many instances, from persons who could only bestow possession without
legal tenure.--These feel uneasy in their new possessions; they dread
the ascendancy which the nobility might still obtain under their lawful
Sovereign: Napoleon came proclaiming to them that he would maintain them
in their properties. Nor were all the traders and manufacturers his
enemies.--He encouraged the trade of Lyons, for example, of Paris, of
Rouen, and other interior towns, and he pitted these interior towns
against the sea-ports of Bourdeaux, Marseilles, &c. Thus, even with
commercial men, he had some friends.--And here, in mentioning Paris, I
must observe, that the most slavish deference is paid by the whole of
France to the opinions, as well as the fashions, which prevail at the
capital. From the encouragement which he offered to its interior trade,
from the grand works which he was constantly carrying on, affording
labour to the idle rabble; from the magnificent _spectacles_ supplied by
his reviews, fetes, and festivities, and most of all, from the
celebrated system of gulling and stage-trick, practised by his police,
and through the medium of the press--From all these circumstances, it
arises, that Napoleon was no where so much beloved as at Paris; and
Napoleon took good care that Paris afforded to all France an example
such as he would wish them to follow.--It is difficult to say why the
French should tamely follow the example of their despot; but they forgot
that he was a despot, and they were not singular as a nation in
following the example _of their chief_, though, perhaps, they carried
their obedience to a more slavish pitch than any other people.--"En
France (says Mons. Montesquieu) il en est des manieres et de la facon de
vivre, comme des modes, les Français changent des meurs selon l'age de
leur Roi,--Le Monarque pouvait meme parvenir a rendre la nation grave
s'il l'avait entrepris."

Next in rank, though, from their numbers and influence, perhaps, after
the army, the most powerful body in the community, the situation of the
peasants must be considered. They had either seized upon, or purchased,
at a low rate, the lands of the emigrants, and the national domains;
these they had brought into the best state of cultivation; without the
interference of any one, they directly drew the profits. The oppression
in agriculture, which existed before the revolution, whether from the
authority of the Seigneurs, from the corvees, from tythes, game laws,
&c. all are done away--become rich and flourishing, they are able to pay
the taxes, which, under Napoleon, were not so severe as is generally
supposed.--But they had every thing to fear from the return of the
noblesse, and from the re-establishment of the ranks and order which
must exist under the new constitution of France. Can it then be
considered that the peasantry should see their own interest in
maintaining the revolutionary order of things? The more unjust their
tenure, the more cause have they to fear; and unenlightened as many of
them are, their fears once raised, will not easily be controlled.
Napoleon had most politically excited alarm among them, and they are
favourably inclined towards him. This powerful body have no leaders to
direct them: The respectable and wealthy farmer, possessing great landed
property; the yeoman, the country gentleman,--all these ranks are
abolished. Where the views of the Sovereign are inimical to the
peasantry, as was imagined under Louis XVIII. that body will powerfully
resist him; where they were in concert, as under Napoleon, that body
became his chief support next to his military force.

It is not enough that Louis XVIII. had never invaded their property--it
is not enough that in different shapes he issued proclamations, and
assurances, that he had no such intentions,--the peasantry felt
insecure; and they dreaded the influence of his counsellors, and of the
noblesse. The low rabble of France, at all times restless, and desirous
of change, were favourable to Napoleon;--they wished for a continuance
of that thoughtless dissipation, and dreadful immorality, which he
encouraged; they wished for employment in his public works,--they looked
for situations in his army.

It may then be said, that among all ranks Napoleon had friends. Who then
were against him? All those who wished for peace: all those who desired
the re-establishment of the church: all those who had the cause of
morality and virtue at heart--all the good,--but, alas! in France, they
were few in number.

I have only enumerated the great and leading parties in the community.
It was my intention to have touched on the sentiments of the different
professions, but I have been already too tedious; I shall here only
enumerate a few of the classes, who, as they are thrown out of bread by
the return of the Bourbons, and the new system of government, will be
ever busily employed in favouring a despotic and military government, a
continuance of war, and of a conscription.

1st, All the prefects, collectors of taxes, and their agents, who were
employed in the countries subjected to Napoleon.

2d, The many officers, and under agents, employed in the conscription,
and in collecting the droits reunis.

3d, The police emissaries of all ranks, forming that enormous mass who
conducted the grand machine of espionage, directed the _public spirit_,
and supplied information to the late Emperor.

4th, All the rich and wealthy army contractors, furnishers, &c. &c.

Having attempted to shew that the situation of the people in France was
highly favourable to the views of the usurper, let me now observe, that
there are other circumstances which greatly aided his cause.

1st, The vanity of the nation was hurt: they had not forgotten their
defeat by the allies, and the proceedings of Congress, in confining
within narrow bounds, that nation, who, but a year ago, gave laws to the
continent, had tended to aggravate their feelings. It is difficult for
any nation to shrink at once into insignificance, from the possession of
unlimited power; it is impossible for France to maintain an inglorious
peace.

2d, The spirit of the nation had become completely military. One year of
peace cannot be supposed to have done away the effects of twelve years
of victory.

3d, The general laxity of morals, and the habits of dissipation and
idleness, which have followed from the revolution, and have been taught
by the military, and especially by the disbanded soldiers, were
favourable to him.

4th, He came at the very time when his prisoners had returned from all
quarters of the globe; he came again to unite them under the _revered
eagle_, emblem of rapine and plunder, which they everywhere looked up
to; in short, if it had been suggested to any one, possessing a thorough
knowledge of the situation of France, to say at what time Napoleon was
most likely to succeed, he must have pitched on the moment selected by
him. There are indeed many circumstances which induce me to suppose,
that the plan for his restoration had been partly formed before he left
Fontainbleau; for it is well known, that he long hesitated--that he
often thought of making use of his remaining force, (a force of about
thirty thousand men), and fighting his way to Italy; that his Marshals
only prevailed on him, and that he yielded to their advice, when he
might have thought and acted for himself. The conduct of Ney favours the
supposition: he selected for him the spot, of all others, the most
favourable for his views, should they be directed to Italy; he
stipulated for his rank, for a guard of veterans; he is described as
using a boldness and insolence of speech to Napoleon, which he would not
have dared to use, had there not been an understanding between them. He
covered his treachery by a garb of the same nature, when in presence of
his lawful Sovereign: open in his abuse of the usurper, while laying
plans to join him.

There is a very peculiar circumstance in Bonaparte's character, which
is, that at times, he makes the most unguarded speeches, forgetful of
his own interest. Thus, when the national guard of Lyons begged
permission to accompany him on his march, he said to them, "You have
suffered the brother of your King to leave you unattended--go--you are
unworthy to follow me." Thus, when at Frejus, he said to the Mayor,--"I
am sorry that Frejus is in Provence; I hate Provence, but I have always
wished your town well; and, _ere long, I will be among you again_." This
speech, which I had from the Prefect of Aix, who was intimately attached
to Napoleon and his interests, I know to be authentic. In it, even the
place of his landing seemed to be determined. One thing is certain, that
the plan, if not commenced before his abdication, was, at all events,
begun immediately after; for a long time must have been necessary to
arrange matters in such a manner that he should not find the slightest
opposition in his march to Paris.

I have thus attempted to give my readers some account of the state of
France under Napoleon. From this account, hastily written, they will
draw their own conclusions. Mine, attached as I am to one party; knowing
little of politics, only interested as a Briton in the fate of my
country, are these:--That France decidedly wishes to live by war and
plunder--that France deserves no such government as that of the virtuous
Louis--that, till the soldiery are disbanded, and their leaders
punished, France can never be governed by the Bourbons:--that the
majority in the nation do not wish for Napoleon in particular, but for a
revolutionary government, and that we have no right of interference with
their choice: but that the propriety of our immediately engaging in war
could not be doubted, for our very existence as a nation depended on
such conduct--that we had the same right to attack Bonaparte, as we had
to attack a common robber, more particularly, if this robber had
repeatedly planned and devised the destruction of our property.

They will draw the happiest conclusions in favour of our own blessed
country, from a comparison with France--looking on that unhappy nation,
they will exclaim with me, in the beautiful words of La Harpe:
[45]"J'excuse et n'envie point ceux qui peuvent vivre comme s'ils
n'avoient ni souffert ni vu souffrir; mais qu'ils me pardonnent de ne
pouvoir les imiter. Ces jours d'une degradation entière et innouie de
la nature humaine sont sous mes yeux, pesent sur mon ame et retombent
sans cesse sous ma plume, destinée à les retraçer jusqu'à mon dernier
moment."[46]




CHAPTER V.

MODERN FRENCH CHARACTER AND MANNERS.


An Englishman never dreams of entering into conversation without some
previous knowledge upon the point which is the subject of discussion.
You will pass but few days in France before you will be convinced, that
to a Frenchman this is not at all necessary. The moment he enters the
room, or caffé, where a circle may happen to be conversing, he
immediately takes part in the discussion--of whatever nature, or upon
whatever subject that may be, is not of the most distant consequence to
him. He strikes in with the utmost self-assurance and adroitness,
maintains a prominent part in the conversation with the most perfect
plausibility; and although, from his want of accurate information, he
will rarely instruct, he seldom fails to amuse by the exuberance of his
fancy, and the rapidity of his elocution. But take any one of his
sentences to pieces, analyze it, strip it of its gaudy clothing and
fanciful decorations, and you will be astonished what skeletons of bare,
shallow, and spiritless ideas will frequently present themselves.

In England, it often happens, that a man who is perfectly master of the
subject in discussion, from the effect of shyness or embarrassment, will
convey his information with such an appearance of awkwardness and
hesitation, as to create a temporary suspicion of dulness, or of
incapacity. But upon further examination, the true and sterling value of
his remarks is easily discernible. The same can very seldom be said of a
Frenchman. His conversation, which delights at the moment, generally
fades upon recollection. The information of the first is like a
beautiful gem, whose real value is concealed by the encrustation with
which it is covered; the other is a dazzling but sorry paste in a
brilliant setting. [47]"Un Français," says M. de Stael, with great
truth, "scait encore parler, lors meme il n'a point d'idees;" and the
reason why a Frenchman can do so is, because ideas, which are the
essential requisites in conversation to any other man, are not so to
him. He is in possession of many substitutes, composed of a few of those
set phrases and accommodating sentences which fit into any subject; and
these, mixed up with appropriate nods, significant gestures, and above
all, with the characteristic shrugging of the shoulders, are ever ready
at hand when the tide of his ideas may happen to run shallow.

The perpetual cheerfulness of the French, under almost every situation,
is well known, and has been repeatedly remarked. One great secret by
which they contrive to preserve this invariable levity of mind, is
probably this extraordinary talent of theirs for a particular kind of
conversation. An Englishman, engaged in the business and duties of life,
even at his hours of relaxation, is occupied in thinking upon them. In
the midst of company he is often an insulated being; his mind, refusing
intercourse with those around him, retires within itself. In this manner
he inevitably becomes, even in his common hours, grave and serious, and
if under misfortunes, perhaps melancholy and morose. A Frenchman is in
every respect a different being: He cannot be grave or unhappy, because
he never allows himself time to become so. His mind is perpetually
busied with the affairs of the moment. If he is in company, he speaks,
without introduction, to every gentleman in the room. Any thing, the
most trivial, serves him for a hook on which to hang his story; and this
generally lasts as long as he has breath to carry him on. He recounts to
you, the first hour you meet with him, his whole individual history;
diverges into anecdotes about his relations, pulls out his watch, and
under the cover shews you the hair of his mistress, apostrophizes the
curl--opens his pocket-book, insists upon your reading his letters to
her, sings you the song which he composed when he was _au desespoir_ at
their parting, asks your opinion of it, then whirls off to a discussion
on the nature of love; leaves that the next moment to philosophize upon
friendship, compliments you, _en passant_, and claims you for his
friend; hopes that the connection will be perpetual, and concludes by
asking you _to do him the honour of telling him your name_. In this
manner he is perpetually occupied; he has a part to act which renders
serious thought unnecessary, and silence impossible. If he has been
unfortunate, he recounts his distresses, and in doing so, forgets them.
His mind never reposes for a moment upon itself; his secret is to keep
it in perpetual motion, and, like a shuttlecock, to whip it back and
forward with such rapidity, that although its feathers may have been
ruffled, and its gilding effaced by many hard blows, yet neither you nor
he have time to discover it.

Nothing can present a stronger contrast between the French and English
character, and nothing evinces more clearly the superiority of the
French in conversation, and the art of amusement, than the scenes which
take place in the interior of a French diligence. They who go to France
and travel in their own carriages are not aware of what they lose.--The
interior of a French diligence, if you are tolerably fortunate in your
company, is a perfect epitome of the French nation.--When you enter a
public coach in England, it is certainly very seldom that, in the course
of the few hours you may remain in it, you meet with an entertaining
companion. Chance, indeed, may now and then throw a pleasant man in your
way; but these are but thinly sown amongst those sour and silent
gentlemen, who are your general associates, and who, now and then eyeing
each other askance, look as if they could curse themselves for being
thrown into such involuntary contiguity.

The scene in a French diligence is the most different from all this that
can be conceived. Every thing there is life, and motion, and joy.--The
coach generally holds from ten to twelve persons, and even then is
sufficiently roomy.--The moment you enter you find yourself on terms of
the most perfect familiarity with the whole set of your travelling
companions. In an instant every tongue is at work, and every individual
bent upon making themselves happy for the moment, and contributing to
the happiness of their fellow travellers. Talking, joking, laughing,
singing, reciting,--every enjoyment which is light and pleasurable is
instantly adopted.--A gentleman takes a box from his pocket, opens it,
and with a look of the most finished politeness, presents it, full of
sweetmeats, to the different ladies in succession. One of these, in
gratitude for this attention, proposes that which she well knows will be
agreeable to the whole party, some species of round game like our
cross-purposes, involving forfeits. The proposal is carried by
acclamation,--the game is instantly begun, and every individual is
included: Woe be now to the aristocracy of the interior! Old and young,
honest and dishonest, respectable and disrespectable, all are involved
in undistinguished confusion--but all are content to be so, and happy in
the exchange. The game in the meantime proceeds, and the different
forfeits become more numerous. The generality of these ensure, indeed,
from their nature, a punctuality of performance. To kiss the handsomest
woman in the party, to pay her a compliment in some extempore effusion,
or to whisper a confidence (_faire une confidence_) in her ear--all
these are hardly enjoined before they are happily accomplished. But
others, which it would be difficult to particularize, are more amusing
in their consequences, and less easy, in their execution.

The ludicrous effect of this scene is much heightened by its being often
carried on in the dark, for night brings no cessation; and we have
ourselves, in travelling in this manner in the diligence, engaged in
many a game of forfeits where, it is not too much to say, that our
play-fellows, of both sexes, were certainly nearer to the grave than
the cradle, being somewhere between fifty and fourscore. The scenes
which then take place, the undistinguished clamours of young and old,
the audible salutes from every quarter, which point to the perpetual
succession of the forfeits, altogether compose a spectacle, which to a
stranger is the most unexpected and extraordinary that can be possibly
imagined.

The conversation of a Frenchman, who possesses wit and information, is
certainly superior to that of a clever man of any other country. It has
a variety and playfulness, which, upon subjects of taste or fancy, or
literature, delights and fascinates; but even their common conversation
upon the most trivial matters is of a superior order, as far as
amusement goes. However shallowly they may think upon a subject, they
never fail to express themselves well. This is the case equally with
those of both sexes. It is true, certainly, that in their subjects for
conversation, they indulge in a wider range of selection; and in
consequence, far more frequently without evincing the slightest scruple,
overstep the bounds of decorum and delicacy. This is the inevitable
effect of the peculiarity above noticed, that they must constantly
converse; as their appetite for conversation is inordinate, their taste
is necessarily less nice; provided they continue in motion, they are
careless about the ground over which they travel. One unhappy
consequence of this certainly is, that such carelessness extends to the
women, even amongst the highest and best bred classes; and that these
ideas of delicacy and tenderness, with which we are always accustomed to
regard, in this country, the female mind, are shocked and grated against
by the occurrence of scenes, the employment of expressions, and the
mention of books which tend rather to disgust than to amuse, and which
destroy in a moment that female fascination, which can never exist
without that first and most material ingredient, modesty.

The science of conversation in France, is not, as with us, confined
principally to the higher classes, but extends to the whole body of the
people. The reason is, that the lower ranks in that country invariably
imitate the manners, style of society, and mode of conversation used by
the higher orders. The lower ranks in England converse, no doubt; but
then their conversation, and the subjects upon which it is employed, is
exactly fitted to the rank they hold in society.

In speaking of the literature of France, we shall have occasion to
remark, that there is nothing in that country like an ancient or
national poetry. This is perhaps not so much to be attributed to the
excessive ignorance of the peasantry, as to the circumstance, that from
the French peasantry invariably imitating the manners of the higher
orders, there is no adaption of the manners of the labouring orders to
the simple rank they fill in society. The innocence of rural life is
thus lost. The shepherd, the peasant girl, the rustic labourer, whom you
meet in France, are all in some measure artificial beings. They express
themselves to any stranger they meet with ease and politeness, with a
point and a vivacity which is certainly striking; but which is, of all
things, the farthest removed from nature: and it is the consequence of
this interchange which has taken place,--this imitation of the manners
of the higher orders by the lower classes of the peasantry--that we
shall in vain look for any thing in France like a simple national
poetry. The truth, the simplicity, the nature, which ought to form it,
are not to be found amongst any classes of the French people. The poetry
of France, both ancient and modern, that of Ronsard and Marot, in
earlier days; and that of Boileau, Racine, Corneille and Voltaire, in
more modern times, bears the marks of having been formed in the court.
If, for instance, in Scotland, the lower ranks, the labouring classes,
like those of France, had transplanted the fictitious manners of the
higher classes into the innocence of their cottage, or the sequestered
solitude of their vallies--where, under such a state of things, could
there ever have arisen such gifted spirits as Burns, or Ramsay, or
Ferguson? and where should we have found, that truth, that beauty, that
genuine nature, in the lives and manners of our peasantry, which has not
only furnished such poets with some of their finest subjects, but has
instructed these peasants themselves to pour out, in unpremeditated
strains, those ancient and beautiful songs, which art and education
could never have taught them; and which, in the progress of time, have
formed that unrivalled national poetry, perhaps one of the brightest
gems in the diadem of Scottish genius. But we must return to France.

The French have been always celebrated for their natural gaiety of
character. One exception from this is material to be noticed. It must
strike you the moment you look into the countenances of the soldiery, or
examine the air and manner of the generality of the lower officers. A
dark and gloomy expression, if not a suspicious, and often savage
appearance, is their characteristic feature; and although this is
disguised by occasional sallies of loud and intemperate mirth, these
sallies are more like the desperate and reckless exertions of a troop of
banditti, than the temperate and unpremeditated cheerfulness of a
regular soldiery. Nor is this look confined entirely to the military.
The habits of the whole nation are changed; but yet, with all this
alteration, there remains enough of their characteristic gaiety to
distinguish them from every other people in Europe.

Their excessive frivolity is perhaps even more remarkable than their
gaiety; they have not sufficient steadiness for the uninterrupted
avocations of graver life. In the midst of the most serious or deep
discussion, a Frenchman will suddenly stop, and, with a look of perhaps
more solemn importance than he bestowed upon the subject of debate, will
adjust the ruffle of his brother savant, adding some observation on the
propriety of adorning the exterior as well as the interior of science.
[48]"Leur badinage," says Montesquieu, "naturellement fait pour las
toilettes, semble etre provenu a former le caractere general de la
nation. On badine au conseil, on badine a la tête d'une armee, on badine
avec un ambassadeur."

The vanity of the whole nation, it is well known, is without all bounds;
and although this is most apparent, perhaps, and less unequivocally
shewn in every point connected with military affairs, it is yet confined
to no one subject in particular, but embraces all--in arts, science,
manufactures; in every thing, indeed, upon which the spirit and genius
of a nation can be exercised, it is not too much to say, that they
believe themselves superior to every other nation or country. Nay, what
is very extraordinary, so much have they been accustomed to hear
themselves talk in this exaggerated style; so natural to them have now
become those expressions of arrogant superiority, that vanity has, in
its adoption into the French character, and in the effects which it
there produces, almost changed its nature.

In other countries--in our own, for instance, a very vain man is an
object of ridicule, and generally of distrust. In France he is neither;
on the contrary, there appears throughout the kingdom a kind of general
agreement, a species of silent understood compact amongst them, that
every thing asserted by one Frenchman to another, provided it is done
with sufficient confidence and coolness, however individually vain, or
absolutely incredible, ought to be fully and implicitly believed. It is
this excessive idea which the French instil into each other of their own
superiority, joined to the extreme ignorance of the great body of the
people, which composes that prominent feature in their national
character--_their credulity_--and which has long rendered them the
easiest of all nations to be imposed upon by political artifice, and the
submissive dupes of those travelling quacks and ingenious charlatans,
who in this country are more than commonly successful in ruining the
health and impoverishing the pockets of their devoted patients. An
instance of this occurs to me, which happened to myself when residing in
the south of France.

At one of the great fairs where I was present, there appeared upon an
elevated stage, an elderly and serious-looking gentleman, dressed in a
complete suit of solemn black, with a little child kneeling at his feet.
"Messieurs," said he to the multitude, and bowing with the most perfect
confidence and self-possession--[49]"Messieurs, c'est impossible de
tromper des gens instruits comme vous. Je vais absolument couper la tête
a cet-enfant: _Mais_ avant de commencer, il faut que je vous fasse voir
que je ne suis pas un charlatan. Eh bien, en attendant et pour un espece
d'exorde: Qui est entre vous qui à le mal au dent?" "Moi," exclaimed
instantly a sturdy looking peasant, opening his jaws, and disclosing a
row of grinders which might have defied a shark. "Monsieur, (said the
doctor, inspecting his gums), it is but too true. The disorders
attending these small but inestimable members, the teeth, are invariably
to be traced to a species of worm, and this the most obstinate, as well
as the most fatal species in the vermicular tribe, which contrives to
conceal itself at the root of the affected member. Gentlemen, we have
all our respective antipathies; and it is by means of these that the
most fatal and unaccountable effects are produced upon us. Worms,
gentlemen, have also their prevailing antipathies. To subdue the animal,
we have only to become acquainted with its disposition. The worm, Sir,
at the bottom of your tooth, is of that faculty or tribe which _abhors
copper_. It is the vermis halcomisicus, _or copper-hating worm_. Upon
placing this penknife in the solution contained in this bottle,"
(continued he, holding up a small phial, which contained a
green-coloured liquid), "it is, you see, immediately changed into
copper." The patient then, at the doctor's request, approached. A female
assistant stood between him and the crowd, and in a few minutes the
tooth was delivered of a worm, which, from its size, might certainly
have given the toothache to the Dragon of Wantley,

    "Who swallow'd the Mayor, asleep in his chair,
    And pick'd his teeth with the mace."

The peasant declared he felt no more pain, and the crowd eagerly pressed
forward, (with the exception, we may believe, of the coppersmiths
amongst the audience), and purchased the bottles containing this
invaluable prescription. Before I had left the party, I discovered that
the doctor, previously to the performing another trick, had borrowed
from the crowd a gold piece of twenty francs, two pieces of five francs,
a silver watch, and several smaller articles, nor did it appear they had
the slightest suspicion that the learned doctor might have changed these
articles as well as the penknife; and that although there were
copper-hating worms, there might exist other kinds of human vermin,
which might not reckon silver among their antipathies. This
characteristic vanity, and the excessive credulity of the people, were
strikingly exhibited in another ludicrous adventure of the same kind,
which happened to us when I was resident at Aix.

We were alarmed one morning by a loud flourish of trumpets, almost
immediately under our windows. On looking out, we beheld a kind of
triumphal car, preceded by six avant couriers, clothed in scarlet and
gold, mounted on uncommon fine horses, and with trumpets in their hands.
In the car was placed a complete band of musicians, and it was, after a
little interval in the procession, followed by a superb open carriage,
the outside front of which was entirely covered with rich crimson velvet
and gold lace. The most singular feature about the carriage was its
shape, for there projected from it in front, a kind of large magazine,
(covered up also with a cloth of velvet,) which was in its dimensions
larger than the carriage itself. In this open carriage sat a plain
looking, dark, fat man, reclining in an attitude of the most perfect
ease, and genteelly dressed. The whole cortege halted, in the course of
Aix, almost immediately below our house. I joined the audience which had
collected around it. Of course all was on the tiptoe of expectation.
There was a joyful buzz of satisfaction through the crowd, and endless
were the conjectures formed by our own party at the window. At length,
after a flourish of trumpets, the gentleman rose, and uncovering the
large magazine, showed that it contained an almost endless assemblage of
bottles, from the greatest to the smallest dimensions. He then,
advancing gravely, addressed himself to the audience in these words:
[50]"Messieurs, dans l'univers il n'ya qu'un soleil; dans le royaume de
France il n'ya qu'un Roi; dans la medicine il n'ya que Charini." With
this he placed his hand on his heart, bowed, and drew himself up with a
look of the most glorious complacency. This exordium was received with
the most rapturous applause by the crowd, who, from having often seen
him in his progress through the kingdom, had known before that this was
_Charini himself_, the celebrated itinerant _worm doctor_. "Gentlemen,"
he then proceeded, "it has been the noble object of my life to
investigate the origin and causes of disease, and fortunate is it for
the world that it has been so. Attend, then, to my discoveries: Worms
are at the bottom of all disease,--they are the insidious, but prolific
authors of human misery; they are born in the cradle with the infant;
they descend into the grave with the aged. They begin, gentlemen, with
life, but they do not cease with death. Behold, gentlemen," he
continued, "the living and infallible proofs of my assertions,"
(pointing to the long rows of crystal bottles, filled with multitudes of
every kind of these vermin, of the most odious figures, which were
marshalled in horrible array on each side of him), "these, gentlemen,
are the worms which have been, by my art, extracted from my patients;
many of them are, as you see, invisible to the naked eye;" upon which he
held up a small phial of pure water. "Not a single disease is there, and
not a single part of the human body which has not its appropriate and
peculiar worm. There are those whose habitation is in the head;--there
are those which dwell only in the soles of the feet;--there are those
whose favourite haunts are in the seat of digestion;--there are those
(happy worms) which will consent to dwell only in the bosoms of the
fair. Even love," said he, assuming an air of most complacent softness,
and casting his eye tenderly over the female part of his audience, "even
love is not an exception; it is occasioned by the subtlest species of
worms; which insinuate themselves into the roots of the heart, and play
in peristaltic gambols round the seat of our affections. Painters,
gentlemen, have distinguished the God of Love by the doves with which he
is accompanied. He ought, more correctly, to have been depicted riding
upon that worm, to which he owes his triumphs. Behold," said he, holding
up a phial in which there was enclosed a worm of a light colour, "behold
the fatal love-worm, from which I have lately had the happiness to
deliver an interesting female of Marseilles!" The crowd were enchanted,
purchased his bottles in abundance; and I heard afterwards in Aix, that
by this ingenious juggling, he had contrived to amass a fortune
sufficient to purchase a large estate, and to maintain, as we had
witnessed, a cavalcade worthy of an ambassador.

It is difficult to conceive any thing more ridiculous than the
characteristic vanity and scientific expressions, which are employed by
the French workmen. The wig-makers, tailors, barbers, all consider their
several trades as in some measure allied to science, and themselves as
the only beings who understand it.--This they generally contrive to
communicate to you with an air of mysterious importance. "Monsieur,"
said a French barber to a friend of mine, an English sea captain who
came in to be shaved; "you are an Englishman--sorry am I to inform you,
but I do it with profound respect, that the science of shaving is
altogether misunderstood in England. In their ignorance of its
principles, they have neglected the great secret of our art. Sir," said
he, coming closer up to him, and putting his hand to his own chin with
an air of solemn communication, "I am credibly informed that in England
they actually cut off the _epiderme_. Now, mon Dieu," continued he,
turning up his eyes, and raising his soap-brush in an attitude of
invocation, "who is there in France that will be ignorant that, in the
destruction of this invaluable cuticle, the chin of the individual is
tortured, and the first principles of our art degraded!"

I have already hinted at the ignorance of the French, as a component
part of their national credulity. This ignorance, as far as our
opportunities of observation extended, in travelling across France,
appeared to be deep and general; not only amongst the lower orders, but,
on many subjects, pervading also the higher classes of the people. The
only subjects upon which Napoleon considered that any thing like
attempts at a national education should be made, were those connected
with military affairs; mathematics, and the principles of mechanical
philosophy.--Schools for these were generally founded in all the
principal towns in the kingdom; it was there the younger officers of the
army received their military education, and there were many public
seminaries for public education, in addition to the Ecole Polytechnique
in Paris, where the pupils were maintained and educated at the public
expence. Every other branch of education, as tending to change the
direction of the public mind, from military affairs into more pacific
employments, was sedulously discouraged, and the consequence is seen, in
that melancholy ignorance which is distinguishable in those generations
of the French people which have sprung up since the revolution, and
frequently even amongst the old nobility.[51] "Vous etes Ecossois?" said
a French nobleman to me; 'Oui, Monsieur.' "Oh, que cela est drole." 'Et
comment, Monsieur?' "C'est le pays de Napoleon. C'est un isle n'est ce
pas?" 'Oh que non, Monsieur.' "Ma foi, je croyois qu'on l'appelloit
_l'isle de Corse_." Whether, in the geographical confusion of this poor
Marquis's brain, he had mistaken me for a Corsican, or actually believed
that Napoleon was a Scotchman, is not very easy to determine.

"You are an Englishwoman?" said the wife of a counsellor to one of the
ladies of our party: "and I have been at London."--"And how did you like
the people?" "Oh, they are very charmant; _bot_ I like better that other
town near London,--Philadelphia."

It is well known, that formerly in France the order of the Jesuits had
acquired so pre-eminent an interest, as to insinuate themselves into
almost every civil branch of the political government; and that, more
especially, by the seminaries which they established generally
throughout the kingdom, they had created a system of national education,
in many respects highly beneficial to the community. As to the effects
produced by this system, under the Jesuits, on the literature of France,
very different opinions certainly may be entertained; and that
artificial, and in many respects unnatural, style of poetry which has
arisen, and still continues in France, may be perhaps attributed,
amongst other causes, to that excessive passion for classical learning
which was so religiously instilled, whereever the influence of these
seminaries of the Jesuits extended. The utter abolition of this order is
well known, and the consequence is, that where there existed formerly a
general passion for that species of literature, which they cultivated,
and which consisted in an intimate and critical knowledge of the
languages of antiquity, and a taste for classical learning, as the only
object of their imitation, there remains now nothing but a deep and
general ignorance upon every object unconnected with military affairs;
an ignorance which is the more fatal in its consequences, because it is
founded upon contempt. It is difficult to say which of these conditions
is the worst, the former or the latter. Among physicians and lawyers,
however, you meet with many individuals, who, having been educated
probably in foreign countries, or under the old _regime_, preserve still
a passion for that which is so generally despised.

In speaking of the education of the French people, it is impossible for
any one who has at all mingled in French society, not to be particularly
struck with what I before alluded to, the extreme ignorance and the
limited education of the women, even amongst the higher orders. In a
family of young ladies, you will but rarely meet with one who can
accurately write her own language; and in general, in their cards of
invitation, or in those letters of ceremony, which you will frequently
receive, they will send you specimens of orthography, which, in their
defiance of every established rule, are as amusing as Mrs Win. Jenkins'
observations on that grave and useful gentleman, _Mr Apias Corkus_.
Amongst the boys, any thing like a finished education was as little to
be expected; the _furor militaris_ had latterly, in the public schools,
proceeded to such a pitch, as to defy every attempt towards giving them
a general, or in any respect a finished education. They steadily
revolted against any thing which induced them to believe that their
parents intended them for a pacific profession. Go into a French
toy-shop, and you immediately discern the unambiguous symptoms of the
military mania. Every thing there which might encourage in the infant
any predilections for the pacific pursuits of an agricultural or
commercial country, is religiously banished, and their places supplied
by an infinite variety of military toys:--platoons of gens-d'armerie,
troops of artillery, tents, waggons, camp equipage, all are arranged in
imitative array upon the counter. The infant of the _grande_ nation
becomes familiar, in his nurse's arms, with all the detail of the
profession to which he is hereafter to belong; and when he opens his
eyes for the first time, it is to rest them upon that terrible machinery
of war, in the midst of which he is destined to close them for ever.

In every country, and in every age of the world, the great and leading
effects of tyranny, and of military despotism, will be discovered to
have been the same. Nothing could be a stronger corroboration of this
remark, than that singular and unexpected parallel which was
immediately observed by one of our party who had been long in India,
between the policy adopted by Napoleon, and that followed by the
Brahmins in the East. The Brahmins religiously prohibit travelling; and
the _sin_ of visiting foreign countries is particularized in their
religious instructions. The free publication of the sentiments of
travellers was never permitted under the late Emperor; and the severe
regulations of the police made it extremely difficult for any Frenchman
to travel. The object of both was the same, to prevent any mortifying
and dangerous comparisons between the situation of their own, and the
condition of foreign countries. The Brahmins made it a rule to check the
progress of education, and to discourage the study of their _shasters_.
As to these seminaries of education, unconnected with military subjects,
Napoleon, if he did not dare actually to abolish them, at least threw
over them the chilling influence of his imperial disapprobation; whilst,
by that general inattention and impunity extended to vicious conduct,
and the ridicule with which he regarded the clergy, he succeeded in
rendering the scriptures contemptible. If, again, the condition of the
French people was in many material respects analogous to the state of
the Hindoos, the education of the women among them (the effect of the
same causes operating in both countries), is completely Mussulman.
Singing, dancing, and playing on the guitar, with a lighter species of
ladies needle-work, forms the whole education of the French women; and
this similarity of political treatment has produced a striking parallel
even in the minuter parts of their national character.

It is disagreeable to dwell upon the darker parts of their characters;
even amongst those whose dispositions, it must be acknowledged, if
formed in a purer country, and encouraged to develope themselves in all
their native beauty, would have done honour to any nation. Such is the
laxity of moral principle, that a woman of unimpeached character is but
rarely to be found; and I can speak from my own observation and
experience, that examples of criminal conduct, being of frequent
occurrence and generally expected, have ceased to be the objects of
reprobation, and are no longer the subjects of enquiry. What is more
extraordinary, and shews a deeper sort of depravity, is the circumstance
that such instances are entirely confined to the married women. These
are, in their conversation and conduct, indulged, by a kind of general
consent, with every possible freedom, and, by the extraordinary state
of manners, are presented by their husbands with every possible facility
they could desire. A husband and wife in France have generally separate
apartments, or rather inhabit separate wings of their _hotel_. The
lady's bed-room is appropriated to herself alone. Its walls would be
esteemed polluted by any intrusion of the husband. It is there that, in
an elegant dishabille, she receives the visits of her friends. It is
secure against observation, or interruption of any kind whatever. It, in
short, is the sacred palladium of female indiscretion. Much of this
mischievous licence may, I think, be easily traced to the treatment of
the younger and unmarried women. They are confined under a
superintendance which is as rigorous, as the licence allowed to their
mothers is unbounded. All those affections which begin in their early
years to develope themselves--all those dispositions which are natural
to youth, the innocent love of pleasure, and the passion for the society
of those of their own age, are violently restrained by a system of
confinement. In their early years, they are either banished by their
parents to the seclusion of a convent, or are confined in their own
houses, under the care of a set of severe and withered old women, whom
they term _bonnes_. The consequence is, that the sullen influence of
these unkindly beings is reflected upon their pupils, and that when,
after their marriage, they are permitted to come forth from their
prison, and mingle in general society, all the sweetness and gentleness
of their original nature is gone for ever. But to return from this
digression upon the ladies, other strong points of resemblance might
easily be pointed out between the French and the native Indian
character. The same low cunning, the same restless spirit of intrigue,
the same gross flattery, the same astonishing command of countenance,
and invariable politeness before strangers, the same complete sacrifice
of every thing, character, principle, reputation, to the love of money;
all these strong and melancholy features are clearly distinguishable in
both. A servant who wishes for a place, a workman who is a candidate for
employment, a shopkeeper who is anxious for customers, all invariably,
as in India, pay money to some one who recommends them; and such is the
poverty of the higher orders, that they compromise the meanness of the
transaction, and receive these bribes with all the alacrity imaginable;
and this system, which begins in these lesser transactions, is, in the
disposal of offices under government, and the regulation of the
patronage of the crown, the prime mover in France. If an office is to be
disposed of, the constant phrase in France is, as in India, _il faut
grassier la pate_. I was acquainted with two judges in France, who made
not the least scruple to acknowledge that they owed their appointments
to bribes, delicately administered. The bribes consisted in presents of
_fruit_, presented in _a gold dish_. The similarity between the French
and the inhabitants of eastern countries, on their hyperbolical
compliments, had been observed by Montesquieu, in his Persian Letters,
before the revolution; and by the effects of that lengthened scene of
guilt and of confusion, as well as by the consequences of the military
despotism under Napoleon, it has been increased to so great a degree, as
to present a parallel more apt and striking than can be easily
conceived.

The excessive poverty of the higher orders, more particularly amongst
the old nobility, has not only subjected them to this meanness of taking
bribes, but has produced also amongst them a species of fawning
servility of manner towards their inferiors; and this has, in its turn,
in a great degree destroyed that high feeling of superior rank and
superior responsibility, and that standard of amiable and noble
manners, which are amongst the happiest consequences resulting from the
institution of a hereditary nobility. The consequence of this servility
amongst the _noblesse_, has inevitably produced a corresponding
arrogance and insolence in the lower orders. One may see a French
servant enter his master's room without taking off, or even touching his
hat, engage in the conversation whilst he is mending the fire, throw
himself upon a chair, and thus deliver the message he has been entrusted
with, arrange his neckcloth at the glass, and dance out of the room,
humming a tune. To an Englishman, this familiarity, from its excessive
impudence, creates at first more amusement than irritation; but it
becomes disgusting when we consider its consequences upon national
manners, and that its causes are to be traced to national crime. I have
seen a French gentleman take his grocer by the hand, and embracing him,
hope for his company at supper. This submissive meanness towards their
tradesmen, is of course much increased by their dread of the day of
reckoning; and is therefore ultimately the consequence of their poverty.

It happened that an English nobleman, who lately visited France, had
shewn much kindness to one of the _ancienne noblesse_ during his stay in
England. For upwards of a year, he had insisted on his living with him
at his country seat. Upon the eve of leaving England for France, he
wrote to his old acquaintance, desiring him to take suitable apartments
for him in Paris. The Frenchman returned a most polite answer,
expressing how much he felt himself hurt by the idea that his Lordship
should dream of taking apartments, whilst his hotel was at his service.
The English nobleman, accordingly, lived for two months at the hotel;
but to his astonishment, upon taking his departure, Monsieur presented
him with a regular bill, charging for every article, and including a
very high rent for the lodgings. This is hardly to be credited by those
unacquainted with the present condition of France; but I am induced to
believe the story to be in every particular correct, as the authority
was unquestionable. This excessive poverty amongst the higher classes,
their being often unable, from their narrow circumstances, to support a
house and separate establishment, their living in miserable lodgings
when they are low in purse, snatching a spare meal at some cheap
restaurateur's, and being unaccustomed to the comfort of regular meals
in their own house, is the cause that they are all devotedly and
generally attached to good eating, whenever they can get it, and that to
such an excess, that a stranger, in attending a ball supper in France,
or treating a French party to dinner, will be astonished at the
perseverance of their palates, and the wonderful expedition with which
both sexes contrive to travel through the various dishes on the table.
The behaviour of Sancho at Camacho's wedding, when he rolled his
delighted eyes over the assembled flesh-pots, is but a prototype of what
I have witnessed equally in French men and French women upon these
occasions.

At a ball supper, where it is often impossible in England to prevail
upon the ladies to taste a morsel, you may see these delicate females of
France, regale themselves with dressed dishes, swallow, with incredible
avidity, repeated bowls of strong soup, and after a short interval, sit
down to potations of hot punch, strong enough to admit of being set on
fire. Nothing can certainly be more destructive of all ideas of feminine
delicacy, than to see a beautiful woman with one of these midnight bowls
burning before her, and when her complexion is rendered livid by its
flames, looking through this medium like some unknown but voracious
inhabitant of another world.

An English family of our acquaintance, who had settled at Aix, and who
wished to see company, imagined, naturally, that it would be necessary
to go through all the tedious process of preliminary introductions,
which are necessary in England. A French friend was consulted upon the
subject, and his advice was as simple as it was effectual: [52]"Donnez
un souper, cela fera courir tout le monde." Sometime after this,
happening to be conversing with the same gentleman upon this
subject:[53] "Soyez bien sur, Monsieur, (said he), que si le diable
donne a _souper, tout le monde soupera dans l'enfers_."

Versatility, that ruling feature in the French character, ought not to
be forgotten. They have of late been so accustomed to change, that
change has become not only natural, but, one would imagine, in some
measure necessary to their happiness. They change their leaders and
their sovereigns, with as much apparent ease as they do their fashions.
On the slightest new impulse, they change their thoughts, their oaths,
their love, their hatred. In this particular, a French mob is the most
remarkable thing in the world; they cannot exist without some favourite
yell, some particular watch-word of the day, or rather of the hour. One
day it is, [54]"_A bas le tyran! A bas les soldats!_" the next it is
"_Vive l'Empereur! Vivent les Marchaux! Vive l'armée!_" or it is, "_Vive
Louis le desiré! Vive le fils de bon Henri!_" and in the next breath,
"_Vive le nation! Point de loix foedaux! Point des rois! Point de
noblesse!_" then, "_Point des droits reunis! Point de conscriptions!_"
and during the desolating æra of the revolution, their favourite cry
presented an exact picture of the character of the nation--of the same
nation, which, in these dark days of continual horror, could yet amuse,
itself by an exhibition of dancing-dogs, under the blood-dropping stage
of the guillotine; their cry was then, [55]"_Vive la Mort_!" Utterly
inattentive to these inconsistencies, the French people continue
willingly to cry out whatever rallying word may be given to them by
those agents who, working in secret, according to the ruling authorities
and the prevailing politics of the day, are employed to excite them. The
calamitous consequence of this mean and thoughtless principle is, that
they submit themselves to the regulation of all the spies and police
emissaries who, as the pensioned menials of government, are continually
insinuating themselves amongst them. Louis XVIII., unaccustomed to this
system, from his long residence in England, has employed fewer spies
than Napoleon, and the consequence has been, that the cry of Vive le Roi
has never been re-echoed with that same high-sounding, though hollow
enthusiasm, with which they vociferated Vive l'Empereur. An instance of
the pliability of a French mob occurred a short time before our coming
to Aix: When Napoleon, on his way to Elba, passed through Moulines, his
carriage having halted at one of the inns, was immediately surrounded by
a mob, amongst whom a cry of Vive l'Empereur was instantly raised. The
Emperor's servants began laughing, and some one amongst, the mob
imagining it to be in derision, exclaimed, with manifest disappointment,
"Eh bien, Messieurs, que voulez vous donc; mais allons mes amis! crions
tous Vive le Roi;" and having once received this new impulse, they not
only raised, with one consent, a shout of Vive le Roi, but next moment,
by their menaces, compelled Napoleon, who began to tremble for his
person, to join in the cry of loyalty. Such was the miserable situation
of that man, who, in the words of Augereau, [56]"apres avoir immolé des
millions des victimes, n'a su mourir en soldat;" and such the treatment
of a French mob to one whose name, the moment before, they had extolled
with all the symptoms of the most devoted enthusiasm.

    J'ai vu l'impie, adorè sur le terre
    Pareil au cedre, il cachoit dans le cieux
              Son front audacieux.
    Il sembloit a son grè gouverner la tonnere,
    Fouler aux pieds ses enemis vaincus,
    Je ne fis que passer, il a'etoit deja plus.

Amidst all their misfortunes, the French people, and more especially the
peasantry, have contrived to preserve their characteristic gaiety. They
are still, without, doubt, the most cheerful people in Europe, the least
liable to any thing like continued depression, and the most easily
amused by trifles. If we except the peasantry, whose situation is
comparatively comfortable, they are subject to continual deprivations.
They are wretchedly poor, and driven by this poverty to meannesses which
they would in other situations despise. Their labour is frequently
demanded where refusal is impossible, and obedience attended with no
remuneration. They themselves are hurried away, if young, to fill up the
miserable quotas of the conscription; torn from the happiest scenes of
their youth, and banished from every object of their affection. If old,
they are doomed to pass their solitary years uncomforted, and
unsupported. The hopes of their age may have fallen, but amidst all this
complicated misery, it is indeed most wonderful that they yet continue
to be cheerful. The accustomed gaiety of their spirits will not even
then desert them; and meeting with a stranger who enters into
conversation with them, or seated with a few friends at a caffé, they
will sip their liqueurs, smoke their segars, and talk with enthusiasm
of the triumphs and glory of the _grande nation_, although these
triumphs may have given the fatal blow to all that constituted their
happiness, and in this glory they may see the graves of their children.
This is not patriotism: It is a far lower principle. It is produced by
national pride, vanity, thoughtlessness, a contempt or ignorance of
domestic happiness, and all this allied to an unconquerable levity and
heartlessness of disposition. It is not therefore that severe but noble
principle, the silent offspring between thought and sorrow, which
soothes at least where it cannot cure, and alleviates the acuteness of
individual sufferings, by the consolation that our friends have fallen
in the courageous execution of their duty. It has in its composition
none of those higher feelings, but is more an instinct, and one too of a
shallow and degrading nature, than any thing like a steady and
regulating moral principle.

This, however, which makes them unconscious to any thing like
unhappiness, renders them, under imprisonment, banishment, and
deprivation, more able to endure the hardships and reverses of war than
any other troops.

It is perhaps an improper word in speaking of imprisonment and
banishment to a Frenchman, to say they endure it better; the truth is,
they do not feel it so acutely, and the reason is, that the military,
owing to their restless and wandering life, are comparatively less
attached than other troops to their native country. They suffer better,
because they feel less.

In courage the English soldiers certainly equal them, and in physical
strength they far surpass them; but the mind of a Frenchman is, for hard
service, far better constituted than that of an Englishman. Nothing, it
is well known, is so difficult as to rally an English force after any
thing approaching even to a defeat. This is by no means the case with
the French, and the history of the last campaign, preceding the
restoration of the Borbons, contains a detailed account of many
successive' defeats, after which the French army rallied and fought as
undauntedly as before; and during the last war there was not perhaps a
single battle contended with more determination than that of Toulouse.

In regard to the lower orders of the peasantry, it is amongst them alone
that we can yet distinctly discern the last traces of the ancient French
character. They are certainly, from the sale of the great landed estates
at the revolution, (which, divided into small farms, were bought by the
lower orders,) for the most part comparatively in a rich and independent
situation; and poverty is far more generally felt by the higher classes
of the nation, than by the regular peasantry of the country. Yet with
all this, they have become neither insolent nor haughty to their
superiors; and you will meet at this day with more real unsophisticated
politeness, and more active civility amongst the present French
peasantry, than is to be found among the nobility or the soldiery of the
nation.

It is to them alone that the hopes of the revival of the French nation
must ultimately turn. It is from this quarter that France, if she is
ever to possess them, must alone derive those pacific energies, which,
whilst they may render her as a nation less generally terrible, will yet
cause her to be more individually happy.

In every country, we must regard the peasantry as the sinews and stamina
of the state. They are, in every respect, to the nation what the heart
is to the individual; the centre from which health, energy and vigour
must be imparted to the remotest portions of the political body. If such
is the rank held by the peasantry _in all countries_, much more
important: is the station which they at present fill in _France_, and
far more momentous (owing to the circumstances in which that kingdom now
stands), are the duties which they owe to their country. It is there
alone that any sufficient antidote can be found for that political
misery, occasioned by such a course of unprincipled national triumphs,
as had been so long the boast of France, and which we have so lately
closed in all the splendour of legitimate victory. It is to them that
the court must look for the restoration of that moral principle, which,
under the administration of the late Emperor, it so thoroughly despised:
It is to them that the army must look for the restoration of those high
feelings of military honour, which we shall seek in vain in the present
soldiery of France: It is from them that the great landed proprietors
and the country gentlemen (if that honourable name is ever again to be
realised in France), must learn to sacrifice their schemes of individual
enjoyment, and to renounce the dissipations of the capital for the
severer duties which await them in the interior of the kingdom.

I have before mentioned that civility and politeness which is still so
characteristic of the peasantry of the kingdom. In addition to this,
from every thing I could observe, they appeared to be really
comfortable, and their invariable cheerfulness was accompanied by that
flow of easy unpremeditated mirth, which gave us the impression that
they were really happy. In the streets of Paris, and in the different
ranks of society in the capital, you see, I think, the same outward
symptoms of happiness; but, in many instances, their high sounding
expressions of joy appear more like the wish to be happy, than the sober
possession of happiness. The soldiery, in particular, seem, by their
loud and repeated sallies, to have embraced a desperate kind of plan, of
actually roaring themselves into forgetfulness; whereas the peasantry of
the kingdom, after having passed the day in the labour of their fields
or vineyards, dispersing in little troops through their village, the old
to converse over the stories of their youth, the young dancing to the
pipe and tabor, or singing in little groupes, arranged on the green
seats under their orchard trees, appear, without effort, to sink into
that enviable state of unforced enjoyment, which falls upon their minds
as easily and calmly as the sleep of Heaven upon their eyelids.

Amongst the French, dancing is that strong and prevailing passion which
is found in every rank in society, which is confined to no sex, nor
age, nor figure, but is universally disseminated throughout every
portion of the kingdom; from the cottage to the court, from the cradle
to the grave, the French invariably dance when they can seize an
opportunity. Nay, the older the individual, the more vigorous seems to
be the passion. Wrinkles may furrow the face, but lassitude never
attacks the limbs.

It is their singular perseverance in this favourite pursuit which
renders a French ball to a stranger more than commonly ludicrous. In
England, when the company begins to assemble, you are delighted with the
troops of young and blooming girls, who throng into the dancing room,
with faces beaming with the desire, and forms bounding with the
anticipation of pleasure. In France, you must conceive the room to be
superbly lighted up, and the walls covered with large mirrors, which, in
their indefinite multiplication, suffer nothing, however ludicrous, to
escape them. The folding doors slowly open, and there begins to hobble
in, (as quick as their advanced years will permit them,) unnumbered
forms of aged ladies and gentlemen, intermixed with some possessing
certainly the firmer step of middle life, but few or none who dare
pretend to the activity of youth. On one side comes the old _Marquis_,
dressed in the extremity of the fashion, every ruffle replete with
effect, and not a curl but what he would tremble to remove, stepping,
with the most finished complacency, at the side of some antiquated dame
of sixty, who minces and rustles at his side in the costume of sixteen.
Previous to the dancing, it is indeed ridiculous to observe the series
of silent tendernesses, the sly looks and fascinating glances with which
these old worthies entertain each other. Meanwhile the music strikes up,
and the floor is instantly covered with waltzers. It is well known, that
the waltz is a dance, above all others, requiring grace and youth, and
activity in those who perform it. Nothing, therefore, to a stranger, can
be more entertaining, than the sight of those motley and aged couples,
who, with a desperate resolution, stand up to bid defiance to the
warnings of nature; and who, after they have first swallowed a tumbler
of punch, (which is their constant practice,) begin to reel round with
the waltzers, putting you in mind of Miss Edgeworth's celebrated Irish
horse, _Knockegroghery_, who needed to have porter poured down his
throat, and to be warmed in his harness, before he could achieve any
thing like continued motion. In England, few ladies, unless those who
are extremely young, ever dream of dancing after their marriage. In
France, the young ladies before marriage are seldom admitted into
company; after marriage, therefore, their gaiety instantly commences,
and continues literally until the total failure of the physical powers
of nature puts an end to the ability, though not to the love of
pleasure. Any thing, therefore, it may be well believed, which comes
between the French ladies and this mania for dancing, produces no
ordinary effect. One of our party observed at a ball, a French lady of
quality in the deepest mourning. On coming up to her, she remarked to
the English lady, with a face of much melancholy, that her situation was
indeed deplorable. "Look at me," said she, "these are the weeds for my
mother, who has only been two months dead. Do you see these odious black
gloves; they will not permit me to join in your amusements; but oh! how
the heart dances, when the feet can't." "Come, come," said another
female waltzer of fifty, whose round little body we had traced at
intervals, rolling and pirouetting about the room; "come, we forget that
the fast of Ash Wednesday begins at twelve. We may sup well before
twelve, but not a morsel after it. We have but one short hour to eat,
but we may dance, you know, all night."

By our acquaintance with the best society in Aix, we have enjoyed no
unfavourable opportunity of forming an idea of the present condition of
society in the south of France. One of the first circumstances which we
all remarked, and which has probably occurred to most who have
associated in French society, was the wide range over which the titles
of nobility extended. We indeed heard, that at Aix, where we resided,
and at Toulouse, there were to be found more of the old nobility than in
any other parts of France. These towns were, on account of the cheapness
of living, the depôts of the emigrant gentlemen whose fortunes had been
reduced by the revolution, the receptacles of the ancient aristocracy of
France. Yet even making every allowance for this circumstance, when we
recollect the appearance and manners of many who were dignified by the
titles of Marquis, Counts and Barons, it was impossible not to feel
that, when compared with our own country, there was a kind of
profanation of the aristocracy; and I should not be much surprised, if
it was afterwards discovered, by some who would take the pains to
investigate the subject narrowly, that in these remote parts of the
kingdom, there subsisted a species of silent understood compact, by
which the parties agreed, that if the one was dignified by his friends
with the title of _Marquis_, he would in his turn make no scruple to
favour the other with the appellation of _Count_. Certainly, when
requested to explain the principles upon which titles of dignity
descended, the account given by these noblemen themselves was quite
unsatisfactory, and nearly unintelligible. The different orders also of
knighthood, appeared to us to be very widely extended. The Chevaliers de
St Louis were literally swarming. You could scarcely enter a shop, where
you did not instantly discover one or more of these gentry sitting on
the counter, conversing with the shopkeeper, or flirting with his
daughter or wife. In their dress and general appearance in the forenoon,
there appeared to be an unlimited latitude of shabbiness allowed both to
the ladies and gentlemen; while in the evening, on the contrary, whether
at home or abroad, we found them uniformly handsomely, and, making
allowance for the difference of national costume, often elegantly drest.
Nothing, indeed, could be more singular than the contrast between the
extraordinary apparel of the same ladies (and those ladies of quality,
marchionesses and countesses) whom we had visited at their own houses
in the forenoon, and their appearance, when we met them in the evening,
at the public concerts or private parties given at Aix. In the morning,
you will find them receiving visits in their bed-rooms in the most
complete dishabille; their night-cap not removed, a little bed-gown
thrown carelessly over them; their hair in papillots, and their handsome
ancles covered by coarse list slippers. In the evening, the _bonnet de
nuit_ is discarded, and a snow-white plume of feathers waves upon its
former foundation; the little bed-gown is thrown aside, and a superb
robe of satin rustles and glitters in its stead; the head, instead of
being bristled with papillots, is clothed with the most luxuriant curls;
and the unrivalled foot and ancle display at once, in the beauty of
their shape and the elegance of their decoration, the bounty of nature
and the unwearied assiduity of nature's assistant journeymen--the
shoemakers. The style of French parties is certainly very dissimilar to
those we are accustomed to in our own country. And this difference is
easily to be traced to the remarkable differences in the character of
the two nations. To the prevailing influence of the fancy, the power of
imagination and the love of amusement amongst the French, and to those
ideas of sober sense, that spirit of phlegmatic indifference, and the
engrossing influence of public employments, which are remarkable in the
English nation. During our residence in the south, we were invited by
the Countess de R---- to a ball, which, she told us, was given in honour
of her son's birth-day. We went accordingly, and were first received in
the card-rooms, which we found brilliantly lighted and decorated, and
full of company. We were then conducted into another handsome apartment
fitted up as a theatre. The curtain rose, and the young Count de R----
tripped lightly from behind the scenes, with the most complete
self-possession, and at the same time, with great elegance, begun a
little address to the audience, apologising for his inability to amuse
them as he could have wished, and concluded his address, by singing,
with a great deal of action, two French songs. He then skipped nimbly
off the stage and returned, leading in the principal actress at the
theatre here, M. de----. They performed together a little dramatic
interlude composed for the occasion; the company then adjourned into the
card-rooms, and the evening concluded by a ball. At another private
party we attended when the company were assembled; a folding door flew
open, and a party of ladies and gentlemen, fantastically drest as
shepherds and shepherdesses, flew into the room, and to our great
amusement, began acting with their pipes and crooks and garlands, and
all the paraphernalia of pastoral life, those employments of rural
labour, or scenes of rustic courtship, which, in their public
amusements, we have before remarked as peculiar favourites with the
French people.

If, as we have above remarked, for the hopes of the restoration of
truth, and honour, and principle, in France, we must turn to the lower
orders, it will not, I trust, be thought too trifling to observe, that
any thing like real excellence in music, another favourite national
propensity, is, as far as we could observe, to be found in the peasantry
alone. The music of the capital, the modern compositions performed at
the opera, the prevailing songs of the day, are all noisy, unmeaning,
unharmonious (I speak, of course, merely from personal feeling, and with
deference to those better able to form an opinion upon the subject;) but
it is impossible to hear the unharmonious crash which proceeds from the
orchestra of the opera, without immediately recollecting the celebrated
pun of Rosseau: "Pour l'Academie de musique, certainement il fait le
plus du bruit du monde." On the other hand, it is amongst the peasantry
alone that you now find the ancient music of France. Those airs which
are so deeply associated with all the glory and gallantry of the old
monarchy; those songs of olden times, which were chanted by the
wandering Troubadours, as they returned from foreign wars to their
native vallies, and whose simple melody recalls the days of chivalry in
which they arose: these, and all others of the same æra, which once
composed in truth the national music of this great people, are no longer
to be found amongst the higher classes of the community. But they still
exist among the peasantry. The vine-dresser, as he begins, with the
rising sun, his labours in the vineyards; or the poor muleteer, as he
drives his cattle to the water, will chant, as he goes along, those
ancient airs, which, in all their native simplicity, he has heard from
his fathers; and which, in other days, have echoed through the halls of
feudal pride, or have been sung in the bowers of listening beauty. Of
the prevalence of this refined taste in poetry among the lower orders of
the peasantry, the following fragment of an old ballad, still very
commonly sung to the ancient Troubadour air by the peasantry of
Provence, may be given as a familiar instance:


LE TROUBADOUR.

    Un gentil Troubadour
    Qui chant et fait la guerre,
    Revennit chez son Pere
    Revant a son amour.
    Gages de sa valeur
    Suspendus en echarpe,
    Son epée et sa harpe
    Croisaient sur son cœur.

    Il rencontre en chemin
    Pelerine jolie
    Qui voyage et qui prie
    Un rosaire a la main,
    Colerette aux longs plies
    Gouvre sa fine taille,
    Et grande chapeau de paille
    Cache son front divin.

    "Ah! gentil Troubadour,
    Si tu reviens fidele,
    Chant un couplet pour celle
    Qui benit ton retour."
    "Pardonnez mon refus,
    Pelerine jolie,
    Sans avoir vu m'amie,
    Je ne chanterai plus."

    "Ne la revois tu pas--
    Oh Troubadour fidele,
    Regarde la--C'est elle,
    Ouvre lui donc tes bras.
    Priant pour notre amour
    J'allois en pelerine
    A la vierge divine
    Demander son secours."

I believe no apology need be made for subjoining here, another very
favourite song in the French army: One of our party heard it sung by a
body of French soldiers, who were on their return to their homes, from
the campaign of Moscow.


LA CENTINELLE.

    L'Astre de nuit dans son paisible eclat
    Lanca ses feux sur les tentes de la France,
    Non loin de camp un jeune et beau soldat
    Ainsi chantoit appuyè sur sa lance.

    "Allez, volez, zephyrs joyeux,
    Portez mes vœux vers ma patrie,
    Dites que je veille dans ces lieux,
    Que je veille dans ces lieux,
    C'est pour la gloire et pour m'amie.

    L'Astre de jour r'animera le combat,
    Demain il faut signaler ma valence;
    Dans la victoire on trouve le trepas,
    Mais si je meura an coté de ma lance,--

    Volez encore, zephyrs joyeux,
    Portez mes regrets vers ma patrie,
    Dites que je meurs dans ces lieux,
        Que je meurs dans ces lieux,
    C'est pour la gloire et pour m'amie."

It is certainly productive of no common feelings, when, in travelling
into the interior of the country, you find these beautiful songs, so
much despised in the metropolis! of the nation, still lingering in their
native vallies, and shedding their retiring sweetness over those scenes
to which they owed their birth.

How much is it to be desired that some man of genius, some lover of the
real glory of his country, would collect, with religious hand, these
scattered flowers, which are so fast sinking into decay, and again raise
into general estimation the beautiful and forgotten music of his native
land.

In a discussion upon French manners, and the present condition of French
society, it is impossible but that one great and leading observation
must almost immediately present itself, and the truth of which, on
whatever side, or to whatever class of society you may turn, becomes
only the more apparent as you take the longer time to consider it; this
is, that the French _carry on every thing in public_. That every thing,
whether it is connected with business or with pleasure, whether it
concerns the more serious affair of political government, or the pursuit
of science, or the cultivation of art, or whether it is allied only to a
taste for society, to the gratification of individual enjoyment, to the
passing occupations of the day, or the pleasures of the evening--all, in
short, either of serious, or of lighter nature, is open and public. It
is carried on abroad, where every eye may see, and every ear may listen.
Every one who has visited France since the revolution must make this
remark. The first thing that strikes a stranger is, that a Frenchman has
_no home_: He lives in the middle of the public; he breakfasts at a
caffé; his wife and family generally do the same. During the day, he
perhaps debates in the Corps Legislatif, or sleeps over the essays in
the Academie des Sciences, or takes snuff under the Apollo, or talks of
the fashions of the Nouvelle Cour, at the side of the Venus de Medicis,
or varies the scene by feeding the bears in the Jardin des Plantes. He
then dines abroad at a restaurateur's. His wife either is there with
him, or perhaps she prefers a different house, and frequents it alone.
His sons and daughters are left to manage matters as they best can. The
sons, therefore, frequent their favourite caffés, whilst the daughters
remain confined under the care of their _bonnes_ or _duennas_. In the
evening he strolls about the Palais, joins some friend or another, with
whom he takes his caffé, and sips his liqueurs in the Salon de Paix or
Milles Colonnes; he then adjourns to the opera, where, for two hours, he
will twist himself into all the appropriate contortions of admiration,
and vent his joy, in the strangest curses of delight, the moment that
Bigottini makes her appearance upon the stage; and, having thus played
those many parts which compose his motley day, he will return at night
to his own lodging, perfectly happy with the manner he has employed it,
and ready, next morning, to recommence, with recruited alacrity, the
same round of heterogeneous enjoyment. Such is, in fact, an epitome of
the life of all Frenchmen, who are not either bourgeoise, employed
constantly in their shops during the day, or engaged in the civil or
military avocations--of those who are in the same situation in France,
as our gentlemen of independent fortune in England. Another peculiarity
is, that the Frenchmen of the present day are not only always abroad, in
the midst _of the public_, but that they invariably flock from the
interior of the kingdom into Paris, and there engage in those public
exhibitions, and bustle about in that endless routine of business or
pleasure, which is passing in the capital. The French nobility, and the
men of property who still remain in the kingdom, invariably spend their
lives in Paris. Their whole joy consists la exhibiting themselves in
public in the capital. Their magnificent chateaus, their parks, their
woods and fields, and their ancient gardens, decorated by the taste, and
often cultivated by the hands of their fathers, are allowed to fall into
unpitied ruin. If they retire for a few weeks to their country seat, it
is only to collect the rents from their neglected peasantry, to curse
themselves for being condemned to the _triste sejour_ of their paternal
estate; and, after having thus replenished their coffers, to dive again
from their native woods, with renewed strength, into all the publicity
and dissipation of the capital. This was not always the state of things
in France. Previous to, and during the reign of Henry IV. the manners,
the society, and the mode of life of the nobility and gentlemen of the
kingdom, were undoubtedly different The country was not then deserted
for the town; the industry of the peasantry was exerted under the
immediate eye of the proprietor; and his happiness formed, we may
believe, no inferior object in the mind of his master; If we look at
the domestic memoirs which describe the condition of France in these
ancient days, we shall find that even from the early age of Francis I.
till the commencement of the political administration of Richelieu, the
situation of this country presented a very different picture; and that
the lives of the country gentlemen were passed in a very opposite manner
from that unnatural state of the kingdom to which we have above alluded.
Even the condition of the interior of the kingdom, as it is now seen,
points to this happier state of things. Their chateaus, which are now
deserted,--their silent chambers, with tarnished gilding and decaying
tapestry, remind us of the days when the old nobleman was proud to spend
his income on the decoration and improvement of his property; the
library, on whose walls we see the family pictures, in those hunting and
shooting dresses which tell of the healthier exercises of a country
retirement; whilst on the shelves, there sleeps undisturbed the
forgotten literature of the Augustan age of France--all this evidently
shows, that there was once, at least, to be found in the interior of the
kingdom, another and a different state of things. In the essays of
Montaigne, the private life of a French gentleman is admirably
depicted. His days appear to have been divided between his family, his
library, and his estate. A French nobleman lived then happy in the seat
of his ancestors. His family grew up around him; and he probably visited
the town as rarely as the present nobility do the country,--the
education of his children,--the care of his peasantry,--the rural
labours of planting and gardening,--the sports of the country,--the
_grandes chasses_ which he held in his park, surrounded by troops of
servants who had been born on his estate, and who evinced their
affection by initiating the young heir into all the mysteries of the
chase, the enjoyment of the society of his friends and neighbours; all
these varied occupations filled up the happy measure of his useful and
enviable existence. The life of the country proprietor in these older
days of France, assimilated, in short, in a great degree to the present
manner of life amongst the same classes which is still observable in
England.

It is impossible to conceive any thing more striking than the difference
between this picture of a French chateau in these older days, and the
condition in which you find them at the present moment. We once visited
the chateau of one of the principal noblemen in Provence; and he
himself had the politeness to accompany us. The situation of the castle
was perfectly beautiful; but on coming nearer, every thing showed that
it was completely neglected. The different rooms, which were once
superb, were now bare and unfurnished. The walks through the park, the
seats and temples in the woods, and the superb gardens, were speedily
going to decay. The surface of his ponds, in the midst of which the
fountains still played, were covered with weeds, and the rank grass was
waving round the bases of the marble statues, which were placed at the
termination of the green alleys; every thing showed the riches, the
care, and the taste of a former generation, and the carelessness, and
neglect of the present. On remonstrating with the proprietor, he
defended himself by telling us how lonely he should feel at such a
distance from Paris: "_C'est toujours ici (said he), un triste sejour_."
A collation was served up, and after this, being in want of amusement,
he opened a closet in the corner of the room, and discovered to us, in
its recess, a vast variety of toys, which he began to exhibit to the
ladies, telling us, "that when forced to live in the country, he
diverted his solitary hours with these entertaining little affairs."

Nothing certainly can be more striking than this contrast between the
modern and ancient life of a French proprietor or nobleman; and it is a
question which must necessarily arise in the mind of every one, who has
observed this remarkable difference, what are the causes to which so
great a change is owing? Perhaps, if we look into it, this extraordinary
change will be found to have arisen chiefly out of the vigorous, but
dangerous policy of that age, when, under the administration of
Richelieu, the power of the sovereign rose upon the ruins of the
aristocracy--when the institution of standing armies first began to be
systematically followed--and when, by the perfection of their police,
and that vilest of all inventions, their espionage, the comfort, the
security, and the confidence of society was destroyed, by the secret
influence of these poisonous and pensioned menials of government. In the
successful accomplishment of these three great objects, was involved the
destruction of that older state of France, which was to be seen under
Henry III. and IV. The schemes by which Richelieu succeeded in drawing
the nobility from the interior of the country to Paris, the style of
splendid living, sumptuous expences, and magnificent entertainments
which he introduced, produced two unhappy effects; it removed them from
their country seats, and forced them at the same time to drain their
estates, in order to defray their increasing expences in the capital. It
made them dependent in a great measure upon the crown; and thus tied
them down to Paris. On the other hand, by what has been termed his
_admirable_ police, by his encouragement to all informers, by the
jealousy of any thing like private intercourse, he rendered the
retirement of their homes, the fire-side of their families, instead of
that sacred spot, around which was once seated all the charities of
life, the very center of all that was hollow, gloomy, and suspicious. It
was in this manner that the French seem actually to have been driven
from the society of their families, to seek a kind of desperate solitude
in public; and that which was at first a necessity, has, in the progress
of time, become an established habit. But I have to apologise for
introducing, in a chapter of this light nature, and that perhaps in too
strong language, these vague conjectures upon so serious a subject as
this change in the condition of French society.

One necessary effect of the taste for publicity, formerly mentioned, is,
that in France every thing is in some way or other attempted to be made
a _spectacle_; and this favourite word itself has gradually grown into
such universal usage, that it has acquired such power over the minds of
all classes of the people, as to be hardly ever out of their mouths.
Whatever they are describing, be it grave or gay, serious or ludicrous,
a comedy or a tragedy, a scene in the city or in the country; in short,
every thing, of whatever nature or character it may chance to be, which
is seen in public, is included under this all-comprehensive term; and
the very highest praise which can be given it, is, "Ah Monsieur, c'est
un _vrai_ spectacle. C'est un spectacle tout a _fait superbe_." It is
this taste for spectacles, this inordinate passion for every thing
producing _effect_, every thing which can add in this manner to what
they conceive ought to be the necessary arrangement in all public
exhibitions, which has, in many of these exhibitions, completely
destroyed all the deeper feelings which they would otherwise naturally
be calculated to produce. It is this taste which has created that
dreadful and disgusting anomaly in national antiquities, the Museé des
Monumens François, which has mangled and dilapidated the monuments of
the greatest men, and the memorials of the proudest days of France, to
produce in Paris a spectacle worthy of the _grande nation_. It is this
same taste, which, in that solemn commemoration of the death of their
king, the _service solennel_ for Louis XVI. contrived to introduce a
species of affected parade,--a detailed and theatrical sort of grief,--a
kind of meretricious mummery of sorrow, which banished all the feelings,
and almost completely destroyed the impression which such a scene in any
other country would inevitably have produced. Any thing, it may be
easily imagined, which gratifies this general taste for public
exhibitions, and any thing which is fitted to increase their effect, is
greeted by the French with the highest applause. One would have
imagined, that the first appearance of Lord Wellington in the French
opera, would, to most Frenchmen, have been a circumstance certainly not
to make an exhibition of: Very far from it--The presence of Lord
Wellington added greatly to the general effect of the spectacle. This
was all the French thought of; and he was received, if possible, with
more enthusiastic applause, and more reiterated greetings than the royal
family of France. Would a French conqueror have met with the same
reception in the opera at London?

When the reviews of the Russian troops were daily occurring in the Champ
de Mars, an anxiety to examine the state of their discipline, and the
general condition of their army, induced us punctually to attend them.
What was our astonishment, when we saw _several_ barouches full of
French ladies, seemingly taking the greatest delight in superintending
the manœuvres of the very men who had conquered the armies, and occupied
the capital of their country; and delighted with the attentions which
were paid them by the different Russian officers who had led them to
victory?

But there is yet another exhibition in Paris, which is at once the most
singular in its nature, and which shows, in the very strongest light,
this general deep-set passion in the French, for the creation of what
they imagine the necessary _effect_ which ought to be attended to in
every thing which is displayed in public, I mean that extraordinary
exhibition which they term the Catacombs. These catacombs are large
subterraneous excavations, which stretch themselves to a great extent
under Paris; and which were originally the quarries which furnished the
stones for building the greater part of that capital. You arrive at them
by descending, by torch light, a narrow winding stair, which strikes
perpendicularly into the bosom of the earth; and which, although its
height is not above 70 feet, leads you to a landing-place, so dark and
dismal, that it might be as well in the centre of the earth as so near
its surface. After walking for a considerable time through different
obscure subterranean streets, you arrive at the great stone gate of the
catacombs, above which you can read by the light of the torches, "_The
Habitation of the Dead._" On entering, you find yourself in a dark wide
hall, supported by broad stone pillars, with a low arched roof, the
further end of which is hid in complete obscurity; but the walls of
which, (as they are illuminated by the livid and feeble gleam of the
torches), are discovered to be completely formed of human bones. All
this, as far as I have yet described,--- the subterranean streets which
you traverse,--the dark gate of the great hall, over which you read the
simple but solemn inscription,--and the gloom and silence of the
chambers, whose walls you discover to be furnished in this terrible
manner, is fitted to produce a most deep and powerful effect. To find
yourself the only living being, surrounded on every side by the dead; to
be the only thing that possesses the consciousness of existence, while
millions of those who have once _been_ as you _are_--millions of all
ages, from the infant who has just looked in upon this world, in its
innocent road to heaven, to the aged, who has fallen in the fullness of
years;--and the young, the gay, and the beautiful of former centuries,
lie all cold and silent around you:--it is impossible that these deep
and united feelings should not powerfully affect the mind,--should not
lead it to rivet its thoughts upon that last scene, which all are to act
alone, and where, in the cold and unconscious company of the dead, we
are here destined to "end the strange, eventful history" of our nature:
But unfortunately, the guide, who now approaches you, insists upon your
examining the details, which he conceives it is his duty to point out;
and it is then that you discover, that this prevailing taste for
producing effect, this love of the arrangements necessary to complete
the _spectacle_, has invaded even this sacred receptacle. The ornaments
which he points out, and which are curiously framed of the whitest and
most polished bones; little altars which are built of the same materials
in the corners of the chambers, and crowned with what the artists have
imagined the handsomest skulls; and the frequent poetical quotations,
which, upon a nearer view, you discern upon the walls;--all this, in the
very worst style of French taste, evinces, that the same unhallowed
hands which had dared to violate the monuments of their heroes, have not
scrupled to intrude their presumptuous and miserable efforts, even into
the humbler sanctuary allotted to the dead.

I have above described the singular, and, to a stranger, most
entertaining scenes which take place at the French balls. If, however,
owing to this extraordinary state of manners, to the ludicrous ardour of
the old ladies, and the very moderate proportion of the young ones, a
French ball is more the scene of aged folly, than of youthful pleasure,
it must be allowed, that in another style of society, their lesser
parties, they far excel us. The conversation in these is easy, natural,
and often even fascinating. The terms of polite familiarity with which
you yourself are regarded, and with which you are encouraged to treat
all around you; the absence of every thing like stiffness, or formality;
the little interludes of music, in which, either in singing, or in
performing on some instrument, most of those you meet are able to take a
part; the round games which are often introduced, and where all forget
themselves to be happy, and to make others so,--this species of party is
certainly something far superior to those crowded assemblies, engrafted
now, as it would appear, with general consent, upon English society;
and which, with a ludicrous perversity, we have denominated by that
sacred word of Home, which has so long connected itself with scenes of
tranquil and unobtrusive enjoyment.

After having given such a picture of the general state of French
society, as we have presented in this chapter, it would be highly unjust
if we did not mention, that to the above descriptions of life and
manners, we found many exceptions. That we met with many very
intelligent men, of liberal education and gentlemanly conduct; and that
in the town where we resided, and indeed generally during our travels,
we experienced the greatest hospitality and kindness. The most amiable
features in the French character are shewn in their conduct to
strangers. But this is one of the few points in which we think they
deserve the imitation of our countrymen; and we have been the more full
in our observations upon their faults, because we trust that there may
ever remain a marked difference between the two nations.

The present we consider as the moment when all those who have had
opportunities of judging of the French character, ought in duty to make
public the information they have collected; for it is now that a more
perfect intercourse must produce its effects upon the two nations; and
taking it as an established maxim, that "vice to be hated, needs only to
be seen," we have thus hastily laid our observations before the public,
claiming their indulgence for the manifold faults to which our anxious
desire to avail ourselves of the favourable moment has unavoidably given
rise.


REGISTER OF THE WEATHER.

The climate of the south of France is, very generally, recommended for
those invalids who are suffering under pulmonary complaints. The author
of the foregoing work having resided at Aix, in Provence, during the
winter months, has thought it right to publish the following short
Register of the Weather, for the use of those who may have it in view to
try the benefit of change of climate. His object is to show, that
although, in general, the climate is much milder than in England or
Scotland, yet there is much greater variety than is generally imagined.
Upon the whole, he conceives, that he derived considerable benefit from
his residence at Aix. But such were the difficulties in travelling, and
so great was the want of comfort in the houses in the south of France,
that he is of opinion, that in most cases a residence in Devonshire
would be found fully as beneficial.

* * *

From experience in his own case, he can venture to affirm, that where
the patient, labouring under a pulmonary complaint, visits the south of
France, he should perform the journey by sea, which appears to him as
beneficial as the land journey is hurtful.

* * *

In keeping the following Register, the thermometer was in the shade,
though in a warm situation. The time of observation was between 12 and 1
in France, and between 10 and 11 in Edinburgh.


=AIX.=

Dec.                                                                 _Ther_

12.  Air delightful, like a fine day in June--sun very powerful,      60-1/4

13.  The air rather damp and heavy--the sun very powerful,            65-3/4

14.  Excepting in the sun, it was cold to-day,
like to a spring day--the _Vent de Bise_ prevailed in the morning,    59

15.  Frosty day--but between twelve and two the sun powerful,
and the climate delightful,                                           56-3/4

16.  The air frosty, but the sun very powerful--temperature
delightful, though sharp and bracing--air very dry,                   56-3/4

17.  Air more mild--sun exceedingly hot--this was a charming day--the
air still sufficiently bracing,                                       59

18.  No sun to-day--very mild air, but damp,                          54-1/2

19.  No sun to-day--air very damp, and a little rain--a mild day,
but very disagreeable,                                                56-3/4

20.  Rain all night--thick mist in the morning, air damp--at twelve,
the day broke up, and it was pleasant,                                54-1/2

21.  Rain in the night--day damp, raw and cold,                       52-1/4

22.  Day cleared up about twelve--air rather damp and raw--a
great deal of rain in the night,                                      52-1/4

23.  Clear day, but wind fresh and cold--pleasant in the sun,         53-1/2

24.  Clear day--wind fresh and unpleasant--air damp,                  53-1/2

25.  Clear day--wind very cold, but pleasant in the sun,              52-1/4

26.  Day very cloudy, with rain--rain all night--air damp
and very cold,                                                        50

27.  Day still cloudy, though clearing up--air rather raw,            52-1/2

28.  Day clear, morning frosty, but at noon temperature delightful,   54-1/2

29.  Day clear, frosty, at twelve most charming,                      54-1/2

30.  The same as yesterday,                                           54-1/2

31.  Ditto,     ditto,                                                54-1/2

1815. Jan. 1.  Day frosty, very cold in the morning, ice of one-fourth
of an inch on the pools; at twelve most delightful in the sun,        52-1/4

2.  Clear frosty day, very pleasant in the sun,                       52-1/4

3.  Dark, cloudy, raw and cold; no going out,                         45-1/2

4.  A clear frosty day, very cold, but pleasant in the sun,           47-3/4

5.  Intensely cold and cloudy; no sun,                                40

6.  Intensely cold, a bitter wind, cloudy, and no sun,                41

7.  Not quite so cold, but raw, windy and disagreeable;
snow at night,                                                        47-3/4

8.  Very cold, but pleasant in the sun; no wind,                      44-3/4

9.  The same as yesterday,                                            43-1/4

10.  Air much milder; very pleasant in the sun,                       50

11.  Cold and windy; air rather raw; the _mistral_ blowing,           50

12.  Cold and windy; _mistral_ blowing,                               45-1/2

13.  Wind fallen, but cold continues; air more dry,                   44-1/4

14.  Snow in the night, rain in the morning; cold and raw day,        45-1/2

15.  Cold, but more dry; no sun, very unpleasant, and every
appearance of snow,                                                   43-1/4

16.  Snow in the night, dry cold day, but brilliant and
powerful sun,                                                         41

17.  Very high _mistral_, blowing intensely cold; air milder
than yesterday,                                                       43-1/4

18.  Still very cold, but pleasant in the sun; no wind,               43-1/4

19.  Cold increased, hard frost; not wind,                            34-1/4

20.  Cold continues, but not so severe,                               38-3/4

21.  Clear frosty day, but cold diminished; delightful
in the sun,                                                           43-1/4

22.  Clear frosty day, but cold; sun very powerful                    43-1/4

23.  Clear frosty day, sun pleasant,                                  48-1/4

24.  Cloudy and damp, but air milder; no sun,                         43-1/4

25.  Rain the greater part of the day, cloudy and damp; air milder,   43-1/4

26.  Cloudy all day, but air milder,                                  47-3/4

27.  Cloudy and damp; but the air very mild,                          50

28.  Ditto    ditto ditto                                             50

29.  Day clear and sunny, very pleasant                               54-1/2

30.  Rainy all day long; air colder,                                  50

31.  Day clears up, but air moist; air mild,                          54-1/2

Feb. 1.  Day cloudy and damp; air mild,                               52-1/4

2.  Day very clear, delightful sun,                                   54

3.  Day cloudy and damp, air very mild,                               52-1/2

4.  Day clear, very windy, but air very mild,                         56-3/4

5.  Day very clear, bright sun, no wind, but air colder,              52-1/4

6.  Day very clear, bright sun, no wind, air mild                     54-1/2

7.  Ditto    ditto ditto ditto                                        54-1/2

8.  Ditto    ditto ditto ditto                                        54-1/2

9.  Day cloudy, a little rain, air colder,                            52-1/4

10.  Day very cloudy, a little rain, air mild,
but damp, heavy, and unpleasant,                                      54-1/2

11.  Ditto    ditto ditto ditto                                       54-1/2

12.  Day clearer, but still heavy, and rather damp; air mild          54-1/2

13.  Day damp, cloudy, great deal of rain wind, air cold,             50

14.  Much the same,                                                   50

15.  Fine clear day, sun very hot, air mild,                          56-3/4

16.  Raw and damp, a little rain,                                     54-1/2

17.  Delightful day, but good deal of wind; sun very powerful,        56-3/4

18.  Delightful day, no wind, sun very powerful,                      61-1/4

19.  Ditto    ditto, high wind,                                       61-1/4

20.  Ditto    ditto, less wind,                                       61-1/4

21.  Ditto    ditto ditto ditto                                       61-1/4

22.  Ditto    ditto ditto ditto,                                      61-1/4

23.  Ditto    ditto ditto ditto,                                      61-1/4

24.  Ditto    ditto ditto ditto,                                      61-1/4

25.  Ditto    ditto ditto ditto,                                      61-1/4

26.  Ditto    ditto ditto ditto,                                      64

27.  Ditto    ditto ditto ditto,                                      64

28.  Ditto    ditto ditto ditto,                                      64

Mar. 1.  Ditto    ditto ditto ditto,                                  61-1/2

2.  Ditto    ditto ditto ditto,                                       64-1/2

3.  Delightful day, sun very powerful,                                64

4.  Ditto    ditto ditto ditto,                                       64

5.  Ditto    ditto ditto ditto,                                       64

6.  Ditto    ditto ditto ditto,                                       64

7.  Ditto    ditto ditto ditto,                                       50

8.  Day damp and raw, rain in the evening,                            54-1/2

9.  Fine day, but high wind,                                          60-1/4

10.  Day damp and raw,                                                54-1/2

11.  Day very cold, high wind, a little hail,                         52-1/4

12.  Cold and raw, high wind, and a little rain,                      54-1/2


=EDINBURGH.=

Dec.                                                                _Ther_

12.  Misty and damp--cleared up at mid-day,
the thermometer rose to 54,                                           44

13.  Fine clear day,                                                  45

14.  Mild and damp,                                                   40

15.  Showery and disagreeable,                                        45

16.  Wind and rain,                                                   47

17.  A great deal of rain and very stormy,                            44

18.  Incessant rain--very windy at night,                             42

19.  Heavy showers of rain and sleet,                                 39

20.  A fine clear day,                                                32

21.  A fine day,                                                      31

22.  A fine day,                                                      37

23.  A cold east wind,                                                32

24.  A very cold N. E. wind,                                          35

25.  Cold wind and showers of snow,                                   33

26.  Cold wind and showers of snow,                                   33

27.  Cold north wind--damp and dark,                                  34

28.  Dark and damp,                                                   34

29.  A good deal of snow,                                             33

30.  Stormy and tempestuous,                                          45

31.  A fine day,                                                      35

1815
Jan. 1.  A fine day,                                                  35

2.  Cloudy and damp,                                                  47

3.  Cloudy,                                                           44

4.  Very rainy,                                                       45

5.  Mist and rain,                                                    38

6.  A fine day,                                                       34

7.  Damp, and a good deal of rain,                                    38

8.  Clear frost--some snow,                                           30

9.  Wind and rain,                                                    42

10.  Snow in the forenoon--a perfect tempest of wind and
rain at night,                                                        33

11.  A great deal of snow during the night,                           32

12.  A fine day,                                                      34

13.  A fine day--snow melting,                                        37

14.  A fine day,                                                      40

15.  A fine day,                                                      30

16.  A good deal of rain,                                             37

17.  A fine day,                                                      35

18.  Very gloomy,                                                     32

19.  Hard frost in the night--very gloomy,                            32

20.  A great deal of snow,                                            35

21.  Snow,                                                            34

22.  Clear fine day,                                                  31

23.  Very hard frost in the night--fine day,                          25

24.  Very cold,                                                       29

25.  Good day, but very cold,                                         22

26.  A great deal of snow,                                            32

27.  Snow--a cold north wind,                                         34

28.  Snow and hail,                                                   32

29.  Rain and snow--very wet,                                         36

30.  Very wet and disagreeable,                                       36

31.  A fine mild day,                                                 35

Feb. 1.  Very damp--heavy rain in the evening,                        38

2.  Rain, and very thick mist,                                        40

3.  A fine day,                                                       38

4.  Damp and rainy,                                                   38

5.  A fine day,                                                       40

6.  Damp and rainy,                                                   40

7.  Very mild, but damp and cloudy,                                   45

8.  A fine day; rain in the evening,                                  45

9.  A very fine day; quite summer,                                    38

10.  A fine day,                                                      32

11.  A pretty good day; rather damp and cloudy,                       45

12.  A fine forenoon, rain from two o'clock,                          45

13.  A fine day,                                                      45

14.  Cloudy and damp,                                                 45

15.  Cloudy and some rain,                                            44

16.  Damp and showery,                                                43

17.  A fine day,                                                      41

18.  Cloudy, and a cold N. E. wind,                                   41

19.  Damp and rainy, very windy in the evening,                       45

20.  A cold north wind; showers of rain,                              42

21.  Showery,                                                         45

22.  A pretty good day, but windy,                                    50

23.  Quite a summer day,                                              49

24.  A good deal of rain in the morning,                              47

25.  Rain; very tempestuous at night,                                 45

26.  A cold north wind,                                               38

27.  A pretty good day,                                               38

28.  A charming summer day,                                           48

Mar. 1  Rainy,                                                        48

2.  A very fine day,                                                  38

3.  A pretty good day, but windy,                                     45

4.  A very fine day,                                                  42

5.  A fine day,                                                       45

6.  A very fine day,                                                  43

7.  A pretty good day, but a perfect tempest of wind
and rain in the night,                                                43

8.  A very good day,                                                  44

9.  Showers of snow,                                                  36

10.  A very cold north wind,                                          32

11.  A very cold day,                                                 35

12.  A very cold wind, and showers of snow,                           40


FINIS.


MICHAEL ANDERSON,

PRINTER, EDINBURGH


FOOTNOTES:

[1] This statement, which we had from an officer who was with him at the
time, may be easily reconciled with the account of the battle given by
La Baume, which is in some measure inconsistent in its own parts.

[2] "See, Monsieur le Count,--said I, rising up, and laying some of King
William's shillings on the table,--by jingling and rubbing one against
another, for seventy years, in one body's pocket or another, they are
become so much alike, you can scarce distinguish one shilling from
another. The English, like ancient medals, keep more apart, and passing
but few people's hands, preserve the first sharpnesses which the fine
hand of nature has given them. They are not so pleasant to feel,--but,
in return, the legend is so visible, that at the first look you see
whose image and superscription they bear."

_Sentimental Journey_, Vol. II. p. 87.

[3] De l'Allemagne, tom. 2d. 303.

[4] "We have no more war."

[5] "Great silence."--"Ah! how terrible is this house! It is the house
of God, and the gate of Heaven."

[6] "Don't be alarmed, Sir; this is nothing."

[7] "War! war!"

[8] A small bit of wood.

[9] "Adieu! to meet at supper."

[10] "It is well enough for the moment, but this will not last long."

[11] "He shewed at his sports, that spirit of tyranny which he has since
manifested on the great stage of the world; and he who was doomed one
day to make Europe tremble, commenced by being the master and terror of
a troop of children."

[12] Such are the emphatic expressions made use of by a French
gentleman, who took the trouble to draw up for me a short memoir,
containing what he considered the most correct and well authenticated
circumstances in the political life of Napoleon.

[13] "Sire," said a General to him, while congratulating him on the
victory of Montmirail, "what a glorious day, if we did not see around us
so many towns and countries destroyed." "So much the better," said
Napoleon; "that supplies me with soldiers!"

[14] "Well, in an hour the ladies of Rheims will be in a fine fright."

[15] They seize him, they conduct him to the town-hall, before a
military commission, which proceeds to his trial, or rather to his
condemnation. An hour was scarce elapsed when an officer appears, orders
the doors to be opened, and demands if sentence is pronounced. They tell
him that the judges are about to put the question to the vote, "Let them
instantly shoot him," said the officer; "this is the Emperor's order."
The unfortunate Goualt is condemned.--The voice of mourning is heard
throughout the whole city. The proprietor of the house which Bonaparte
had chosen for his head-quarters solicits an audience; he obtains it.
"Sire, (said M. Duchatel), a day of triumph ought to be a day of mercy;
I come to entreat your Majesty to grant to the whole city of Troyes the
pardon of one of her fellow-citizens, who has been condemned to death."
"Begone! (said the tyrant, with a savage look), you forget that you are
in my presence." It was 11 o'clock at night when the unfortunate man
left the town-hall, escorted by gens-d'armes, and carrying, attached to
his back and breast, a writing in large characters, in these words,
"Traitor to his country," which was read by light of flambeaux. This
heart-rending assembly advanced towards the market-place, appointed for
the execution of criminals. There they wished to bind the eyes of the
accused;--he refused, and said, with a firm voice, that he knew how to
die for his King. He himself gave the signal to fire, and exclaiming,
"Long live the King! Long live Louis XVIII!" he drew his last breath.

[16] Revenge is their first law, lying the second, and to deny their God
is the third.

[17] "The distinguishing features of this man are, lying and the love of
life; I go to attack him, I shall beat him, and I shall see him at my
feet demanding his life."

[18] "Promote this officer; for if you do not, he knows the way to
promote himself."

[19] "To dissipate the royalists, and to batter the Parisians even at
their firesides."

[20] "At break of day the Austrians commenced the attack, at first
gently enough, afterwards more briskly, and at last with such fury, that
the French were broken on all sides. At this frightful moment, when the
dead and the dying strewed the earth, the first Consul, placed in the
middle of his guard, appeared immoveable, insensible, and as if struck
by thunder. In vain his Generals sent him their Aides de Camp, one after
another, to demand assistance. In vain did the Aides de Camp wait his
orders. He gave none. He scarcely exhibited signs of life. Many thought,
that, believing the battle lost, he wished himself to be killed. Others,
with more reason, persuaded themselves, that he had lost all power of
thought, and that he neither heard nor saw what was said or what passed
about him. General Berthier came to beg he would instantly withdraw;
instead of answering him, he lay down on the ground. In the meantime,
the French fled as fast as possible. The battle was lost, when suddenly
we heard it said, that General Dessaix was coming up with fresh troops.
Presently we saw him appear at their head. The runaways rallied behind
his columns. Their courage returned--fortune changed. The French
attacked in their turn, with the same fury with which, they had been
attacked; they burned to efface the shame of their defeat in the
morning."

[21] "I die regretting that I have not lived long enough for my
country."

[22] We may lay it down as a maxim, that in every state the desire of
glory exists with the liberty of the subjects, and diminishes with the
same; glory is never the companion of servitude.

[23] "The youth of the present day are brought up in very different
principles: the love of glory, above all, has taken deep root; it has
become the distinguishing attribute of the national character, exalted
by twenty years of continued success. But this very glory was become our
idol; it absorbed all the thoughts of the brave fellows whose wounds had
rendered them unfit for service--all the hopes of the youthful warriors
who for the first time bore arms; an unlooked-for blow has been struck,
and we now find in our hearts a blank similar to that which a lover
feels who has lost the object of his passion; every thing he sees, every
thing he hears, renews his grief. This sentiment renders our situation
vague and painful; every one seeks to hide from himself the void which
he feels exist in his heart. He is looked upon as humbled, after twenty
years of continued triumph, for having lost a single stake, which
unfortunately was the stake of honour, and which had become the rule of
our destinies."--CARONT'S MEMOIR.

[24] "The French are the only people in the universe could laugh even
while freezing."

[25] "Well, there's more materials--more flesh for the cannon!"

[26] "My faith, there's a fine consumption." The word _Consommation_, is
also a mess, a finishing. It is not easy to say whether it was used in
one or all of these senses by Napoleon.

[27] "It was icy cold. The dying were yet breathing; the crowd of dead
bodies, and the black gaps which the blood had made in the snow, were
horribly contrasted. The staff were sensibly affected. The Emperor alone
looked coolly on that scene of mourning and of blood. I pushed my horse
a few paces before his, for I was anxious to observe him at such a
moment. You would have said that he was devoid of every human feeling;
that all that surrounded him existed but for him. He spoke coolly on the
events of the evening before. In passing before a groupe of Russian
grenadiers who had been massacred, the horse of one of the aides-de-camp
started. The Emperor perceived it: "That horse (said he, coldly) is a
coward."

[28] "Workmen who had just left their workshops, peasants escaped from
the villages, with bonnets on their heads, and a staff in their hands,
in six months became intrepid soldiers, and in two years skilful
officers and generals, formidable to the oldest generals in Europe."

[29] "They cut down the crops of men three times a-year."

[30] "It is only under a government as wise and as great as yours, that
a simple soldier like me could have formed the project of carrying the
war into Egypt.--Yes, Directors, scarcely shall I be master of Egypt,
and of the solitudes of Palestine, than England will give you a first
rate ship of the line for a sack of corn."

[31] "If I present myself with troops (said Napoleon) it is only to
please my friends, for in truth, I have the greatest desire of appearing
there as of old; Louis XIV. appeared in the Parliament _in boots_, and a
whip in his hand."

[32] "I am one of those whom men kill, but whom they cannot dishonour;
in three months we shall have peace--either the enemy shall be chased
from our territory, or I shall be no more."

[33] "I have called you around me to do good; you have done ill. You
have among you persons devoted to England, who correspond with the
Prince Regent, by means of the Advocate Deseze. Eleven-twelfths of you
are good; the rest are factious. Return to your departments;--I shall
have my eye on you. I am one whom men may kill, but whom they cannot
dishonour. Who is he among you who could support the load of government.
It has crushed the Constituent Assembly, which dictated laws to a weak
king. The Fauxbourg St Antoine would have assisted me, but it would soon
have abandoned you. What are become of the Jacobins, the Girondins, the
Vergniaus, the Guadets, and so many others? They are dead. You have
sought to _bespatter_ me in the eyes of France. This is a heinous
crime;--besides, what is the throne? Four pieces of gilded wood covered
with velvet. I had pointed out to you a Secret Committee; it is there
that you should have established your griefs. It was in the family that
our _dirty linen should have been washed_. I have a title; you have
none. What are you in the Constitution? Nothing. You have no authority.
The Throne is the Constitution. Every thing is in the throne, and in me.
I repeat it to you, you have among you factious persons. Mr Lainè is a
wicked man; the rest are factious. I know them, and I shall pursue them.
I ask you, Was it while the enemy were among us that you ought to have
done such things? Nature has endowed me with great courage, it can
resist every thing. Much has it cost my pride, but I have sacrificed it.
But I am above your miserable declamations. I had need of
consolation,--and you have dishonoured me. But no; my victories crush
your complaints. I am one of those who triumph or who die. Return to
your departments.

[34] "One of his Ministers one day addressed him, presenting him a
report which he had desired. The subject was a conspiracy against his
person. I was present at that scene; I expected, I confess, to see him
enter in a fury, thunder forth against the traitors, threaten the
magistrates, and accuse them of negligence. Not at all; he ran over the
paper without the least sign of agitation. Judge of my surprise, or
rather what sweet emotion I felt, when he pronounced these _touching and
sublime_ words:--Count, the state has not suffered, the magistrates have
not been insulted. It was only my person they aimed at; I pity them for
not knowing that my every wish is for the good of France; but every man
may go astray. Tell the ungrateful men that I pardon them." Now, I defy
the most faithful royalist, who should have witnessed such an action,
not to exclaim--If Heaven was to give an usurper to France, let us thank
it for having given this one! But stop, unfortunate one: your eyes have
indeed seen, your ears have heard; believe nothing, but be present at
the levee of this hero, so magnanimous, so little desirous of revenging
himself. The doors are opened--Behold him! The crowd of courtiers
surround him--all fix their eyes on him--his face is changed--the
muscles are violently contracted--his whole appearance is that of a
ruffian; a death-like silence reigns in the assembly--the Prince has not
yet spoken, but he surveys the group: He perceives the same officer,
who, two days before, had presented him the report. "Count (said he),
are these vile conspirators executed? Are their accomplices in chains?
Have the executioners given a new example to the imitators of those who
aim at my life?"

[35] "You wish to see us drawn on hurdles to the scaffold."

[36] These nutshells.

[37] Swords of honour--guns of honour.

[38] Saucepan of honour.

[39] "Moreau was conversing with the Emperor Alexander, from whom he was
only distant half a horse's length. It is likely, that they perceived
from the place this brilliant staff, and fired on it at random. Moreau
alone was struck; a cannon-ball broke his right knee, and passing
through the horse's side, carried off the flesh of his left leg. The
generous Alexander shed tears. Colonel Rapatel rushed towards Moreau,
who uttered a long sigh, and then fainted. Returned to himself, he spoke
with the utmost coolness. He said to Monsieur Rapatel, "I am lost, my
friend, but it is so glorious to die for such a cause, and under the
eyes of so great a Prince!" A few minutes afterwards, he said to the
Emperor Alexander himself, "Nothing remains, Sire, save the trunk; but
the heart is there, and the head is your's." He must have suffered the
most excruciating pain; but he called for a segar, and quietly began
smoking. Mr Wylie, first surgeon to the Emperor, hastened to amputate
the limb, which was most severely used. During this cruel operation,
Moreau scarce shewed a change of countenance, and did not cease to smoke
his segar. The amputation performed, Mr Wylie examined the right leg,
and found it in such a state, that he could not refrain from expressing
his terror. "I understand you," said Moreau, "you must cut off this one
too.--Well, do it quickly.--However, I would rather have died." He
wanted to write to his wife; and he wrote to her, with a steady hand,
these words:--"MY DEAR FRIEND,--The battle was decided three days
ago.--I have had both legs carried off by a bullet--that rascal
Bonaparte is always lucky. They have performed the amputation as well as
possible. The army has made a retrograde movement, but it is not
occasioned by any reverse, but from a manœuvre, and in order to approach
General Blucher.--Excuse my scribbling.--I love you, and I embrace you
with all my heart. I have charged Rapatel to finish."--Immediately after
this, he said, "I am not without danger, I know it well; but if I die,
if a premature fate hurry me from a beloved wife and child--from my
country, which I have wished to serve in spite of itself; do not forget
to say to the French, who shall speak of me, that I die with the regret
of not having accomplished my projects--To free my country from the
frightful yoke that oppresses her;--to crush Bonaparte-every species of
war, every possible means, were laudable. With what joy would I have
consecrated the little talent I posses to the cause of humanity. My
heart belonged to France."

At seven o'clock, the sick man finding himself alone with Mr Svinine,
said to him, with a faint voice, "I must absolutely dictate a letter to
you."--Mr Svinine took up the pen, and sighing, traced the few following
lines, dictated by Moreau.

* * *

"SIRE,--I sink into the tomb with the same sentiments of respect,
admiration, and devotion with which your Majesty has always inspired me,
since I have had the happiness of approaching your person."

"In pronouncing these last words, the sick man stopped short and shut
his eyes. Mr Svinine waited, thinking that Moreau was deliberating on
the sequel of the letter--Vain hope--Moreau was no move."

[40] "Well, my good woman;--You expect the Emperor, don't you?" 'Yes,
Sir; I hope we shall have a sight of him.' "Well, my good woman, what do
you folks say of the Emperor?" 'That he is a great villain.' "Eh, my
good woman; and what do you yourself say?" 'Shall I tell you frankly,
Sir, what I think?--If I were the captain of the ship, I would only take
him on board to drown him.'

[41] "The Commissaries, on arriving at Calade, found him with his head
leaning on his two hands, and his face bathed in tears. He told them
that people decidedly aimed at his life; and that the mistress of the
inn, who had not known him, had told him that the Emperor was detested
as a rascal, and that they would only embark him to drown him. He would
eat or drink nothing, however pressed to it; and though he might have
been assured by the example of those who were at table with him, he made
them bring him some bread and water from his carriage, which he ate with
avidity. They waited for night to continue the journey; they were only
two leagues from Aix. The populace of that town would not have been so
easily constrained, as in the other towns, where he had already run such
risks. The Sub-Prefect, taking with him the Lieutenant and six of the
gens-d'armes, rode towards Calade. The night was dark, and the weather
very cold; which double circumstance protected Napoleon much better than
would have been effected by the strongest escort. The Sub-Prefect and
the guards met his suite a few instants after they had quitted Calade,
and followed him till he arrived at the gates of Aix, at two in the
morning. After having changed horses, Bonaparte continuing his route,
passed under the walls of the town, and the reiterated cries of "Long
live the King," which were shouted forth by the inhabitants assembled on
the ramparts. Arrived at the limits of the Department, at an inn called
the Great Pagere, he stopped there for breakfast. General Bertrand
proposed to the Sub-Prefect to ascend to the room of the Commissaries,
where all were at breakfast before his departure. Here were ten or
twelve persons. Napoleon was of the number; he had the dress of an
Austrian officer, and a helmet on his head. Seeing the Sub-Prefect in
his councillor's habit, he said to him, "You would not have known me in
this dress; it is these gentlemen who have made me take it, thinking it
necessary to ensure my safety. I could have had an escort of 3000 men,
which I refused, preferring to trust myself to French honour. I have not
had reason to complain of that confidence from Fontainbleau to Avignon;
but between that town and this, I have been insulted, and have been in
great danger. The Provençals degrade themselves. Since I have been in
France, I have not had a good regiment of Provençals under my orders.
They are good for nothing but to make a noise. The Gascons are boasters,
but at least they are brave."--At these words, one of the party, who no
doubt was a Gascon, pulled out his shirt ruffle, and said, "that's
pleasant." Bonaparte continuing to address himself to the Sub-Prefect,
said to him, "What is the Prefect about?"--'He left this at the first
news of the change which had happened at Paris.' "And his wife?" 'She
had left it before.' "She then took the start. Do the people pay the
revenue and the droits reunis?"--'Not a halfpenny.'--"Are there many
English at Marseilles?" Here the Sub-Prefect related all that had lately
passed in that port, and with what transports they had received the
English. Bonaparte, who did not take much pleasure in such a recital,
put an end to it, by saying to the Sub-Prefect, "Tell your Provençals
that the Emperor is very ill pleased with them."

"Arrived at Bouilledon, he shut himself up in an apartment, with his
sister (Pauline Borghese)--Sentinels were placed at the door.
Notwithstanding which, some ladies arriving at the gallery, which
communicated with that room, beheld there an officer in Austrian
uniform, who said to them, "Ladies, what do you wish to see?" 'We wish
to see Napoleon.' "But that's myself." The ladies, looking at him, said,
smiling, 'You are joking, Sir; you are not Napoleon.' "I assure you,
ladies, it is I.--What!--You thought Napoleon must have a more wicked
appearance. Don't they say that I am a wretch, a rascal?"--The ladies
did not care to undeceive him. Bonaparte, not wishing to press them hard
on this subject, turned the conversation.--But always occupied with his
first idea, he returned to it immediately.--"Acknowledge, at least,
ladies, that now, when fortune is against me, they say that I am a
wretch, a miscreant, and a marauder. But do you know the meaning of all
this? I wished to make France superior to England, and I have failed in
this project."

[42] "When we are on the paved streets of Paris, we perceive that the
people do not there make the laws;--no convenience for pedestrians--no
side pavement; the people seem to be a body separated from the other
orders of the state--the rich and the great who possess equipages, have
the right of crushing and mutilating them in the streets--a hundred
victims expire every year under the wheels of the carriages."

[43] "Before the revolution, the village contained four thousand
inhabitants. It furnished, as its share to the general service of the
church, and of the hospitals, as well as for the instruction of youth,
five ecclesiastics, two sisters of charity, and three schoolmasters.
These last are replaced by a riding-master, a drawing-master, and two
music-masters. Out of eight manufactories of woollen and cotton stuffs,
there remains but one. But in revenge, there are established two
coffee-houses, one tobacco-shop, one restaurateur's shop, and one
billiard-room, which flourish in a manner quite surprising. We reckoned
formerly forty ploughmen. Twenty-five of these have become couriers,
riders, and coachmen. Their place is filled up by women, who conduct the
plough, and who, to amuse themselves, carry occasionally to the market,
carts full of straw or of charcoal. The number of carpenters, masons,
and other artisans, is diminished by about a half. But the price of all
articles of workmanship having risen also one half; _it comes to the
same thing, and a compensation is established_. One class of
individuals, which the villages furnishes in great abundance, and in
much too great a proportion, are livery servants and domestics of
luxury. Whilst this lasts, the country will be depopulated of all those
useful ranks who cultivate the soil, and the towns will be peopled with
the idle and corrupt. Many women and young girls, who were only
sempstresses and under servants, have found advancement in the great
cities, and in the capital. They have become waiting maids,
embroiderers, and milliners. One might say that luxury had exhausted our
youth; all eyes are turned towards it, and it alone occupies every
thought. Never, at any former period, did the contingent in lawyers,
bailiffs, law students, physicians, and artists, exceed three or four;
it is now raised to sixty-two: and what we should never have conceived
in former days, there are now among us as many painters, poets,
comedians, opera dancers, and travelling musicians, as a city of eighty
thousand souls would have furnished thirty or forty years ago."

[44] The variety of the laws and customs is attended with this effect,
that the most intelligent advocate becomes as ignoramus when he finds
himself in Gascony or in Normandy. He loses at Vernon a case which he
had gained at Poissy. Select the most skilful for a consultation or for
pleading; well, he will be under the necessity of having his advocate
and his attorney, if we commit to his care a cause in most of the other
courts.

[45] "I can excuse, but do not envy those who can live as if they had
neither suffered nor seen others suffer; but they must pardon me, who am
unable to imitate them. These days of total and unheard-of degradation
in human nature are yet before my eyes, press heavily on my soul, and
fall incessantly from my pen, destined to retrace them even to my last
hour."

[46] The reader will easily perceive, that the end of this chapter was
written at the time of Napoleon's landing from Elba. Not a word of it
has been altered, for the author is convinced that it is an accurate
picture of France in its present state.

[47] "A Frenchman, (says Madame de Stael, with great truth,) can still
continue to speak, even when he has no ideas."

[48] "Their trifling, naturally intended for the toilet, seems to have
become accessary to the formation of the general character of the
nation: They trifle in council, they trifle at the head of an army, they
trifle with an ambassador."

[49] "Gentlemen, it is impossible to deceive persons enlightened as you
are; I am absolutely going to cut off the head of this child: But before
commencing, I must let you see that I am no quack. Well, in the
meantime, as an exordium, Who is there among you who has the toothache?"
"I," exclaimed instantly a sturdy peasant, &c.

[50] "Gentlemen, in the universe there is but one sun; in the kingdom of
France there is but one king; in the science of medicine there is
Charini alone."

[51] "You are a Scotchman?" 'Yes, Sir.' "Oh, how droll that is." 'And
how is it droll, Sir?' "It is the country of Napoleon. It is an island,
is it not?" 'Certainly not, Sir.' "On my faith, I thought they always
called it the Island of Corse."

[52] "Give a supper; that will make every body run."

[53] "Even if Old Nick should ring his supper-bell, The French would
lick their lips, and flock to H--II."

[54] "Down with the tyrant! Down with the soldiers! Long live the
Emperor! Long live the Marshals! Long live the army! Long live Louis,
the wished-for Monarch! Long live the descendant of Good Henry IV.! Long
live the nation! No feudal laws! No Kings! No nobility! No assessed
taxes! No conscription."

[55] "Long life to death!"

[56] "Who, after having sacrificed millions of victims, could not die
like a soldier."


ERRATA. [Transcriber's note: already corrected.]

Page 20. line    3. for _a_ read _est_.
     21.        18. after _sont_ insert _de_.
     97.         6. for _les_ read _des_.
    156. last line, for _c'est_ read _ce m'est_.
    272. line   20. for _des_ read _de_.
    273.        17. for _des_ read _de_.