Chapter V: Modern French Character and Manners (2)

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."