Bordeaux is certainly one of the handsomest towns in France., The old

city, like most other old cities, is narrow and confined. The builders

of that day seem to have imagined that there was not room enough in

the world for them, and have therefore packed their edifices into as

small a space as possible. The finest parts of the town are beyond the

old walls, the line of which is still to be distinguished by the

appellation of Fossé, given to the new streets, now built upon their

former site. The river, being, as it were, the wet-nurse of Bordeaux,

the houses have accumulated upon the bank, following the bend of the

Garonne, in one of the most splendid crescents that can be conceived;

and a beautiful bridge of seventeen arches, with a fine simple

triumphal gate, at the end of the Rue des Salinières, adds not a

little to the beauty of the scene.

The town is formed, in general, of a light kind of stone, very easily

worked, which, perhaps, is one cause why the private hotels and

principal streets are so magnificently decorated in the upper

stories--but it is in the upper stories alone, for the ground-floor is

generally occupied by petty ill-contrived shops, and never by any

means harmonizes with the higher parts of the building. I have seen

the lower story of a princely habitation tenanted by a cobler, and a

small pastry-cook's dirty shop below one of the finest houses in

Bordeaux.

The theatre, too, which is a very superb piece of architecture, has

its arcades crammed full of book-stalls and old-clothes shops. In

short, the incongruity which mingles more or less in everything

French, shows itself nowhere more strongly than in the buildings of

this town, certainly one of the most beautiful in France.

Bordeaux occupies a much larger space than is absolutely necessary for

its population. Long rows of trees, planted in the finest streets,

magnificent public gardens, and promenades, now fill the ground, which

in the city's earlier days would have been piled up with story above

story, and warehouse over warehouse, till earth groaned under the

load. But luxury follows commerce, and the great merchants of Bordeaux

must have room to breathe; this, however, is not without its

consequence,--the extent of the city makes it fatiguing to walk from

one end to the other. As Doctor Pangloss would have said, "Men were

made to be carried; in this best of all possible worlds, and therefore

we have carriages." Now, those who have none of their own, are

plentifully provided with _fiacres_, which are generally far superior

to those of either London or Paris.

The cathedral is a fine gothic building, the towers, of which make a

beautiful object in the view, when seen from the heights beyond the

town, but in point of architecture it is far inferior to many others

in France.

Bordeaux is highly susceptible of embellishment, which, indeed, it

receives every day in the greatest degree. Formerly, between the _Quai

des Chartrons_ and the _Chapeau Rouge_, stood a sort of citadel,

called the _Château Trompette_. This has been thrown down since the

peace, and the site, together with the glacis, has been levelled and

portioned out for new buildings and promenades. Many a tale, however,

is told in Bordeaux of the old citades, and amongst others one of a

MISER'S STEP-SON.

When the army of the Duke of Wellington was marching upon Toulouse, a

deputation was sent to him from the royalists of Bordeaux, promising

that if he would detach a small force in that direction, the town

should be given up to him for the king. Immediately Rumour, with her

thousand tongues, sent about the town all manner of reports: lying

here, and lying there, till she frightened all the peaceable

inhabitants out of their wits. The commandant of the Château Trompette

was resolved (they said) to defend it, for Napoleon, to the last; and

there he lay, with a formidable force, keeping the tri-coloured flag

flying continually, and threatening to turn his cannon on the town if

it submitted to the English. On the other hand, came the news that the

British and Spanish forces were marching upon Bordeaux, and that their

general threatened, if a shot was fired in its defence, to give the

town up to the fury of the soldiers; and immediately, murder,

assassination, pillage, and rapine, got into all the old women's heads

in the place; and nothing was thought of by every one of them but to

find some hole in which to hide their daughters and their money, till

the storm had blown over.

There was at that time living at Bordeaux, an old Welsh lady of the

name of Jones; and, like Jephtha, judge of Israel, she was blessed

with one fair daughter whom she loved passing well. She had continued

to live on in France, through peace and war, without minding any one;

and, as she said, had never been frightened at any thing, since her

poor dear husband's death, till she heard that the English and

Spaniards were going to take Bordeaux by 'sault.[8] For the Spaniards,

she understood, were voracious savages; as to the English, she did not

mind them.

--------------------

[Footnote 8: She told me the story herself, heaven rest her soul! and

I use her own phraseology as nearly as a faulty memory will permit.]

--------------------

At the time of the French revolution, old monasteries were to be sold

for an old song, and nunneries were to be had for the having. Thus it

so happened, that in those days, Monsieur Emanuel Latouche (who had

once been a Jew, and had become professionally a Christian, though he

was strongly suspected of being of no religion at all,) had acquired,

under a revolutionary sale, the property of the convent which lay on

the one side of the Rue de l'Intendance, and the monastery which lay

on the other. Now Monsieur Emanuel Latouche, for reasons best known to

himself, espoused a certain French lady; his marriage with whom

appeared to be the proximate cause of his Christianization; and having

imbibed her fortune and bought the buildings aforesaid, he set up as a

great dealer in marine stores. After a certain period of connubial

felicity, the lady died; and left to the care and guidance of Emanuel

Latouche, a certain remnant of herself, called a son, which she had

had by a former marriage; and, as Monsieur Latouche was reputed to

cheat all the world, he was by no means so inconsistent as not to

cheat his own step-son, at least so it was generally supposed. Finding

that it would be a much better speculation to let the monastery

aforesaid, he prevailed upon old Mrs. Jones, whom we have heretofore

mentioned, to take a great part of it, assuring her, as a further

inducement, that, in case she should in future have any thing to hide,

he could show her a place in that very house which would never be

discovered by the keenest eyes.

It is not known whether Mrs. Jones was biassed by this information or

not; but, however, she took up her abode in that part of the monastery

which looks down on the Marché St. Dominique on the one hand, and on

the Theâtre Français on the other; and Monsieur Emanuel Latouche, with

his step-son, continued to live in the old convent on the other side

of the Rue de l'Intendance. It was by these means that an intimacy

first took place between pretty Lucy Jones and Edward Fontange, the

step-son of Monsieur Emanuel Latouche.

There can be no doubt, since Horace says it, that the best plan is to

begin in the middle of a story; but there is, notwithstanding, some

trouble in working up one's lee way. Being arrived at the point we

have now reached, however, all the rest is simple. Having put a

handsome young man and a pretty girl together, what in the name of

Heaven can they do but fall in love with each other? It is what they

always do in novels, and poems, and plays, and I am afraid in real

life too, for propinquity is a terrible thing; and, for my own part, I

am a firm believer in animal magnetism, that is to say, as far as

attraction and repulsion go. However that may be, Edward Fontange and

Lucy Jones tried very hard to fall in love with each other, and, after

a short time, succeeded to a miracle; so much so, indeed, that Mrs.

Jones, perceiving what was going on, thought fit to speak to M.

Latouche upon the subject, desiring to know if he intended to take his

step-son into business with him; in which case she should not scruple,

(she said,) to give him her daughter.

But M. Latouche informed her that he should do no such thing, that his

step-son was no better than a beggar, whom he had educated out of

affection for his dearly beloved wife deceased, and that, further, he

would not give him a farthing, or do anything else for him in the

world; whereupon Mrs. Jones quarrelled with Monsieur Emanuel Latouche,

called him a miserly old curmudgeon; and, going home, turned young

Fontange out of her house, and bade her daughter Lucy think no more of

the young vagabond.

Now love being, as Mrs. Jones herself admitted, no better than a pig,

the best way of making him go on is to pull him back by the hind-leg;

and, consequently, Lucy Jones, who was the most obedient creature in

the world, thought more than ever of Edward Fontange, saw him on every

occasion that she could contrive, and, it is supposed, let him now and

then take a stray kiss, without saying any thing but "Don't," which

he, being a Frenchman, did not at all understand.

It was at this time that the Duke of Wellington's army crossed the

Pyrenees; and fear took possession of Mrs. Jones, who was not only

terrified for her daughter Lucy, but also for certain sums of money,

which she had kept long under lock and key. What was to be done? She

puzzled a long time; but, in a moment, the words of Monsieur Emanuel

Latouche came to her remembrance. He could show her (he had said) a

place in that very house which would never be discovered by the

keenest eyes; and as she thought of it, her hopes became exalted; she

seized a candle from the table, without saying a word, and rushed into

the cellar. For where could it be, she asked herself, but in the

cellar? Lucy, who beheld her mother so suddenly seized with the spirit

of locomotion, naturally imagined she was mad, and followed her as

fast as she could. Her first supposition appeared confirmed, when

entering the cellar, she found her mother gazing fixedly upon a small

iron cross in the wall. "There it is, sure enough," cried Mrs. Jones;

"there it is!"

"Are you out of your senses, mama?" demanded Lucy, respectfully; "are

you mad? There's what?"

"Why the terraqueous suppository, girl," answered Mrs. Jones, who had

forgotten a considerable portion of her English during her residence

in France. "The terraqueous suppository, which that old curmudgeon,

Latouche, told me of when he attrapped me into taking this old

conventicle."

"I do not see any repository at all," said Lucy; "I see nothing but

the cellar wall and an iron stancheon to keep it up."

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Jones, "I'll have a mason this minute, and get

to the bottom of it." So away she ran and brought a mason; but the

first thing was to make him keep secresy; and having conducted him in

pomp to the cellar, she shut the door, and made her daughter Lucy give

him the Bible. "Swear!" said Mrs. Jones, in a solemn tone, like the

Ghost in Hamlet--"Swear!"

The mason held up his hand.

"Swear never to reveal," etc. etc.

"_Je jure tout ce que vous voudrez_--I swear any thing you like,"

replied the mason; and Mrs. Jones, finding this oath quite

comprehensive enough, set him forthwith to work upon the wall just

under the iron cross; when, to the triumph of Mrs. Jones and the

astonishment of Lucy and the mason, a strong plated door was soon

discovered, which readily yielded them admission into a small chamber

only ventilated by a round hole, which seemed to pass through the

walls of the building and mount upwards to the outer air. Nothing else

was to be found. The rubbish was then nicely cleared away, a chair and

a table brought down, and the mason paid and sent about his business;

when, after having looked in the dark to see that there were no

sparks, for the chamber was all of wood, Mrs. Jones and her daughter

mounted to upper air, and retired to bed, not to sleep, but to

meditate over the _convent subterranean_.

It was about the middle of the next day that an officious neighbour

came in to tell Mrs. Jones that the British forces were approaching

the town. "There could be no danger," he said; "but nevertheless the

tricolored flag still flew on the walls of the Château Trompette, and

Lord Wellington had sworn he would deliver the town to the soldiery if

there was a shot fired. It was very foolish to be afraid," he said,

trembling every limb, "but the people were flying in all directions,

and he should leave the town too, for he had no idea of being

bayonetted by the Spaniards."

"Let us shut the street-door," said Lucy, as soon as he was gone, "and

all go down together to the hole in the wall, and when it's all over

we can come out."

"No," replied Mrs. Jones; "you, Lucy, and the maid, shall go down; but

I will stop here, and take care of my property; perhaps I may be able

to modulate their barbarosity."

"Lord, ma'am!" cried the maid, "you'll be killed--you'll be

ill-treated."

Mrs. Jones replied, very coolly, that they never would think of

killing an old woman like her, who had but a few years to live, and

she was not afraid of anything else.

The maid then vowed if her mistress remained she would stay with her,

and the tears rolled, down her cheeks at the idea her self-devotion.

Lucy said, very quietly, that she also would stay with her mother. But

Mrs. Jones would not hear of it, finding her daughter very much

resolved to do as she said, she had recourse to a violent passion,

which was aided by the noise of a drum in the street, and seizing Lucy

by the arm, she snatched up the box that held her money, carried them

both down stairs to the cellar, and pushing them into the dark

chamber, shut the door with a bang; after which, she returned to the

maid, for whose safety she had not the same maternal regard, and

waited the event with "indomptible" fortitude.

In the mean time Lucy remained in the dark. The first thing she did,

was to feel about for the chair, and sitting, down, she had a good

opportunity of crying to her heart's content. She was still engaged in

this agreeable occupation, when she heard a knocking as if somebody

wished to come in. Lucy wiped her eyes and listened. It could not be

her mother--she would have come in at once without any such ceremony;

besides, it did not seem to come from that side. Lucy listened again;

the knocking continued, but evidently came from the opposite part of

the chamber, and appeared not so near as the cellar. Lucy now got upon

her feet, trembling as if she had the palsy, and began to approach the

sound. She knocked over the table, and almost fainted with the noise;

she picked up the table and knocked over the chair, and then again,

_vice versâ_, stopping awhile between each to take breath.

Having arranged all that, she tumbled over her mother's money-box,

broke her shins, and hopped about the room on one foot with the pain

for full five minutes; then not being able to find the chair, she

leaned against the wainscot for support; but the wainscot gave way.

with a crack as if it moved on hinges, and she had almost fallen

headlong into another room as dark as the first.

Lucy now doubted whether she ought to be most surprised or frightened,

but fright had decidedly the majority when she heard something move in

this same dark chamber on the opposite side to that by which she

herself had entered. Now Lucy, though she had never studied modern

tactics was possessed of many of those principles which are supposed

to constitute a good general, and in the present instance, not having

an opportunity of reconnoitring her ground, and finding her forces

totally inadequate to meeting an adversary of any kind, she resolved

upon making a retreat under cover of darkness, but unfortunately she

had neglected to observe which way she had advanced, and for a moment

could not find the entrance into the other chamber. The noise which

she had at first heard of something moving, increased; she became more

and more bewildered, ran this way and that, till--ugh! she ran against

something soft and warm, which caught fast hold of her, and in this

interesting position she fainted. What could she do else?

O ye bards and "romanciers," give me some delicate description of a

young lady recovering from a fainting fit! But no--when Lucy opened

her eyes, she found herself sitting in the manner that European young

ladies and gentlemen generally sit, with an engaging youth, no other

than Edward Fontange, sitting beside her in mute despair, and from

time to time, fanning her face with the tails of his coat, while a

lamp, with its accompanying phosphorus-box, stood by with its dim

light, showing in more gloomy horrors the walls of a dark vault,

which, to the terrified eyes of Lucy, seemed interminable.

Forgetting all the "ohs!" and the "ahs!" of the two lovers, together

with question and answer without end, be it briefly stated, that

Edward Fontange had never contrived to forget Lucy Jones; and always

remembering that it was his want of fortune which had broken his

love-dream, he incessantly meditated the means of remedying that

wherein fate had wronged him. But all ordinary plans demanded years,

long years, to perfect, and love would brook no delay. He had heard,

however, of hidden treasures, and of monks who had concealed immense

sums during the revolution, and he bethought him of searching the

cellars of the old convent where he lived, without ever dreaming that

he should there, find a subterranean communication with the dwelling

of his Lucy. Upon his first examination, he was struck, like Mrs.

Jones, by an iron cross in the wall, and resolved, like her, to come

to the bottom of it the first opportunity.

The first opportunity arrived with the arrival of the British troops,

for his good step-father, not having the most courageous disposition,

flew instantly to the country with his wealth, and left Edward to take

care of the house. No sooner was he gone, than poor Edward descended

to the cellar, and with a good pick-axe and a strong arm, set to work

upon the cellar-wall. He soon, like Mrs. Jones, discovered a door, and

a small chamber exactly similar to her's. Examining this more closely

than she had done, he soon found his way to an extensive vault, and on

narrowly viewing the walls with his lamp, he discovered another iron

cross, smaller than the former. Here he set to work again with his

pick-axe, when suddenly he thought he heard a noise as if something

fell. He listened, and hearing it again, he blew out his lamp for fear

of an intruder. Two or three subsequent clatters succeeded, then a

creak as if of an opening door, and immediately after, he clearly

heard some one move and breathe in the vault.

Whether it was curiosity, or one of those odd presentiments that

sometimes come over us, or any other of the many motives by which we

may conceive a man in such circumstances to be actuated, does not

matter, but his prudence left him: he advanced to find out what it was

that produced the noise; got hold of a woman's gown, and in a minute

after, had his own fair Lucy fainting in his arms. As may be supposed,

he lighted his lamp, and, on finding who it was, went through all the

stages of surprises; consternation, and anxiety, He then tried several

ways of bringing her to herself, amongst which was kissing her more

than once, but that did not answer at all, for the more he kissed her

the more dead she seemed to be. But at length, as I have said, after a

reasonable time, she opened her eyes, and then she had violent fits of

astonishment, etc., which were calmed and appeased by hearing an

account very similar to that which has just been recited.

Lucy had no curiosity at all, she cared for nobody's affairs but her

own; nevertheless, simply out of affection for Edward, she insisted on

his going on with his researches under the little iron cross in the

wall while she was present. She would not have it delayed a moment,

and looked on as if she had been the most curious person in the world.

Edward worked away. The wall was soon demolished, and behind it

appeared no door, but a small cavity and a small wooden chest.

"Here it is! here it is!" cried Edward, in a transport of joy, taking

it out and setting it on the ground. "Lucy, dear Lucy, you are mine at

last. I would give nothing for the treasure if my dear Lucy did not

share it."

Lucy could do nothing but cry, for the generosity of her lover's

sentiments left her no other answer. However, she took the lamp and

both knelt down to look what was written on the top, when, O horror!

the only word which met their view was "Reliques." Edward, gazed on

Lucy, and Lucy looked at Edward without saying anything.

"Well, let us see, at all events," said Edward at last, and taking up

the pick-axe he very soon opened the case, when sure enough nothing

presented itself but old bones and mouldering scraps of linen. "Sacre

blue!" cried Edward. Lucy said nothing, but she thought, the same.

"Hark!" cried her lover, "there is your mother."

But no, they listened--there was nobody; and they again turned to gaze

upon the box.

"Lucy," said Edward, "I am very unfortunate to lose you again in this

manner."

"You do not lose me, Edward," said Lucy; "do you think it is money I

care about."

Edward caught her to his breast, held her there a moment, then

starting back, much to Lucy's surprise, "It's all nonsense," cried he,

"old bones could never be so heavy." Then down he went upon his knees,

and away with the relics; the first tier was bones, and the second

tier was bones, but the third was of bright shining Louis d'ors, and

Edward starting up, caught Lucy in his arms and kissed and re-kissed

her till he had almost smothered the poor girl.

The next thing was, what was to be done with the money, for though

Edward believed himself to be the legitimate owner thereof, yet he had

some twinges as to its being found in the premises of his step-father;

at length, after many pros and cons, "Go you back, Lucy," said her

lover, "to the room where you were, and be not afraid, for there is no

danger to the town or any one in it: for my part, I'll take the money

and away to M. G----r, who was a good friend to my poor mother; he is

the soul of honour, and will tell me what I can do honourably;--one

more kiss, and then good-bye, but say nothing to anybody of what has

happened till you hear from me."

It was two days after this that Monsieur Emanuel Latouche paid a visit

to Mrs. Jones, for the apparent purpose of congratulating her upon the

quiet and peaceable state of the town, but in reality to inform her

that his scapegrace step-son had found a treasure in his cellar and

run away with the same; "but," said Emanuel, "I will make him refund

every sous, or send him to the galleys for a robber."

"Surely," said Mrs. Jones, "you would never think of sending your

wife's child to the galleys, Monsieur Latouche!"

"I would send my own father," replied Emanuel. As he spoke, the door

opened, and in walked no other than Edward Fontange and his mother's

friend Monsieur G----.

Now Emanuel Latouche looked rather blank to see this accompaniment to

the tune of his step-son, but thinking it probably best to attack

rather than be attacked, he began upon poor Edward in most merciless

terms, reproaching him with ingratitude, threatening him with the

galleys, and asking him, if the house where he found the treasure was

not his.

"I think not," replied Monsieur G---- to this last question--"I think

not, Monsieur Latouche; it certainly is not, if you bought that house

with the money of that young man's mother which was left to him at her

death: take my advice, be content with what you have, for I am not

very sure that if this matter were investigated, you yourself might

not find your way to the galleys instead of sending him there."

There was something in the tone of Monsieur G---- that wonderfully

calmed Emanuel Latouche, who at first had been inclined to fight it

out strongly, but upon second thoughts; he swore he was ill

treated--very much ill treated; but as "sufferance was the badge of

all his tribe," he walked out of the room, grumbling as he went. And

as for the rest--why, "Hey, for the wedding!"

A PARTY OF PLEASURE.

Every one knows that there is a vast tract of barren sand, called by

the French people Landes, which, skirting the Bay of Biscay, extends

for many hundred miles, from the mouth of the Gironde into the Spanish

province of Biscay. The breadth of this sandy zone is from twenty to a

hundred miles, all of which is wild, sterile, and desolate, the only

relief to the bleakness of these moors being the shadow of several

vast forests of pine, which have been planted at different times in

the patriotic hope of winning the desert into cultivation. Such a

tract is, of course, thinly peopled, but still it is so in a degree,

and there are even to be found spots of luxuriant fertility, first

cousins to the oasis of Ammon _côte de la mer_. One of the wildest

parts, however, lies between Bordeaux and a little fishing town called

La Teste, situated on the edge of the "Basin d'Arcachon," a large

inlet from the Bay of Biscay, to which it is joined by a narrow

channel of some leagues in length.

It had long been my wish to explore these Landes, and at length an

advertisement appearing in one of the papers that a diligence would go

to La Teste one day in the Christmas week, I instantly caught at the

idea, and my travelling companion, a M. de B----, and myself, engaged

places in this conveyance under the idea of seeing the Landes at our

ease. However, one of the party cried off the night before, and De

B---- and myself set out without him armed with a partridge-pie and a

pair of pistols. The diligence was crowded with a company consisting

of two Jew brokers, three pointer dogs, an exciseman, and two

sportsmen, together with guns and brandy bottles, and having been

drawn slowly for about two leagues through roads that would be a

disgrace to the Sandwich Islands, our conductor made us get out to

lighten the carriage.

The wildness of a desert now began to reign around us. Vast tracts of

sand and uncultivated moor; with large, pine forests, were the only

objects visible, except when a cart, exactly like a hog-trough covered

with a gipsy's tent, was drawn past us by two dun oxen, while the

master, stretched at his full length with his head out at the front,

goaded them on with a long stick; the whole giving a very Hottentotish

appearance to the scene. It also sometimes happened that we

distinguished, moving across the distant sky, an elevated being, who

from his long thin shanks and shapeless body, you might have taken for

a large ostrich or a gigantic crane, but would never have fancied to

be a human creature, until near inspection let you into all the

machinery of stilts and sheepskins. Just after passing one of the

forests, I was surprised to hear the first notes of Corelli's hymn to

the Virgin, whistled clear and shrill in the distance; but it soon

varied into a wilder air, and the musician approached us with immense

strides, lifting his stilts high over every obstacle, without ever

ceasing to knit a pair of stockings which he held half-finished in his

hand. We wondered at his coming so near, for the Landois generally

avoid all strangers, but on entering into conversation with him, we

found that he had served in the army, spoke tolerable French, and was

more civilized altogether than the rest of his countrymen. However,

after an absence of seven years, old habits had resumed their empire;

he came back to his deserts, once more mounted his stilts, and went

whistling about, knitting stockings and tending sheep; as contentedly

as if he had never seen fairer countries or mixed in more busy scenes.

After stopping here a minute or two, De B---- and myself walked

merrily after the other travellers, who had gone on to a solitary

little _auberge_ called the Croix de Hins, and on our arrival found

the good woman busily engaged in slaying the cock which was to serve

for our dinner. The diligence arrived half an hour after us, and

having here imbibed a reasonable quantity of vinegar, by courtesy

termed wine, together with garlic and other delectable savours, we

once more entered our machine and again commenced our journey. I say

commenced, for the diligence was never destined to finish it. About a

hundred yards from the inn it plunged into a most profound rut, which,

like the problem of the longitude, set all getting through it at

defiance: and, in fine, after having spat, sworn, pushed, pulled, and

stamped, damned the road, cursed the vehicle, and flogged the horses,

the postilion informed us that he could go no farther, and was about

to retread his steps towards Bordeaux.

The landlord of the _auberge_, seeing that we were poor wayfaring

strangers, and most charitably wishing to take us in, was equally

against our proceeding, either backwards or forwards, assuring us that

we should be murdered if we went on, and frozen if we went back. The

country before us, he said, was all under water, and filled with

carniverous savages, who lived upon mutton and woodcocks, and if we

returned it would be midnight before we arrived at Bourdi-ou, as he

called it in his Gascon jargon.

All this tremendous description induced our fellow-travellers to

return whence they came, but De B---- and myself, animated with the

ancient spirit of chivalry, and fully prepared to encounter windmills

and giants, procured a couple of guides, and proceeded on our journey

on foot.

The first thing which excited my companion's attention, was the face

of one of our guides, which, if it would not have furnished Salvator

with a bandit, would have served Mrs. Radcliff very well for an

assassin, which name we instantly bestowed upon him. De B---- pointed

out to me also, that this good gentleman, with his dogged scowl and

averted look, had a trick of whispering to the other guide the moment

our eyes were off him, and ceased the moment we looked at him. Now as

my friend had a considerable sum upon his person, which he had not

thought fit to leave at his lodgings, all this made him regard the

guides with a jealous eye; nor were his uncomfortable sensations at

all diminished by our friend the assassin entering into conversation

with us and entertaining us with a most terrific account of the

robbers, murderers, troglodytes, and barbarians inhabiting the Landes.

About four o'clock we came to the last house we were to meet with, and

having gone in to get some refreshment, I took out one of my pistols,

made the guide admire its exquisite workmanship, and boasted that I

could kill a sparrow with it at twenty yards distance. This had rather

an odd effect, his note was instantly changed. He told us that they

were all honest people in the Landes, and swallowed all he had said

before with wonderful facility.

The night was beginning to fall when we quitted this house, the

country wilder and more deserted than before; and shortly after, our

guide quitted every vestige of a path and led us into the depth of the

forest, which consists entirely of enormous pines raising themselves

singly out of the light sand, without any underwood whatever, except

some scattered knots of heath, the only shrub which will grow in that

ungrateful soil.

Night fell heavily without a star; we were walking up to our ancles in

sand, (the most fatiguing thing one can imagine,) and on arriving at

the ford of La Motte, we found it impassable from the quantity of rain

which had fallen. We had now to wander along in the darkness seeking

for another ford. We kept as near the river as we could, but the

country was all under water, and at length the guide swore he had lost

the way; he said, however, that he knew of a hut where he could get a

lantern.

That a man who had lost his way, should know where to get a lantern,

appeared so strange, that I now began to have serious doubts of his

intentions, and insisted on his going on, following the course Of the

river. After proceeding for a long and weary way, the sound of a

water-mill caught my ear, and the guide running on crossed the little

bridge and threw open the door of the mill. A broad glare of red light

instantly burst forth upon the darkness, and the precise scene of "The

Miller and his Men" presented itself in the interior. The hearth was

occupied by a lighted pile of wood, fit to roast an ox, and round a

table covered with dishes and immense large bottles, ten or twelve men

were seated, whose rugged beards of many days' growth, dirty

countenances and strange apparel, did not bespeak them of the orderly

class of human beings. They had all been drinking hard, and round

about were scattered carbines, pistols, and implements of all sorts

that the least accorded with the peaceful trade of a miller.

Seeing that there was no retreating, I walked directly in, and though

at first they did not seem well to understand the motives of our

visit, the miller, who, though not drunk, was scarcely sober, came

forward to speak to me. He had first, I must remark, been spoken to by

our whispering guide, and now he vowed that we should stay there the

night; that it was madness to go forward, the country was under water,

and we had still five leagues to travel. On my expressing my intention

of proceeding, he grew angry, swore, _Pardi_, I _should_ stop, and

with a large oath asked what I was afraid of. I told him that I was

afraid of nothing, but only intended to go on. His brow was getting

more and more cloudy, but however, the guide drew him aside and spoke

to him for a moment or two. What he said I do not know, but thereupon

our miller snatched one of the large bottles from the table, and

coming forward held out his hand to me. "_Eh bien!_" he exclaimed,

"_touchez la! Nous sommes amis_." And filling a glass for himself and

another for me, he knocked his hard against mine, drinking to our

better acquaintance. He then opened the gate of the other bridge, and

suffered us to depart in peace. Far be it from me to judge harshly of

him, but I have since heard that he is generally suspected of carrying

on more than one illicit trade, and all the people to whom I mentioned

the subject at La Teste, did not seem to relish the idea of passing a

night under his roof, though they all said he was _un brave homme! un

fort brave homme!_[9]

--------------------

[Footnote 9: Some circumstances were discovered afterwards in regard

to a traveller for some mercantile house, who had been murdered in the

Landes, which threw greater suspicion on my friend the miller, and

caused him to betake himself elsewhere.]

--------------------

We now recommenced our journey in utter darkness, and as we proceeded,

found half the country underwater; but nevertheless, we went on,

sometimes stumbling over the stumps of trees and bushes; sometimes

jumping from sand-hill to sand-hill, sometimes over our ancles in

sand, and sometimes up to our middles in water. I was extremely

fatigued when we arrived at the mill, but now, hour after hour, and

league after league, went by, and the weariness began to be

insupportable. We all fell several times in the sand, from pure

exhaustion. No one can have an idea of the overpowering sensation of

fatigue which we experienced. My head turned giddy--all the powers of

life seemed failing--and I firmly believe that another mile would have

ended all; but at last we caught sight of a distant light. It gave us

new courage, and with a strong effort we reached the village inn, from

whence this ray of hope had proceeded. It was the last exertion I

could make, and I fell into a chair by the fire without speech or

motion.

But woman, gentle woman, came to my aid with the kindness of a

ministering angel, although clothed in the form of a pippin-faced

landlady, a cocoa-nut-headed chambermaid, and, half-a-dozen old Gascon

women, who would have beaten any witch in Lapland out of the field.

Blessed sleep succeeded, and I was idle enough to dream nothing all

night. The morning had not long dawned, however, When I was woke by a

variety of uncouth sounds in a sort of measured cadence, proceeding

from before the window of the room in which I slept, and I was obliged

to recollect that it was Christmas-day ere I could make anything of

the noise.

But even when this was remembered, and I comprehended that the good

folks of Guizan, where I then was, were singing Christmas carols, or,

as they are called in France _Noels_, still the language was such a

strange compound, that I had to summon all the Gascon in my brain to

any aid, before I could gather anything like common sense. Let those

try that like--

"Rebeillats bous, mainades

Canten nadau alégremen,

Lou Hillet de Marie

Nous bau de saubement."

On getting up, the first thing that attracted my attention was a sight

of the people's feet and legs passing by the top of the window without

their bodies, the height of their stilts carrying the rest of their

persons so high in air that the low window of the _auberge_ only

afforded a view of half a man at a time. Be it remarked, however, that

at Guizan the use of stilts is quite a work of supererogation. In the

sandy parts of the Landes this contrivance is very necessary to enable

the shepherds to follow their flock; but Guizan, situated upon a

little oasis of extremely fertile land, by the side of Basin

d'Arcachon, requires no such machinery. From the window of the

_auberge_ nothing was to be seen but green meadows and vineyards, with

large fields of maize; and a rose-tree growing against the house was

even then, at Christmas, in full bloom. All this formed a strange

contrast with the day before, when our eyes had been wearied from

morning till night by the endless expanse of barren sand, or the

sombre monotony of pine forests. Guizan seemed a little paradise; and

The people, supposing our taste to be similar to that of Cowslip, who

declares in the "Agreeable Surprise,"

"If I was a goddess, I'd have roast duck."

treated us with roast ducks for breakfast; dinner, and supper.

Here, in this secluded nook of earth, live about five hundred souls,

cut off from free communication with their fellows by the broad sands

on one side, and by the Bay of Biscay on the other; and yet I never

saw a happier looking race. English gentlemen, it may easily be

supposed, are rather rare animals in the famous city of Guizan, and,

consequently, during the three days we stayed, at all our meals we had

a large congregation to see the wild beasts eat. Our landlord set

himself down at a small distance to tell us stories and amuse us

between mouthfuls; his son and daughter lingered round with their

fingers in their mouths; the pippin-faced landlady and the

cocoa-nut-headed chambermaid bustled about with plates and dishes,

while a whole host of Landois poked in their heads through the

half-open door.

Strange to say, that amongst a people who thus crowded round two

strangers with the curiosity of Esquimaux, were yet to be found a

billiard-table and a ball-room--and stranger still; the village

possessed both players and dancers who would not have disgraced the

first city in Europe.

The original place of our destination, _La Teste_, lay at the distance

of a few miles, and having procured horses and a guide, we set out the

next day to pay it a visit. The way lay through a tract which seemed

to consist of nothing but pathless wilds, but on looking nearer, we

found that even here the careful hand of man was to be traced. The

sand was in many places propped up with hurdles to give a fastening

for the roots of trees; and we observed that large slips had been cut

out from the bark of the various pines, to draw the turpentine, which

was suffered to collect in little tanks at the foot of each tree.

Meeting with nothing at La teste particularly worthy of attention, we

returned to our _auberge_ at Guizan, and it being Sunday evening, we

found all the villagers assembled in the ball-room to conclude the day

with a dance. It was really a delightful sight. In one corner of the

room was a mountain of _sabots_ and stilts, and, in the centre, all

the young people of the village were dancing in their wooden socks to

the sound of a most infamous fiddle, with a degree of grace and

agility that would have done credit to the opera. In the meantime, the

elder persons were sitting round, holding back the children, and

dandling the infants to the time of the dance. There was nothing harsh

in the picture: it was all smiling good-nature and untaught native

propriety of demeanour.

Our next day's trip was to explore the shores of the Basin d'Arcachon,

which is a large inlet from the Bay of Biscay, of about thirty-eight

leagues in circumference, joined to the main sea by a narrow channel

less than a league in width. Nothing very curious presented itself,

except the immense quantity of wild fowl by which the place is

literally infested. The view, however, as the mist cleared away,

became wild and singular. The indented shores of the bason--sometimes

rising into high hills of light yellow sand, sometimes entered down

to the very water's edge with large forests of black pine, over

whose dark masses appeared occasionally glimpses of some far blue

mountains--made up altogether a strange and sombre scene, which was

not without the beauty of sublimity. Sailing on along the bason, we

passed the end of a long avenue, cut in the heart of one of the

deepest forests, which displayed at the extreme of its perspective a

small white chapel, dedicated to _Notre Dame d'Arcachon_. This is a

place of pilgrimage to which the deep-sea fishermen repair to offer up

prayers for their success, before setting out on their voyage. If

their fishing prove good, the Virgin probably hears no more of it, but

if they meet with a bad cast, they come back and curse our Lady for

her pains. We extended our excursion to the Bay of Biscay, and having

enjoyed for a few minutes the contemplation of the vast unbounded

ocean, we returned to Guizan, with a grand storm coming on from the

north-west.

Such is an account of my first visit to that desolate tract of sand

called the Landes, extending along the shores of the Bay of Biscay,

from the mouth of the Gironde to Bayonne. Upon different occasions I

have since crossed it in every direction; from Bordeaux to the Teste

de Buch, from La Teste to Mont de Marson, and from Guizan to Bayonne.

It happened that I had once taken up my abode for a few days in one of

the small cottages near the ford of Lubie, in the very heart of the

Landes, where a few poor huts are huddled together, as if they sought

protection, in their near companionship, against the encroaching

enmity of the solitary desert. The occasion of my being there matters

not to my present object--suffice it, that by a little kindness I had

gained the good-will of the shrivelled old Parens and his wife, who

owned the tenement, and that the said good-will had been mightily

increased by a small donation of money, which, though a trifle to me,

was more than they could have gained in many a month by their

unprofitable occupation of gathering the resin or _goudron_ from the

pines in the forest round about. From their youth to their age they

had dwelt in the desolation, and withered in the solitude, of the

bleak wastes that surrounded them; nor did they seem to have ever

entertained a wish beyond the confines of that cheerless place, which,

however solitary, however desert, had seen the birth and extinction of

all their hopes and passions; had been the scene of all their cares

and happiness, and was the spot where all their treasure of memory

lay, now that Hope had spread her wings and fled to a world beyond.

Seldom had either of them visited Bordeaux, which they seemed to

consider as the _ultima Thule_. Yet the old man was looked upon as a

kind of oracle by the few Landois in the neighbourhood, many of whom

were indeed the offspring of his own loins; and others, a second race

beyond. But kindred was not his only right to reverence; he was

learned in all the ancient superstitions of the Landes, and the

depository of all the old customs and habits of his race--customs and

habits always most sacred to people who live thus separate from their

fellow-men.

I was often in the habit of walking out in the evening after it was

dark, to enjoy that sort of perfect solitude which I had never seen

but there; but I always remarked, when I made my preparations to that

effect, a degree of uneasiness come over the countenance of my host,

which he seemed to seek some opportunity of expressing in words. At

length he ventured to remonstrate. It was dangerous, he said,--it was

wrong. My first question was of course directed to ascertain in what

the danger consisted. He said it was tempting Providence. The sands

were full of bad spirits, and Heaven knows what might happen if they

found me wandering about there alone after the sun had set and the

moon had risen. The remembrance of the Arabian siltrims immediately

crossed my mind, and, perhaps, caused me to smile; and the old man

shook his head sadly, saying, that he had too much cause to know that

such fears were just. The English, he said, being all Protestants,

which he supposed meant atheists, did not believe in spirits, and that

I would only laugh at him if he were to tell me all that he knew; but

nevertheless, there were things which had happened not far from that

spot which would make me tremble if I heard them.

My curiosity was now excited, and, giving up my walk, I begged him to

tell me to what he alluded.

In reply, he told me a variety of tales, some approaching probability,

some simply extravagant. But that which struck me most was the

following. I give it in his own words, noted down immediately after.

---------------

THE STORY OF THE BAD SPIRIT.

Many years ago I lived at Guizan, and gained my bread as a fisherman,

like most of the other inhabitants of the place. I had been married

about five years, and had one child, which was the most beautiful in

all the village, and my wife and I doted upon it; for it was so sweet

and good-tempered that it was scarcely ever known to cry, and would

play about the cottage all day without ever troubling any one. It so

happened, that being out one time in a storm, my wife vowed an

offering to our Lady at Arcachon, in case of my safe return; so that

the next time I went upon the Basin d'Arcachon, I took her and our

little girl into the boat, and sailing along the shore, I landed them

just where the forest opens, and one can see the chapel of Notre Dame,

at the end of the long avenue of pines. While I sailed on upon the

bason (for I was not going that day to the high seas,) my wife went up

to the chapel, with my little girl running by her side; and when she

went in to say her prayers, she left the child playing about in the

wood hard by. However, on coming out again she could not find her

little girl, and was looking all round, when she suddenly heard

something cry in the wood. You may judge how quick she ran, but

nevertheless she was just in time, for when she came up, there was

poor little Donine, lying on the ground, with her eyes almost starting

out of her head, as if she had been strangled. It was a long time

before her mother could bring her to herself; but when she could

speak, she said that a great woman in white had come out of the wood,

and had coaxed her to go along with her, but that when she got her so

far from the chapel, she caught her by the throat, and squeezed her so

tight that she forgot everything else till she found herself in her

mother's arms. As this was evidently one of the bad spirits, we were

very anxious about it; for these evil beings, when once they have

resolved the destruction of any one, never quit their purpose till it

is accomplished. So we got a cross which had been blessed, and tied it

round Donine's neck, and bade her never to take it off, for fear of

the white woman. Well, while she was young, several times when she had

been out for a moment or two, after night had fallen, she would run

into the cottage all panting with fear, and crying out that she had

seen the white woman. But, as she grew up, we left Guizan, and came to

live here, and we had three or four other children, so that the matter

was forgotten. When she was about sixteen, however, she fell in

company with the son of the miller at the Croix de Bury; and as she

had grown up as beautiful as she was when she was a child, he

persuaded his friends to come and ask her in marriage, though they

were somewhat against it at first, for we were poor and they were

rich; but the matter was soon settled on our part, and they were

promised to each other.

One evening, a week or two before they were to be married, they went

out together to a wedding at La Mothe, and he was to see her safe home

at night. While they were there (as he told us afterwards,) he saw the

cross hanging round her neck, and as it was of a peculiar shape, he

made her take it off to let him look at it; which she did willingly

enough, thinking of nothing but her lover, and having long forgotten

all about the woman; so that she did not remember to get it back

again. They went on dancing till it was dark, and then came away

together; but before they had gone far, she asked him for the cross,

and he then remembered that he had left it behind. So he said that he

would run back and fetch it in a minute, if she would wait there for

him; but she, fearing nothing, said she would walk on, and he would

soon overtake her. Accordingly, away he went, and got the cross from

the house, and ran off as hard as he could to overtake Donine. As he

came into the little wood between this and La Mothe, his heart seemed

to misgive him, he said, and he thought he heard some one cry; so he

ran the faster, to come up with her; but suddenly his foot struck

against what he thought a bush, and he fell. As he did so, his hand

touched something that was smooth and soft, like a woman's cheek, and

looking near, he found that it was Donine, lying senseless in the

path. He called to her, but she made no answer; and taking her up in

his arms, he ran with her, like a madman, till he came to our door.

The old man's voice became troubled, and his wife had been weeping

silently for some time. All that I could gather further was, that

Donine was gone for ever, and that her lover, reproaching himself both

for having taken away the cross, and for having left her in the wood,

soon fell into consumption; to which the inhabitants of the Landes are

particularly subject.

"My wife and I," added the old man, "had other children, whom we loved

as well as poor Donine, but he, poor fellow, had only her, and he did

not remain long behind. So that the bad spirit had two victims to

satisfy her instead of one."

---------------

In whatever country it has been my fate to sojourn, I have always

accustomed myself to mingle with the people, and in doing so, I have

observed, that a belief prevails in every part of the world, that

there does exist another order of beings, distinct from the material

creation.

I was one day talking over the subject with a friend who had been long

in India, and his arguments as well as a tale he told me of an

apparition, not unlike that which had appeared to poor Donine, though

of a more beneficent character, struck me forcibly. He was in general

a very still, quiet man, listening attentively, speaking little, and

never entering into long discussion; but upon the first mention of a

doubt regarding the existence of spirits between the mortal beings of

earth and the Deity, he roused himself in a way that I had never seen

before, and in the somewhat sonorous language which he always used

even in his shortest speeches, poured forth opinions which were

evidently the result of long and intense thought.

"In every land to which fate has conducted my footsteps," he said,

amongst every nation with whom it has been my lot to sojourn, I have

uniformly found a belief in the existence of intermediate beings,

forming a link in the grand chain of nature, between man and the

Deity, The foolish pride of philosophy, believing nought but what is

brought within the immediate range of its circumscribed vision, would

fain establish that the great Creator has stayed his omnipotent hand

at that strange compound of spirit and matter called man; or else

would seek to prove that God has only employed the grosser part of

existing things, and that man himself was totally material. Analogy,

however, (which is the only means of argument within our power,)

totally opposes itself to both of these two theories. In regard to the

last, the thousand varied forms which we every day behold, and the

thousand beautiful and minute grades by which matter is led from the

simple clod to the most perfect of our conceptions, proves evidently

the will of the Deity to vary and employ all that which is within the

immensity of his power. To admit that there is a God, is to admit that

there is a spirit. I have ever held a disbelief in the existence of

such a thing as a rational atheist, and if there is spirit, analogy

teaches us that. God would somewhere and in some way link it with

matter: as we find that every class of things are connected with each

other, so that it is often difficult to distinguish the bird, the

beast, the fish, and the reptile, from the approximating being in

another class, so that it is even difficult to say where animation

begins, and where the vegetable or mineral ceases. Thus we have every

reason to suppose that the Almighty would continue the chain of his

creation without a gap; and link the earthly part of man to that

essence which approximates more nearly to himself. In regard to the

second theory: how it has pleased Omniscience to carry on the system

beyond this world, its denizens cannot hope here to know; but it is

analogical to conclude, that God has not limited himself to the

variations of matter, but has equally willed the existence of other

classes of beings, continuing the same grand gradations throughout the

whole of his sublime creation.

"It has always appeared to me, that some latent truth will ever be

found in opinions, which are held by all nations. There are hidden

chains of reasoning perfectly undefinable, which go on in the minds of

all men, and convince them of particular facts, with a certainty

beyond demonstration which no argument can overthrow, and no sophistry

can materially shake. Of this nature is man's persuasion of his own

existence, and of the existence of a material world. But there are

also other convictions, which, though not so perfectly established,

and equally incapable of proof, may be considered almost certainties

by the general conclusion of all nations to that effect.

"I have just said, that in all the countries in which it has been my

fate to reside, I have ever found a conviction prevail of the

existence of a class of beings, (if I may use the expression), just

beyond the limits of clay; in fact, our next link in the chain of

existence. This belief was of course expressed under the form of a

thousand superstitions, but still the foundation was the same; and as

I always make it a point of sparing even prejudices, when I cannot

remove them, instead of jesting at the tales which I have at different

times heard upon the subject, I have always listened with attention,

and given way to the feelings of those who recited them. So often has

this occurred to me, and so great a wanderer have I been, that I have

at present by me sufficient notes of the various vague forms which

this belief takes in different countries, to compile an epitome of the

superstitions of almost all nations.

"When a part of the English troops," he continued, "marched from

India, to co-operate with our army in Egypt, I eagerly seized the

opportunity thus offered of visiting in safety several interesting

countries, which I might never again have the means of seeing. I

easily obtained permission to accompany the army, and set out as upon

a party of pleasure; but before our landing, I was seized with a

violent fever; and all that my friend Colonel M---- could do for me,

was to leave me in charge of a respectable Arab, at Cossier, while the

army pursued its march towards the Nile. I need not repeat all that

has been said upon Arab hospitality; it is a well known fact, that the

highest degree of that virtue is to be found amongst a people, the

business of whose life is rapine and plunder. But my host was of a

very superior description: and having broken bread and eaten salt

together, I was, as he expressed himself, his brother, and truly as a

brother, did he treat me. He was a merchant, carrying on a

considerable trade in gums and spices, and every year he made a

journey into Egypt, where the luxury of the Mamelukes offered a ready

mart for his merchandize. It wanted but a short time to his annual

expedition, and when I had recovered from my illness, I was glad

enough to wait a few weeks, till such time as I could cross the desert

under the protection of his escort. When the time for our departure

arrived, we sat out, guarded by a tribe of the Arabs of the desert,

whom my friend and his companions hired as a protection to their

caravan. On our journey, as there was not water wherewith to perform

the ablutions prescribed by the Mahommedan religion, the dry sand of

the desert was used as a substitute; and observing my host, or, as I

may call him, my protector, for such indeed he was on every occasion,

I remarked, that with particular prayers, he took care to bare his

arms, and rub the sand from the tip of his little finger to the joint

of the elbow; but what most attracted my curiosity, was the appearance

of a leathern thong, serving to bind upon his arm a small leaden

tablet thickly engraved with a peculiar character, which I immediately

perceived to be neither Arabic nor Persian.

"During my residence in his house, that degree of intimacy had arisen

between us, which warranted my asking the meaning, of what I had seen.

He was a man of much simplicity of character, though possessing very

considerable information; and the innumerable questions which he was

in the habit of asking me relative to England and India, had induced

me to inquire much into the various customs of his country, on which

subject he had been uniformly frank and explicit, to a degree not

common among the Arabs. On the present occasion, however, no sooner

had I demanded what was the reason he wore a piece of lead bound upon

his arm, after the fashion that I had seen, than I perceived the blood

rising high in his dark cheek; and he replied, with no small

hesitation, that it was nothing particular. My curiosity was still

mere strongly excited by his reluctance to explain, and I pressed him

upon the subject.

"'I know,' said he in reply, 'that the Franks are all atheists, and do

not believe in the existence of spirits, therefore, Sheik----,' naming

me, 'would only laugh at his brother if he were told the history of

that talisman.'

"However, on my assuring him that he could not believe in spirits more

fully than I did, his countenance cleared, and with the habitual piety

of a Mussulman, thanking God for having enlightened me, he promised to

tell me the next day the whole story of the piece of lead and its

cabalistic inscription.

"About half-past one on the morning following, we began our march; and

as it was uncommonly cold, my friend Abul Coumel and myself rode

forward as fast as we could, leaving the caravan to follow. The plain,

to the west, was bordered by high rocks of red granite, and we made

all speed to reach them before daybreak, on account of the shadow

which their various indentations afforded; for in that country, though

the nights are chilling the extreme, no sooner does the sun rise above

the horizon than the air becomes heated as by a furnace, and

travelling from that moment is almost impossible. The morning was just

breaking when we reached the granite mountains, and choosing a spot

which afforded some shade, and at the same time commanded a view of

the plain, so that we might not lose the caravan, we dismounted from

our horses, and seated ourselves under the rock. Abul Coumel (as well

as myself, who had by this time acquired some Arab habits), took

several pieces of coarse bread from his wallet, and shared them with

his horse. He then turned towards Mecca and said his prayers; after

which he seated himself by me, wrapped his barrakhan around him, to

keep him from any drifting sand, and proceeded with the tale connected

with his talisman."

----------------

ABUL COUMEL AND HIS TALISMAN.

Truth, (said Abul Coumel) is as the waters of the Zemzem well, a gift

which Allah gives to these that believe in him. I delayed to tell

thee, my brother, how I became possessed of this talisman, until such

time as we should be amongst these rocks, because it was here that I

received it, in the manner that I am about to relate. About fifteen

years ago, ere the hand of time had mingled my beard with white, I was

returning from Cairo to Cossier, after having disposed of all my

merchandize to Ibraham Bey, who being a careful and avaricious man,

bought up all the goods which came into Egypt, and afterwards retailed

them at a great profit to his less provident companions. My heart was

glad, because the road to riches was before me, and I forgot the

proverb, "In the midst of prosperity there is danger." Accordingly,

the slow journeys of the caravan became hateful in my sight, and I

lingered on the green banks of the Nile, thinking, with a swift horse,

to overtake the rest of my company ere they had proceeded more than a

day's journey. I was accompanied by a slave, whose horse carried the

bags of water, and early in the morning we set out joyfully on our

way; and as we went along the slave sang sweetly, and told many

pleasant tales to beguile the time, so that the desert rang to our

music and laughter. But it was thus we, forgot to make haste, and when

morning broke we had not proceeded half so far as we thought to have

done. The hot wind now began to blow; and to gain strength, we took a

part of the water we had brought with us, and gave part to our horses,

and so we proceeded; but the slave sang no more, and the desert looked

the more dreary, because we were alone. We rode on for four hours

longer, and then came to the summit of these hills, where we had

expected to overtake the caravan; but we looked all around, to the

east, and the west, the north, and the south, and not a living thing

was within sight; all that we could see was a boundless sky, and a

boundless plain, and dry sand, and a burning sun. However, we

descended from the hills and took our way along the plain; but silence

was upon our lips, for we feared to open our mouths lest we should

increase the thirst we had little means to satisfy. At length, after

two hours more, the slave said "Master, I thirst," and I bade him take

some of the water, but to use it frugally. Nevertheless, he, seeing

that I took none, was ashamed to drink before his master, so that we

rode on with our thirst still unquenched; and at the end of another

hour he said, "Master, I must drink, or I die." So turning round, I

beheld that his face was changed, and his eyes had become like blood,

and I said, "Drink, why hast thou not slackened thy thirst before?"

But he answered not, and in a moment the bridle dropped from his hand,

and he fell off his horse upon the sand. It was all in vain that I

poured what yet remained of the water into his mouth or upon his

forehead. Azraël claimed him for his own: his lips were black; and his

tongue had grown dry and yellow, like the withered heart of an old

sycamore tree.

Now, finding that he was dead, and that the thirst was gaining also

upon me, I sucked the inside of the water bags, for there was no water

in them, and mounting my horse I rode on in search of a well; and I

went along the sand like lightning, for the fear of death was behind

me. But no well could I find, and every instant the fire within my

heart and on my lips grew more and more burning; I felt as if a

serpent were eating my eyeballs; and when I looked round upon the

desert and the angry sky, the world seemed all to be in flames. For

another hour I rode on, and then I felt a few drops of water, for they

were not tears, start out of my eyes and roll over my cheeks, burning

as they went. I knew that it was the sign of death, and my heart

turned sick when I thought of my own home and the pleasant shores of

the Red Sea; and giving up hope, I turned towards these rocks, to find

some spot where I could at least die in the shade; but ere I reached

them life was forgotten, and I remembered the world no more.

What happened for some time, I know not, but at length I woke as from

a deep sleep, yet so weary did I feel that I could not move hand nor

foot; but I could see that I was lying at the mouth of a cave, and the

large stars were shining bright in the sky. As soon as I began to

move, a sweet woman's voice said, "Rest thee, brother; be thy cares at

peace, for God has seen thee in the desert, and has brought thee

help." And the voice was as soft and musical as the wind of heaven. So

I lay still, but I could not sleep for weariness; and all through the

night I saw a white figure moving round me, and every now and then it

poured some cool liquor on my lips, and murmured what seemed a prayer,

in a tongue that I could not understand. At length, towards morning, I

fell into a sound sleep, and after a long time was wakened by some one

kissing my forehead; whereupon I opened my eyes, and beheld, a woman,

more beautiful than can be described. I was now strong with repose,

and I rose up on my feet; but no sooner had I done so than the woman

gave a great cry, and fled into the depth of the cave.

It was in vain that I called, and in vain that I sought, touching the

rock all round; no one answered, and no one was to be found; and after

a time I went out of the cave and found my horse feeding upon some of

the rushes of the desert. I then went into the cave again, and lay

down where I had been lying before, upon the bed of dry straw,

thinking that the beautiful woman would come back when she thought I

was asleep; but it was not so. And after having lain there some time,

I heard two or three persons come into the cave, and one of them said,

"Here is Abul Coumel, lying dead also." Upon which I opened my eyes,

and found that it was a party of my friends, who had come back from

the caravan to seek me. When I told them what had happened, at first

they laughed at me, and said I had dreamed; but presently, seeing the

bed of straw that had been made for me, they began to search also, but

found no one, neither could they by any means discover another outlet

to the cavern. At length they all determined that it must have been

one of those spirits of the desert called Siltrims; but I maintained

another opinion, for the Siltrims are always a malevolent and wicked

race; whereas, this, by its actions, showed itself to belong to that

order of genii, which were at first rebellious, but which, having

submitted, are allowed to wander about the earth, doing good actions,

and counteracting the efforts of the evil genii. In this I was

confirmed when I came to say my prayers, for I then perceived that

during the night a piece of lead had been bound round my arm, which

was evidently a talisman against all bad spirits; and ever since that

time, in addition to the prayers appointed by the law, I every day

thank God for having sent one of these good spirits to my relief.

---------------

Such was the story told by my Indian friend; and thousands of such

tales are still common in the Landes of France. The similarity of

character which prevails amongst the superstitions of all countries

and all nations, from Indus to the pole, may, perhaps, be the effect

of tradition, more probably the effect of the universal principles of

human nature, acting upon an indefinite, but no less deeply implanted

conviction of the existence of another order of beings nearly

approaching to ourselves in the scale of creation. While I remained in

the Landes, I gathered together a great number of these stories, which

were found in abundance round the Christmas fireside of our little

inn at Guizan. Nothing, however, of any great interest, affecting

ourselves, occurred during our farther residence in the Landes, and

after staying a few days longer we procured two of the horses which

are employed in carrying fish from La Teste to Bordeaux, and proceeded

to the latter city, at a pace well calculated to dislocate every bone

in our skins.

BOBECHE.

And in his brain,

Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit

After a voyage, he hath strange places crammed

With observations, the which he vents

In mangled forms.

Distance of time, like distance of space, gives to everything that

sort of indistinctness which excites curiosity and even admiration.

The deeds of our forefathers, as they gradually fade away and lose

their place among the things that are, become clothed with an unreal

splendour, and the habits and customs of other days, however

insignificant in themselves, acquire a degree of interest as they

recede from us, as much owing to their age as their originality. I

will own I am fond of prying into old fashions and peculiarities;

there is something attractive in their simplicity; and, in travelling

along, whenever I find any vestige of the kind, I am as much rejoiced

as ever was antiquary who had fished up a noseless bust out of the

Tiber.

Amongst all the usages of former times, none was better than that of

the court-fool, or licensed jester; but now-a-days men's vices and

their weaknesses have become too irritable, and few are inclined to do

penance under the scourge of satire.

Satirical talent is the most dangerous thing in the world. Those who

possess it may be admired, but they are seldom liked; and who would

barter love for admiration? In other days, none but a wit could be a

fool, but now none but a fool would be a wit.

There is a man in France who, by some odd mistake of nature, has been

born a couple of centuries too late, and has thus been deprived of an

opportunity of turning either his wit or his folly to account. Poor

Bobeche found it did not answer in Paris; the scene was too large for

him; and he has retired for a time to Bordeaux, to exercise his

talents amongst the Gascons; and here every evening he harangues the

multitude from a little stage erected in the Alées de Tourny.

Sometimes it is a dialogue between the fool and another; sometimes a

soliloquy; and the people listen to both with profound respect and

attention. I have often mingled with the crowd, and stood for a good

hour, not so much to listen to his jests, as to examine the jester;

for he is the only approximation to the old court-fool I ever saw. Of

course his dress is peculiar to himself. It consists of a small

three-cornered cocked-hat, stuck on one side of his head, and a close

red coat of the ancient cut. His countenance has a strange mixture of

vacancy and meaning, of solemnity and fun. He seems always to be

searching for one idea, and stumbling upon another by accident, and

appears scarcely to know whether it be wit or nonsense when he has

uttered it; and in truth there is, nine times out of ten, somewhat of

both. But still, he keeps his imperturbable gravity; and his round

unmeaning face, and dull leaden eye, prepossess you in favour of his

folly; so that any wit which he displays has the greater effect, from

giving no notice of its approach.

Bobeche has the same failing as all his predecessors: he has no

respect for the great. In fact, he cares not upon whom or on what

subject he breaks his jest. It must have its way, light were it will;

and they say that he has more than once been obliged to expiate the

offences of his noddle by two or three weeks' cool reflection in

prison. If this be true, it has not made him a whit the wiser; for I

have heard the very questions most tender in France made the subject

of his unlucky witticisms, and the king and every member of the

government sported with in turn.

Bobêche is not "le Glorieux," but it is a variety of the same genus.

The extraordinary author of Waverley is always true to nature in his

depiction of character, and it has been a great subject of interest to

me to trace in remote spots and corners of the earth the original

lines which he has beautifully copied, and very often to find _that_

realized, which I had before imagined to be merely the conception of a

brilliant imagination.

Though I have undertaken to tell my own history, I feel a strange

disinclination to speak much of myself, especially during my stay at

Bordeaux. My mind was in that vacillating and unsettled state which is

perhaps the most painful that human nature can endure. It was at that

point where sorrow degenerates into both levity and bitterness, the

most dangerous of all conditions; but a letter which I wrote about

this time, and which has since fallen into my hands again, will give a

better picture of my state of thought than any thing I could write

now.

MY DEAR R----,

Surely if I am an odd being, as you say, you are another! What in the

name of heaven could induce you to write to any other person at

Bordeaux about the letter which lay at the post-office for you?

However, I have taken the business out of your friend's hands, and

sent it on to you myself. It was in verity my own letter, and, as you

will see by the post-marks, has been upon its travels for some time.

The truth is, I put it in the post for Boulogne, where I fancied you

were, and to which it went without the postage being paid. Some friend

of yours at Boulogne, you being gone, put your London address upon it,

without _affranchissement_, and in consequence it was sent back to the

postmaster here, and so forth.

What its contents were, I quite forget; some great nonsense, I dare

say. But who in this age of the world would write sense, when Feeling

has been strangled for a traitor, Virtue publicly whipped for breaking

all the commandments, Generosity turned out to beg his bread, and

Charity (I do not mean ostentation) sent to the treadmill? In short,

when Vice is triumphant, Folly is sure to come in for a share in the

administration, and Nonsense becomes the only patron to whom a wise

man can apply. There is no such thing, my dear R----, as being mad in

this world. It is only being in the minority; and instead of saying

that a man has been put in a lunatic hospital, we ought to say that he

has been confined by the majority. However, I hope that my letter,

which was a sad raw cub when it left my hands, has been improved by

travelling, in which case it may give you some amusement.

You ask me a variety of questions, to very few of which I can reply.

What has made me stay at Bordeaux so long is a problem which I should

be happy if any one could solve for me. It has been from no particular

or general attraction. Here the climate is disagreeable, and the

society, generally, not much better. There are few that I care about,

there is none that I love, there is little to amuse, there is little

to interest. It must have been by some law of gravitation that I

settled down here, and until some propelling force of sufficient power

acts upon me, I suppose I shall not budge.

Your next question is, "When do you return to England?" I cannot tell.

The very idea is wretchedness to me. I think it was the Helvetii--was

it not?--who, without rhyme or reason, collected together all the

provisions they could find, burnt their towns and villages, and left

their own country to seek another. But with me it is not from any

distaste to England that I leave it. I love it because it is my

country. I love it for its free institutions and noble privileges; for

its brave spirits and generous hearts; and I am proud of it for its

grand pre-eminence over a corrupted world. But it is a country where I

have suffered much and lost much, and I cannot calmly think of

returning to the scenes which must recall so much bitterness.

But, to change the subject, I have been to see a curious receptacle

for our mortality. It is a sort of bone-house, called "_Le Caveau des

Morts_," placed under the tower of an old church, now converted into a

station for a telegraph. The first notice we had of such a place being

in existence, (for the people of Bordeaux know nothing,) was the sight

of the name placarded on the door, and entering, we found ourselves in

the inside of an old Gothic building, in company with an animal that

at first view might be taken for Caliban. He was a shapeless man,

dressed in a rough, shaggy coat, that descended to two feet clad in

immeasurable _sabots_. On his head he wore a large black nightcap,

that alone suffered to appear the lower part of his face and two small

dark eyes, together with the tips of a pair of elephantine ears. For

the first few minutes we could get nothing from him but a kind of

growling bark, which proved to be cough, and he himself turned out the

sexton and bell-ringer, and very readily, in consideration of a franc,

conducted us down a narrow staircase in the wall, to descend which, I

was obliged to bow my head, and my companion to go almost double.

On getting to the bottom we entered an almost circular vault, roofed

by Gothic arches and paved with the mouldering remains of frail

humanity. B---- took the candle from our sexton, and standing in the

midst, held it high above his head, looking like some colossal

spectre; while the light gleamed faintly round, catching on the groins

of the vault and the rows of ghastly dead, half skeleton half mummy,

which were ranged along the walls. As soon as he had lighted a lamp in

the middle, our guide, in the true tone of a showman at a fair, began

to give us an account of the place and what it contained. He told us

first, that the ground on which we stood was fifty feet deep in dead.

When the family vaults of the cemetery, he said, were full, the bodies

which were not found corrupted were removed to this cavern, and took

their station against the wall, as we saw them; and pointing to the

one next the door, he assured us that it had lain in the earth for

five hundred years, although the skin and flesh, dried to a thick kind

of leather, were still hanging about its bones. He then went round

them all, occasionally giving us little bits of their history, which

might or might not be true, sometimes moralising and sometimes

jesting, bringing strongly to my mind the grave-digger in Hamlet. It

was strange to see him, just dropping into the grave, joking with the

grim tenants of the tomb as if he were himself immortal. At length, he

conducted us once more into the upper air of the tower, from whence we

immediately issued into the most populous part of Bordeaux, swarming

with the busy and the gay, the beautiful and the strong, all hurrying

through an agitated existence towards the same great receptacle we had

just left. It was a strange contrast.

The cathedral here is not so fine as many others we have seen. A few

days ago we heard a fine military mass, at which the archbishop

assisted. I was pleased with the service, notwithstanding all the

overdone stage-effect of the Catholic ceremonies; but after the

soldiers had marched out and the church was cleared, it was most

disgusting to observe the effects of the French people's bad habit of

spitting. There was actually a rivulet of saliva on each side of the

church where the military stood. The archbishop is one of the best men

in existence, but they say rather superstitious. A good story is told

of him here, which, most probably, has its portion of falsehood. His

cook-maid, it is said, gave herself out as possessed by a demon. Now,

Monseigneur having no taste for such an inmate as this in his

cook-maid or his house, proceeded instantly to exorcise the gentleman,

ordering his chaplain to put his head to the lady's stomach and

collect the devil's answers.

"Does the devil speak?" asked the archbishop, after a long address to

the unearthly visitant.

"Yes," replied the chaplain.

"What does he say?" demanded the prelate.

"He says," answered the other, "_Je m'en fiche--i. e_. I do not care a

groat."

So the archbishop gave it up as a bad job.

You say true: it is an extraordinary country, "La belle France;" but

yet, in other days, I used to find much in it that gave me pleasure;

and amidst the many faults that crowd upon the eye of a stranger on

his first visit to any foreign country, I could descry many good

qualities. At present my eye is jaundiced, and I dare not judge. I

should be sorry to form an opinion of France from Bordeaux, but

certainly there is vice enough here to supply a moderate kingdom.

I do not remember whether I have given you any account of Bordeaux

before; if so, pardon the repetition. Not satisfied with the ordinary

means of gambling, the good people have here invented one for

themselves expressly. The price of brandy, you must know, is

excessively subject to variation, and upon this they speculate, making

bargains for time, as our stock-jobbers do, by which means fortunes

are lost and won with extraordinary facility. The life of one of these

men is brandy: he rises thinking of brandy--he writes about brandy all

the morning--at dinner he talks about it--at the coffee-house he asks

the news of brandy--at the theatre he makes a bargain between the

acts, and then going to bed he dreams of a hogshead.

The upper classes of the Bordelois have the reputation of being not a

little depraved. The next rank is a degree less corrupt; and lower

down comes a race rather famous. You have heard of course of the

Grisettes of Bourdeaux, and certainly they do appear the prettiest

little beings that ever were turned out of a band-box, as they go

tripping along the streets with their neat shoes and well-turned ankle

and leg, which they do not at all scruple to show somewhat more than

necessary. When in their working-dress, they wear a handkerchief

shrewdly twisted round their head, a gown of common printed muslin,

but cut in the most elegant form, and a little black silk apron, with

a pocket on each side before, into which they put their hands to keep

them warm in the winter.

Their dress at balls, and on fête days, is of the richest materials

that can be found--expensive silks of the brightest colours, and a

quantity of lace, which is principally displayed in the cap, that is

then substituted for the handkerchief on the head. I am sorry to say

that these young ladies are not generally famous for their morals. It

is not, indeed, to be expected that they should be so. The same

disgrace is not attached to the loss of virtue in this class as it is

in England. If I may use the expression, they do not lose cast as they

would with us, and are far from being disgraced amongst their fellows,

by any degree of immorality except infidelity. All this does not

prevent them from marrying when they arrive at a certain period of

life, and making often better wives than those who, in the higher

ranks, never went astray till they were married.

It is extraordinary, amidst this general dissolution of morals, how

our fair countrywomen at Bordeaux keep themselves from all

contamination. As you may suppose, there are a multitude of English

families here, and I have never yet heard, a whisper against the

female part of them. I know several persons here; some very agreeable,

some who might be very agreeable if they would; but in general the

society is confined to cold formal dinner-parties, which are little

calculated to promote _sociality_. I do not at all thank a man for

giving me a dinner. I can always get that for myself; but if he

invites me to meet pleasant people, and adds one happy hour to the

little stock of enjoyment that man can find in life, he lays me under

an absolute obligation.

There are many Protestants in Bordeaux, and consequently a Protestant

chapel, which I have attended frequently. Did you ever remark how

intolerant a persecuted sect becomes? The horrible severities

exercised for long upon the French Protestants have excited in them

the most violent hatred to the Church of Rome; and even from the

pulpit they do not spare their mother church. There is, however, here

one of the best preachers I have ever heard, a Monsieur Vermeille. His

sermons are by no means equally good; but I have heard him on many

occasions burst into the most powerful strain of eloquence you can

conceive. But my own eloquence is becoming rather tedious, and

therefore I shall merely bid you farewell.

Your's ever,

J.P.Y.

LA CHASSE.

* * * * But if the sylvan youth,

Whose fervent blood boils into violence,

Must have the chase, behold, despising flight,

The roused-up lion, resolute and slow,

Advancing full on the protended spear.--THOMSOM.

I had been wandering about one day in the neighbourhood of Bordeaux,

indulging a variety of desultory meditations, following the uneven

tenor of my own mind, sometimes sad and sometimes gay, and sometimes

of that odd mixed nature where melancholy and mirth are so intimately

commingled, that there is no separating them, when turning round an

angle in the road, I had a figure before me whose occupations puzzled

me not a little. He was one of that class of beings now nearly

extinct, who still cling with pertinacity to powder and pigtails. His

face was round, his cheekbones high, his complexion mummy-coloured,

his nose turned up and primed with snuff, and in the cavities on each

side stood two little dark eyes like black currants shining through a

dumpling. The castor which covered his head was intended for a modern

hat, but it had still a strange hankering for the form of the

old-fashioned shovel, far more pinched behind than before, with the

rear rim strongly turned up, as if to avoid the collar of his coat. It

seemed that his head had been so long accustomed to wear cocked-hats,

that whatever he put upon it assumed something of that form. To finish

the whole, on each side under the brim lay two long rows of powdered

curls, which flew off in an airy pigtail behind. This sort of man

ought to be recorded, for in the course of years it will become

unknown, like the mammoth; and strange remnants of whigs and pigtails

will be found to puzzle the naturalist and antiquary.

But it was his occupation that I did not understand. He was creeping

along by the side of a ditch, with his knees bowed, and eagerness in

his air, and ever and anon he clapped to his shoulder a long machine,

which seemed of a mongrel breed, between a duck-gun and a cross-bow;

having the long barrel and stock of the one, and the arc and cord of

the other. Continually as he placed it at his shoulder, I heard

something plump into the ditch, on which he shook his head with

evident mortification, and proceeded a little farther. I followed at

the same stealthy pace, and he seemed rather flattered than

discomposed by the attention I gave to his movements. At length he

look a long and steady aim, drew the trigger, the bow twanged, and

rushing forward with a shout of exultation, he seized an immense frog

he had just shot, and held it up in triumph by the leg.[10]

--------------------

[Footnote 10: Those who imagine this to be a jest deceive themselves;

I have seen the same more than once since.]

--------------------

"Qu'elle est belle! Qu'elle est belle!" cried he, turning to me as I

came up. "It was a long shot, too," he added.

I paid him a compliment upon the achievement, and asked if he had had

much sport.

He said, "No, that the weather was so hot that the frogs kept

principally to the water, and they had been so much hunted that they

were very wild."

"How!" cried I; "you do not shoot them sitting?"

He told me that he did, and asked me how I thought they ought to be

shot?

I told him that to shoot them sitting was mere poaching, that he ought

to take them in the leap.

He said "that a young man like me might do those things, but for an

old man like him it was not so easy, but, however, that he would try."

I assured him that he ought to do so, and having examined his

_arbalète_, I left him to endeavour to shoot frogs flying if he could.

As I went home I could not help moralizing upon the change which has

taken place in Frenchmen since the revolution--a change which has

altered them entirely, and yet left them nearly as different from the

English as ever. I then asked myself in what the difference between us

and our neighbours consisted, and I laid down in my own mind a whole

table of

DISTINCTIONS.

Liberiùs si

Dixero quid, si fortè jocosiùs, hoc mihi juris

Cum veniâ dabis.--HORACE.

They may be true or they may be false, but I beg it to be understood

that they are given with perfect good humour towards a people for many

of whom I have a high personal regard.

An Englishman is proud, a Frenchman is vain. A Frenchman says more

than he thinks, an Englishman thinks more than he says. A Frenchman is

an excellent acquaintance, an Englishman is a good friend. A Frenchman

is enterprising, an Englishman is indefatigable. An Englishman has

more judgment, a Frenchman more wit. Both are brave, but an Englishman

fights coolly, a Frenchman hotly. The latter will attack anything, the

former will be repulsed by nothing. An Englishman in conversation

seems going a journey, a Frenchman is taking a walk. The one plods

hard on to the object in view, the other skips away from his path for

the slightest thing that catches his attention. There is more

advantage in conversing with the one, more pleasure with the other. An

Englishman generalizes, a Frenchman particularizes. An Englishman when

he tastes anything says that it is good, that it has an agreeable

flavour; a Frenchman describes every sensation it produces in his

mouth and throat, from the tip of the tongue down to the stomach, and

winds it up with a simile. An Englishman remarking an opera-dancer

sees that she dances well, with grace, with agility; a Frenchman notes

every _entrechat_, and can tell to a line where her foot ought to

fall. An Englishman must have a large stock of knives and forks to

change with every plate: a Frenchman uses but one for all, and it

sometimes serves him for a salt-spoon, too. An Englishman in his own

country must have two rooms; a Frenchman can do very well with one; he

dines there when he cannot go out, receives his company there, and can

do everything there. A married Englishman requires but one bed, a

married Frenchman must have two. In general an Englishman is willing

to submit to the power of the law, but inclined to resist military

force; the contrary proposition is the case with the French.

A Frenchman is constitutionally a happier animal than an Englishman.

He is born a philosopher. He enjoys to-day, he forgets the past, and

lets to-morrow take care of itself. No misfortunes can affect him,

he floats like a bit of cork on the top of the waves which seem

destined to overwhelm him. He makes his servant his confidant, the

coffee-house his library, the man next him his friend, the theatre his

fireside;--and his home--but he has nothing to do with that.

He is gay, witty, brave, and not unfeeling, but his character is like

the sand on the sea-shore, where you may write deeply, but a few waves

sweep it away for ever. That perverted word 'sentiment' in its true

sense he knows little of. But are there many men in all the world who

know much more.

A Frenchman is not so insincere as he has been called. It is true he

makes vehement professions which mean nothing, but he makes them in a

language the expressions of which are all overcharged, and in a

country where they are justly appreciated. As money, the

representative of labour, has in every country its relative value, so

words, the current coin of conversation, vary in import amongst

various nations, and have a rate of exchange with foreigners. Thus, if

an Englishman takes a Frenchman's professions at the value the same

would hear in England, it is his own fault, for the rate of exchange

is against them. Besides, they are _obliged_ to use large words, there

is no small change in France. In conversation, as well as in commerce,

there is nothing circulating but heavy five-franc pieces. A boot is

said to fit "_divinement_," and a tailor tells you that there is "_de

quoi se mettre à genoux devant_" the coat he has just made for you. I

have heard a boot-jack called _superb_, a pair of stockings

_magnifique_, and a wig _angelique_. A man offered me "_poudre à la

rose_," to make my boots slip on; and an old woman who had strayed a

kitten, called it "expatriating her cat." An Englishman says, "I am

glad to see you;" a Frenchman "_Je suis ravi de vous voir_." It comes

to the same thing in the end. Everything in France is _au dessus du

vraisemblable_, and the language not more than the rest. An

Englishman's passions are like his own coal fire, difficult to kindle;

but long before they go out, have more heat than flame, more intensity

than brilliancy. A Frenchman is like a fire of wood that crackles and

flames and blazes, that is lighted in a minute, and in a minute

extinguished.

The French, though they are daily improving, are still certainly a

dirty people,[11] not in their persons but in their houses and habits.

In this, as in everything else, they are the most inconsistent nation

in the world. In their habitations there is the strangest mixture of

splendour and want of cleanliness, and in their manners an equal

mingling of elegance and coarseness. One must often walk up a

staircase where every kind of dirt is to be found in order to arrive

at a palace, and a thousand things that shock all notions of delicacy

are here openly done and talked of by the most polite.

--------------------

[Footnote 11: These passages were written thirteen or fourteen years

ago, since which time France has made the most extraordinary progress

that any country in Europe can boast. England has also advanced, but

the change is certainly not so striking between what she is now and

what she was then, as that which has taken place in France in the same

period; but it may be taken as a proof of the justice of these

remarks, that France has become much more English than England has

become French.]

--------------------

A Frenchman's politeness consists much more in small talk and petty

ceremonies than in any real elegance of person or of mind. They have

told the world so often that they are the most civilized nation in

Europe, that the world believes it. It is true, they have an immensity

of the jargon of society, a quickness in catching and appreciating the

tastes and ideas of others, and a great fund of good-nature, which

makes them love to see all around them at their ease; but their vanity

stands much in the way of their politeness. An Englishman may perhaps

over-rate both himself and his country, but he is contented with his

own opinion, and cares little what others think on the subject; but a

Frenchman wishes every one to acknowledge, and takes the greatest

pains to prove, that France is the first country and himself the first

man in the world. A Frenchman, however, has much more of the two great

principles on which real politeness is founded than an Englishman. He

is by nature an infinitely more good-humoured being, and he has more

of that inestimable quality which he himself calls _tact_.

If the French called themselves simply the most polite nation in the

world, we might be inclined to admit the claim. When they say they are

the most _civilized_, we instantly deny it. I have seen an actress and

a famous actress too, stop in the midst of one of Racine's finest

speeches to spit in her pocket handkerchief, before the whole

audience. I asked the gentleman next me if such were a common

occurrence. He seemed surprised at the question, and said, what could

she do? She must spit! Did we not spit in England? he asked. I told

him not in general, and never in genteel society. He said, "Oh!" and

without doubt did not believe a word I said; for, let it be remarked,

that the French generally have no more idea of our manners and customs

than if we were placed at one pole and they at the other. A great

proportion of the French people look upon us as a kind of Sandwich

Islanders--imagine that we never see the sun--that our atmosphere is

one constant fog--that we eat nothing but beef and potatoes--that we

drink nothing but tea and porter--and that our only ripe fruit is.

baked apples.[12] Let me do them justice, however; rarely or ever

would an Englishman have been insulted by the populace of France with

those brutal appellations which the lower classes in England did not

fail to bestow upon the French, when they discovered them in the

streets of London during the war. If the higher class of society in

France, is not so refined as the same class in England, and I do not

scruple to say that it is not, there is much more urbanity, and real

or acquired politeness, amongst the peasantry of the former country.

One or the greatest differences, however, between the two countries is

the one which is least favourable to England and the most honourable

to France. France is always anxious to improve, and the whole nation

drags on the unwilling few. England is always suspicious of

improvement, and the talented few drag on the unwilling nation.

--------------------

[Footnote 12: This appears somewhat exaggerated now, but it was very

little so when the passage was written; and opinions as absurd have a

thousand times been uttered by men otherwise well informed in my

presence. Some late books of travels in this country, however, would

tend to show that the French have not yet much enlarged their

knowledge of England and the English.]

--------------------

I have hitherto in general spoken of French men; what shall I say of

French women? If I say but little, it is not that I think them in any

degree less charming, less graceful, less fascinating than others have

thought. To criticise them would be a task invidious and not for me.

If they have anything about them that might as well be altered, I say,

heaven forbid that it should be otherwise; for as perfection is

certainly not to be found amongst men, it would place too terrible a

difference between the sexes if it were to be met with in women.

BEGGARS.

I'll bow my leg and crook my knee,

And draw a black clout o'er my e'e;

A cripple or blind they will ca' me,

While we shall be merry and sing.

THE GABERLUNZIE MAN.

There is a singular mode of begging existing at Bordeaux, which at all

events has the merit of novelty. In passing along the Cours de Tourny,

which is lined on each side by a row of fine elms, the eye is

attracted by a number of little boxes, and cups, with a small slit in

the top, large enough to admit a two-sous piece. Some of these are

fixed to the trees, and some are placed in the centre of a chair left

at the road side, without any one to guard it. It was some time before

it struck me that this was for the purpose of soliciting charity; but

upon inquiry, I found that it was an invention of late years, which at

first had considerable success. The originator did not at once hazard

his little box on the highway without interpretation, but fixed a

placard upon one of the trees just above it, stating that it belonged

to a "pauvre malade," who could not quit his bed; and, adding a list

of as many misfortunes as he thought necessary, he summed up by

begging the charitable passenger to drop his alms into the _coffre_

below.

As he neglected to take out a patent for his invention, of course

there immediately appeared an infinity of other "pauvres malades," who

contrived to levy a considerable contribution from the inhabitants of

Bordeaux. Some placed a chair to represent their person: some were

afflicted with one disease, some another. In short, various

improvements took place, the thing being understood, and everybody

knowing what the box meant, the placard was dispensed with, and the

passenger's imagination was left to supply any malady for which he had

a particular predilection.

Begging is in France a perfect trade, and by no means one of the least

profitable. The streets, the highways, and all public places are

infested with troops of beings of the most miserable appearance, with

everything, that rags, filth, and disease can do to make them equally

objects of disgust and compassion. But let it not be thought that

these wretches, often scarcely human, are left to so sad a fate by any

mismanagement of the many excellent charitable institutions of France.

Misery is their profession. To cure than of their maladies would be a

robbery, and to furnish them with any employment, they would consider

as one of the worst sorts of tyranny. Idleness is their liberty, and

disease is their fortune. A sore leg is at any time better than a

trade, and a withered arm is a treasure.

In the towns, they have particular stations, which may be looked upon

as shops where they expose their miseries, as they would any other

kind of merchandise. There was one, I remember, at Bordeaux, who had

scarcely any vestige of form left. He used to come to his station on

horseback, (for he was a man of some consideration), and setting

himself on the ground, he displayed his legs, which were dreadfully

deformed; as a tradesman sets out his goods in his shop window.

All the cottages that border the high road are filled with little

mendicants, who rush forth at the first sound of a carriage, and

torment the unhappy traveller, sometimes for miles. One of their most

common methods of begging is to throw a bunch of flowers into the

window, and then never quit the vehicle till they are paid for them.

Such a mode of soliciting charity may seem very poetical; but never in

my life did I see such a race of dirty, ragged, pertinacious little

vagabonds.

It is the same all over France. In every thing else the various

provinces differ essentially, but in beggars they are all equally well

supplied. I have visited the north, the south, the east, and the west

of France, and have found no visible difference. From the Place de la

Comédie, at Bordeaux, passing along the allées and the Cours de Tourny

to the Place Dauphine, a distance of about half a mile, I once met

three-and-twenty beggars; and on the bridge at Pau I have counted

nineteen. Although many of those who are now common mendicants, played

parts, more or less conspicuous, in the French revolution, I do not

believe that it added greatly, if at all, to the number of beggars in

France. The wars of the League and those of the Fronde certainly did

add to the number; but in those wars there was no purifying principle,

no ennobling motive on the part of the insurgents: all was

selfishness, vice, or caprice. In speaking of the wars of the Fronde,

Voltaire says:

Les Anglais avaient mis dans leurs troubles civiles un acharnement

mélancolique et une fureur raisonée. Ils donnaient de sanglantes

batalles et le fer décidait tout.

Les Français, au contraire, se précipitaient dans les séditions par

caprice et en riant. Les femmes étaient à la tête des factions,

l'amour faisait et rompait les cabales.--VOLTAIRE--SIECLE DE LOUIS

XIV.

Amongst the beggars in the streets of Bordeaux there is an old man,

said to have been bourreau, or executioner, in that city, during the

revolution. Perhaps an executioner is one of the most extraordinary

beings in nature. Cut off from all human feeling, to embrace by choice

the occupation of deliberately slaying his fellow-creatures, seems a

paradox in the history of man. There is certainly a strange principle

of destructiveness mingled with all nature, in a way and for reasons

that we cannot divine. But here seems an innate cruelty getting the

better of all that man learns from his infancy. An executioner must be

a being apart from all nature, who, without passion or prejudice to

stimulate him, throws off all feeling of humanity, breaks from all

social charity, and exposes himself to the abhorrence of mankind, for

the sole delight of embruing his hands in human blood.

Before the revolution the office of bourreau was confined to

particular families. It was a curse that descended from generation to

generation; all fled from, all detested the unfortunate man fated to

be the instrument of his fellows' death, and he himself, cut off from

society with kindred beings, often grew morose and cruel, destroying

without regret that race which refused him all community.

But when this odious inheritance was abolished, and it became a

voluntary act, thousands stepped forward eager for the office of

blood-spiller, and in all the horrors which succeeded, no one was ever

wanting to do the work of death.

As the office of executioner is the most extraordinary that man can

choose, so perhaps the French revolution is the most extraordinary

event in the history of mankind.

It seems as if all nations were more or less like a man subject to

occasional fits of insanity, and that they cannot proceed beyond a

certain period without an unconquerable desire to destroy everything,

which at other times they are most careful to preserve. From some of

these maladies they recover, and have afterwards a more perfect health

than if they had never occurred, but often the effects of the disease

remain long after it has itself ceased.

The French revolution in general, taking it from its very commencement

to its close, produced some good amidst a mass of evil; but there were

particular periods, when all thought of right seemed abandoned, which

did as much as the destruction of all order, the abolition of all law,

the contempt of all religion; and the annihilation of every principle

and every feeling, can effect towards a nation's overthrow. It often

happens that man in doing wrong in one way, unintentionally do good in

another; but those who governed France at the periods of which I

speak, with a comprehensiveness of mind which, happily for the world,

is not always attendant upon crime, contrived to be uniform at least

in evil; and left no one good act for which history could accuse them

of inconsistency. At the same time, they took care to prove to the

world, by a rare combination of qualities, that it was in ill alone

that they were uniform, by mixing the maddest display of folly with

the affectations of philosophy, and uniting levity with slaughter.

Humanity shudders at the remembrance of such deeds; not alone because

they were bloody, but at the horrid frivolities with which they were

accompanied. It appears as if the love of destruction had seized like

a mania upon all the nation with a power ungovernable, had taken the

place of every better feeling, and left every weakness and every

defect in more than original force.

Never was the national levity of the French more conspicuous than

during great part of the reign of terror. While every day shed fresh

blood, and the deputy who superintended the work of murder at Nantes,

found the guillotine but a means of slaughter in detail, not at all

suited to his comprehensive mind; while he fell upon the happy

expedient of embarking his victims in a covered boat, and sinking them

wholesale in the river: at that very time the opera was as fully

attended and the card-tables as gay as ever; jokes were cut upon the

guillotine by those who were next to undergo its stroke, and the

murderer handed his snuff-box to the victim whom to-morrow he

condemned to death. In future ages the minute points of this vast

tragedy will scarcely be believed. Many of its horrors are but faintly

remembered even now, and the benefits which accrued from it are far

overrated. The _dîme_, the _corvée_, and almost all the _droits

seigneuriaux_ were falling or had fallen even before the actual

revolution began, and every other abuse would have gradually yielded

to the power of time and the increase of knowledge. But the French

were not contented to wait; they slew a good king, deluged their

fields in blood, and stained their annals with crime, to obtain what a

few years would have peaceably brought about.

France has never yet perfectly recovered the revolution; the character

of the people has been injured by it, and all the foundations of

society have been shaken. No definite ideas regarding any of the great

questions which affect the happiness of a community have been left;

and though it is not improbable that from this chaotic condition a new

and brighter system may arise, yet the state of transition has already

lasted long enough to be an intolerable evil. Though I am inclined to

believe that in France, as in other countries, an improvement in

morals has taken place in regard to religion, the bad results produced

by the revolution have been very extensive. Yet it is curious to

observe, that among all the blasphemies and follies with which the

French amused themselves at that period, a feeling of the absolute

necessity of some religion manifested itself continually. Even in

their greatest absurdities, it is evident. At the moment that a statue

to eternal sleep was erected, pointing to the tomb, it was proposed to

grant a patent to the Almighty for the invention of the world, upon

condition that he ceased to meddle with human affairs. At another

time, fruits and all things necessary to the support of man were

proposed as the object of human adoration; but the conviction of our

dependence upon some superior being, and the necessity of worship, was

always breaking forth.

The revolution has, in a manner, divided the kingdom into various

sects, of which the three principal are bigots, sceptics, and

hypocrites. The bigots consist in general of that portion of the

higher ranks who actually suffered in the revolution, and that portion

of the lower whom it neither enlightened nor led astray. The sceptics

consist of those who either never had any religion, or who lost it in

the theories and sophistry of the day, and these form the great bulk,

I am sorry to say, of the thinking and scientific in one class, and

the vicious and thoughtless of another. The hypocrites are those in

all stations to whom long practice in political dissembling has given

a facility in dissembling altogether. There are two other sects. The

French protestant and the unbigotted and enlightened French catholic,

but these are few in comparison. They comprise, however, many of the

most talented and most virtuous of the nation.

The sceptics are, of course, divided between many opinions. Many are

materialists; one or two fancy themselves atheists, but a great

majority follow what they call a purism. They allow the existence of a

supreme Being, are doubtful in regard to the immortality of the soul,

and profess to hold the moral doctrine of the Evangelists, although

they deny it a divine origin. They labour, according to the reasoning

of various pseudo-philosophers, to prove that the moral code of

Christianity was merely a compilation by the eclectists of Alexandria

from the most celebrated doctrines of the ancient philosophers, joined

with the principle of universal charity which they own to be found in

no other composition than the gospel. But they attempt by no means to

dispose of the sect of Christians mentioned in the celebrated letter

from Trajan to Pliny; nor to account for the extraordinary

circumstance of the philosophers of Alexandria having borrowed the

name of Christ, (as they suppose,) and having raised upon it such an

apocrypha of history, circumstances, and details, all of which could

have been contradicted at the time, had they been false. According to

their own theory they are obliged to imagine much more and believe

much more without proof, than if they were to receive the history

which the divine volume gives of itself.

From all that I have seen in France of the consequences of their great

national calamity, I am convinced, that however revolutions may call

forth latent talent, and acuminate the mind of man, however necessary

they may sometimes be as a defence to liberty and a check to tyrants,

general virtue owes them little, and the very principles of social

happiness are by them destroyed.

LA BREDE.

Tutta fra se di se siessa invaghita.--BERNARDO L'UNICO.