CHAPTER XVIII.

_July 8th._--Here I am in heaven, as it were--in _Colombes_!--in a _perfect paradise_! More of that hereafter. I am sitting scribbling at last in a handsome room, all to myself! But to begin at the beginning. This morning was (as usual of late) very fine and very hot. At an early hour we received orders to hold ourselves in readiness to march, and understood that we were about to move on the Loire, where the French army had mustered in force and refused to acknowledge the capitulation. Hitchins and I had just found a very pretty little house vacant near our bivouac, and little damaged. Into this we proposed getting to-day, and were rather disappointed when the order for moving came. It was no small comfort, however, to escape from Garges and all its horrors of plundered houses and bad water. The filth of the bivouac, from such long occupation, was becoming intolerable, and the water, bad as it was, was failing fast.

Being sufficiently occupied, I did not notice at what hour we marched, but it must not have been late; for, notwithstanding delays, we arrived here early in the afternoon--the distance probably six or seven English miles. A column of cavalry, composed of our brigade and some other regiments of heavy dragoons, preceded us, and all together took the road to St Denis. Arrived at the point of junction of the three chaussées, instead of marching through the town we struck off to the right. This was not the road to the Loire, and we were puzzled. Wherever we were going the road was beautiful, and the cool shade of the green vault under which we marched peculiarly agreeable in so hot a day. All the country right and left was like a garden; laid out in little square plots of vegetables or roses, an astonishing quantity of which flower is grown in this neighbourhood. Passing through the pretty village of Epinay on the banks of the Seine, we soon after came to a singular ridge of chalky hills separating the road on which we marched from the river. Here then we quitted the chaussée for a cross-road skirting those hills on the side next the river, which we now understood was to be crossed by a pontoon bridge thrown across a little lower down.

Quitting the delicious shade of the elms for the open fields, and these lying on a southern slope, the heat was intense, and when, getting between vines and fig-trees (of which we found whole fields here), the little air there was became shut out from us, it was quite suffocating. The ripe, cool, juicy figs with which the trees were loaded, relieved us, however; the poor fellows placed to watch these looked on rather piteously, but we committed no waste nor destruction beyond eating a few as we went along. These were the first peasantry we had found in the fields since passing Senlis. All along our route dead horses in abundance poisoned the air, and marked the line of operations of Blucher’s army. The bridge was at Argenteuil, another pretty village; but on arriving there we found so many corps to pass before us, that, having got into a shady spot, we dismounted and disposed ourselves to rest. The Seine here appeared to me such another river as the Thames at Vauxhall Bridge. The ground on our side sloped rapidly down to it; on the other the banks were low and rushy, an extent of flat meadow-land lay beyond, and thence arose gently swelling hills, covered with shrubberies, villages, villas, &c. The scenery was animated by the masses of our troops and the novelty of the pontoon bridge, together with the interest excited by a number of women and pretty girls who brought us in abundance (for sale) flowers and very fine cherries.

What a change from the sickening, desolated, deserted country we have left, where everything breathed war! Suddenly we enter a land of peace, plenty, and happiness, fields covered with luxuriant crops of various kinds of vegetables, amongst which the large, dark-tinted leaves of the artichoke predominate; vines, figs, and myriads of roses are extended over the face of the hills; whilst the meadows beyond the river exhibit a vast tract of the richest pasture. Innumerable villages, all full of people; their dwellings comfortable and in good order. No desertion here; no sign of military exaction or plundering; no apprehension betrayed at our approach. We are received as countrymen might be. The people are confiding and happy; nor would one imagine that the blast of war had passed so near and left them scathless.

At length our turn to pass arrived, and we crossed the Seine. It seems there were not pontoons enough by half for this bridge, consequently what they had were placed at double distance; the bridge was therefore so weak that the utmost precaution was necessary in passing it, and our guns and detachments (the latter dismounted and leading their horses in file) were obliged to go over separately; but it was also necessary to take the three pair of leaders (eight horses to a gun) off, and let the wheel horses alone take over the guns. Even then, each pontoon sank until its gunwale was within two or three inches of the water as the gun passed over it.

My tutelary genius, Major M’Donald, met me in the meadows, and, as we rode along together, pointed out a village on a rising ground peeping through the trees as my destination--the village of Colombes. “Are we to halt there to-night?” I asked. “Yes, a good many nights;” and then, for the first time, I learned that our army was going into cantonments. On entering the village I found we were not to have it all to ourselves. Bull’s and M’Donald’s troops were here before me; but as it is very large, and there are plenty of good houses, we have all got abundance of rooms and capital quarters. The place consists principally of two long streets, with a good many detached country-houses of citizens; and as the houses of these streets are generally two or three storeys, it holds us well. We have divided the village into three districts: Bull has all the upper end towards Courbevoie; M’Donald has a fine chateau and park at the bottom of the hill, in the meadows, with the adjacent parts; I have the end where the two streets join on the road to Nanterre--by far the pleasantest.

The peasantry all remain here quietly; but whether fled in alarm, or that it is not the fashion to be seen in the country at this season, I know not; but, certes, all the villas and better description of houses are either entirely empty or only a few servants left in them. Such is the case with this house I now write in. My men and horses are all well put up with the cultivateurs, and the officers are superbly lodged in the different _quintas_. My own is charming; and no one can imagine the delight of such a residence, nor the pleasure I enjoy at again having a place to myself, and that, too, such a paradise. One drawback there is; I have been obliged to park my guns in my own pleasure-grounds--a sad invasion of my privacy this; but I have made it as little annoyance as possible by forming the park close to the further gate, with orders to the sentry to allow no one to pass beyond; and as there is a thick shrubbery between that part of the grounds and the house, it is completely excluded. Another very sad one was the loss of my poor old dog Bal, who had been my companion day and night about eleven years, always sleeping under my bed or by my side. In 1807 he accompanied us to South America. On arriving at Colombes he was first missed. I sent Milward back to Garges, but never heard more of him. _My establishment_ appears to be small; I have only seen one old man-servant as yet, though I know there are more. He is extremely obsequious and attentive to my wants, apparently somewhat alarmed, and not quite certain whether I mean to eat him up alive or not. He gave me an excellent dinner to-day and delicious wine--so that he hopes his fate is deferred. A most luxurious-looking bed tempts me, and as I am somewhat tired, and more lazy just now, I shall consign myself to it without delay, and describe my house, &c., to-morrow, when I shall have had time to examine it more leisurely.

_July 9th._--Hot, beautiful day. A haziness in the atmosphere--the effect of this great heat--makes the distance quite _dreamy_. After so many bivouacs and cottage-beds, the delicious sensation with which I took possession of my voluptuous couch last night is not to be set forth in words, any more than the puzzled astonishment with which I gazed around on awaking this morning. It was some time ere I could clearly recollect where I was--surrounded by everything rich, beautiful, and luxurious. From my bed, too, I could see the meadows below, the silver current of the Seine, and the vine-clad hills beyond. It was impossible to jump up in my usual abrupt manner immediately on waking. I was loath to bring so much pleasure to a conclusion, convinced as I was that it must be less keen to-morrow; so I lay on until hunger reminded me that there were other duties to attend to--other pleasures to be enjoyed.

I have now completed the inspection of my domain, and a right lovely one it is. Let me try and preserve a _souvenir_ of it. Architectural pretension the house has none--its charm consisting in the elegant and luxurious fitting-up of its interior, together with the exterior accessories by which it is surrounded. A neat (not small) house of two storeys, with dormitories under the usual very high roof characterising most French houses, seated on the very brink of the rather steep _coteau_, and thus overlooking the meadows, the Seine, the country beyond; and having in the foreground, and immediately below it, the fine massed foliage of the noble trees in the park occupied by Major M’Donald’s troop. From the village you enter by a _grande porte cochère_ into a neat gravelled courtyard--having the house in front, offices on the left, and a range of excellent light airy stables, and one or two coach-houses on the right. The lower floor of the _corps de logis_ consists of a suite of handsomely-furnished saloons, in one of which is a billiard-table--a most delightful solace in such a situation. The end room, having a large window opening to the floor upon a flight of steps leading down to a pretty terrace, is ornamented with some good statues. The corresponding rooms up-stairs are all fitted up as bed-rooms. The opposite side of the house from the court looks upon a charming garden presenting every variety of parterre and shrubbery, among which wind cool and shady walks; whilst the innumerable flowers of the parterres fill the air with their perfume; and the sparkling waters of a fountain continually playing under the windows impart a refreshing coolness and throw an air of romance over the whole. A broad terrace, overshadowed by linden-trees and acacias, runs along the edge of the _coteau_ from the end of the house, as above mentioned, to the extremity of the grounds, commanding a charming prospect through its whole length, but particularly from its termination, where, from a picturesque little _kiosk_ seated on an artificial tumulus-shaped mound, the eye wanders down the sweet scenery of the valley until in the extreme distance it rests on the palace and park of St Germain-en-Laye. Masses of roses, carnations, lavender, geraniums, and a multitude of other flowers, planted in beds along the upper side of the terrace, contribute their fragrance to enhance the delight of this lovely walk. Immediately beneath the terrace, enclosed by a wall covered with vines, and roofed or coved with large picturesque tiles, is a spacious kitchen and fruit garden, covered just now by its luxuriant crop of all kinds. The more distant part of the grounds is laid out in lawns of smooth turf, interspersed with a variety of shrubs and forest-trees, scattered about singly, in clumps, or sometimes in close thickets or open groves. A lofty stone wall encloses three sides of this domain, the terrace forming a fourth, and a gateway in the further part permits access to my park without trespassing on my _homestead_. The house is elegantly furnished with articles of the most costly and luxurious description, and exquisite statues of white marble decorate the corridors, staircases, and the large saloon before mentioned. The apartment I have chosen for myself is immediately over and corresponding to this, and is a perfect _bijou_; it is fitted up with a taste and splendour that bespeak the inhabitant at once voluptuous and refined. Separated from the other apartments by a small antechamber, it occupies the whole extremity of the house, overlooking the Seine, &c. In this end, like the saloon below, one large window opening to the floor, but into an iron balcony, commands a most delicious view. Immediately below is my well-stocked rich-looking garden; beyond that, yet still, as it were, under me, the finely-rounded luxuriant masses of foliage of the stately elms in the park; then stretch out, like a verdant carpet, the spacious meadows, the sameness of their level expanse diversified and rendered interesting by thickets of underwood, bushes, and occasional clumps of trees. These are bounded by the silvery waters of the Seine, above which rises rather abruptly a curious chain of hills, round-topped, and broken in places by gypsum cliffs, their slopes clothed with vineyards, and separated from a similar isolated hill,[11] evidently a continuation, by a singular gap, through which is seen a rich country extending far back, and in the extreme distance the chateau and park of the Montmorenci. The contrast between the purply haze enveloping this country, and the more vivid colouring of the nearer landscape, gives it a dreamy and indescribably mysterious appearance. At the foot of the hills on the river-bank, and immediately opposite my window, the white buildings of Argenteuil, mingled with foliage, form a pleasing object, its church-tower decorated by the sacred _pavillon blanc_, which waves continually from its upper window. To the left the picturesque little village of Bezons and its ruined bridge, and beyond a wide extent of open, not picturesque, though rich country, covered with wheat, vines, and fig-trees, extends to St Germain--the sombre trees of whose park terminates the view in that direction. The other windows look over the garden, and the bubbling, sparkling fountain throws its glittering drops quite up to them, if not actually cooling the air, at least refreshing to the imagination. Here the view is bounded by the thick foliage of the shrubbery; but the contrast between this and the extended view from the balcony only serves to enhance the one and the other. The balmy fragrance arising from the parterres, the splashing of the water, and the cheerful songs of innumerable birds, with which the trees are filled, make this a most luscious apartment. But for the interior!--the walls are nearly covered with large mirrors, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, encased in frames richly carved and gilt. The compartments between these are filled up with fine engravings or drawings. In a recess (as the French fashion is) stands a spacious and sumptuous bed, which may be concealed at pleasure by curtains of green silk with deep rich yellow fringe. The bedstead is of mahogany, highly varnished, sculptured, and enriched with gilt ornaments, but looks unfinished to an English eye not yet accustomed to the absence of posts and curtains. The bed itself the most luxurious and fastidious must be content with; the silk counterpane matches the curtains of the recess; the enormous pillows, encased in the finest and most delicately white linen, are edged with rich lace; the sheets are as the pillow-cases, and in texture rival cambric. An elegant little table, standing between the two side windows, serves as a stand for beautiful vases of Sevres porcelain, holding large bouquets of the choicest productions of the garden; a large round table of mahogany, covered with oil-cloth and edged with gilt bronze, occupies the middle of the floor;--the rest of the furniture, in short, is of a piece, and the accessories of a bedroom are of porcelain or fine crystal. A little door beside the recess opens into a narrow passage leading round to the rear of the house, where a small cabinet, lined with mahogany and lighted by an _œil de bœuf_, leaves no want on the score of conveniences unsupplied. At the other end of the room a small closet, fitted as a library, contains a collection of the most splendid editions of the best French authors. Here, however, the voluptuary was conspicuous; the licentiousness of Voltaire, Louvet, and others, is innocence itself compared to many works in this collection. My establishment consists of the old butler (Monsieur Ferdinand), the gardener, the cook, and, I believe, a girl as a scrub. These, with the addition of William and my two grooms, make up a snug little family. M. Ferdinand is attentive, and seems solicitous to please. Cook sent me up yesterday a remarkably nice dinner; and the gardener brought a fine fresh bouquet this morning for my vases, which he promises to do daily, also fruit for my dessert. My larder seems well stocked, and so does my cellar, for I had a bottle of excellent wine yesterday; therefore I have every reason to be satisfied with my good fortune.

The houses in which my officers lodge are all either entirely or nearly deserted; so that, having the only convenience for the purpose, I have acceded to their request, and allowed our mess to be established here, though it is hardly fair upon the proprietor, on whose resources we shall draw largely; however, I have given orders for the dinner to be prepared to-day, and M. Ferdinand has made no scruples.

_July 10th._--Splendid morning, but heat excessive. Sorry to say that at the parade this morning I found we had no less than thirty horses with sore backs. This is terrible! but I know others are worse. Yesterday we dined together, and a capital dinner and excellent wine we had. After dinner, the evening being so fine, Hitchins, Breton, and I, mounted our horses for an exploration. We first crossed the meadows to the river, and rode a little way along the banks; at the ferry we found the ferryman asleep in his boat, and I could not prevent Breton from launching him into the stream--how far he went down we have not yet heard. This was childish, certainly. Quitting the river-bank we made for a high hill, whence we expected a view of Paris. _Chemin faisant_, we stumbled on some singular quarries, immense caverns cut in the soft calcareous stone, and going farther in than we thought it prudent to follow. These were in the middle of the fields, in the low ground between Colombes and Nanterre. As we enjoy the privilege of travelling over fields, &c., and are therefore quite independent of roads, we made straight for the hill, and gained its summit just as the sun was setting in all the glory of a fine summer’s evening. We had judged rightly, for Mont Valerien (so it is called in my map) commands a most lovely view. Before us all Paris lay extended as in a plan; we could see every part of it, and even the far-away country beyond. Here was no dingy, orange-coloured smoke, like that which obscures the London atmosphere, and blackens the country for miles round. _Au contraire_, the clearness of the Parisian atmosphere was scarcely deteriorated by the very light transparent vapour floating over the city, which rather increased the interest and beauty of the scene by the softened outlines, and by the rich purply tint communicated to all parts of the landscape seen through it. The country immediately around, and the slopes of the hill itself on which we stood, had the appearance of one vast and productive garden, being divided into rectangular patches planted with rose-bushes, cherry-trees, vines, fig-trees, artichokes and several other sorts of culinary vegetables, all growing in the greatest luxuriance, and presenting a most extraordinary mass of verdure. Amongst all this, the white walls and red-tiled roofs of several neat villages and picturesque villas harmonised charmingly. The foot of the hill towards Paris was washed by the gently-flowing waters of the Seine, on whose placid bosom a few boats occasionally appeared.

The lively verdure of a long narrow strip of meadow-land lying on the opposite bank of the river, and the white walls of several large-windowed Italian-like houses bordering on them, contrasted strongly with the sombre tones of the Bois de Boulogne behind them, amongst whose thickets several columns of blue smoke, and a line of white tents seen here and there on the lawns, attested the presence of some part of our army. Along the line of the river were the villages of St Cloud, with its bridge; Suresnes, Puteaux, and Neuilly, from the end of whose bridge a most superb avenue of elms stretched away toward the city. Beyond could clearly be discerned the column of Austerlitz, the dome of the Pantheon, Nôtre Dame, with its high-pointed façade, circular window, and two flanking Gothic towers. A little to our right the elegant dome of the Invalides, its gilded decorations glittering in the last rays of the setting sun; the cream-coloured portico of the Hotel de Bourbon; and the more deep-toned architecture of the Hotel des Monnaies and its dome. Still further to the right the scene was closed by the wooded heights of Bellevue, which appeared continuous with the Park of St Cloud. These, wrapped in deep shadow, formed a mass of sombre verdure, balancing well the other parts of this brilliant picture. In the distance beyond the city were the smiling heights of Belleville, covered with villages and country-houses, gradually descending into the vale of the Seine, of whose waters an occasional glimpse might be caught winding their tortuous way like silver threads through the rich plain. To the left the buildings of the city spread up the steep slopes of Montmartre, the summit of which presented a formidable appearance with its lines of fortifications. Windmills and a telegraph occupied the higher end of its ridge, whilst that next us terminated in a perpendicular precipice, the white face of which overhung the tufted groves of Monceaux and Clichy. Still further to the left extended the plains of St Denis, yellow with the golden harvest, beyond which arose the town and abbey. The horizon on this side was bounded by a low range of blue hills, of pleasing though not very varied outline. The balmy softness of the evening air--the varied noises, softened by distance, arising from the village below--the sounds of music, mirth, and revelry coming up more distinctly,--all contributed to heighten the interest of this charming panorama. Long did we linger on Mont Valerien, until the coming shades of night reminded us that we were strangers to the intricate maze of vineyards, &c., which we must traverse to regain Colombes, and we turned our backs on the lovely scene.

_July 13th._--This is our first wet day. Hitchins and I went to Paris this morning; but the rain set in so much in earnest that we returned forthwith, and I have devoted the remainder of the day to bringing up my leeway; for, between much occupation and much idleness, I have let my journal drop astern, and now I hardly know how to begin what I have to record, which, though trifling for others, is to me worth its weight in gold--at least will be so years hence.

_Imprimis_, then, I have discovered my landlord to be a M. L’Eguillon, who is an old bachelor (seventy-four years of age), and resides in a handsome town-house, Rue des Enfans Rouges. He is said to be very rich, but I cannot find out whether he has or had any employment under Government. I find that I can in some measure repay him for my good living here by sending his hay, oats, or anything else he may want, under an escort, as otherwise it would not be allowed to pass the _barrière_.[12] I suppose Ferdinand has reported us as good people, for I have received a most polite and obliging note asking this favour, and at the same time assuring me that Ferdinand has orders to pay us every attention. I sent Bombardier Ross up the other day, as he speaks French, with a load of hay, and he reported that nothing could exceed the kindness with which he was treated, and that the old gentleman’s town residence is a magnificent one. A very pretty girl of sixteen (Mademoiselle Ernestine), whom the servants call his niece, lives with him. There seems a mystery, however, in the matter, for the gossips of the village declare she is not his niece. It is Mademoiselle Ernestine’s apartment which I have taken possession of, it seems.

Up to the present moment nothing could have been more delightful than my residence here--so much so, that it was some time before I could tear myself away from it to go to Paris, though only about six English miles distant, and then with reluctance. To me the country at all times has so many charms, and the city so few, that it is never without regret that I exchange the one for the other. Situated as I am here, during this fine season, and surrounded by luxuries, it is a hard task to think of sacrificing even a single day to the close, disagreeable streets of a large town. Rinaldo in the gardens of Armida was not more completely enthralled than I am in this little paradise. On first awaking in the morning, my delighted ear is saluted by the melodious warble of innumerable pretty songsters in the shrubbery, which comes accompanied by the soft murmurs and splash of the fountain. My toilette occupies a much longer time here than it ever did anywhere else, so great is the luxury of wandering about in a dressing-gown: finished, however, it must be, and then I descend to my stable, talk nonsense to my horses, examine poor Cossack’s wounds, which were not improved by our lengthened march, and then stroll into my garden, cool my palate with some of the delicious fruit, take a turn or two on the terrace under the linden-trees, look at St Germain, think of the unfortunate James who died there in exile, then at Argenteuil, where Heloise pined for her mutilated lover, return to my penetralia and find that William has arranged a delicious little breakfast. A parade of the troop in the village street follows; a visit to the quarters, stables, &c.; an inspection of carriages; concluding with a little peroration with Farrier Price and Wheeler Rockliff. All this occupies the first part of the morning; the remainder is passed in lounging about the village, visiting the other troops, or wandering about my own delightful grounds; sometimes a game at billiards, sometimes a little scribbling. So pass my mornings. Five o’clock usually finds us all assembled in the _salle de compagnie_ awaiting M. Ferdinand’s annunciation, “On vient de servir, M. le Commandant,” throwing open the _battants_ with a bow and an air worthy a groom of the chambers. Dinner consists of a _potage_ and several other dishes, always excellent; it is followed by a dessert of fine fruit from my _own_ garden. Our wines, too, are not only of the best quality, but we have an astonishing variety--in short, we live like fighting-cocks. After passing a reasonable time at table, and drinking a reasonable allowance of M. Eguillon’s wine, we break up for the evening. Some resort to the billiard-room, some to the neighbouring troops, and I either take a ride or saunter about my terrace as I did in the avenue at Strytem, smoking some of the few remaining excellent cigars I have brought all the way from Brussels--doubly precious now, since I find there are none such to be got in Paris. Cigars are, I think, a government monopoly here as in Spain--at least there is some mystery which I don’t understand further than that the French Government has been concerned in forcing the lieges to smoke bad cigars or none at all. Only two kinds are procurable here: the one, a little black thing made of the commonest tobacco, they call Dutch, _des cigars Hollandais_; the other, a large cigar of very common bad tobacco also, has a wheaten straw stuck into it to suck the smoke through; and this, besides the villanous taste of the tobacco, burns your palate horribly.

The other evening I had retired after dinner to the terrace to enjoy, as usual, the charms of a fine sky and fine landscape. Twilight crept gradually over the valley, and, by obscuring the distant parts, allowed play to imagination, and gave additional interest to the scenery. Light airs from time to time sighed amongst the overhanging foliage; the joyous laugh of the villagers comes softened on the breeze, united with the monotonous splash of the fountain. I had seated myself in the little _kiosk_ at the end of the terrace; the smoke of my cigar arose lazily in the air; my eyes were fixed on the silver Seine, and my mind travelling over again the events of the last three or four weeks, drawing comparisons between the feverish excitement prevailing through the former but greater part of that time, and the delicious tranquillity of the present, when suddenly the grating sound of angry voices wounded my ear and dissipated my reverie. I listened; the speakers appeared to be at our park, or near it. There were English voices and foreign of some sort. A quarrel between my men and the natives, no doubt. But how came the latter in the grounds? The voices became louder and fiercer; there was a rattling of sabres, too. Good heavens! are the French renewing the Sicilian Vespers? Whilst asking myself this question, I was already hurrying along the tortuous path leading to that part of the grounds, and soon came upon the scene of action. Here I found Quartermaster Hall and several gunners struggling with our hussars of Brunswick, whose horses, bridled and saddled, seemed the objects of contention from the way in which they were alternately seized by one or the other and most unceremoniously dragged about by both.

High words and threatening gestures, pulling and scuffling, seemed the order of the day, but no blows were interchanged. Both parties seemed equally enraged, but neither understood the other,--for one swore in German, the other in English; the gestures, however, spoke a sort of universal language which all parties comprehended perfectly. At the moment of my arrival one of the hussars, having rescued his horse from the grip of his opponent, had raised his foot to the stirrup, and was in the act of mounting, when an athletic gunner, seizing him by the waist, swung him to some distance, rolling on the turf. The fellow, springing up again, had half drawn his sabre as I emerged from the shrubbery with an authoritative “_Halt da!_” which was instantly obeyed by all; whilst old Hall, the moment he saw me, cried, “They are off, sir--they are going off.” The hint was sufficient. I despatched a gunner with orders to the guard to shut the iron gates and allow none to pass, then proceeded to investigate the origin of this quarrel. I had placed these people in the grounds from the first, that they might be more under surveillance. They have a tent for themselves, and their horses are picketed near our guns. This I have found necessary, from the sulky mutinous spirit they have always evinced since the first day of joining us. They have always been a source of considerable worry to me, and have been getting worse lately. According to their own account, they are all _volunteers_ and _gentlemen_; therefore they feel very severely the degradation of their present position, particularly being put under a vile commissary, whom they affect to treat with the utmost contempt. Their present complaint was about their bread, which they said “was not even fit for _common soldiers_;” and they accused Mr Coates of having purposely given them this bread as an insult. In their rage they had saddled their horses with the intention of returning home, or the Lord knows where, when Hall interfered, and the scuffle took place. The corporal (a fine young man) was particularly indignant, and held forth most vehemently on what was due to a gentleman, partly in German, partly in French. Hall’s insolence he spoke of with great bitterness, giving me to understand that he expected my men should pay him somewhat of the same deference as to their own officers. My answer to all this was short: “The bread is of the same quality as that served out to our own men; therefore, if the _gentlemen_ disliked it, they might leave it. As to their rank in civil society, I know nothing about it; they were put under my orders as any other soldiers, and as such should do their duty.” Two or three of the most refractory I made prisoners of, and if they still remained discontented, they at least remained quiet. This disturbance, however, spoilt my evening; so, having consumed my cigar whilst lecturing the gentlemen, I retired to my room and spent an hour or two over Voltaire’s ‘Philosophical Dictionary.’

Notwithstanding the raptures in which our people spoke of Paris, which some of them visited the very first evening of our coming here, yet it was only a day or two ago that I could tear myself from the country and go thither. The village and _les villageois_ had not yet lost the freshness of novelty. Strolling about the street gossiping with the people has been a source of infinite amusement to me, and I have been much interested in observing their peculiar manners and habits. The harvest, which has just commenced, causes considerable stir in the village, as all the produce of the fields is brought to be stored in their granaries here. The villages round Paris have anything but a rural aspect: houses of stone, roofed either with tiles or slates, from two to three and even four storeys high; large windows, like those of town houses; the attics are their granaries, hay-lofts, &c., and a window or door, furnished with a crane and tackle similar to those of our merchants’ stores, furnishes the means of hoisting in the sheaves, bundles of hay, &c. The consequence of this is, that our streets are all in a bustle--loaded carts continually arriving from the fields, and drawing up under the entrance-window of their respective houses. Bundles and sheaves are mounting into the air, and various gossiping groups are formed below. The peasantry in this neighbourhood are almost all of them proprietors of the lands they cultivate. As with us, the law obliges every man to put his name, &c., on his cart; so we see continually “Jacques Bonnemain, cultivateur,” “Jean le Mery, propriétaire,” &c. The figures composing these street-groups are sturdy well-made men; much more active and springy than our clowns, although sufficiently rustic. Their costume, too, widely differs from everything we are accustomed to associate with rusticity. The bronzed visage, surrounded by its setting of black locks, surmounted by the _bonnet de nuit_, usually white, or having once been so, round jackets of blue-striped cotton stuff, and trousers of the same--bare feet, thrust into a pair of clumsy _sabots_, complete the costume. Amongst the young men and boys I have remarked a much greater proportion of handsome intelligent faces than one usually sees in any English village; our rustics are generally coarse-featured, and have a most unintellectual expression of face. The French peasant not only has the advantage in point of person and carriage, but infinitely so in his address. The women partake of the labours of the field, and enter largely into the composition of our village groups. Their general costume is not unpicturesque. They are always without gowns, the exposed stays (not always very clean) sometimes laced up, sometimes quite loose and open; blue and white, or pink-striped petticoats; neck partially covered by a coloured handkerchief (_fichu_[13]); the head by another, gracefully turned round it, something in the shape of a turban;[14] large gold or silver hoops in the ears, and a small cross of the same suspended by a black ribbon from the neck; stockings of grey or blue thread, or bare legs; large _sabots_, the insteps frequently garnished with a strip of rabbit-skin. Such are our village belles. At a superficial glance one does not see amongst them such gradations from youth to age as among our own women. All are either old or young, hideously ugly, or pretty, or very pretty. About the age of puberty (which seems to be earlier than with us), they become masculine and coarse, though still handsome. But about thirty (or earlier, if they have children) they lose all pretensions to good looks, and immediately assume the appearance of old age--wrinkled, skinny, with sunken cheeks, hollow eyes--and such necks! Like the men, these women are vastly superior to our female peasantry in carriage of person and in manners. The former is invariably erect and commanding, giving to the ugliest old woman an air of dignity never or very rarely to be met with among our working classes, and not always amongst our ladies. Some of the young ones, well made and tall, with their firm determined step, are really majestic creatures.

The ordinary diet of these people seems little calculated to enable them to go through the portion of hard labour that falls to their lot. Bread, black, coarse, dry, and diabolically sour, a bit of hard tasteless cheese, compose the usual breakfast and dinner, with the occasional addition of haricots, or some other vegetables; for supper, broth (_potage aux herbes_), in which a bit of lard or some kind of grease is melted to give it richness and perhaps flavour. Their beverage is a poor sort of _vin du pays_, very sour, and very inferior to the sound rough cider used in our apple-counties, Hereford and Devon. In the _cabarets_ beer is to be had of a pleasant quality, although not strong. The _bonne double bierre de Mars_ is of a superior caste, and, when bottled (as it is sold), a refreshing, agreeable drink in hot weather.

March is to their brewers what October is to ours. This _bierre de Mars_ (from the month, I presume) one would suppose exclusively military, from the numerous coloured prints stuck on the window-shutters of most _cabarets_, representing officers and soldiers in the acts of drawing, pouring out, or drinking this favourite tipple. The most common of these represents two officers in _grande tenue_, plumed hats, swords by their sides, spurs on the heel, &c., seated at a small round table. Each holds in the right hand an uncorked bottle, in the left a tumbler, the _bierre_ rising in a jet from the bottles, forming two intersecting arches, terminating precisely in the opposite and apposite tumblers. The shutters frequently bear both pictorial and scriptorial annunciations not a little amusing. I have seen numbers on our march, but thought no more of them; and it was only the other day, at Courbevoie, that “_audevie à vandre_” upon a shutter gave rise to the idea of making a collection of them. The universal “_Ici on loge à pied et à cheval_” is parallel to our entertainment for man and horse.

I have before noticed that on arriving here we found all the gentry fled. That was not quite the truth. A few days since I discovered that a certain handsome house, in Bull’s quarter of the village, is still inhabited by the proprietor, an old lady of seventy (la Marquise de * * *), very partial to, because somehow connected with, the English, and therefore remaining at home in full confidence of good treatment. She has judged rightly; not a soul has trespassed upon her except as visitors, of which she is very proud, and holds a sort of daily levee, which we sometimes find a convenient lounge. Brought up in the Court of Louis XVI., Madame la Marquise is a strict observer of all the etiquette of the old _régime_. A light active figure, and a natural (or perhaps assumed) sprightliness of manner, added to a very juvenile costume, give her at a little distance quite the appearance of a girl. A nearer approach, however, spite of rouge, &c., most liberally applied, betrays the _septuagénaire_. At my first visit I found this extraordinary old woman alone, dressed, and evidently expecting visitors. I introduced myself, and was received with almost affectionate kindness. Our _tête-à-tête_ was a long one, for she would make me listen to the whole of her family history, and how one of her ancestors, having married some English lady of rank, she considers herself _à moitié Anglaise_. She was not content with telling me her history, but showed me her whole house and gardens (both very handsome and in excellent order), even her own boudoir, _chambre à coucher_, &c. On taking leave she exacted a promise of being a good neighbour, which I have endeavoured to perform by devoting to her a small portion of my leisure time. It is to her that I am obliged for breaking the spell that bound me to the village, and at last _visiting Paris_. The other morning she expressed such unfeigned astonishment at my want of curiosity that I resolved to see the place forthwith, if only for a few minutes. Accordingly, after dinner I mounted Nelly, and set off by what I guessed must be the road thither. The day had been exceedingly hot, the roads were very dusty, and, half irresolute, I rode slowly over the uninteresting parched-up plain between Colombes and Courbevoie, made disgusting, moreover, by the trodden-down corn and carcasses of horses, &c., which marked the old bivouacs. The handsome cavalry barracks for the Imperial Guard at the entrance of Courbevoie detained me a moment, and then I descended the winding shabby street, and came suddenly on the beautiful Pont de Neuilly. The lovely scenery here, above and below the bridge, and the magnificent avenue beyond it, put an end to my Paris trip. For the life of me I could not resolve to exchange such scenery, and pass such an evening in the streets of a city, however fine they might be. This bridge, and the one at St Maxence, are elegant things, certainly; but the straight line, which is one of their great beauties, must not be claimed by the architects as an original idea. The Roman bridges at Alcantra and elsewhere no doubt have been their prototypes. I found here defences similar to those at St Denis--the road to the bridge broken up and obstructed by carts, and a sort of abatis; this was commanded by a 2-gun battery, built across the road on the Paris side, secured at each flank by a stockade. These mementos of war were unpleasing objects certainly, yet they could not divert the mind from the sweet scenery on every side. The Seine came gliding tranquilly along through green meadows, fringed with willows, bordered on each side by villages and villas; several verdant islands, also, decorated with large umbrageous willows, divided its stream into different channels, on which floated boats of various descriptions--some plain and of coarse construction, laden with goods; others of a more elegant construction, gaily painted, and filled with joyous light-hearted people, already forgetful of the downfall of their idolised Emperor--of their national glory tarnished--even that, in these their moments of mirth and recreation, they were in the presence of their conquerors--of their ancient enemy. British soldiers stood on the river-bank as they passed along--British soldiers occupied the barracks of the late Imperial Guard, under which lay their course, and yet the laugh was as joyous, the countenances as bright, as they could have been after the bulletins of Austerlitz or Jena. Not so, I ween, on the slimy Thames had England fallen as low, were London the cantonment of French legions.

A most superb avenue is the road which gradually ascends from the Pont de Neuilly to the Barrière de l’Etoile, the unfinished works of which terminate this unrivalled perspective. I forget whether there are two or four rows of elms on either side--and such trees! This splendid road was alive with carriages, equestrians, and pedestrians, as I rode up it to the _barrière_; and here another magnificent scene burst upon me. Hence the road descended gradually towards the city, handsome houses, and even rows of houses, intermingling with the masses of foliage on either side; and far away, in hazy, dreamy distance, this avenue was terminated by the heavy but imposing mass of the Tuileries, with the spotless banner of ancient France waving gracefully in the evening breeze from the elevated central mass. I returned from this interesting excursion just as the fading tints of the western sky began to sober down into the greys of twilight. My curiosity was excited by this peep of Paris, and the next morning actually found me riding slowly down from the Barrière de l’Etoile towards the Place Louis Quinze, delighted with the novelty of the scene by which I was surrounded. On either side of the road, among the noble trees, were handsome houses, the large open windows and balconies of which were filled with green shrubs and brilliant flowers. Beyond these I came to a wide open space everywhere covered with trees, but poor ones compared to the giants forming the avenue. Under these a regiment of English hussars, and a band of Cossacks, were in bivouac together--a novel and amusing scene. The soldiers and their horses were objects of curiosity (English as well as Cossacks) to a crowd of idle Parisians who stood by, not in silent contemplation of the _strange animals_, but chattering like a pack of monkeys, and explaining what they saw to those of their neighbours less gifted with the powers of conception. Carriages, too, as they passed, and groups of young men on horseback (looking half-military, half-bourgeois, from their mustachioed upper lips, erect carriage, holstered saddles, and cavalry bridles), paused to contemplate the foreign bivouac. If these last were amused with my countrymen and their friends, I was no less so with them. There was something irresistibly comic in their self-satisfied air as they paraded their managed cats of steeds before the fair ones in the carriages, and the affected, contemptuous looks they cast on the hardy fellows who had so recently chased their own braves (perhaps some of themselves) from Brussels to Paris. The equipages, too, were worthy of notice: they reminded me of Ireland--“_Nothing of a piece_.” Handsome carriage, well-dressed servants, dog-horses and shabby harness; or shabby servant and beautiful horse, new harness, and an old jarvey of a carriage--the fair dames within invariably smart. No comparison can be instituted between French and English equipages. The neatness and perfect completeness, beauty, finish, lightness, and goodness--all are on the side of the latter. Their cabriolet, however, is something _sui generis_, and worthy of admiration. They are generally drawn by one horse, sometimes a postilion on a second horse attached as an outrigger. It was one of these that captivated my fancy near the _barrière_. Such a turn-out! The carriage was just like other cabriolets, only a very smart one; and here I must acknowledge an exception to what I have just written--the whole _was_ of a piece--good, smart, and respectable; but, _mon Dieu!_ what a spectacle! The heavy harness under which the horses were almost buried was covered with plated buckles, bosses, &c. On the outrigger sat a fine, well-made fellow, six feet if an inch, erect as a grenadier. On his head an enormous cocked-hat, bound with broad silver lace and loop, stuck square on; a blue coat, collar, skirts, and sleeves, all covered with silver lace; the clothing of his nether limbs hid in a tremendous pair of boots, sticking six inches above his slightly-bent knee, and armed with a most formidable pair of spurs; like all the rest of them, riding exceedingly long, consequently bumping along at a moderate trot with most imperturbable gravity. How I should have liked to see this equipage trotting down St James’s Street! A passer-by, of whom I asked the question, informed me that this was Les Champs Elysées. I could hardly credit him. What! the far-famed, much-vaunted, much-bescribbled Champs Elysées! Impossible!--or, if true, what a disappointment! I hardly know what sort of an idea I had formed of the Champs Elysées--certainly nothing like the reality. No turf, no verdure, in short, no fields, but a gravelly dusty space, surrounded nearly by buildings, and barely shaded from the scorching sun by a parcel of miserable-looking half-grown trees, sufficiently powdered to conceal whatever verdure they might have. If ever the grass had grown here, every trace was now obliterated. Bivouacs are sadly destructive of nature’s beauties. “Thus, then,” said I, “here is one illusion dissipated. Let us see farther, perhaps all will equally vanish in smoke and dust.” A certain feeling of exultation, a tumultuous rising of spirits came over me as I rode into the Place Louis Quinze, and pulling up, regardless of the moving throng of people, contemplated at my leisure the scene around me. I have now got a map and a ‘Guide de Paris,’ both of which I have since had opportunities of elucidating or confirming by inquiry and _vivâ voce_ evidence. Then, I knew not that I stood precisely on the same spot where the martyrdom of Louis Seize and the fair Marie Antoinette had been consummated. I knew that the walls in front of me as I entered the Place from the Champs Elysées were the ramparts of the Tuileries; that the bowery trees which overtopped them were in the gardens; and that the immense pile seen again over these was the chateau itself: but I did not know that the magnificent ranges of buildings, with their rich sculptures and Corinthian colonnades on my left, were those of the Garde Meuble; nor that the fine but short perspective by which they were separated was the Rue de la Concorde; nor that the handsome bridge on my right was the Pont de la Concorde, and the imposing portico which reared its lofty Corinthian columns beyond was the entrance to the Salle des Representatifs. Although ignorant of the names and destinations of the noble objects, I could not but be sensible of their effect individually and as an _ensemble_; and I did acknowledge that nothing could be more imposing, more strikingly magnificent, than this entrance to the city of Paris.

Every faculty absorbed in the contemplation of the various and varied novelties around me, I progressed mechanically, and without knowing or seeking to know where I was going, found my way down the Rue de Rivoli, and so into the Place Vendome, where the column of Austerlitz, by its beautiful workmanship, and the historical recollections associated with it, arrested my course for some time. Strange, however, that a nation like France should borrow from Rome--that she could not produce an original idea to commemorate a great national triumph. It is nevertheless a superb monument; and at least the idea of using the guns taken in the battle to decorate the city--was not _that_ an original idea? The Place itself I do not like. Its houses are certainly fine, and uniformly built, but the style is heavy, the material dismal, and the want of _trottoirs_ gives the whole the air of a “mews.” In approaching the Place Vendome by the Rue Castiglione, I crossed the Rue St Honoré, the busy stream flowing along which would have induced me to follow it, but the column in front drew me forward like a magnet. The streets of Paris are infinitely more amusing than those of London, inasmuch as they everywhere teem with animation, from the pavements to the roofs. Nowhere do we meet such long, tiresome, dull avenues of brick and mortar as Baker Street, Gore Street, Gloucester Place, &c. In London, “home’s home,” &c.--and when people are at home, they like quietude and retirement. In Paris _au contraire_, people cannot exist in quietude, and solitude is abominated. To see and be seen seems the universal maxim. The varied forms of the houses, too, and the still more varied styles of ornament, render the streets much more picturesque and interesting in Paris than in London. There is something very picturesque and interesting, I think, in the immense long perspectives between the tall houses of such streets as the Rue de Richelieu, into which I was led by the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs. This is the Bond Street of Paris, and is a most amusing one. Here every thing savoured of the fashionable world. Shops of a more respectable description richly decorated; goods of the most costly kind arranged for display with a very superior degree of taste and even elegance. Numerous equipages with liveried attendants driving about or waiting at the doors. Numberless loungers sauntering up and down, or philandering in the shops, a striking feature among these the foreign officers, particularly English, all indicating the Rue de Richelieu as the focus of fashionable resort. After all, however, there is something about this as well as all the other streets of Paris, with a few exceptions--such as the Rue de Rivoli, de la Concorde, de la Paix, and some part of the Boulevard--that displeases an Englishman’s eye and nose. The buildings in general have a worn and shabby appearance; their great height, and the narrowness of the thoroughfare, throws a degree of darkness and gloom over everything; but, above all, the olfactory nerves are continually offended by a certain pervading odour, difficult to be accounted for, since it is everywhere the same--not arising from any visible cause, but omnipresent and unvarying. In the Rue de Richelieu not all the fragrant odours issuing from that _magazin_ of odours, the Cloche d’Or, and fifty others, were sufficient to overpower this most unsavoury of smells. It may be said to characterise Paris--to stamp it as the sulphureous city. My attention was attracted by a broad avenue crossing one end of it, and along which flowed a dense and continuous stream of passengers and carriages. I directed my horse’s head thither, and in a few minutes found myself in the Boulevard des Italiens. The excitement and interest of that moment will not soon be forgotten. The breadth of the street, the mixture of trees and houses, the number and variety of the immense multitude moving on, all contributed for a moment to electrify me, and I should have forgotten Colombes and the lateness of the hour had not Hitchins at that moment rode up and asked me if I was not going home to dinner. Colombes and M. Ferdinando’s good cheer regained their sway, and we trotted off together, vowing an early return to explore the wonders of this mine of novelty and excitement.