woods, advancing and retreating, marching and bivouacking, shewed the habitual current of their thoughts; and they were always more willing to enter on the details of such operations, than to enumerate their own losses, or dwell on their individual sufferings.'

The spirit which prevails in the French army is thus described:

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

When we say of the French soldiers, that they have a strong sense of honour, we mean merely to express, that they will encounter dangers, and hardships, and privations, and calamities of every kind, with wonderful fortitude, and even cheerfulness, from no other motive than an esprit du corps -a regard for the character of the French arms. Without provocation from their enemies, without the prospect of victory, without the hope of plunder, without the conviction of the interest of their country in their deeds, without even the consolation of expecting care or attention in case of

wounds or sickness, they will not he sitate to lavish their blood and sacrifice their lives for the glory of France. Other troops go through similar scenes of suffering and danger with equal fortitude, when under the influence of strong passions, when fired by revenge, or animated by the hope of plunder, or cheered by the acclamations of victory; but with the single exception of the British army, we doubt whether there are any to whom the mere spirit of military honour is of itself so strong a stimulus.'

After enumerating all the calamities endured by the French army, first during the Russian campaign, and afterwards in their own country, he adds,

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

At the present moment, from all the accounts that we have received, as well as from our own observations of those French soldiers whom we have ourselves seen, after their return from Moscow, the sentiments of the survivors of that expedition, with regard to Napoleon, remained unchanged; and no person who has read any of the narratives of the campaign,

can

can ascribe their constancy to any other cause, than that feeling of attachment to the glory of their country, to which the French, however improperly, give the name of military honour.'

The following gives a very natural picture of the views of the French nation with regard to the Bourbons.

At this moment, it is certainly a very general wish in France, to have a sovereign, who, as they express it, has grown out of the revolution; but when we inquire into their reason for this, it will often be found, we believe, to resolve itself into their national vanity. It is not that they think the Bourbons will break their word, or that the present Constitution will be altered without their consent; but after five-and-twenty years of confusion and bloodshed, they cannot bear the thoughts of leaving off where they began; and they think, that taking back their old dynasty without alteration, is practically acknowledging that they have been in the wrong all the time of their absence.'

He adds,

Englishmen of power and influence, generally speaking, have really at heart the good of their country; whereas Frenchmen, in similar situations, are chiefly interested in the glory of theirs.'

The following curious illustration is elsewhere given. After noticing the defective education of the girls, it is added,

'Amongst the boys, any thing like a finished education was as little to be expected; the furor militaris had latterly, in the public schools, proceeded to such a pitch, as to defy every attempt towards giving them a general, or in any respect a finished

education. They steadily revolted against any thing which induced them to believe that their parents intended them for a pacific profession. Go into a French toy-shop, and you immediately discern the unambiguous symptoms of the military mania.Every thing there which might encourage in the infant any predilections for the pacific pursuits of an agricultural or commercial country, is religiously banished, and their places supplied by an infinite variety of military toys: platoons of gens d'armerie, troops of artillery, tents, waggons, camp equipage, all are arranged in imitative array upon the counter.The infant of the grande nation becomes familiar, in his nurse's arms, with all the detail of the profession to which he is hereafter to belong; and when he opens his eyes for the first time, it is to rest them upon that terrible machinery of war, in the midst of which he is destined to close them for ever.'

The views of French manners are very ample, and in general very good. They are, on the whole, decidedly unfavourable; and perhaps there may be some tincture of English prejudice; but, on the whole, we suspect too much justice. We can only extract a few striking features.

• The French have many good qualities; they are very generally obliging to strangers, they are sober and good-tempered, and little disposed to quarrel among themselves, and have an amiable cheerfulness of disposition, which supports them in difficulties and adversity, better than the resolutions of philosophy. But it is clear that they have very little esteem for virtuous characters; and in fact, it is not going too far to say, that a certain propriety of external demeanour has completely taken the place of correctness of moral conduct among them. They speak almost uniformly

with much abhorrence of drunkenness, and of all violations of the established forms of society; and such improprie ties are very seldom to be seen among them. Many Frenchmen, as was already observed, are rough and even ferocious in their manners; and the language and behaviour of most of them, particularly in the presence of women, appears to us very frequently indelicate and rude; yet there are limits to this freedom of manner which they never allow themselves to pass. Go where you will in Paris, you will very seldom see any disgusting instances of intoxication, or any material difference of manner, between those who are avowedly unprincipled and abandoned, and the most respectable part of the community. In the caffés, which correspond not only to the coffeehouses, but to the taverns of London, you will see modest women, at all hours of the day, often alone, sitting in the midst of the men. In the Palais Royal, at no hour of the night do you witness scenes of gross indecency or riot.'

We have no doubt of the correctness of the following observation.

The last peculiarity in the French character which we shall notice, is perhaps the most fundamental of the whole; it is their love of mixed society; of the society of those for whom they have no regard, but whom they meet on the footing of common acquaintances. This is the favourite enjoyment of almost every Frenchman: to shine in such society, is the main object of his ambition; his whole life is regulated so as to gratify his desire. He is indifferent about comforts at home-he dislikes domestic society he hates the retirement of the country; but he loves, and is taught to love, to figure in a large circle of acquaintance, for whom he has not the least heartfelt friendship, but with whom he is on the same

terms as with perfect strangers, after the first half hour. If he has acqui

red a reputation in science, arts, or arms, so much the better, his glory will be of much service so him; if not, he must make it up by his conversation.

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

than merit.'

The next is more favourable.

'What distinguishes the French from almost every other nation, is the general diffusion of the taste for the fine arts, and for elegant amusements, among all ranks of the people. Al most all Frenchmen take not only a pride, but an interest, in the public buildings of Paris, and in the collections of paintings and statues. There is a very general liking for poetry and works of imagination among the middling and lower ranks; they go to the theatres, not merely for relaxation and amusement, but with a serious intention of cultivating their taste, and displaying their critical powers. Many of them are so much in the habit of attending the theatres when favourite plays are acted, that they know almost every word of the principal scenes by heart. All their

favourite

favourite amusements are in some measure of a refined kind. It is not in drinking clubs, or in sensual gratifications alone, that men of these ranks seek for relaxation, as is too often the case with us; but it is in the society of women, in conversation, in music and dancing, in theatres and operas, and caffés and promenades, in seeing and being seen; in short, in scenes resembling, as nearly as possible, those in which the higher ranks of all nations spend their leisure hours.'

The abolition of the old nobility, the rise of men from the lowest ranks, and the military spirit universally prevailing, seem to have tarnished that elegance of manners once so characteristic of a Frenchman.

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

Their characteristic gaiety, however, seems completely unimpaired.

The French have often been accused of selfishness, and the indifference which they often manifest to the fate of their relations, affords too much reason to believe that the social affections have little permanent influence on their minds. We must, how ever, admit, that they exhibit in misfortunes of a different kind-in cala

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

expression of pathetic feeling, or employed as the means of moral improvement.'

Nor do they seem to have abated in the love of an exercise to which this disposition of mind naturally prompts.

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

It is their singular perseverance in this favourite pursuit which renders a French ball to a stranger more than commonly ludicrous. In England, when the company begins to assemble, you are delighted with the troops of young and blooming girls, which throng into the dancing-room, with faces beaming with the desire, and forms bounding with the anticipation of pleasure. In France, conceive the room to be superbly lighted up, and the walls covered with large mirrors, which, in their indefinite multiplication, suffer nothing to escape them. The folding-doors slowly open, and there begins to hobble in (as quick as their advanced years will permit them) unnumbered forms of aged ladies and gentlemen, intermixed with some possessing certainly the firmer step of middle life, but few or none who dare pretend to the activity of youth. On one side comes the old Marquis, dressed in the extremity of the fashion, every ruffle replete with effect, and not a curl but what he would tremble to remove, stepping, with the most finished com

placency, at the side of some antiquated dame of sixty, who minces and rustles at his side in the costume of sixteen. Previous to the dancing, it is indeed ridiculous to see the series of silent tendernesses, the sly looks and fascinating glances with which these old worthies entertain each other. Meanwhile, the music strikes up, and the floor is instantly covered with waltzers. It is well known, that the waltz is a dance, above all others, requiring grace, and youth, and activity in those who perform it. Nothing, therefore, to a stranger, can be more entertaining, than the sight of those motley and aged couples, who, with a desperate resolution, stand up to bid defiance to the warnings of nature; and who, after they have first swallowed a tumbler of punch, (which is their constant practice,) begin to reel round with the waltzers, putting you in mind of Miss Edgeworth's celebrated Irish horse, Knochegroghery, who needed to have porter poured down his throat, and to be warmed in his harness, before he could achieve any thing like continued motion. In England, few la dies, unless those who are extremely young, ever dream of dancing after their marriage. In France, the young ladies before marriage are seldom admitted into company; after marriage, therefore, their gaiety instantly commences, and continues literally until the total failure of the physical powers of nature puts an end to the ability, though not to the love of pleasure.'