Before and after Waterloo / Letters from Edward Stanley, sometime Bishop of Norwich (1802; 1814; 1816)

But yet there appears to be less vice than in England, I should rather say less organised vice; I have not heard of a single Robbery, public or private—I walk without fear of pickpockets; I should be inclined to say they seemed rather against themselves than against each other. Their principles may be more relaxed on some points than ours, but I doubt much whether a Frenchman would not be as much disgusted in England as an Englishman could possibly be in France; we call them a profligate race and condemn them in toto—something like Hudibras' John Bull—

Their public walks and Theatres are less offensive to decency than ours. Drunkenness is scarcely known; at first sight I should pronounce them an idle, indolent people; the streets are almost always full; the gardens, public walks, &c., swarm at all hours with saunterers. According to my ideas a Frenchman's life must be wretched, for he does not seem at all to enter into the charms of home—their houses are not calculated for it; they huddle together in nooks and corners, and the male part (judging from the multitudes I daily see) leave the[142] women and children to get through the day as they can.

Their coffee-houses are some of them quite extraordinary; most of them are ornamented with Mirrors in abundance, but some shine with more splendour. In the Palais Royal there is one called "Le Café de mille Colonnes," which merits some description. It consists of three or four rooms—the largest is almost one mass of plate-glass Mirrors, beautiful clocks at each end, and magnificent chandeliers; behind a raised Table of most superb structure, composed of slabs of marble and plate-glass, sat a lady dressed in the richest manner, Diamonds on head and hand, Lace, Muslin, &c. This is the Landlady; by her a little boy, about 4 years old, stood in charge of a drawer from whence the small change was issued; this, if it happened to be copper, was delicately touched by the fair hand, which was immediately washed in a glass of water as if contaminated by the vulgar metal. She never spoke to the waiters, but rung a golden bell; her inkstands, flower jars—in short, every article on the table was of the same metal or of silver gilt. The tables for the company were fine marble slabs; the room was from the reflection of all the mirrors, as you may suppose, a perfect blaze of light, and yet altogether the place looked dirty, from the undress and shabby coats of the company. The French never dress for the evening unless going out to parties, and they always look dirty and unlike gentlemen; the former is not the[143] case, in fact for they are constantly washing and bathing. An hour or two before I was in this extraordinary coffee-house I had traversed a spot as opposite to it as could well be—the Catacombs!—a range of vaults nearly half a mile long, about 80 feet under ground, in which are deposited all the bones from all the cemeteries in Paris. I suppose we were in company with some millions of skeletons, whose skulls are so arranged as to form regular patterns, and here and there was an altar made of bones fancifully piled up, on the sides an inscription in Latin, French, &c. Behind one wall the bodies of all who perished in the massacres in Paris were immured. They were brought in carts at night and thrown in, and there they rest, festering not in their shrouds but in clothes. Such a mass of corrupt flesh would soon have infested all the vaults, so they were bricked up.

I wish to recommend our hotel to any people you may hear of coming to Paris—Hôtel des Estrangers, Rue du Hazard, kept by Mr. Meriel. Its situation is both quiet and convenient; it is really not five minutes' walk from the leading objects of Paris, and the people have been civil to us beyond measure.[144]

CHAPTER IV

As, however, the English travellers did not intend to return again to Paris, they reversed Napoleon's line of march and started to Fontainebleau by the road along which the Emperor rode back in hot haste on the night of March 30th, to take up the command of the force which should have been defending his capital, and where the sight of Mortier's flying troops convinced him that all hope was at an end.[145]

When they had visited Fontainebleau, where the final abdication had taken place on April 11th, they turned north-east to Melun and posted on through towns which had been the scenes of some of the most desperate fighting in that wonderful campaign, when Napoleon had seemed to be everywhere at once, dealing blows right and left against the three armies which, in the beginning of January, had advanced to threaten his Empire—Bülow in the north, Blücher on the east, and Schwarzenberg on the south.

They passed through Guignes and Meaux, by which Napoleon's army had marched after his victory over Blücher at Vauchamps on February 14th, in the rapid movement to reinforce Marshal Victor, and to drive back Schwarzenberg from the Seine.

Through Château Thierry, where on the 12th of February the Emperor and Marshal Mortier had pursued Russians and Prussians from street to street till they were driven over the Marne, and whence the French leader dashed after Blücher to Vauchamps.

Through Soissons, which the Russians under Winzengerode had bombarded on March 3rd, and forced to surrender, whereby Blücher and Bülow were enabled to join hands.

Through Laon, where Blücher retreated after Craonne, and where he finally shattered Marmont's forces in a night attack.

By Berry au Bac, where the Emperor crossed the Aisne on his way to fight Blücher at Craonne,[146] the scene on March 7th of one of the bloodiest battles of the war.

On to Rheims where, after Marmont's disaster at Laon, Napoleon beat the Russians just before he was forced to rush southwards again to contend with Schwarzenberg and his Austrians.

Finally they reached Châlons, which had been Napoleon's starting-point for the whole campaign, and where he had arrived in the closing days of January after having taken his last farewell of Marie Louise and of the King of Rome.

After Châlons they turned eastwards, following the line of fortresses for which Napoleon had staked and lost his crown, and reached the Rhine by Verdun, Metz, and Mayence; thence to Aix-la-Chapelle, Lille, and Brussels, which had by the Treaty of Paris, in May, been ceded with the whole of Belgium to the Netherlands.

Edward Stanley to his Wife.

Melun, July 14th.

We quitted our Hotel yesterday morning at six for Fontainebleau.

There is nothing particularly interesting about the road, which is almost an incessant avenue. About half-way we passed a fine Château of Marshal Jourdan's.

The forest of Fontainebleau commences about four miles from the town and extends some nine or ten miles in all directions. At first I was in hopes of being gratified with the sight of fine woods, but,[147] with the exception of a few patches of good oaks, the remainder is little better than underwood and dwarflings.

We went into the heart of the forest to see an old Hermitage now inhabited by a keeper and his family. They had been visited by Cossacks, but had received no injury whatever; on the contrary the poor woman related with all the eloquence of Truth and the French animation that from their own soldiers they had suffered all that cruelty and rapacity could devise—indeed, the house and gardens bore evidence to the facts—window shutters pierced with bullets, broken doors, furniture gone, and above 800 francs' worth of honey destroyed out of pure wantonness—in short the poor people seemed quite ruined. I received a similar account in the town. Fontainebleau is a dull, melancholy-looking place, with a very extensive ugly palace—interesting only from the late events. Scarcely a soul appeared about; we crossed the large court in which Buonaparte took his last farewell and embraced the Imperial Eagles, called by some loyal French "The vile Cuckoos." Our hostess was, I presume, a staunch imperialist, who thought she could not shew her zeal for the Emperor in a stronger manner than by imposing on Englishmen. She began by asking 16s. for a plate of 8 little wretched mutton chops; we resented the imposition, although the sudden appearance of 4 or 5 officers of the imperial guard almost rendered it doubtful whether we ought to act too warmly on the defensive, as they[148] seemed to patronise our hostess; however, we refused to pay and retired unimposed upon.

The imperial guard here are supposed to be particularly attached to the Emperor, and of course averse to Englishmen, but I was agreeably surprised to find three out of the four really something like gentlemen in their manners; we entered into conversation, which I managed as dexterously as I could, manœuvering between the evil of sacrificing my own opinions on one side, and of giving them offence on the other; it was a nice point, as I perceived a word beyond the line of demarcation would have inflamed them in a trice. One happened to differ with another on a political point, which produced a loud and rapid stamping with the feet, accompanied by a course of pirouets on the heel with the velocity of a dervish, which fully proved what might be effected on their tempers had I been disposed to try the experiment. They called themselves the Ex-Imperial Guard. On retiring I shook hands with them, and with as low a bow as the little King of Rome, said "Messieurs les Gardes d'Honneur, Je vous salue." ...

Letter VII.

Monday, July 19th.

...The history of Buonaparte immediately preceding, and subsequent to the surrender of Paris, was never actually known—I will give it you.

The capitulation took place on the 30th (March). In the evening of that day he arrived at Fontaine[149]bleau without his army. Rumours of fighting near Paris had reached him. He almost immediately set off with Berthier in his carriage for Paris, and actually arrived at Villejuif, only 6 miles from the capital; when he heard the result he turned about and appeared again at Fontainebleau at 9 the next morning. When he alighted, the person who handed him out, a sort of head-porter of the Palace, who was our guide, told me he looked "triste, bien triste"; he spoke to nobody, went upstairs as fast as he could, and then called for his plans and maps; his occupation during the whole time he staid consisted in writing and looking over papers, but to what this writing and these papers related the world may feel but will never know; his spirits were by no means broken down; in a day or two he was pretty much as usual, and it is said he signed the Abdication without the least apparent emotion. We heard he was mad, but I can assure you from undoubted authority that he was perfectly well in mind and body the whole time, and, notwithstanding his excessive fatigues, as corpulent as ever; indeed, said our guide, "War seems to agree with him better than with any man I ever knew." Buonaparte laid out immense sums in furnishing and beautifying the Palais here. I got into his library, the snuggest room you ever saw, immediately below a little study in which he always sat and settled his affairs; his arm-chair was a very comfortable, honest, plain arm-chair, but I looked in vain for all the gashes and notches which it was said he was wont to inflict[150] upon it. I could not perceive a scratch, he was too busily employed in that said chair in forming plans for cutting up Europe; within three yards of his table was a little door, or rather trap door, by which you descended down the oddest spiral staircase you ever beheld into the Library, which was low and small; the books were few of them new, almost all standard works upon history—at least I am sure 4 out of 5 were historical—all of his own selection, and each stamped, as in fact was everything else from high to low, far and wide, with his N., or his Bees or his Eagle—all of which Louis XVIII is as busily employed in effacing, which alone will give him ample employment: but to return to the books. Amongst the rest I found—Shakespeare ... and a whole range of Ecclesiastical History, which, if ever read, might account in some degree for his shutting up the Pope as the existing representative of the animals who have occasioned half the feuds and divisions therein recorded. There was a Chapel, which he regularly attended on Sundays and Saints' days. His State bed was a sort of State business, very uncomfortable, consisting of 5 or 6 mattresses under a royal canopy with 2 Satin Pillows at each end.

During his residence he never stirred beyond the gates, though I could not discover that he was at all under restraint, or in any way looked upon as a prisoner; we were told in England (what are we not told there?) that he feared the people, who would have torn him in pieces; this is an idle story. I[151] rather suspect the people liked him too well, besides which his Guards were there, and by them he is idolised. He generally took exercise in a long and beautiful Gallery, called the Gallery of Francis I., on both sides of which were busts of his great Generals on panels ornamented with the N., and some name above alluding to a victory; thus above one N. was Nazareth, which puzzled me at first, but I afterwards heard he had cut up some Turks there; besides the Gallery, he walked every day up and down a Terrace; he dined every day in a miserable (I speak comparatively) little passage room without any shew of state; he was affable to his attendants and is liked by them. His abdication room is not one of the state apartments—it is a shabby ante-room; I could almost fancy that in performing this humiliating deed he had retired as far as possible from the Halls and Saloons which were decorated by his hand, and had witnessed his Imperial magnificence. Most of the Marshals were in the room, and it would have been a tour indeed to have glided through the hearts of each when such an extraordinary performance was transacting. It was in the great Court before the Palace that he took his leave, not above 1,500 troops were present. At such a moment to have heard such a speech, delivered with the dignity and stage effect Buonaparte well knew how to give, must have produced a strong effect—how great (how sad I had almost said) the contrast!

The stones were overgrown with grass; nobody[152] appeared, no voice was heard except the clacking of half a dozen old women who were weeding on their knees, and all the windows were closed. The dreary, deserted present compared with the magnificent past excited nearly the same feelings as if I had been looking on Tadmor in the wilderness. After passing the Imperial prison we were ushered into the apartments of the Imperial prisoners, the poor Pope and his 16 Cardinals. I had quite forgotten the place of their confinement, and was a little surprised when the man said, "Here, Sir, dwelt for 19 months the holy Conclave of St. Peter." He must have led a miserable life, for though he was allowed two carriages, with 6 and 8 horses to each, he neither stirred out himself nor allowed any of the Cardinals to so do, saying he did not think it right for prisoners. Buonaparte saw him in January, I think the man said, for the last time. So much for Fontainebleau. Few have followed their master to Elba. Roustan the Mameluke and Constant his Valet were certainly very ungrateful; one of them—I forget which—to whom Buonaparte had given 25,000 fr. (about £1,200) the day before he left Fontainebleau, applied to the Duc de Berri for admission into his service; in reply the Duc told him his gratitude ought to have carried him to Elba, but though it had not, if he (the Duke) ever heard that Buonaparte wished to have him there, he would bind him hand and foot and send him immediately. None of the Royal allies have been to Fontainebleau at the time or since, except the King of Prussia,[153] who came incog. a few days ago. This the guide said he had heard since; he had, indeed, seen three persons walking about, but he had not shewn them the Palace nor spoken to them. That it was the King of Prussia was confirmed by a curious little memorandum I found wafered over a high glass on the top of the room in which we dined, and which caught my eye immediately; I shewed it to the people of the house, who said they had not observed it before, but remembered three gentlemen dining there on that day. "Sa Majesté le Roi de Prusse accompagné du Prince Guillaume son fils a diné en cette appartement avec son premier Chambellan Mr. Baron D'Ambolle, le 8 Juillet, 1814." ... This is the way the King of Prussia always went about in Paris, nobody knew him or saw him....

From Fontainebleau we went to Melun and kept proceeding through Guignes to Meaux. At Guignes we began to hear of the effects of war: 15,000 Russians had been bivouacked above the town for a week. Buonaparte advanced with his troops, on which they retired, but troops do not walk up and down the earth like lambs, but rather like roaring lions, seeking whom they may devour; however, here let us insert once for all the account I have invariably received from sufferers throughout the whole Theatre of war—that the conduct of the Russians and French was widely different; the former generally behaving as well as could possibly be expected, and pillaging only from necessity; the latter seem to have made havoc and devastation[154] their delight. They might perhaps act on principle, conceiving that it was better for the treasure and good things of the land to fall into their hands than the enemy's.

At a little shabby inn at Guignes where we breakfasted Buonaparte had slept. The people described him dressed "comme un perruquier" in a grey great-coat; he clattered into the house, bustled about, went to his room early, and appeared again at 9 the next morning, but "J'en reponds bien" that he was not sleeping all that time. If from Guignes we traversed a country where we heard of war, at Meaux we began to see the effects—before a picturesque gateway we descended to cross the bridge over a stone arch which had been blown up. Shot-holes marked the wall, and within the houses were well bespattered with musket balls. It was the first visible field of battle we had crossed, and to heighten the interest, while we were looking about and asking particulars of the people, up came bands of Russian troops of all descriptions, Cossacks included, 1,500 having just entered the town invalided from Paris on their return home. To be sure, a more filthy set I never beheld. The country is pretty well stocked with Cossack horses; they were purchased at a very cheap rate—from 25 shillings to 50 a piece. We have had several of them in our carriage, and find them far more active and rapid than the French, though smaller and more miserable in appearance. My conversation with the Russians (for I made it a point to[155] speak to everybody) was rather laconic, and generally ran thus, "Vous Russe, moi Inglis"—the answer, "You Inglis, moi Russe, we brothers"—and then I generally got a tap on the shoulder and a broad grin of approbation which terminated the conference.

You know the chief event which occurred at Meaux was the explosion of the powder magazines by the French on their retreat, for which they were most severely, and, I think, unjustly, censured in our despatches—indeed, after seeing and hearing with my own eyes and ears, I feel less than ever inclined to put implicit faith in these public documents. The Magazine was in a large house where wines had been stored in the cellar—about half a mile to the west of the town upon a hill. About 3 o'clock in the morning the explosion took place with an "ébranlement" which shook the town to its very foundation. In an instant every pane of glass was shattered to atoms, but the cathedral windows, which were composed of small squares in lead, escaped tolerably well, only here and there some patches being forced out. The tiles also partook of the general crash. Many, of course, were broken by the shower of shot, stones, &c., which fell, but the actual concussion destroyed the greater part. Numbers of houses were remaining in their dilapidated state, and presented a curious scene. We went to see the spot where the house stood, for the house itself, like the temple of Loretto, disappeared altogether. Some others near it were on their last[156] legs—top, beams, doors, all blown away. Even the trees in a garden were in part thrown down, and the larger ones much excoriated. Only one person was killed on the spot, supposed to have been a marauder who was pillaging near the place. Another person about half a mile off, driving away his furniture to a place of safety, was wounded, and died soon afterwards.

From Meaux, I may say almost all the way to Châlons, a distance of above 150 miles, the country bore lamentable marks of the scourge with which it has been afflicted. I will allow you—I would allow myself perhaps, when I look back to the circumstances connected with the war—to wish that all the country, Paris included, had been sacked and pillaged as a just punishment, or rather as the sole mode of convincing these infatuated people that they are the conquered and not the Conqueror of the Allies. Wherever I go, whatever field of battle I see—be it Craon, Laon, Soissons, or elsewhere—victory is never accorded to the Russians. "Oh non, les Russes étaient toujours vaincus." One fellow who had been one of Buonaparte's guides at Craon had the impudence to assure me that the moment he appeared the Allies ran away. "Aye, but," said I, "how came the French to retreat and leave them alone?" "Oh, because just then the trahison which had been all arranged 19 months before began to appear."

Again, at Laon I was assured that the French drove all before them, and gained the heights.[157] "Then," said I, "why did not they stay there?" "Oh, then reappeared 'la petite trahison,'" and so they go on, and well do they deserve, and heartily do I wish, to have their pride and impudence lowered. But when I see what war is, when I see the devastation this comet bears in its sweeping tail, its dreadful impartiality involving alike the innocent and the guilty, I should be very sorry if it depended on me to pronounce sentence, or cry "havoc and let loose." ...

On the 14th we slept at Château Thierry—such an Inn, and such insolent pigs of people! Spain was scarcely worse ... added to the filthiness of the place, a diligence happened at the same time to pour forth its contents in the shape of a crew of the most vulgar, dirty French officers I ever saw. It was well we had no communication with them, for by the conversation I overheard in the next room there would have been little mutual satisfaction: "Oh! voici un regiment (alluding to us 5) de ces Anglois dans la maison! où vont-ils les Coquins?" "Moi je ne sais pas, les vilains!" Luckily they all tumbled upstairs to bed very soon, each with a cigar smoking and puffing from beneath the penthouse of their huge moustachios, during their ascent, by the by, keeping the Landlady in hot water lest they should break into her best bedroom, of which she carefully kept the key, telling me at the same time she was afraid of their insisting upon having clean sheets. By their appearance, however, I did not conceive her to be in much danger of so unfair a[158] demand. We had the clean sheets, damp enough, but no matter—she remembered them in the Bill most handsomely, and when I remonstrated against some of her charges, for I must observe that we dined in a wretched hole with our postillions, she checked me by saying, "Comment, Monsieur, c'est trop! Cela ne se peut pas; comme tout ici est si charmant." ... There was no reply to be made to such an appeal, so I bowed, paid, and retired. Then the bridge was blown up, the streets speckled with bullets. Near the bridge, which had been smartly contested, the houses were actually riddled, yet here the Emperor stood exposed as quiet and unconcerned amidst the balls as if (to use their own expression) he had been "chez lui."

As we advanced the marks of war became stronger and stronger, every village wore a rueful aspect, and every individual told a tale more and more harrowing to the feelings. The Postmasters seem to have been the greatest sufferers, as their situation demanded a large supply of corn, horses and forage, all of which, even to the chickens, were carried off. One poor woman, wife of a postmaster, a very well-behaved, gentlewoman-like sort of person, told me that when 80,000 Russians came to their town she escaped into the woods (you will remember the snow was then deep on the ground and the cold excessive) where for two days she and her family had nothing to eat. The Cossacks then found her, but did no harm, only asking for food. I mention her case not as singular, for it was the[159] lot of thousands, but merely to shew what people must expect when Enemies approach.

Soissons was the next place, and compared with the scene of desolation there presented all that we had hitherto seen was trifling.

I little thought last February that in July I should witness such superlatively interesting scenes. With the exception of Elba alone, ours has been the very best tour that could have been taken, and exactly at the right time, for I apprehend that a month ago we could not have passed the country....

Letter VIII.

Mayence, July 22nd.

Our speed outstrips my pen. I am to retrace our steps to Soissons, whereas here we are upon the banks of the Rhine, which is hurrying majestically by to terminate its course amongst the dykes of Holland.

The nearer we came to Soissons[79] the nearer we perceived we were to the field of some terrible contest, and the suburbs, where the thickest of the fight took place, presented a frightful picture of war, not a house entire. It seems they were unroofed for the convenience of the attacking party, or set on fire, an operation which took up a very short space of time, thanks to the energetic labours of about 50 or 60,000 men. Indeed, fire and sword[160] had done their utmost—burnt beams, battered doors, not a vestige of furniture or window frames. I cannot give you a better idea of the quantity of shot, and consequent number of beings who must have perished, than by assuring you that on one front of a house about the extent of our home, and which was not more favoured than its neighbours, I counted between 2 and 300 bullet marks. I was leaning against a bit of broken wall in a garden, which appeared to be the doorway to a sort of cellar, taking a sketch, when the gardener came up and gave me some particulars of the fight. He pointed to this cave or cellar as the place of shelter in which he and 44 others had been concealed, every moment dreading a discovery which, whether by friend or foe, they looked upon as equally fatal. Fortunately the foe were the discoverers. Upon the termination of the battle, which had been favourable to the Allies, in came a parcel of Russians upon the trembling peasants. Conceiving it to be a hiding-place for French soldiers, they rushed upon them, but finding none, satisfied themselves with asking what business they had there, and turning them out to find their way through blood and slaughter to some more secure place of shelter. A small mill pool had been so completely choked with dead that they were obliged to let off the water and clean it out. With Sir Charles Stuart's dispatches cut out of the Macclesfield Paper we ascended the Cathedral, and from thence, as upon a map, traced out the operations of[161] both armies. Soissons is half surrounded by the Aisne, and stands on a fine plain, upon which the Russians displayed. Buonaparte, in one of his Bulletins, abuses a governor who allowed the Allies to take possession of the town when he was in pursuit, thus giving them a passage over the river, adding that had that governor done his duty the Russians might have been cut off. In England this was all voted "leather and prunello" and a mere vapouring opinion of the Emperor's, but as far as I could observe he was perfectly right, and had the governor been acting under my orders I question much whether I should not have hanged him. In looking about we were shewn a sort of town hall, with windows ornamented with the most beautiful painted glass you ever saw—nice little figures, trophies, landscapes, &c.—but a party of Russians had unfortunately been lodged there, and the glass was almost all smashed. I procured a specimen, but alas! portmanteaus are not the best packing-cases for glass, and in my possession it fared little better than with the Cossacks. However, if it is pulverised, I will bring it home as a Souvenir....

From Soissons to Laon the country is uninteresting except from the late events. With the exception of the first view of the plain and town of Laon, we passed village after village in the same state of ruin and dilapidation. Chavignon, about 4 miles from Laon, seemed, however, to have been more particularly the object of vengeance; it was throughout[162] nearly a repetition of the suburbs of Soissons. Laon rises like a sort of Gibraltar from a rich and beautiful plain covered with little woods, vineyards, villages, and cornfields; the summit is crowned with an old castle, the town with its Cathedral towers and a parcel of windmills. Buonaparte had been extremely anxious to dislodge the allies; for two days made a furious and almost incessant attack, which was fortunately unsuccessful owing, to speak in French terms, to la petite trahison, in plain English, the bravery of the Russians, who not only withstood the repeated shocks, but pursued the enemy all the way to Soissons, every little copse and wood becoming a scene of contest, and the whole plain was strewed with dead. Since quitting Rouen I do not recollect any town at all to be compared with Laon either in point of scenery without or picturesque beauty within; it is one of the most curious old places I ever saw—Round Towers, Gateways, &c. We took up our quarters at an odd-looking Inn, with the nicest people we had met with for some time. They spoke with horror of the miseries they had undergone in this Inn, not much larger than Cutts' at Wilmslow; they had daily to feed and accommodate for upwards of two months 150 Russians of all descriptions, and this at a moment when provisions were, of course, extremely dear. The landlord's daughter with two friends were imprisoned, actually afraid of putting their noses beyond the keyhole; luckily they could make artificial flowers, and two of them drew remarkably[163] well; a favourite dog of the landlord's was their companion. A Cossack had one day taken him by the tail with the firm intent to put him on the kitchen fire, the bare recollection of which kindled all our host's anger, and he declared that had his poor dog been roasted, though he well knew the consequence, he should have shot the Cossack; fortunately the dog escaped, but as his Master assured me, never smelt or heard a Cossack's name mentioned afterwards without popping his tail between his legs and making off with the utmost speed. Both at this place and at Soissons we met with people with whom Davenport[80] had lodged, and in both places he has established a character which reflects the highest credit on his activity, humanity, and generosity. He was no idle spectator; he went about endeavouring by every means in his power to alleviate the miseries of war by protecting persons and property, and by administering to the wants of the sick and wounded of every description....

On the 16th we quitted Laon for Berry au Bac, passing through Corbeny and close to the heights of Craon, upon which a battle was fought which might be considered as the coup de grâce to the French. The Emperor commanded in person; he talked nearly half an hour with the Postmaster, whom he summoned before him; if the man spoke truth, his conversation appears to have been rather childish. After asking many questions about the[164] roads and country, he vented a torrent of abuse against the Russians, upon whom he assured the Postmaster it was his intention to inflict summary punishment, and, indeed, according to the French translation of the business, he actually did so, tho' I never could find out that any other of the Imperial troops remained to enjoy the victory on these said heights, saving and except the wounded and killed; one spot was pointed out where in one grave were deposited the remains of 3,000....

In this village of Corbeny there had been sad devastation; but it was at Berry au Bac that we were to see the superlative degree of misery. This unfortunate little town had been captured 7 times—4 times by the Russians, 3 times by the French; their bridge, a beautiful work of 3 arches, only completed in December, was blown up March 19. The houses fared no better; whole streets were annihilated—chiefly for the sake of burning the beams for fire-wood by the Russians—but the walls were in great measure knocked over by the French, for what other purpose than wanton cruelty I could not learn. Pillage and violence of every description had been excessive. Some of the inhabitants died of pure fright; a gentleman-like-looking man assured me his own father was of the number. Even here the Cossacks were complimented for their comparative good behaviour, while the French and the Emperor were justly execrated—"Plait à Dieu" said a poor man who stood moaning over the ruins of his cottage, "Plait à Dieu, qu'il soit mort, et qu'on n'entendît plus de Napoléon";—the old woman, his wife, told me they only feared the Cossacks when they were drunk. An old Cossack had taken up his quarters with them—"Ah c'était un bon Viellard; un bon Papa."

[165]One day a party of 20 or 30 drunken Cossacks broke into their yard, and insisted on entering the house; the old woman said she had nothing to fear and would have opened the door, but the Cossack seized her, saying, "There is but one way to save you," and taking her by the arm, shewed her to his companions as his prize and threatened the man who should touch his property with instant death. They did not dispute the matter with him and retired quietly. When they were out of sight he told her to follow him, and led her 3 or 4 miles up the country amongst the woods and left her in a place of safety, taking a kind leave of her and saying, "I have done all I could for you, now farewell"—and she saw no more of him....

We arrived at Rheims on the evening of the 16th, a large, fine, regular, dull-looking city in a dull-looking plain. The Cathedral is grand enough, but I felt no wish to remain till the Coronation. Hitherto we had seen inanimate vestiges of war, at Rheims we were to see the living effects. By accident we passed the door of a large Church or Hall which had been converted into an Hospital for 400 Russian prisoners, and on benches near the porch were seated some convalescent patients without arms or legs. We stopped to speak to them as well[166] as we could, and upon saying we were Englanders, one of the Russians with evident rapture and unfeigned delight made signs that there was a British soldier amongst their number, and immediately 4 or 5 of them ran to bring him out; and such a poor object did appear dragged along, his legs withered away and emaciated to the last degree. He had been wounded at St. Jean de Luz in the thigh, and subsequently afflicted with a fever which had thus deprived him of the use of his limbs. We gave something to those who were nearest, and on my asking if any Prussian was there to whom I could speak in French, as I wished to express our desire but inability to relieve all, I was conducted through the wards to a miserable being who was seated with his head suspended in a sling from the top of the bed, both legs dreadfully shattered, and unable to support himself upright through extreme weakness.

During the whole of supper-time the Hospital and this Englishman hung heavy on my mind; I felt as if I had not done enough, and that I might be of use in writing to his friends. Accordingly about 10 o'clock I went again to the Gate and begged admittance. On mentioning my wish to see the Englishman, I was immediately allowed to enter, and conducted up the wards. On each side were small beds, clean, and in admirable order; there was nothing to interrupt the silence but our own echoing footsteps and the groans of the poor patients all round. The Nurses were in the costume of Nuns, and from religious principles undertake[167] the care of the sick—there was something very awful in marching up the aisles with these conductors at this time. My poor countryman was asleep when I came to his bedside. I took down memorandums of his case, and promised to write to his friends, and left him money to assist him on his road home, should he (of which I much doubt) ever recover.

I staid with him some time; in the course of the conversation some wounded Prussians came up on their crutches, and it was quite gratifying to see their kindness and goodwill to this poor fellow who, sole of his nation and kindred, was wasting away amongst strangers. They patted him on his head, called him their cher and bon garçon, lifted him up that he might see and hear better, and he assured me that by them and by all the attendants he was treated with the utmost kindness and attention. Amongst 400 wounded soldiers whose deep groans and ghastly countenances announced that many were almost passing the barrier which separates the mortal from the immortal, with their nurses by my side holding their glimmering tapers, each arrayed in the order of their religion and wearing the Cross as the badge of their profession, was a situation in which I had never before been placed. In offering ministerial advice, and, I trust, affording religious consolation under circumstances so solemn and peculiar, you may conceive that I did speak with all the earnestness and fervour in my power. I told the nurses who and what I was, and so far from[168] entertaining any illiberal ideas as to the propriety of my interfering in what might be called their clerical department, they expressed the greatest pleasure and seemed to rejoice that their patient was visited by one of his own ministers.... Thus ended my visit to the Hospital at Rheims, which I never can forget.

We travelled the next day to Verdun, bidding adieu to the Hibberts at Châlons.

You will ask if we have seen any vestiges of war on the soil such as bodies. We have met with a tolerable quantity of dead horses by the road-side and in ditches, but only one human being, half scratched up by a dog, has appeared; a few rags of uniform dangling upon the skeleton bones called our attention to it.

Verdun is a very comfortable town of considerable extent decently fortified; the number of English there was from 1,000 to 1,100; they were all sent off in a hurry. At 5 in the evening they received the order, at 7 the next morning the greater part were off, and 24 hours afterward the Allies hovered round the town. The French boast, and nobody can contradict the assertion, that the Allies were never able to take their fortresses; certainly not; for they never attempted. Instead of losing their time in besieging, they left a few to mark the place and went on.... The English prisoners seem to have enjoyed every comfort they could expect—in fact, their imprisonment was in great measure nominal; with little difficulty they were allowed to go as far as they wished; they were noticed by the inhabitants, and many have married and settled in France. I think the prisoners in England have not been so well off, and complain with reason.

[169]We went to the English church and Theatre, and saw as much as we could for half a day. For the honor of my country I lament to say that many here contracted heavy debts which are not likely to be paid. Some instances were mentioned, the truth of which were proved by letters I read from the parties themselves, little creditable to our national character, and by persons, too, who ought to have known better. On the 18th we left Verdun for Metz. I had always winked at and generally encouraged the addition of another passenger behind our Cabriolet. The road was quite crowded with straggling soldiers going or returning to their several homes or regiments. We rarely passed in a day less than 2 or 300, and really sometimes in situations so very favorable to robbing that I am surprised we were never attacked, their appearance being generally stamped with a character perfectly congenial to the Banditti Trade—dark, whiskered, sunburnt visages, with ragged uniform and naked feet. Sometimes we were more fortunate than at others; for instance, stragglers from the Hamburg garrison, whose wan faces bore testimony to the fact they related of having lived for the last 4 or 5 months on horseflesh; but our charitable assistance was to be this day most abundantly rewarded. We[170] overtook a poor fellow, more wretched than most we had seen, toiling away with his bivouacking cloak tied round him. He, too, solicited, and misunderstanding my answer, said in the most pitiable but submissive tone, "Alors, Monsieur ne permettra pas que je monte?" "Tout au contraire," said I, "Montez tout de suite." After proceeding a little way I thought I might as well see who we had got behind us, and guess my astonishment when I received the answer. Who do you imagine, of all the people in the world, Buonaparte had raked forth to secure the Imperial Diadem upon his brow, to fight his battles, and deal in blood, but—A monk of La Trappe. For three years had he resided in Silence and solitude in this most severe society when Buonaparte suppressed it, and insisted that all the Noviciate Monks in No. 36 should sally forth and henceforth wield both their swords and their tongues; with lingering steps and slow our poor companion went. In the battle of Lutzen[81] he fought and conquered. In Leipsic[82] he fought and fell—the wind of a shot tore his eye out and struck him down, and the shot killed his next neighbour upon the spot; he was taken prisoner by the Swedes, and was now returning from Stockholm to his brethren near Fribourg. The simplicity with which he told his tale bore ample testimony to the Truth, but in addition he shewed me his Rosary and credentials. After having talked over the battle I changed the subject, and determined to see[171] if he could wield the sword of controversy as well as of war; and accordingly telling him who I was, asked his opinion of the Protestant Faith and the chief points of difference between us. He hesitated a little at first: "Attendez, Monsieur, il faut que je pense un peu." In about a minute he tapped at the carriage. "Eh bien, Monsieur, j'ai pensé," and then entered upon the subject, which he discussed with much good sense and ability, sometimes in Latin, sometimes in French; and though he supported his argument well and manfully, he displayed a liberality of sentiment and a spirit of true Christianity which quite attached me to him. I asked him his opinion of the salvability of protestants and infallibility of Catholics. "Ecoutez moi," was his reply. "Je pense que ceux qui savent que la Religion Catholique est la vraie Religion et ne la pratiquent pas, seront damnés, mais pour ceux qui ne pensent pas comme nous. Oh non, Señor, ne le croyez pas. Oh mon Dieu! non, non! jamais, jamais!" "Are you quite sure a minister ought not to marry? You will recollect St. Peter was a married man." "Oh que, oui, c'est vrai, mais le moment qu'il suivit notre Seigneur on n'entend plus de sa femme." From this we proceeded to various other topics, amongst others to the propriety of renouncing a religion in which we conceived there were erroneous opinions. "Señor, écoutez," said he, "can that religion be good which springs from a bad principle? Les Anglois étaient une fois des bons Catholiques; le Divorce d'un Roi capri[172]cieux fut la cause de leur changement. Ah, cela n'était pas bon." ...

When we were on the point of parting he turned to me: "Señor, j'espère que je ne vous ai pas faché, si je me suis exprimé trop fortement devant vous qui m'avez tant rendu service, il faut me pardonner, je suis pauvre et malheureux, mais je pensois que c'était mon devoir."

It was as lucky a meeting for him as for me. I assisted him with money to expedite him homewards, and he entertained and interested me all the way to Metz, when, much against my will, we parted, for had he been going to Pekin I should have accommodated him with a seat....

Letter IX.

Cologne, July 25th.

If you could see what I now see, or form any ideas adequate to the scenery around me, you would indeed prize a letter which, though commenced at 4 in the morning, cannot be valued at a less price than 2 or 3 old Castles; but it is not yet the moment to sing the praises of the Rhine. I shall only say that we slept at Bacharach, and that I am now looking at 4 old Castles whenever I raise my eyes from the paper, and that a fine old Abbey is only eclipsed by the gable end of a Church, equally curious, which is almost thrusting itself into the window as if to look at the strangers.

Little enlivened our day after parting with our Monk, unless I should except a good scene from[173] a picture which happened at one of the Post houses. No Postillions were at home, so the Landlord himself was to drive—an enormous man, rather infirm, with a night-cap on his head, from whence emerged a long pigtail. It was necessary he should be put into his Jack boots. By Jack boots you are to understand two large things as big as portmanteaus, always reminding me of boots fit for the leg which appears in the Castle of Otranto. Accordingly no less than 4 or 5 persons actually lifted the Landlord into his boots, an operation which, from the weight and infirmities of the one and the extreme clumsiness of the others, took up nearly a quarter of an hour; and, of course, when fairly deposited in them he was unable to move, and further help was necessary to place him on the saddle.... The first view of Metz, after traversing an uninteresting country, is remarkably fine. It stands in a fine rich plain, near though beyond the reach of an eminence—for it does not deserve the name of a mountain—the sides of which are covered with woods, villages, and vineyards. There is something very grand in entering a fortified Town—the clattering of drawbridges, appearance of moats, guns, sentinels, and all the other etceteras of war. Our passports were demanded for the first time. At length we were allowed to pass, and found ourselves in a large, clean town, chiefly remarkable for its Cathedral, the painted window of which was equal to any I ever saw. The first thing we invariably do in these[174] towns is to ascend the highest spire, from whence the general plan and position are at once explained. You need not be alarmed. There is no fever at present at Metz, or on the Rhine; but there has been. From the close of 1813 and until the last two months not less than 69,000 sick or wounded have been in the hospitals of Metz—a large Church contained about 3,000 at a time, the remainder were scattered about wherever they could find room, and many breathed their last in the streets. Of course, such a concourse of dead and dying infested the air to a certain degree, and a fever was the result. However, not above 2 or 300 inhabitants suffered. Of the sick troops from 12 to 1,500 per day were buried without the town, and quicklime thrown in. We supped with three or four Frenchmen and a Genoese officer, one of Buonaparte's Imperial Elites of the Guard. His form and countenance were quite Vandyck—I never looked upon a face so well calculated for a picture; his dark whiskers and black curling hair composed an admirable frame for a couple of the most expressive eyes; his manners were extremely gentleman-like, and you may conceive I did not talk and look at him with any diminution of interest when I found he was on his way home from Moscow. He had gone through the whole of the retreat, had almost reached the boundaries of Poland, when at Calick he was wounded, taken prisoner, and marched back to Moscow. His description of the miseries of that horrible retreat[175] was petrifying—when a horse fell it was instantly surrounded by famished Frenchmen, who devoured the carcase; not merely those who slept were frozen, but even sentries upon their posts. Yet with all this he imputed no blame to Buonaparte. The Russians, he said, had reason to thank the severity of their climate, without which they must have been completely conquered. I will say this, indeed, that the Russians themselves seem to consider their own efforts as rather secondary to the weather. Besides this officer we had a Citizen of Metz, a young officer of the Polytechnique School who had fought at Montmartre, and a youth who was silent; the other 3, however, made ample amends, talking incessantly, and all equally vehement in praise of Buonaparte. The officer blessed his stars that he had enough to live upon, and that he was now quitting a service which, having lost its brightest ornament, was no longer interesting or supportable. The young Polytechnique was equally violent, with less of the gentleman to soften it down. He, too, was disgusted, and had retired for the same reason (these Frenchmen are sad liars after all). Of course, as he had been engaged with his school companions I thought I could not have a better opportunity of ascertaining the number killed at Montmartre, as it was invariably circulated and believed at Paris that this defence was noble to a degree and that the greater part perished by their guns. You will recollect that the Polytechnique cadets I met on the heights of Montmartre said the[176] same, and yet the youth asserted that they had not lost a single individual, that only 30 were wounded, whereas they knocked over the Russians in countless multitudes.[83] The Citizen took the best ground for his Panegyric. He referred us to the roads, the public buildings, the national improvements which France had gained under the dynasty of Napoleon; and when I hinted the intolerable weight of the taxes (being ⅕ on all rents and property) he made light of them, assuring me that Frenchmen had quite enough left for the comforts of life. When they all filled their glasses to drink to the health of their hero I turned to the Genoese officer and begged first to drink to the restoration of Genoa to that independence of which Napoleon had in great measure deprived her, adding that her present degradation was a cruel contrast to the dignified station she once held in Europe. His national superseded his Imperial feelings, and he drank my toast with great good humour and satisfaction; nor did he think it necessary in return to press me to drink success to the Emperor, though the Citizen on my refusal, half in joke, half in earnest, said he wished I might be ill off for the rest of my journey.

My good fortune has not quitted me, however. The next morning on getting into the Diligence we found only one passenger—Major Kleist, nephew to the celebrated Prussian General and to[177] General Tousein—a Russian equally famous here though not so well known in England. His appearance was much in his favor; he talked a great deal; had commanded a regiment of the Russian Imperial Elites of the Guard (in which he still was) at the battle of Leipsic and throughout the campaign; been engaged in every action from the Borodino to the capture of Paris; wounded two or three times; fought a French Officer in the Bois de Boulogne, and got his finger cut abominably; visited London and Portsmouth with his Emperor, dined with the Regent, &c. He told me many interesting anecdotes and particulars, although, from a certain random way of speaking and the loose, unconnected manner in which his words dropped from him, I could not place implicit confidence in what he said, nor vouch for the accuracy of his accounts. He said decidedly that Alexander had visited the Princess of Wales in London incog.; he mentioned an anecdote which I cannot quite believe, because had it occurred in Paris we must have heard of it. One day when Eugène Beauharnais was with Louis XVIII. Marmont came in. Eugène, on seeing him, turned to the King, said, "Sire, here is a Traitor; do not trust in him; he has betrayed one master, he may betray you."

Marmont, of course, challenged him; they fought the next day and Marmont was wounded in the arm. He spoke highly of the King of Prussia as a military, unassuming, amiable, sensible man, and that[178] he does visit the tomb of his wife.[84] Alexander, he said, was fond of diplomacy, an amiable man, very brave, but not much of a general. I asked him what he thought of the Duchess of Oldenburg. When I said she had excellent sense and great information, he simply replied, "Oui, et peut-être un pen trop." Of Constantine[85] he spoke with indignation, and his whiskers vibrated as he described his detestable character—debauched, depraved, cruel, dishonest, and a coward. Constantine was abusing a Colonel in very gross tones, a short time ago, for misconduct and incompetency in battle. "Indeed!" said the officer; "you must have been misinformed; this cannot arise from your own observation, as I do not recollect having ever seen you near me upon these occasions."

No wonder the Russians were moderate towards the inhabitants during the campaign—their discipline was severe enough. Our friend the Major caught 7 Cossacks plundering a cottage; he had them all tied up and knouted them to death by the moderate infliction of 1,000 blows each. In truth he seemed to hold the lives of these gentlemen, including the Calmucs, rather cheap. "Pour moi," said he, "Je considere un Cossac, un Calmuc et un Moineau à peu près comme la même chose."

At St. Avold we again fell in with a regiment of Russians, or rather detachments from many[179] regiments. Whoever they were they did not appear to be in high favour with the Major. "Our army," said he, "is divided into three classes—the first we can trust for discipline and ability; the second consists of Cossacks and other irregulars, whose business is reconnoitring, plundering, and running away when they see the Enemy; the men before you compose the third—fellows who know nothing and do nothing, but can stand quietly in the place assigned them and get killed one after another without ever thinking of turning their backs"; and their appearance was very like their character—patient, heavy, slumbering, hard-featured countenance; sitting or standing without any appearance of animation.

At St. Avold we began to lose the French language, and from this my fluency was reduced to signs, or at most to a very laconic speech—"Ich Englander, Ich woll haben Brod mitt Café," &c. At Dendrich, a little village near Forbach, we crossed the new line of demarcation between France and Austria, and found the towns chiefly occupied by Bavarians. Unless I am much mistaken, this country will soon be a bone of contention; the people (as far as I can judge in three days) are dissatisfied, and the leaders of France look with a jealous eye on the encroachment, and an imaginary line of separation will not easily be respected. Here I saw what is meant by a German forest—as far as the eye could reach all was wood. Austria may, if she pleases, by her new accession[180] of territory become charcoal vendor to the whole world. The road is excellent, carried on in a fine, broad, straight line. Till Buonaparte spoke the word, there was no regular communication between Metz and Mayence, now there is not a more noble road for travelling. We were now in the Hock country; in the Villages we bought what I should have called wine of the same sort for 6d. a bottle....

On Thursday, the 21st, we entered Mayence, over and through similar drawbridges, bastions, hornworks, counterscarps as at Metz; here we met a curious assemblage. By the first Gate were stationed a guard of Prussians with the British Lions on their caps, John Bull having supplied some Prussian Regiments with Uniforms. At the next gate a band of white Austrians, with their caps shaded with boughs of Acacia (you will remember that their custom of wearing green boughs in their Hats was interpreted by the French into a premeditated insult). These, with Saxons in red, Bavarians in light blue, and Russians in green, made out the remainder of the motley crew. We found an excellent Inn, and dined at a Table d'Hôte with about 30 people. The striking contrast we already perceived between the French and Austrians was very amusing, the former all bustle and loquacity with dark hair, the latter grave and sedate with light hair; the Inns, accommodation, eating, &c., much cleaner; a band played to us during dinner, and I was pleased to see the[181] Austrian moustachios recede with a smile of satisfaction as they listened to the "Chasse de Henri Quatre."

There is little to be seen in the town. I found a most intelligent bookseller, and was tantalised with the number of fine Engravings, &c., I might have purchased for a trifle....

I have heard a curious political report repeated here, which is current all over the Continent—that Austria has sold the Netherlands and Brabant to England; the report gains credit probably because the towns in that part of the country are still garrisoned with British troops. Poor England is certainly not much beloved; we are admired, feared, respected, and courted; but these people will have, and perhaps with some reason, that upon all occasions our own Interest is the sole object of consideration; that our Treaties have the good of ourselves and not the peace of Europe at heart; and so far they carry this opinion, that I was very near getting into a quarrel with a fat man in the Diligence who spoke it as a common idea that we fought with our money and not with our blood, for that we were too rich to risk our lives, and had there been a bridge that Napoleon would have been in London long ago. I told him he knew nothing at all about the matter (to which, by the bye, he afterwards virtually assented), and as a Frenchman's choler does not last long, we were good friends the rest of the journey, and he apologised for his behaviour, saying, it was a failing[182] of his—"de s'échauffer bientôt." Upon one point we agreed, too, in politics, viz., being Anti-Napoleonites.

Now for the Rhine. At 10 o'clock on Friday, July 22nd, in a little rotten, picturesque-looking boat and two men (preferring a private conveyance to the public passage boats for the convenience of stopping at pleasure) we left Mayence; the river here is about half a mile across, traversable by a bridge of boats. The Maine falls into it just above the town, and there appears nothing on the Frankfort or Strasburgh side to interest a traveller's eye, the country being flat vine or corn land. The Stream runs with a steady rapidity of about three and a half or 4 miles an hour, so that in a boat, with the addition of oars, you may proceed at the rate of about 6 miles an hour. The distance to Cologne is about 120 miles. On the bank of the River we saw some of those immense floats preparing which are composed of timbers for the Holland markets. We glided with an imperceptible motion down the stream, expecting as we proceeded to behold the magnificent ruins of which we had heard so much. But, alas! village succeeded village, town followed town, and yet not a single turret made its appearance. We sat with our sketch books in battle array, but our pencils were asleep; we began to regret the uninteresting, even country we had passed from Metz to Mayence, and the time which might be called lost in coming so far for so useless a purpose, and[183] to make vow after vow that we would never in future believe the account given by others respecting people and places. By this time our appetites began to grow keen, luckily, just at the time when our spirits began to flag, and, accordingly, we went on shore at Rudesheim, famous for its excellent hock, and having dispatched a dinner and bottle of hock we ventured forth to explore, and, luckily, fell in with a little Gothic round tower, which, with the dinner, rather raised our spirits and enabled us to proceed 4 or 5 miles further to Bingen when we turned a Corner....

I verily believe such another corner does not exist in the world. From the corner of Bingen must be dated the beauties of the Rhine, and from the corner of Bingen I commence my next letter; suffice it now to say that the moment we turned the Corner we both, with one impulse, called out, "Oh!" and sat in the boat with our hands uplifted in speechless astonishment....

Letter X.

Aix la Chapelle, July 27, 1814.

I left you turning the corner of Bingen, now let me describe what there presented itself. On the left a beautiful picturesque town, with tower and picturesque-looking steeples placed each exactly on the spot an artist would have selected, with hills and woods on each side and a bridge running over a small river which emptied itself in the[184] Rhine. Immediately before us, on a small islet, stood the Tower of Mausthurm, or the Mouse turret, so called from a tradition that a Baron once locked up a number of his Vassals in a tower and then set fire to it and consumed it and its inhabitants, in consequence of which certain mice haunted him by day and by night to such a degree that he fled his Country and built this solitary Tower on its island. But all this would not do. The Mice pursued him to his Island, and the tale ends in his being devoured by them there.

On both sides the river hills covered with vines and woods rose abruptly, and on the right, tottering on a pinnacle that frowns over the flood, stood the Castle of Ehrenfels....

It would be quite impossible, and indeed unnecessary (as my sketch-book can best unfold the tale), to describe all we saw. For above 100 miles, with little interruption, the same scenery presented itself, attaining its superlative point of grandeur in the neighbourhood of Lorich and Bacharach. It might be called a perfect Louvre of old Castles, each being a chef d'œuvre of its species. I could almost doubt the interference of a human hand in their creation. Placed upon elevated and apparently impossible crags, they look more like the fortresses of the Giants when they warred against the Gods than any thing else. But the Castles were not the only points of attraction. Every mile presented a village as interesting[185] as the battlements which threatened to crush them to death from above. Each vied with its neighbour in picturesque beauty, and the people as well as the buildings in these remote nooks and corners partook of the wild character of the scenery. A shower of rain and close of the day induced us to make Bacharach our sleeping-place. The Landlord, with his night-cap on his head and pipe in his mouth, expressed no surprise at our appearance. The coffee and the milk and the hock came in due season when he had nodded acquiescence to my demand, and he puffed away with as much indifference as if two strange Englishmen had not been in his house. We found good clean beds, and should have slept very well but for the deep-toned Bell of the Church within a few yards of us, which tolled the time of night every half-hour, and for a watchman who, by way of murdering the little sleep which had survived the sound of the Bell, sounded with all his might a cow-horn, and then, as if perfectly satisfied that he had awaked every soul in the village, bawled out the hour and retired, leaving them just time to fall asleep again before the half-hour called for a repetition of his exertions.

Every evening about dusk, in our course down the river, a curious Phenomenon presented itself which to me, as an Entomologist, had peculiar charms. We were surrounded as far as the eye could reach with what appeared to be a fall of snow, but which, in fact, was a cloud of beautiful[186] white Ephemera just emerged from their Chrysalis state to flutter away in their perfection for one or two hours before their death. I mention this circumstance now, whilst it is fresh in my memory, for I really should hesitate in relating it before company for fear of being accused of traveller's stories. I had heard of them before, and was therefore not so much surprised, though the infinite number was truly astonishing.

On Saturday, 23rd, we dined and spent an hour or two in Coblentz, which, situated at the junction of the Moselle with the Rhine, is strongly fortified towards the land. There is little worth notice in the town except a Stone fountain erected by Napoleon, from the pipes of which run the united streams of the two rivers. Upon these are carved in large letters the two following inscriptions, the one immediately below the other in characters precisely similar:—

A.N. MDCCCXII.
Mémorable par la Campagne
Contre les Russes
Sous la Préfecture de Jules Dragon.
* * * * *
Vu et approuvé par nous
Commandant Russe de la ville de Coblentz
Le Ier. Janvier 1814.

At Coblentz as well as at Cologne the Rhine is passed by a flying bridge—i.e., a large boat moored to several other smaller ones, whose only use is to keep the large one steady. It swings from bank[187] to bank, according as the mooring line is placed on one side or the other, merely by the action of the current producing a sort of compound motion. Coblentz is completely commanded by the heights of Ehrenbreitstein, a rock as high as Dover, the summit and side covered with the ruins of the fortress which the French blew up. The people in this country are pretty well satisfied with the change of affairs. They led a life of unsupportable tyranny under the rod of Napoleon. The river was crowded with custom house officers. Not a man could pass without being personally searched for Coffee and sugar in every part of his dress. All they lament now is the uncertainty of their fate. Many expressed a hope that the report of their being sold to England might be true. All they want is certainty, and then their commerce will revive. As it is, nothing can be more uninteresting in a commercial point of view than this noble river. We did not see above a dozen Merchants' barks in the course of 120 miles, and yet they say trade is tenfold greater than when Napoleon governed. Below Coblentz we passed some of the Châteaux of the German Princes, which are generally large, uncomfortable-looking houses, fitted up, as far as external examination allowed us to judge, without taste. The river became rather dull, but at Andernach, where we slept, it began to improve and to promise better for the next morning, and for some miles we were not disappointed.[188]

We were under the necessity of travelling on the Sunday, which in our situation I certainly held to be no crime. What I could do I did in inducing our Boatmen to attend their Mass. Religion, which appears to be nearly extinct in France, is by no means so in Germany. We find the churches all well attended and plentifully scattered over the whole country. In the course of the morning we passed a large Chapel dedicated to St. Apollonius, and noted for its Miracles, all of which were recorded by our Boatmen with the air of implicit reverence and belief. It happened to be the festival of the Saint, and from a distance of 10 or 20 miles even the road was crowded with persons going or coming to their favourite shrine. You will recollect what Mme. de Staël says of the Germans' taste for religious music. Of this we had a specimen to-day. As we passed the height upon which the Chapel stood a boat containing 40 or 50 people put off from the shore and preceded us for several miles chaunting almost the whole way hymns and psalms. In the Evening, soon after leaving Bonn, we came up with another containing about 120, who every quarter of an hour delighted us with the same strains. They glided with the stream, and gave us time to row alongside, and we continued in their company the remainder of the day.

Could I have heard and not have seen all would have been perfect, but the charm was almost broken by the heterogeneous mixture of piety and indif[189]ference, outward practice and inward negligence. Some were telling their beads and chattering Pater Nosters, some were at one moment on their knees, in the next quarrelling with their neighbour; but, after all, the general effect was so solemn and imposing that I was willing to spare my criticisms, and give them credit for perhaps more than they deserved. Conceive such a concourse of persons, on one of the finest Evenings imaginable, floating silently with the stream, and then at a signal given bursting forth into songs of praise to God—all perfect in their respective parts, now loud, now low, the softer tones of the women at one time singing alone. If the value of a Sabbath depends on the religious feelings excited, I may safely say I have passed few so valuable. They had no Priest amongst them, the hymns were the spontaneous flow of the moment. Whenever one began the rest were sure to follow.

When upon the subject of music I must be the advocate of Mme. de Staël. She has been accused of falsehood in stating that in the Cottages in Germany a Piano Forte was a necessary piece of furniture. I cannot from my own knowledge go quite so far, but from my short experience of German manners I may safely say there is no nation in which Music is so popular. We have heard the notes of pianos and harpsichords issuing from holes and corners where they might least be expected, and as for flutes and other instruments,[190] there is scarcely a village in which, in the course of an hour, you will not hear a dozen.

At Cologne we were lodged at a French Inn kept by the landlord and his wife alone—no waiters, no other attendance—and yet the house was spacious, clean, and excellent. I never met with more attention and wish to accommodate, and not only in the house; the exertions of our host were exerted still further in our behalf. He introduced us to a Club chiefly composed of French Germans, who were as hospitably inclined as himself. One gentleman invited us to his house, would give us some excellent hock, introduced us to his family, amongst the rest a little fellow with a sabre by his side, with curling locks and countenance and manner interesting as Owen's. Hearing I was fond of pictures and painted glass, he carried me to a fine old Connoisseur, his father-in-law, whose fears and temper were a good deal roused by the "peste," as he termed it, of still having half a dozen Cossacks in his house. However, they were officers, and by his own account did him no harm whatever; but for fear of accidents he had unpanelled his great dining-room. Our friend had a large and excellent house, in a style very unlike and far more magnificent than is usually met with in England. In return for his civility I was delighted to have it in my power to give him a few ounces of our Pecco Tea which remained of our original stock. Travelling in Germany is certainly[191] neither luxurious nor rapid; the custom of hiring a carriage for a certain distance and taking post horses does not extend here, and you are therefore reduced to the following dilemma, either taking a Carriage and the same horses for your journey or the "Post Waggon," or Diligence, which is of the two rather more rapid. Of two evils we preferred the last, and at half-past 8 this morning were landed at Aix la Chapelle, having performed the journey of 45 miles in 12 and a half hours shaken to death, choked with dust, and poisoned with tobacco, for here a great hooked pipe is as necessary an appendage to the mouth as the tongue itself. Under the circumstances above mentioned, with the Thermometer at about 98 into the bargain, you may conceive we were heartily glad to run from the coach office to the Baths as instinctively as young ducks. On looking over the list of persons visiting the place, we were delighted to find the names of Lord and Lady Glenbervie[86] and Mr. North.[87] Accordingly, having first ascended the highest steeple in the town, and been more disgusted than in any place I have seen since Spain, with virgins and dolls in beads and muslins, and pomatum and relics of saints' beards, and napkins from our Saviour's tomb, and mummeries quite disgraceful, we went to call upon them....[192]