Travels in France during the years 1814-1815 by Patrick Fraser Tytler (beach read book .txt) 📖

of the Austrians. The French appear to hate Augereau as much as Marmont; they say he was a traitor to Napoleon, to whom he owed every thing. The country through which we passed to-day, was as plain and uninteresting as yesterday's, though still all cultivated. Nothing but vines on the hills, and the plains almost bare—still gravelly. We found the Isere much swollen by the rain. The contrivance for carrying over the carts and carriages, is exceedingly simple and beautiful: Three very high trees are formed into a triangle, such as we raise for weighing coals. One of these is placed on each side of the river, and a rope passes over a groove at the top, and is fixed down at each side of the river; to this rope that crosses the river is attached a block and pulley, and to this pulley is fixed the rope of the boat. The stream tries by its rapidity to carry the boat down; the rope across prevents this; and it therefore slides across, with a regular though rapid motion.

It appears to me that we are getting into a poorer country in every respect; for the inns are worse, the food worse, the roads worse, &c. There seems a want of poultry as well as butcher meat. Mutton here is very poor. Our inn to-night is the best we have seen since we left Lyons; it is at the Golden Cross, outside the town of Valence, and is neatly kept and well served. The waiter here had served in the army for six years. He says, there are indeed many of the soldiers who wish for war; but that he really believes there are as many who wish for peace: I have little faith in this. We observed this morning a large party of men returning from the galleys, having passed the time of their imprisonment. They were all uniformly dressed in red flannel clothes and small woollen caps, and attended by gens-d'armes.——Distance 23 miles—to St Valence.

Thursday, the 23d.—We left St Valence well enough pleased with our lodging at the Golden Cross. It is, however, an exception to the bad set of inns we have lately been at. In the kitchen here, which I entered from curiosity, as the ladies went up stairs to the parlour, I found, as usual, a most extraordinary mixture of company. I listened, without joining at all in the conversation. The theme of discourse was a report that had been circulated, that all the young troops were to hold themselves in readiness again to take up arms. The only foundation I could find for this report was, that a drum had been beat for some reason or other that evening. This was a good opportunity of attending to the state of the public feeling here;—all and every one seemed delighted at the thoughts of war, provided it was with the Austrians. One man (a shopkeeper to appearance), said, that his son, a trumpeter, when he heard the drum, leapt from his seat, and, dancing about the room, exclaimed, [7]"La guerre! la guerre!" On the route this morning, we met with a small party of five or six soldiers returning to their homes; two of them had lost their right arms, and two others were lamed for life. They all agreed that they would never have wished for peace; and that even in their present miserable state they would fight. They were very fine stout fellows, about 40 years of age; but they had the looks of ruffians when narrowly examined.

In the same inn the hostler, who had only fought one year, was as anxious for a continuation of peace as the others were for war. The wife of one of these soldiers gave a most lamentable description of the horrors of the last campaign, and ended by praying for a continuation of the peace.

At a little village near Montelimart (our lodging place to-night), we were accosted in very bad English by a good-looking young Frenchman, who, from our appearance, knew us to be English. He told us that he had been four years a prisoner at Plymouth; he complained of bad treatment, and abused both the English and England very liberally, saying that France was a much finer country. Poor fellow! in a prison-ship at Plymouth he had formed his opinion of England. He gave us some good hints about the price of provisions in this part of the country. Wine (the vin ordinaire) is here at six sous, or three-pence the bottle. I had been very much astonished (on ordering some wine for the soldiers in the morning), to find that I had only ten sous to pay for each bottle.

The country through which we passed to-day is rather more interesting, with a considerable variety of hill and dale, wood and water, but the soil is still a miserable gravel. Both to-day and yesterday we observed that the fields on each side of the road were planted with clumsy cropt trees, somewhat like fruit-trees. We could not make out what these were until to-day, when we learnt that they were mulberry trees, and that this was a silk country. The trees are of the size of our orchard trees; their branches, under the thickness of an inch, are all lopped off, and from the wounds thus made, spring up the tender young branches which produce the leaves. The trees have a most unnatural appearance from this cause. Under these the fields here are ploughed for a most wretched crop of wheat. The ploughs miserably constructed, but with wheels.

This part of the country abounds with mule, which are used in carriages, carts, waggons, ploughs, &c. These animals are of a remarkable size here. The roads, ever since we left Lyons, excepting where we met with a hundred or two hundred yards of pavement, have been uniformly bad. To-day, however, we made out about 33 miles between six and five o'clock. This town of Montelimart is celebrated for one manufacture only, viz. a sort of cake made of almonds and white sugar, called Nagaux. This article is sent from this place all over France!—---- Distance 33 miles—to Montelimart.

Our journey to-day (Friday the 24th) though rather more rapid, was not by any means comfortable. The country hereabout has a great want of milk and butter;—not a cow to be seen. The soil is still to appearance wretchedly poor, yet it gives a rich produce, in grapes, figs, olives, and mulberry leaves, for the silk worms. The wine (vin ordinaire) sells here at six sous the bottle; it is poor in quality, yet by no means unpalatable. The roads continue as bad as ever, rather worse indeed, for the thin creamy mud has become thick doughy clay.

We did not arrive at Orange till half past five, but were fortunate in finding a civil reception at the Palais Royal, the first inn on entering the town. We met with no adventures to-day of any kind. The language of the people has now become completely unintelligible; it is a Patois of the most horrible nature. Many of the better sort of people among the peasants, are able to speak French with you, but where they have only their own dialect, you are completely at a loss. I had conceived, that there would be no more difference between French and Patois, than between the better and the lower dialects of Scotch and English; but the very words are here changed: A carter asked the landlord with whom we were conversing, for a [8]"Peetso morcel du bosse,"—"petit morceau du bois." The landlord, a respectable-looking man, gave us a good deal of news regarding the state of the country. He says, that the people in the south are all anxious for peace, and that those in France, who wish for war, are those who have nothing else to live on; that nobody with a house over his back, and a little money, desires to have war again.

The people here seem to amuse themselves with a perpetual variety of reports. The story to-day is, that Alexander has declared his intention of sending 60,000 men to Poland, to take possession of that country for himself; and that Talleyrand would not hear of such a thing. The villages that we passed to-day have a greater appearance of desolation than any we have yet seen. Scarce a house which does not seem to be tumbling to pieces, and those which we were unlucky enough to enter, were as dirty and uncomfortable inside as they appeared without. On entering the town, or rather at a little distance from the town of Orange, we saw a beautiful triumphal arch, said to have been raised to commemorate the victories of Marius over the Cimbri. The evening was too gloomy for us to observe in what state of preservation the sculpture is now, but the architecture is very grand. To-morrow we breakfast at Avignon. But alas, the weather will not permit of our visiting Vaucluse.——Distance 39 miles—to Orange.

Saturday, the 25th.—We left Orange at half past six. Our road to-day lay through the same species of country, to which we have been condemned for four days, producing vines, olives, and mulberries; the soil is to all appearance a most wretched one for corn—gravel and stones. The roads have, ever since our leaving Lyons, been very bad. After breakfast at Avignon, we proceeded to see the ruins of the church of Notre Dame. There are now remaining but very few vestiges of a church; the ground formerly enclosed by the church, is now formed into a fruit garden, and a country house has been built on the ruins. The owner of this house wishes to let it, and hearing that a friend of ours was in need of a house, he offered it to him for two hundred a-year. The house was such as one could procure near London for about L.80, and such as we ought to have in France for L.20. But the French do really think, that the English will give any sum they ask, and that every individual is a kind of animated bag of money.

The owner of the house was, to appearance, a broken-down gentleman; he had been ordered to Marseilles by his physician for an affection of the lungs; yet he strongly recommended the climate of Avignon. For my own part, I think the situation is too low and windy to be healthy. The town is one of the cleanest we have seen, and there are some excellent houses in it; of the rent we could not well judge from the account of this gentleman. We went through his garden, and were by him shewn the spot under which the tomb of Laura is now situated. A small cypress tree had been planted by the owner of the garden to mark the spot. He had heard the story of Laura, and recollected many particulars of it; but still he had not been at the pains to have the spot cleared, and the tomb exposed to view. To any one who was acquainted with the story of Petrarch, or who had perused his impassioned effusions, the dilapidation of this church, and the barbarous concealment of Laura's tomb, were most mortifying circumstances. But, neither the memory of Laura, nor of the brave Crillon, whose tomb is also here, had any effect in averting the progress of the revolutionary barbarians. The tomb of Crillon is now only to be distinguished by the vestiges of some warlike embellishments in the wall opposite which it was situated. There is a large space now empty in the midst of these ornaments, from which a large marble slab had lately been taken out. On this slab, the owner of the garden said, an inscription, commemorating the virtues of Crillon, had been engraved. A small stone, with his arms very beautifully engraved, was