Havre, June 26, 1814.

WE have passed the Rubicon—nous voilà en France, all new, interesting, and delightful. I know not where or how to begin—the observations of an hour were I to paint in Miniature would fill my sheet; however, you must not expect arrangement but read a sort of higgledy-piggledy journal as things run through my head. I must[98] pin them down like my Butterflies as they pass, or they will be gone for ever.

At half-past four on Friday we sailed from Portsmouth, and saw the fleet in the highest beauty—amongst them all while they were under sail tacking, &c.; the delay has not been lost time. I should observe before I quit the subject of Portsmouth events, that the Emperor could not find time to sail about for mere amusement two days, this he left to the P. R.[38] He (the Emperor) and the Duchess of Oldenburg occupied themselves in visiting the Dockyards, Machinery, Haslar Hospital—in short, everything worthy the notice of enlightened beings....

Our passengers were numerous, about 25 in a vessel of as many tons, with only six what they called regular sleeping-places.... But I had no reason to complain, our party was in many respects excellent—one, a jewel of no ordinary value, by name Mr. John Cross, of whom I must enquire more. I have seldom met with a man of more general and at the same time deep information; he seemed perfect in everything. Mineralogy, Antiquities, Chemistry, literature, human nature were at his fingers' ends, and most gentlemanly manners into the bargain....

Amongst others we had three French officers, prisoners returning home. They had not met before that evening, but had you heard their incomparable voices when they sang their trios, you would[99] have supposed they had practised together for years. Mr. John Cross alone surpassed them in their art. These gentlemen were certainly not hostile to Bonaparte, but to gratify their musical taste they stuck at nothing—"God save the King," "Rule Britannia," "The Downfall of Paris" were chaunted in swift succession, and the following commencement of one of their songs will show the popular opinion of Bonaparte's campaign in Russia:—

"Quel est le Monarque qui peut
Etre si fou
Que d'aller à Moscou
Pour perdre sa grande armée?"

A fair wind brought us in sight of the French coast early on Saturday. At 11 we were under the headland of Havre, and at 12 anchored in the bay, and were in an instant surrounded by chattering boatfuls who talked much but did nothing. On landing we were escorted to the Passport Office and most civilly received there; the difference, indeed, between public offices in England and France is quite glaring. Even the Custom house Officers apologised for keeping us waiting for the form of searching; and tho' the Underlings condescended to take a Franc or two, the Officer himself, when I offered money, turned away his head and hand and cried, "Ba, Ba, Non, Non," with such apparent sincerity that I felt as if I had insulted him by offering it....

The whole process of getting our passports signed,[100] &c., being over, we went to an Hotel. "Ici, garçon, vite mettez Messieurs les Anglois à l'onzième," cried a landlady—and such a landlady! and up we scampered to the 5th storey (there are more still above us) and to this said, "No onzième." ...

We lost no time in the evening in looking about us; the town is situated about two miles up the Seine on a sort of Peninsula surrounded with very regular and strong fortifications. Its docks are incomparable, and Bonaparte would have added still more to their magnificence, but now all is at a stand—the grass is quietly filling up spaces hitherto taken up by soldiers, Workmen, shot and guns; the numberless merchant vessels in a state of decay proved sufficiently the entire destruction of all trade; but what gave me particular satisfaction was the sight of a flotilla of Praams, luggers, intended for the invasion of England, all reposing in a happy progress to speedy putrefaction and decay. About a mile from the town on the hill is a beautiful village called St. Michel, where the Havre citizens have country houses. The town itself is as singular as heart can wish—indeed, I am firmly convinced that the difference between the towns of the Earth and Moon is not greater than that between those of England and France. I scarcely know how to describe it to you. Conceive to yourself a long street of immensely tall houses from 5 to 8 Stories, huddled, for huddling is the only word which can convey my meaning, and in truth their extraordinary height and narrow breadth seem rather the effect of[101] compression than design.... These houses are inhabited by various families of various occupations and tastes, so that each Storey has its own peculiar character—here you see a smart Balcony with windows to the ground, garnished above and below with the insignia of washing woman or taylor. They are built of all materials, though I think chiefly of wood (like our old Cheshire houses) and stucco; and, thanks to time and the filth and poverty of the people, their exterior assumes a general tint of pleasing dirty picturesque. This said dirt may have its advantages as far as the eye is concerned, but the nose is terribly assailed by the innumerable compounded Effluvias which flow from every Alley-hole and corner. For the people and their dress! who shall venture to describe the things I have seen in the shape of caps, hats and bonnets, cloaks and petticoats, &c.? There I meet a group of Oldenburg Bonnets broader and more loaded with flowers, bunches, bows, plumes than any we saw in London, and would you believe it I am already not merely getting reconciled but absolutely an admirer of them.

Having passed the groups of bonnets I meet at the next moment a set of beings ycleped Poissardes, caparisoned with coverings of all sorts, shapes, and sizes—here flaps a head decorated with lappets like butterflies' wings—here nods a bower of cloth and pins tall and narrow as the houses themselves, but I must not be too prolix on any one particular subject.[102]