The ludicrous effect of this scene is much heightened by its being often carried on in the dark, for night brings no cessation; and we have ourselves, in travelling in this manner in the diligence, engaged in many a game of forfeits where, it is not too much to say, that our play-fellows, of both sexes, were certainly nearer to the grave than the cradle, being somewhere between fifty and fourscore. The scenes which then take place, the undistinguished clamours of young and old, the audible salutes from every quarter, which point to the perpetual succession of the forfeits, altogether compose a spectacle, which to a stranger is the most unexpected and extraordinary that can be possibly imagined.
The conversation of a Frenchman, who possesses wit and information, is certainly superior to that of a clever man of any other country. It has a variety and playfulness, which, upon subjects of taste or fancy, or literature, delights and fascinates; but even their common conversation upon the most trivial matters is of a superior order, as far as amusement goes. However shallowly they may think upon a subject, they never fail to express themselves well. This is the case equally with those of both sexes. It is true, certainly, that in their subjects for conversation, they indulge in a wider range of selection; and in consequence, far more frequently without evincing the slightest scruple, overstep the bounds of decorum and delicacy. This is the inevitable effect of the peculiarity above noticed, that they must constantly converse; as their appetite for conversation is inordinate, their taste is necessarily less nice; provided they continue in motion, they are careless about the ground over which they travel. One unhappy consequence of this certainly is, that such carelessness extends to the women, even amongst the highest and best bred classes; and that these ideas of delicacy and tenderness, with which we are always accustomed to regard, in this country, the female mind, are shocked and grated against by the occurrence of scenes, the employment of expressions, and the mention of books which tend rather to disgust than to amuse, and which destroy in a moment that female fascination, which can never exist without that first and most material ingredient, modesty.
The science of conversation in France, is not, as with us, confined principally to the higher classes, but extends to the whole body of the people. The reason is, that the lower ranks in that country invariably imitate the manners, style of society, and mode of conversation used by the higher orders. The lower ranks in England converse, no doubt; but then their conversation, and the subjects upon which it is employed, is exactly fitted to the rank they hold in society.
In speaking of the literature of France, we shall have occasion to remark, that there is nothing in that country like an ancient or national poetry. This is perhaps not so much to be attributed to the excessive ignorance of the peasantry, as to the circumstance, that from the French peasantry invariably imitating the manners of the higher orders, there is no adaption of the manners of the labouring orders to the simple rank they fill in society. The innocence of rural life is thus lost. The shepherd, the peasant girl, the rustic labourer, whom you meet in France, are all in some measure artificial beings. They express themselves to any stranger they meet with ease and politeness, with a point and a vivacity which is certainly striking; but which is, of all things, the farthest removed from nature: and it is the consequence of this interchange which has taken place,—this imitation of the manners of the higher orders by the lower classes of the peasantry—that we shall in vain look for any thing in France like a simple national poetry. The truth, the simplicity, the nature, which ought to form it, are not to be found amongst any classes of the French people. The poetry of France, both ancient and modern, that of Ronsard and Marot, in earlier days; and that of Boileau, Racine, Corneille and Voltaire, in more modern times, bears the marks of having been formed in the court. If, for instance, in Scotland, the lower ranks, the labouring classes, like those of France, had transplanted the fictitious manners of the higher classes into the innocence of their cottage, or the sequestered solitude of their vallies—where, under such a state of things, could there ever have arisen such gifted spirits as Burns, or Ramsay, or Ferguson? and where should we have found, that truth, that beauty, that genuine nature, in the lives and manners of our peasantry, which has not only furnished such poets with some of their finest subjects, but has instructed these peasants themselves to pour out, in unpremeditated strains, those ancient and beautiful songs, which art and education could never have taught them; and which, in the progress of time, have formed that unrivalled national poetry, perhaps one of the brightest gems in the diadem of Scottish genius. But we must return to France.
The French have been always celebrated for their natural gaiety of character. One exception from this is material to be noticed. It must strike you the moment you look into the countenances of the soldiery, or examine the air and manner of the generality of the lower officers. A dark and gloomy expression, if not a suspicious, and often savage appearance, is their characteristic feature; and although this is disguised by occasional sallies of loud and intemperate mirth, these sallies are more like the desperate and reckless exertions of a troop of banditti, than the temperate and unpremeditated cheerfulness of a regular soldiery. Nor is this look confined entirely to the military. The habits of the whole nation are changed; but yet, with all this alteration, there remains enough of their characteristic gaiety to distinguish them from every other people in Europe.
Their excessive frivolity is perhaps even more remarkable than their gaiety; they have not sufficient steadiness for the uninterrupted avocations of graver life. In the midst of the most serious or deep discussion, a Frenchman will suddenly stop, and, with a look of perhaps more solemn importance than he bestowed upon the subject of debate, will adjust the ruffle of his brother savant, adding some observation on the propriety of adorning the exterior as well as the interior of science. [48]"Leur badinage," says Montesquieu, "naturellement fait pour las toilettes, semble etre provenu a former le caractere general de la nation. On badine au conseil, on badine a la tête d'une armee, on badine avec un ambassadeur."
The vanity of the whole nation, it is well known, is without all bounds; and although this is most apparent, perhaps, and less unequivocally shewn in every point connected with military affairs, it is yet confined to no one subject in particular, but embraces all—in arts, science, manufactures; in every thing, indeed, upon which the spirit and genius of a nation can be exercised, it is not too much to say, that they believe themselves superior to every other nation or country. Nay, what is very extraordinary, so much have they been accustomed to hear themselves talk in this exaggerated style; so natural to them have now become those expressions of arrogant superiority, that vanity has, in its adoption into the French character, and in the effects which it there produces, almost changed its nature.
In other countries—in our own, for instance, a very vain man is an object of ridicule, and generally of distrust. In France he is neither; on the contrary, there appears throughout the kingdom a kind of general agreement, a species of silent understood compact amongst them, that every thing asserted by one Frenchman to another, provided it is done with sufficient confidence and coolness, however individually vain, or absolutely incredible, ought to be fully and implicitly believed. It is this excessive idea which the French instil into each other of their own superiority, joined to the extreme ignorance of the great body of the people, which composes that prominent feature in their national character—their credulity—and which has long rendered them the easiest of all nations to be imposed upon by political artifice, and the submissive dupes of those travelling quacks and ingenious charlatans, who in this country are more than commonly successful in ruining the health and impoverishing the pockets of their devoted patients. An instance of this occurs to me, which happened to myself when residing in the south of France.
At one of the great fairs where I was present, there appeared upon an elevated stage, an elderly and serious-looking gentleman, dressed in a complete suit of solemn black, with a little child kneeling at his feet. "Messieurs," said he to the multitude, and bowing with the most perfect confidence and self-possession—[49]"Messieurs, c'est impossible de tromper des gens instruits comme vous. Je vais absolument couper la tête a cet-enfant: Mais avant de commencer, il faut que je vous fasse voir que je ne suis pas un charlatan. Eh bien, en attendant et pour un espece d'exorde: Qui est entre vous qui à le mal au dent?" "Moi," exclaimed instantly a sturdy looking peasant, opening his jaws, and disclosing a row of grinders which might have defied a shark. "Monsieur, (said the doctor, inspecting his gums), it is but too true. The disorders attending these small but inestimable members, the teeth, are invariably to be traced to a species of worm, and this the most obstinate, as well as the most fatal species in the vermicular tribe, which contrives to conceal itself at the root of the affected member. Gentlemen, we have all our respective antipathies; and it is by means of these that the most fatal and unaccountable effects are produced upon us. Worms, gentlemen, have also their prevailing antipathies. To subdue the animal, we have only to become acquainted with its disposition. The worm, Sir, at the bottom of your tooth, is of that faculty or tribe which abhors copper. It is the vermis halcomisicus, or copper-hating worm. Upon placing this penknife in the solution contained in this bottle," (continued he, holding up a small phial, which contained a green-coloured liquid), "it is, you see, immediately changed into copper." The patient then, at the doctor's request, approached. A female assistant stood between him and the crowd, and in a few minutes the tooth was delivered of a worm, which, from its size, might certainly have given the toothache to the Dragon of Wantley,
"Who swallow'd the Mayor, asleep in his chair,
And pick'd his teeth with the mace."