Sunday, which is always in France a jour de fête, and a jour de bal into the bargain, is kept at Vichy, and in its neighbourhood, with great apparent gaiety and enjoyment by the lower orders, who unite their several arrondissements, and congregate here together.
Comes Sunday, long'd for by each smart coquette,
Of Randan, Moulins, Ganat, and Cusset.
In Janus hats,[6] with beaks that point both ways,
Then lively rustics dance their gay Bourrées;[7]
With painted sabots strike the noisy ground,
While bagpipes squeal, and hurdy-gurdies sound.
Till sinks the sun—then stop—the poor man's fête
Begins not early, and must end not late.
Whilst Paris belle in costliest silk array'd,
Runs up, and walks in stateliest parade;
Each comely damsel insolently kens;
(So silver pheasants strut 'midst modest hens!)
And marvels much what men can find t' admire,
In such coarse hoydens, clad in such attire!
And now 'tis night; beneath the bright saloon,
All eyes are raised to see the fire balloon,
Till swells the silk 'midst acclamations loud,
And the light lanthorn shoots above the crowd!
Here, 'neath the lines, Hygeia's fount that shade,
Smart booths allure the lounger on parade.
Bohemia's glass, and Nevers' beaded wares,
Millecour's fine lace, and Moulins' polish'd shears;
And crates of painted wicker without flaw,
And fine mesh'd products of Germania's straw,
Books of dull trifling, misnamed "reading light,"
And foxy maps, and prints in damaged plight,
Whilst up and down to rattling castanettes,
The active hawker sells his "oubliettes!"
We have our shows at Vichy, and many an itinerant tent incloses something worth giving half a franc to see; most of them we had already seen over and over again. What then? one can't invent new monsters every year, nor perform new feats; and so we pay our respects to the walrus woman, and to the "anatomie vivante." We look up to the Swiss giantess, and down upon the French dwarf; we inspect the feats of the village Milos, and of those equestrians, familiar to "every circus" at home and abroad, who
Ride four horses galloping; then stoop,
Vault from their backs, and spring thro' narrow hoop;
Once more alight upon their coursers' backs,
Then follow, scampering round the oft trod tracks.
And that far travell'd pig—that pig of parts,
Whose eye aye glistens on that Queen of hearts;
While wondering visitors the feat regard,
And tell by looks that that's the very card!
Behold, too, another curiosity in natural history, well deserving of "notice" and of "note," which we append accordingly—
From Auvergne's heights, their mother lately slain,
Six surly wolf cubs by their owner ta'en;
Her own pups drown'd, a foster bitch supplies,
And licks the churlish brood with fond maternal eyes![8]
Finally, and to wind up—
Who dance on ropes, who rouged and roaring stand,
Who cheat the eyes by wondrous sleight of hand,
From whose wide mouth the ready riband falls,
Who swallow swords, or urge the flying balls,
Here with French poodles vie, and harness'd fleas,
Nor strive in vain our easy tastes to please.
Whilst rival pupils of the great Daguerre,
In rival shops, display their rivals fair!
Our first Table d'Hòte Dinner at Vichy.
We arrived at Vichy from Roanne just in time to dress for dinner. As every body dines en table d'hôte., we were not wrong in supposing that this would be a good opportunity for studying the habits, "usages de société" and what not, of a tolerably large party (fifty was to be the number) of the better class of French propriètaires. On entering the room, we found the guests already assembled; and everybody in full talk already, before the bell had done ringing, or the tureens been uncovered. The habit of general sufferance and free communion of tongue amongst guests at dinner, forms an agreeable episode in the life of him whom education and English reserve have inured, without ever reconciling, to a different state of things at home. The difference of the English and French character peeps out amusingly at this critical time of the day; when, oh! commend us to a Frenchman's vanity, however grotesque it may sometimes be, rather than to our own reserve, shyness, formality, or under whatever other name we please to designate, and seek to hide its unamiable synonym, pride. Vanity, always a free, is not seldom an agreeable talker; but pride is ever laconic; while the few words he utters are generally so constrained and dull, that you would gladly absolve him altogether from so painful an effort as that of opening his mouth, or forcing it to articulate. Self-love may be a large ingredient in both pride and vanity; but the difference of comfort, according as you have to sit down with one or the other at table, is indeed great. For whilst pride sits stiff, guarded, and ungenial, radiating coldness around him, which requires at least a bottle of champagne and an arch coquette to disperse; vanity, on the other hand, being a female, (a sort of Mrs Pride,) has her conquests to make, and loves making them; and accordingly must study the ways and means of pleasing; which makes her an agreeable voisine at table. As she never doubts either her own powers to persuade, or yours to appreciate them, her language is at once self-complacent, and full of good-will to her neighbour; whilst the vanity of a Frenchman thus leads him to seek popularity, it seems enough to an Englishman that he is one entitled to justify himself, in his own eyes, for being as disagreeable as he pleases.