The last scene of this interesting tragedy is the most celebrated and most admired part in the range of Talma's characters, and undoubtedly it is impossible to find any acting more admirable or more affecting: After the death of Pyrrhus, he rushes upon the stage to inform Hermione that he had obeyed her dreadful commission, and to receive the reward of such a proof of his attachment; the horror of the crime which he had committed is sunk in his confidence of the claim he has now acquired to her gratitude, and he triumphantly relates the circumstances of the scene which had passed, as giving him such undeniable titles to the reward which had been promised to his firmness.—Madame de Stael has mentioned the effect he gives to the short and feeble reply which he makes, when Hermione accuses him of cruelty, and throws all the guilt of the murder on himself;—but it is in the subsequent part that he appears so great: After Hermione leaves him, and he recovers in some degree of the stupor which such an unexpected attack had produced, he repeats, in a hurried manner, the circumstances of his situation, and dwells on the perfidy of Hermione; but when he finds no palliation for his crime, and sees how completely he has been degraded by his unmanly weakness, the whole enormity of his guilt comes full upon his mind, and he acquires even dignity in the opinion of the beholder, from the solemn and emphatic manner in which he curses the folly and inhumanity of his conduct. But a further blow awaits him; and it is not till Pylades informs him of the death of Hermione, that the horrors of madness begin to seize on his mind. At first he remains motionless and thunderstruck with the dreadful issue of his enterprise; then, in a low and thrilling tone of voice, he laments the bitterness and misery of that destiny by which he is doomed to be for ever the victim of fate, (du malheur un modele accompli,) till the wildness of madness comes over him: In a voice hardly heard, he seems to ask himself, "Quelle epaisse nuit tout a coup m'environne, de quelle cote sortir? D'ou-vient que je frissonne. Quelle horreur me saisit?"—and at once a shriek, dreadful beyond all description, announces the destruction of reason, and the agonies of madness. It is vain to describe the wild, desperate, and horrifying manner in which he represents Orestes tortured by the frightful visions with which the furies had visited his mind, till his nature, exhausted by such intense sufferings, sinks at once into a calm, more dreadful even than the wildness which had preceded it.

These remarks have been extended so much beyond the limits which can be interesting to those who have never seen this unrivalled actor, and to whom they can convey so very inadequate a notion of his powers, that it is impossible to make any further observations, which his performance in other characters may have suggested. The most interesting character, perhaps, in which we saw him perform after these, was Nero in Britannicus. Every person who has been in Paris, since the collection of statues was brought there, must have remarked the striking resemblance of Talma's countenance to the first busts of Nero; and this singular circumstance, along with the admirable manner in which he represents the impatient, headstrong, and profligate tyrant, rendered his acting in this character remarkably interesting. The opportunities Which he enjoyed of studying the character and the manner of Bonaparte,—who never forgot the assistance he received from Talma, when he first entered that city, where he was afterwards to govern with such unbounded power,—must have been present to his mind when he was preparing this difficult character; and if it is supposed that he must have been, even with this advantage, little able to imagine correctly the manner and deportment of so singular a character as the Roman Emperor, none will question the judgment, on this point, of that extraordinary person, under whose tyranny Talma so long lived, and who, as Talma has often declared, did actually suggest many improvements in the manner in which he had first acted the part.

Mademoiselle Georges, the great tragic actress, was reckoned at one time the most beautiful woman in France. She is now grown very large, and her movements are, from that cause, stiff and constrained; but she is still a fine woman, and her countenance, though not very striking at first sight, is capable of wonderful variety and intensity of expression; her style of acting may be said to be intermediate between the matronly dignity and majestic deportment of Mrs Siddons, and the enchanting sweetness and feminine graces of Miss O'Neil. In the delineation of strong feelings and violent passions, of grief, madness, or despair, she will not suffer from comparison with either of these actresses; but we should doubt whether she can ever have inspired as much moral sympathy and admiration as the one has always commanded, by the elevation and grandeur of her representation of characters of exalted virtue, and the other daily wins, by the interesting tenderness of her manner, by the truth and energy of her impassioned scenes, and the overpowering pathos of her distress.

The tragedy of OEdipe, by Voltaire, affords room for the display of the most characteristic qualities of Talma and Mademoiselle Georges; and when we saw them act OEdipus and Jocasta in this piece, we agreed that there were certainly no actor and actress, of equally transcendent merit, who act together in either of the London theatres. The distress of the play is of too horrible and repulsive a kind, we should conceive, to be ever admitted on the English stage; but it furnishes occasion for the display of consummate art in the imitation of the most terrible and overpowering emotions; and it is difficult to conceive a more powerful representation than they exhibited of the gloomy forebodings of suspicion, of the agonizing suspence of unsatisfied doubt, and the "sickening pang of hope deferred"—heightened, rather than diminished, by the consciousness of innocent intention, and the feeling of undeserved affliction, and giving way only to the certainty of irretrievable misery, and the phrenzy of utter despair.

In concluding these remarks, upon a subject which interested us so much, we are anxious to offer some general reflections upon the character of the French stage, which were suggested by the observations we had an opportunity of making. It is far from being our intention, to enter into any discussion of the rules upon which the construction of their tragedies is supposed to depend, or to occupy the time of our readers, by useless remarks upon the sacrifices which it is said must be made, by strictly observing the unities in dramatic compositions. Quite enough is known of the defects of the French tragedy, and it is much to be regretted, that those who have had an opportunity of attending the French theatre, have generally carried their national prejudices along with them, and seem to have been more desirous to confirm the prepossessions they had previously acquired, than to form any fair and correct estimate of the merits of that drama. We are a little aware in general in this country, how much the composition of our own tragedies might be improved, and how much the effect of the talents which the stage displays might be increased, were we as candid in admitting the very great excellencies which the French stage possesses, as we have been desirous to discover its imperfections. Without presuming to attempt an examination of the French theatre, in the view of correcting what appear to us the errors in the public taste, we mean merely to state in what respects it appeared to us, that the impression left on the mind by the French tragedies is stronger and more lasting than any that we have experienced from attending our own theatres. Our conviction of the general superiority of the English stage has been already expressed, and therefore we hope we shall not be misapprehended in the object which we have in view in such remarks.

1. In the first place, then, we would mention—what we hope is not necessary to illustrate at any length—the very great impression which must be made upon every thoughtful mind, by the unity of emotion which the French tragedies are fitted to produce. The effect which may result from this unity of emotion appears to excite much deeper interest, than can be produced by the mere exertion of the actors' power, when it is not uniformly directed to the expression of one general character. It is also worthy of consideration, whether the very important purposes to which the drama may be rendered subservient, may not be more easily accomplished, when the whole tendency of the composition, and the influence of acting, are employed in one general and consistent design. No such principle seems to have been kept in view in the composition of the greater part of the English tragedies. They resemble much, in truth, as we have before observed, the scene of human affairs, which the general aspect of the world presents,—full of every variety of incident, and depending upon the actions of a number of different characters. In the principal subject of the play, many seem to perform parts nearly of equal importance, and to be equally concerned in the issue of the story; each personage has his separate interest to claim our attention, and peculiar features of character, which require nice discrimination; and in general, no one character, or one subject, is sufficiently presented to view. The minds of the spectators, therefore, are oppressed and distracted by the variety of feelings which are excited, and their interest interrupted and dissipated, in some degree, from the variety of objects which claim it. The general impression, therefore, left upon the mind, is less pointed, less profound, and must produce less influence upon character, than when the feelings have been steadily and powerfully interested in the consequences of one marked and important event, or in the illustration of one great moral truth.

2. We must be permitted to state, in the second place, that we think the French theatre is decidedly superior to our own, in the propriety and discrimination with which they keep out of view many of those exhibitions, which, on the English stage, are studiously brought forward with a view to effect: It would be altogether useless, to enter into any discussion of a question which has often been the subject of much idle controversy; nor should we be able, we know, to suggest any thing which could have any influence with those who think, that all the murders, and battles, and bustle, which occur in many of the grander scenes in the English tragedies, can increase the interest which such tragedies might produce, or contribute to the effect of theatrical illusion. We were not fortunate enough to see Talma in Ducis' play of Macbeth, where the difference between the French and English stage in this particular is very strongly illustrated; but from every thing we have, understood, of the wonderful impression which is produced, when he describes his interview with the weird sisters—the terrors which accompanied their appearance, and the feelings which their predictions awakened, we are persuaded that the effect must be much finer than any thing which can result from the feeble attempt to represent all this to the eye. Macbeth, however, without the witches, and all the clumsy machinery which is employed on the stage to carry through so impracticable a scene, would appear stripped of its principal beauties to the taste of a great part of an English audience; and yet we are perfectly convinced, that there is no one imperfection, in the plan or composition of the French tragedies, so deserving of censure, as the taste which can admit such representations on the stage. We allude, of course, entirely to the attempt to introduce this celebrated scene upon the stage; none can admire more than we do, the powerful and creative imagination which it displays.

3. The next circumstance to which we allude, is that very remarkable one—of the dignity of sentiment, and elevation of thought, which uniformly characterise the compositions of the French stage. This is a perfection which, we believe, has never been denied by any one who is in any degree acquainted with these productions; and therefore we are anxious, as that very excellence has sometimes been thought to unfit them for actual representation, merely to state, from our own experience, the very great impression which such lofty and dignified sentiments, in the composition of the play, are fitted to produce. For ourselves we can say, that no dramatic representation on the English stage produced the same permanent effect with some of the greater compositions of the French tragedy; and we cannot but consider much of their influence to be owing to the sublime and elevating sentiments with which they abound. We could wish to see the tone of the tragedies which are now presented for the English stage, animated by the same strain of dignified thought, and become more worthy of the approbation of a great, and enlightened, and virtuous people.

Simple as these observations may appear, they yet suggest what we must consider as most important improvements in the composition and character of the English drama: The only tragedies which have been written for many years for our stage are, with a few exceptions, undeniably the feeblest productions in any branch of the national literature, and have in general carried, to the utmost extreme, the imperfections which existed in the works of those earlier writers whose genius and natural feeling they have never been able to equal. Whenever any change does occur in the character and tone of the tragedies of the English stage, we are persuaded that much will be gained by further acquaintance with the dramatic representations of the French theatre; and that the defects of our own theatre can only be avoided, by imitating some of the perfections of that drama, which we are accustomed at present so hastily to censure.

We have only now to remark, that while the works of Corneille, of Racine, and Voltaire, must ever remain conspicuous in the French drama, we shall judge very erroneously of the present character of the French stage, if we are only acquainted with these compositions of earlier times. The consequences of the revolution have been felt in the tone of dramatic composition, as in every other branch of literature, and in every condition of society. The misfortunes which all classes of the people have sustained,—the anxiety, and suspence, and terror, which they so often felt, and the insecurity which so long seemed to attend every enjoyment of human life, accustomed them so much to scenes of deep interest, and to profound emotion, that it became necessary, in the theatre, to have recourse to more powerful means of exciting their compassion, and engaging their interest, than was always afforded by the tragedies of the old writers. The same change, then, which is observable in many other branches of the French literature of late years, seems to have taken place, to a considerable extent, in compositions for the stage; and from the serious and melancholy turn which was often given to the public mind, it has become requisite, in later writings, to introduce subjects of deeper interest, and more fitted to affect the imagination in moments of strong popular feeling, and of great national danger. Many of the reflections, therefore, which such circumstances suggested, have been introduced into the tragedies which have been composed during the very eventful period which has elapsed since the commencement of the revolution; and the authors have adapted, in a considerable degree, the interest, or the management of their plays, to those peculiar sentiments which the character of that period had given to the people. These sentiments may not always indicate very sound principle, or very elevated feeling, but, in the turn which has sometimes been given to the French plays, they are made to favour the introduction of much poetical beauty, and much dramatic interest. We have already mentioned, that there appears to be a vague, but general impression of the influence of fatality upon human conduct, floating in the public mind; and though such a notion, probably, is seldom admitted in the shape of a distinct doctrine, many circumstances indicate, that among the body of the people, and among the army in particular, the influence of this superstition is very considerable. It is appealed to in many of those political writings which best indicate the feelings of those to whom they are addressed; and we have all remarked how much and how artfully their late ruler availed himself of this belief, to connect the ascendancy of his arms, and the prosperity of his dynasty, with the destiny of human affairs. On several very important occasions, the utmost possible interest has been given to the history of particular characters, in many recent tragedies, by employing this powerful feeling in the public mind; and it was very apparent, that the spectators took peculiar interest in the denouement of the plays in which this subject was introduced.

In the works of Ducis, of Raynouard, and of several other recent writers, and in many of the plays formed from tragedies of the German school, very strong indications are to be found of the effect of the circumstances in which the people have been placed, in giving, in some respects, a new tone to dramatic compositions, and in calling forth productions of deeper interest, and capable of exciting more profound emotion, than could generally be produced by the works of the earlier periods of French literature.

It is an animating proof of the ascendancy of virtuous feeling, and a striking illustration of the tendency of great assemblies of men, when not actuated by particular passions, to join in what is generous and elevated in human thought, that not only have the tragedies of the earlier writers continued to be universally admired, and constantly acted during the whole period of the revolution, but that the standard of sentiment has not been lowered in those productions which have been designed expressly for the French stage during that period, and that the dignity of ancient virtue, and the elevation of natural feeling, still ennoble the tone of French tragedy.

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The French comedies and comic acting are not less characteristic of the people than their tragedies. They are a gay and lively, but not a humorous people. A Frenchman enters into amusements with an eagerness and relish, of which, in this country, we have no conception; all his cares and sorrows are forgotten; all his serious occupations are postponed; all his unruly passions are calmed;—he thinks neither of his individual misfortunes, nor of his national degradation; neither of the friends whom he has lost in the war, nor of the foreign soldiers whom it has placed at his elbow; his whole soul is absorbed in the game, in the dance, or in the spectacle. But his object is not laughter, or passive enjoyment, or relaxation; it is the excitation of his spirits, the occupation, and interest, and agitation of his mind, the varied gratification of his senses, the exercise of his fancy, the display of his wit, and taste, and politeness.

The exhibitions at the theatres are accommodated to this taste. With the exception of some of Moliere's works, such as the Bourgeois Gentilhomme, and M. de Pourceaugnac, (which are seldom acted, at least at the Theatre Francais), there are hardly any French comedies which are characterised by what we call humour,—which have for their main object the representation of palpably ludicrous peculiarities of character and manner. You never hear, in a French theatre, the same loud uncontrollable bursts of laughter, which are so often excited by representations of this kind in London. There are no such actors, at the principal theatres, as Matthews, or Liston, or Bannister, or Munden, or Emery, whose principal merit lies in mimicry and buffoonery. There are hardly any entertainments corresponding in character to our farces; the after-pieces are short comedies, and characters in low life are introduced into them, not as objects of derision, but of interest and sympathy.

On the other hand, operas and genteel comedies, which are esteemed only by the higher ranks in England, are a favourite amusement of all ranks in France. The qualities which are most highly prized in the comedies, are, interest and variety of incident and situation, wit and liveliness of dialogue, and a certain elevation and elegance of character.

Regarding the character of the French tragedies, there will always be much difference of opinion; and many, probably, of those who have had the best opportunities of studying them, as performed upon the stage at Paris, may yet retain nearly the same judgment concerning them which they formed in reading them in the closet. And we are willing to admit, that admirable as they appear to us in many respects, they are not well adapted to become popular in this country. But the excellencies and unrivalled elegance of the French comedy, have been at all times universally admitted, while there is this great distinction between them and the tragedies of the French school, that however great the pleasure we may take in reading them, no one ever saw them well performed, without acknowledging, that until then, he had no conception of the astonishing field which they afford for the display of the actor's power, or of the innumerable charms which they possess as dramatic compositions.

Everything that ever was amiable and engaging in the character of the French people; the elegance and bon-hommie of their manners, which served as a passport to the French in every country in Europe, and softened the feelings of national resentment with which their ambition and their arrogance to other nations had taught many to regard them as a people; their well-known superiority to other nations in those circumstances, which render them agreeable and pleasant in society, in their constant attention and accommodation to the wishes and pursuits of others, in that anxiety to please, to entertain, and to promote the interests and happiness of others, which costs so little to those who are never subject to that unhappy irregularity of temper and spirit, so visible to all foreigners in the character of the English people, and which never fails to secure esteem, and to interest the affections, while superior worth, less happily gifted for the common purposes and intercourse of life, may be regarded with no warmer feeling than that of distant respect; the loyaute and frankness once so closely associated with the history and character of the French people; the manliness which taught them at once to admit and to repair the wrongs which their impetuosity of spirit, or their harshness of feeling, might have occasioned, and the gallantry with which they were wont to defend with their sword what their honour bound them to maintain; and above all, that delightful and touching abandon of feeling, which seemed the result of genuine simplicity, and which appeared to know no reserve, only because it knew no guilt; all these beautiful and interesting traits, which adorned the character of former and of later days, are still preserved in the comedies of their greater writers; the purity of former character seems to animate the pages which they write, and the spirit of earlier times seems yet to retain its ascendancy, when they wish to pourtray the manners of the present day.

In the degradation of the present period, they delight to recall the splendour and the renown of the period that is past; and, by preserving in their works the character which adorned the French people before the profligacy and the insidious policy of a corrupt court disarmed the nation of its virtue, to reconcile it to slavery, they attempt to awaken a nobler spirit, and lay the foundation of future grandeur. Whatever has delighted us in reading the history of the earlier periods of the French monarchy, when the elevation of chivalrous feeling, and the disinterestedness of simple manners, distinguished the French people, and when the character of the great Henry displayed, in a more conspicuous station, the virtues which ennobled the duties of private life, is yet to be found in their best comedies. Among the many thousands who crowd to their numerous theatres, there are many, one would hope, who can feel the sad contrast which the last century of French history, "fertile only in crime," presents to the honour of former times, and in whom may be reviving that lofty and generous spirit which may yet redeem the character they have lost.

It seems not a little singular, that this taste in comedy should have survived all the disorders of the revolution, and remained unchanged amid the general diffusion of military habits and manners. This may be partly explained by the circumstance, that the judges by whom theatrical exhibitions are mainly regulated, are stationary at Paris, while the men, whose actions have stamped the French character of the present day, have been dispersed over the world. But it must certainly be admitted, that the taste of the French has not undergone an alteration corresponding with that which is so obvious in their manners; and has not degenerated to the degree that might have been expected, from the diffusion of revolutionary ideas and licentious habits. The Theatre Francais affords perhaps the best specimen that now remains of the style of conversation, and manners, and costume, of the old school of French politeness.

For the representation of pieces bearing the general character which we have described, the French are certainly better fitted than any other people,—their native gaiety and sprightliness of disposition,—the polish which their manners so readily acquire,—their irrepressible confidence and self-conceit,—their love of shewing off, and attracting attention, give really a stage effect to many of their serious actions, and to almost all their trifling conversation and amusements. Hence, a stranger is particularly struck with the uniform excellence of the comic acting on the French stage; all the inferior parts ate sustained with spirit, and originality, and discriminating judgment; all the actors are at their ease, and a regular genteel comedy is as well acted throughout, as a farce is on the London stage.

The greatest comic actor at the Theatre Francais is Fleury. He is an actor completely fitted for the French style of comedy. He gives you the idea of a perfect gentleman, with much wit and liveliness, and consummate confidence and self-possession; who delivers himself with inimitable archness and pleasantry, but without the least exaggeration or buffoonery; who has too high an opinion of himself and his powers, to descend to broad jokes or allusions belonging to the lower kinds of humour. Those who have an accurate recollection of the admirable acting of Irish Johnstone, in the characters of Major O'Flaherty, or Sir Lucius O'Trigger, will have a better conception, than any description of ours can convey, of the style of acting in which Fleury so eminently excels.

Whatever may be thought of the other performers, none can see without pleasure the performances of that celebrated actress, who has so long been the ornament of the national theatre, and to whom the support of their comedy has been so long entrusted. During the greatest period of the revolution, Mademoiselle Mars has been the favourite and the delight of the people of Paris, and there is perhaps no feeling among them stronger, or more national, than the pride which they take in her incomparable acting; all the grace, and elegance, and genuine feeling which she so beautifully displays, they consider as belonging to her only because she is a French woman; and nothing would ever convince them that, had she been born in any other country, it would have been possible that she should possess half the perfections which they now admire in her.

Mademoiselle Mars is probably as perfect an actress in comedy as any that ever appeared on any stage. She has united every advantage of countenance, and voice, and figure, which it is possible to conceive, and no one can ever have witnessed her incomparable acting, without feeling that the imagination can suggest nothing more completely lovely—more graceful, or more natural and touching than her representation of character. Mademoiselle Mars has been most exquisitely beautiful; and though the period is past when that beauty had all the brilliancy and freshness of youth, time appears hardly to have dared to lay his chilling hand on that lovely countenance, and she still acts characters which require all the naivete, and gaiety, and tenderness of youthful feeling, with every appearance of the spring of human life. It is remarked by Cibber, that a woman has hardly time to become a perfect actress, during the continuance of her personal attractions. If there ever was an exception to this remark, Mademoiselle Mars is one. She was an admired actress, we were assured, before the revolution; yet she has still, at least on the stage, a light elegant figure, and a countenance of youthful animation and beauty, while long experience has given that polish and perfection to her acting, which can be derived from no other source.

It were in vain to attempt describing the innumerable excellencies which render her acting so perfectly enchanting;—the admirable manner in which the French comedies are performed is so particular to the stage of that country, that it would be quite fruitless to attempt to describe a style of acting unknown to the people of Britain; and of that style Mademoiselle Mars is the model. Every thing that can result from the truest elegance and gracefulness of manners—from the most genuine and lively abandon of feeling,—from the most winning sweetness of expression, and the greatest imaginable gaiety and benevolence, displayed in one of the most beautiful women ever seen, and endowed with the most delightful and melodious voice, is united in Mademoiselle Mars; and all words were in vain, which would pretend to describe the bright and glittering vision which captivates the imagination. It is impossible to conceive any thing more perfect as a specimen of art, or more beautiful as an imitation of nature, than her representation of the kind of heroine most commonly to be found in a French comedy; lively and playful, yet elegant and graceful; entering with ardour into amusements, yet capable of deep feeling and serious reflection: fond of admiration and flattery, yet innocent and modest; full of petty artifice and coquetry, yet natural and unaffected in affairs of importance; capricious and giddy in appearance, but warm-hearted and affectionate in reality. It is a character to which there is a kind of approximation among many French women; and if it were as well supported by them in real life, as by her on the stage, it would be difficult even for French vanity to describe the fascination of their manner, in terms of admiration which would not command general assent. There is much variety, it must be added, in her powers. On one occasion, we saw her act Henriette in Les Femmes Savantes of Moliere, and Catau La Partie de Chasse de Henri IV, anL it was difficult to say whether most to admire the wit, and elegance, and police raillery of the woman of fashion, or the innocent gaiety, and interesting naivete of the simple peasant girl.

There is no actress at present on the English stage of equal eminence in a similar line of parts. The exhibition which can best convey to an English reader some slight notion of her enchanting acting, is the manner in which Miss O'Neil performs the scene in Juliet with the old nurse; because it is probably exactly the manner in which Mademoiselle Mars would perform that scene, but cannot afford any conception of her excellence in scenes of higher interest and greater feeling. Mrs Jordan may have equalled her in gaiety, and probably excelled her in humorous expression, but we suspect she must always have been deficient in elegance and refinement. The actress who, we think, comes nearest to her in genteel comedy, is Mrs Henry Siddons, in her beautiful representation of such parts as Beatrice or Viola; but she has not the same appearance of natural light-hearted buoyancy and playfulness of disposition; you see occasional transient indications of a serious thoughtful turn of mind, which assumes gaiety and cheerfulness, rather than passes naturally into it; which you admire, because it places the actress in a more amiable light, but which takes off from the fidelity and perfection of her art.

Wherever Mademoiselle Mars has acted, in every part of France, the enthusiasm which she inspires, and the astonishing interest which they take in her acting, is such as could be felt only in France. We were fortunately in Lyons when she came there, on leaving Paris during the course of last summer; and during the few days we were there, nothing appeared to be thought of but the merits of this unrivalled actress. The interest which the recent visit of Madame had created, was altogether lost in the delight which the performance of Mademoiselle Mars had occasioned: She was crowned publicly in the theatre with a garland of flowers, and a fete was celebrated in honour of her by the public bodies and authorities of the town.

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Corresponding to the Opera House in London, there are three theatres in Paris; the Odeon, the Opera Comique, and the Academie de Musique. At the first of these there is an immense company of musicians, of all kinds; and Italian Operas are admirably performed. It is the handsomest, and perhaps the most genteelly attended of any of the Parisian theatres. The music here, as well as the musicians, are all Italian; and there can certainly be no comparison between it and the French, which is generally feeble and insipid in pathetic expression, and extravagant and bombastic in all attempts at grandeur. The first singer at the Odeon was Madame Sessi, who has since been in London; but Madame Morelli, with a voice somewhat inferior in power, appeared to us a more elegant actress. The performance of Girard on the flute was wonderful, and met with extravagant applause, but it was somewhat too laboured and artificial for our untutored ears:

The Opera Comique is confined almost exclusively to the sort of entertainment which the name expresses: the scenes are generally laid in the country, and the characters introduced are of the lower orders: the pieces commonly represented belong to the same class, therefore, as the English operas, Love in a Village, Rosina, &c. but the dialogue is in general more animated, less vulgar in the lower parts, and less sentimental in the higher. The number of performers at this theatre is not very great; but there are some good singers and dancers, and the acting is almost uniformly excellent. Indeed, the French character is peculiarly well fitted for assuming the gay and lively tone that pervades their opera buffa, which may be characterised as amusing and interesting in general, rather than comic; as full of spirit and vivacity, rather than of humour. Occasionally, however, characters and incidents of true humour are introduced; but these are in general considered as belonging to a lower species of amusement; and are to be found in higher perfection, we believe, in some of the inferior theatres, particularly the Theatre des Varietes.

The acting at the Opera Comique appeared to us deserving of the same encomiums with the comic acting at the Theatre Francais: every part is well supported, not with the elegance that characterises the latter theatre, but with perfect adaptation to the situation of the characters. A Mademoiselle Regnaud, of this theatre, acts with admirable liveliness and spirit. Her quarrel and reconciliation with her lover, in "Le Nouveau Seigneur du Village," appeared to us a chef d'oeuvre of the light and pleasing style of acting, which suits the character of the French comic opera.

The Academie de Musique, (which is celebrated for dancers, not for musicians), is on a very different plan from the opera in London. The performers being in part supported by government, the prices of admission are made very low; and the company, particularly in the parterre, or pit, is therefore of a much lower class than in London, though perfect decorum is, as usual, uniformly observed. The performances at this theatre are, we think, decidedly superior to those in the London opera. This superiority consists partly in the pre-eminent merits of the first-rate dancers; but chiefly in the uniform excellence of the vast number of inferior performers, the beauty of the scenery, and the complete knowledge of stage effect, which is displayed in all the arrangements of the representations.

We believe there are not at present, on the London stage, any dancers of equal merit with Madame Gardel, or Mademoiselle Bigottini. The former of these is said to be 45 years of age, and has long been reckoned the best figurante on this stage. Her face is not handsome, but her figure is admirably formed for the display of her art, of which she is probably the most perfect mistress to be found in Europe. The latter, an Italian by birth, is much younger, and if she does not yet quite equal her rival in artificial accomplishments, she at least attracts more admirers by her youth and beauty; by the exquisite symmetry of her form, and the natural grace and elegance of her movements. The one of these is certainly the first dancer, and the other is perhaps the most beautiful woman in Paris.

But the same unfortunate peculiarity of taste which we formerly noticed in the painting and in the gardening of the French, extends to their opera dancing; indeed it may be said to be the worst feature of their general taste. They are too fond of the exhibition of art, and too regardless of the object, to which art should be made subservient. Dancing should never be considered as a mere display of agility and muscular power. It is then degraded to a level with Harlequin's tricks, wrestling, tumbling, or such other fashionable entertainments. The main object of the art unquestionably is, to display in full perfection the beauty and grace of the human form and movements. In so far as perfect command of the limbs is necessary, or may be made subservient to this object, it cannot be too much esteemed; but when you pass this limit, it not only ceases to be pleasing, but often becomes positively offensive. Many of the pirouettes, and other difficult movements, which are introduced into the pas seuls, pas de deux, &c. in which the great dancers display their whole powers, however wonderful as specimens of art, are certainly any thing but elegant or graceful. The applause in the French opera seemed to us to be in direct proportion to the difficulty, and to bear no relation whatever to the beauty of the performances. A Frenchman regards, with perfect indifference, dances which, to a stranger at least, appear performed with inimitable grace, because they are only common dances, admirably well executed; but when one of the male performers, after spinning about for a long time, with wonderful velocity, arrests himself suddenly, and stands immoveable on one foot; or when one of the females wheels round on the toes of one foot, holding her other limb nearly in a horizontal position—he breaks out into extravagant exclamations of astonishment and delight: "Quel a plomb! Ah diable! Sacre Dieu!" &c.

But although the principal dances at the Opera, and those on which the French chiefly pride themselves, are much injured, in point of beauty, by this artificial taste, the execution of the less laboured parts of these dances, and of nearly the whole of their common national dances, is quite free from this defect, and is, we should conceive, the most beautiful exhibition of the kind that is any where to be seen. It is only in a city where amusements of all kinds are sought for, not merely by way of relaxation, but as matters of serious interest and national concern, and where dancing, in particular, is an object of universal and passionate admiration, that such numbers of first-rate dancers can be found, as perform constantly at the Academie de Musique. The whole strength of the company there, which often appeared on the stage at the time we speak of, was certainly not less than 150; and there were hardly any of these whose performance was not highly pleasing, and did not present the appearance of animation and interest in the parts assigned them.

Many of the serious operas performed here are exceedingly beautiful; they are got up, not perhaps at more expense, nor with more magnificence, than the spectacles in London, but certainly with more taste and knowledge of stage effect. Tie scenery is beautifully painted, and is disposed upon the stage with more variety, and in such a manner as to form a more complete illusion, than on any other stage we have seen. The music and singing are certainly inferior to what is heard at the Odeon, but the acting, where it is not injured by the effect of the recitative, is very generally excellent; and the number and variety of dances introduced, afford opportunities of displaying all the attractions of this theatre.

The pantomimes are uniformly executed with inimitable grace and effect. We were particularly pleased with that called L'Enfant Prodigue, in which the powers and graces of Mademoiselle Bigottini are displayed to all possible advantage. One of the most splendid of the serious operas, is that entitled Le Caravansera de Cairo, the scenery of which was painted in Egypt, by one of the artists who accompanied Napoleon thither, and is beyond comparison the most highly finished and beautiful that we have ever seen, and gives an idea of the aspect of that country, which no other work of art could convey. Another opera, which attracted our attention, was called "Ossian, ou les Bardes." One of the scenes, where the heroes and heroines of departed times are seen seated on the clouds, displayed a degree of magnificence which made it a fit representation of "the dream of Ossian." Some of the Highland scenery in this opera was really like nature; and the dresses, particularly the cambric and vandyked kilts, bore some distant analogy to the real costume of the Highlanders; and although we could not gratify the Parisians who sat by us, by admitting the resemblance of the female figures, who skipped about the stage with single muslin petticoats, and pink and white kid slippers, to the "Montagnardes Ecossaises c'est a dire demi-sauvages," whom they were intended to represent, we at least flattered their vanity, by expressing our wish that the latter had resembled the former.

But the most beautiful of all the exhibitions at the Academie de Musique, are the ballets which represent pastoral scenes and rural fetes, such as Colinette a la Cour, L'Epreuve Villageoise, &c. It is singular, that in a city, the inhabitants of which have so entire a contempt for rural enjoyments, pieces of this kind should form so favourite a theatrical entertainment; but it must be confessed, that such scenes as form the subject of these ballets, occur but seldom in the course of a country life, and never in the degree of perfection in which they are represented in Paris. The union of rustic simplicity and innocence, with the polish and refinement which are acquired by intercourse with the world, may be conceived by the help of these exhibitions, but can hardly be witnessed in real life. The illusion, however, when such scenes are exhibited, is exceedingly pleasing; and no where certainly is this illusion so perfect as in the Academie de Musique, where the charming scenery, the enlivening music, the number and variety of characters, which are supported with life and spirit, the beauty of the female performers, and the graceful movements, and lively animated air of all;—if they do not recall to the spectator any thing which he has really witnessed, seem to transport him into the more delightful regions in which his fancy has occasionally wandered, and to realize for a moment to him, those fairy scenes to which his youthful imagination had been familiarized, by the beautiful fictions of poetry or romance.

* * *

The Parisian theatres are at all times sources of much amusement and delight; but at the time of which we speak, they were doubly interesting, as affording opportunities of seeing the most distinguished characters of this eventful age; and as furnishing occasional strong indications of the state of popular feeling in France. The interest of occurrences of this last kind is now gone by, and it is almost unnecessary for us to bear testimony to the strong party that uniformly manifested itself when any sentiment was uttered expressive of a wish for war, of admiration of martial achievements, and of indignation at foreign influence, or domestic perfidy, (under which head the conduct of Talleyrand and of Marmont was included); and more especially, when the success, and glory, and eternal, immutable, untarnished honour of France, were the theme of declamation. The applause at passages of this last description seemed sometimes ludicrous enough, when the theatres were guarded by Russian grenadiers, and nearly half filled with allied officers, loaded with honours which had been won in combating the French armies.

The majority of the audience, however, appeared always delighted at the change of government, and in the opera in particular, the first time that the King appeared, the expression of loyalty was long, reiterated, and enthusiastic, far beyond our most sanguine anticipations. It would have been absurd to judge of the real feelings of the majority of the Parisians, still more of the nation at large, from this scene; and it was certainly not to be wished, that a blind and devoted loyalty to one sovereign should take the place of infatuated attachment to another; yet it was impossible not to sympathize with the joy of people who had been agitated, during the best part of their lives, by political convulsions, or oppressed by military tyranny, but who fancied themselves at length relieved from both; and who connected the hope of spending the remainder of their days in tranquillity and peace, with the recollections which they had received from their fathers, of the happiness and prosperity of their country under the long line of its ancient kings. It was impossible to hear the national air of "Vive Henri Quatre," and the enthusiastic acclamations which accompanied it, without entering for the moment into the feeling of unhesitating attachment, and unqualified loyalty, which has so long prevailed in most countries of the world, but which the citizens of a free country should indulge only when it has been deserved by long experience and tried virtue.

It was with different, but not less interesting feelings, that we listened to the same tune from the splendid bands of the Russian and Prussian guards, as they passed along the Boulevards; on their return to their own countries; It was a grand and moving spectacle of political virtue, to see the armies which had been arrayed against France, striving to do honour to the government which she had assumed:—instead of breathing curses, or committing outrages on the great and guilty city, which had provoked all their vengeance, to see them march out of the gates of Paris with the regularity of the strictest military discipline, to the sound of the grand national air, which spoke "peace to her walls, and prosperity to her palaces,"—leaving, as it were, a blessing on the capital which they had conquered and forgiven: It was a scene that left an impression on the mind worthy of the troops who had bravely and successfully opposed the domineering power of France,—who had struggled with it when it was strongest, and "ruled it when 'twas wildest," but who spared it when it was fallen;—who forgot their wrongs when it was in their power to revenge them;—who cast the laurels from their brows, as they passed before the rightful monarch of France, and honoured him as the representative of a great and gallant people, long beguiled by ambition, and abused by tyranny, but now acknowledging their errors, and professing moderation and repentance.



CHAPTER VIII.

PARIS—THE FRENCH ARMY AND IMPERIAL GOVERNMENT.

IT is certainly a mistake to suppose, that the military power of France was first created by Napoleon, or that military habits were actually forced on the people, with the view of aiding his ambitious projects. The French have a restless, aspiring, enterprising spirit, not accompanied, as in England, by a feeling of individual importance, and a desire of individual independence, but modified by habits of submission to arbitrary power, and fitted, by the influence of despotic government, for the subordination of military discipline. Add to this, the encouragement which was held out by the rapid promotion of soldiers during the wars of the revolution, when the highest military offices were not only open to the attainment, but were generally appropriated to the claims of men who rose from the ranks; and the general dissemination, at that period, of an unbounded desire for violence and rapine: And it will probably be allowed, that the spirit of the French nation, at the time when he came to the head of it, was truly and almost exclusively military. He was himself a great soldier; he rose to the supreme government of a great military people, and he availed himself of their habits and principles to gratify his ambition, and extend his fame; but he ought not to be charged with having created the spirit, which in fact created him; a spirit so powerful, and so extensively diffused, that in comparison with it, even his efforts might be said to be "dashing with his oar to hasten the cataract;" to be "waving with his fan to give speed to the wind." The favourite saying of Napoleon, "Every Frenchman is a soldier, and as such, at the disposal of the Emperor," expresses a principle which was not merely enforced by arbitrary power, but engrafted on the character and habits of the French people.

The French are certainly admirably fitted for becoming soldiers: they have a restless activity, which surmounts difficulties, a buoyancy and elasticity of disposition, which rises superior to hardships, and calamities, and privations, not with patient fortitude, but with ease and cheerfulness. A Frenchman does not regard war, merely as the serious struggle in which his patriotism and valour are to be tried; he loves it for its own sake, for the interest and agitation it gives to his mind; it is his "game,—his gain,—his glory,—his delight." Other nations of Europe have become military, in consequence of threats or injuries, of the dread of hostile invasion, of the presence of foreign armies, or the galling influence of foreign power; but if the origin of the French military spirit may be traced to similar sources, it must at least be allowed, that the effect has been out of all proportion to the cause.

It is probable, however, that the effervescence of military ideas and feelings, which arose out of the revolution, would have gradually subsided, had it not been for the fostering influence of the imperial government. The turbulent and irregular energies of a great people let loose from former bonds, received a fixed direction, and were devoted to views of military ascendancy and national aggrandizement under Napoleon. The continued gratification of the French vanity, by the fame of victories and the conquest of nations, completed the effect on the manner and habits of the people, which the events of the revolution had begun. Napoleon well knew, that in flattering this ruling propensity, he took the whole French nation on their weak side, and he had some reason for saying, that their thirst for martial glory and political influence ought to be a sufficient apology to them for all the wars into which he plunged them.

It is impossible to spend even a few days in France without seeing strong indications of the prevailing love of military occupations, and admiration of military merit. The common peasants in the fields shew, by their conversation, that they are deeply interested in the glory of the French arms, and competent to discuss the manner in which they are conducted. In the parts of the country which had been the seat of war, we found them always able to give a good general description of the military events that had taken place; and when due allowance was made for their invariable exaggeration of the number of the allied troops, and concealment of that of the French, these accounts, as far as we could judge by comparing them with the official details, and with the information of officers who had borne a part in the campaign, were tolerably correct. The fluency with which they talked of military operations, of occupying positions, cutting off retreats, defiling over bridges, debouching from woods, advancing and retreating, marching and bivouacking, shewed the habitual current of their thoughts; and they were always more willing to enter on the details of such operations, than to enumerate their own losses, or dwell on their individual sufferings.

A similar eagerness to enter into conversation on military subjects, was observable in almost all Frenchmen of the lower orders, with whom we had any dealings. Our landlord at Paris, a quiet sickly man, who had no connection with the army, and who had little to say for himself on most subjects, displayed a marvellous fluency on military tactics; and seemed to think that no time was lost which was employed in haranguing to us on the glory and honour of the French army, and impressing on our minds its superiority to the allies.

Indeed, the whole French nation certainly take a pride in the deeds of their brethren in arms, which absorbs almost all other feelings; and which is the more singular, as it does not appear to us to be connected with strong or general affection or gratitude for any particular individual. It was not the fame of any one General but the general honour of the French arms, about which they seemed anxious. We never met with a Frenchman, of any rank, or of any political persuasion, who considered the French army as fairly overcome in the campaign of 1814; and the shifts and contrivances by which they explained all the events of the campaign, without having recourse to that supposition, were wonderfully ingenious. The best informed Frenchmen whom we met in Paris, even those who did not join in the popular cry of treason and corruption against Marmont, regarded the terms granted by Alexander to their city, as a measure of policy rather than of magnanimity. They uniformly maintained, that the possession of the heights of Belleville and Montmartre did not secure the command of Paris: that if Marmont had chosen, he might have defended the town after he had lost these positions; and that, if the Russians had attempted to take the town by force, they might have succeeded, but would have lost half their army. Indeed, so confidently were these propositions maintained by all the best informed Frenchmen, civil or military, royalist of imperialist, whom we met, that we were at a loss whether to give credit to the statement uniformly given us by the allied officers, that the town was completely commanded by those heights, and might have been burnt and destroyed, without farther risk on the part of the assailants, after they were occupied. The English officers, with whom we had an opportunity of conversing on this subject, seemed divided in opinion regarding it; and we should have hesitated to which party to yield our belief, had not the conduct of Napoleon and his officers in the campaign of the present year, the extraordinary precautions which they took to prevent access to the positions in question, by laying the adjacent country under water, and fortifying the heights themselves, clearly shewn the importance, in a military point of view, which is really attached to them.

The credulity of the French, in matters connected with the operations of their armies, often astonished us. It appeared to arise, partly from the scarcity of information in the country; from their having no means of confirming, correcting, or disproving the exaggerated and garbled statements which were laid before them; and partly from their national vanity, which disposed them to yield a very easy assent to every thing that exalted their national character. In no other country, we should conceive, would such extravagant and manifestly exaggerated statements be swallowed, as the French soldiers are continually in the habit of dispersing among their countrymen. From the style of the conversation which we were accustomed to hear at caffes and tables d'hote, we should conceive, that the French bulletins, which appeared to us such models of gasconade, were admirably well fitted, not merely to please the taste, but even to regulate the belief, or at least the professions of belief, of the majority of French politicians, with regard to the events they commemorate.

The general interest of a nation in the deeds and honours of its army, is the best possible security for its general conduct; and it must be admitted, that in those qualities which are chiefly valued by the French nation, the French army was never surpassed; while it is equally obvious, that both the army and the people have at present little regard for some of the finest virtues which can adorn the character of soldiers.

The grand characteristic of the French army, on which both the soldiers and the people pride themselves, is what was long ago ably pointed out by the author of the "Caractere des Armees Europeennes Actuelles"—the individual intelligence and activity of the soldiers. They were taken at that early age, when the influence of previous habit is small, and when the character is easily moulded into any form that is wished; they were accustomed to pride themselves on no qualities, but those which are serviceable against their enemies, and they had before them the most animating prospect of rewards and promotion, if their conduct was distinguished. Under these circumstances, the native vigour, and activity, and acuteness of their minds, took the very direction which was likely, not merely to make them good soldiers, but to fit them for becoming great officers; and this ultimate destination of his experience, and ability, and valour, has a very manifest effect on the mind of the French soldier. We hardly ever spoke to one of them, of any rank, about any of the battles in which he had been engaged, without observing, that he had in his head a general plan of the action, which he always delivered to us with perfect fluency, in the technical language of war, and with quite as much exaggeration as was necessary for his purpose. What he wanted in correct information, he would assuredly make up with lies, but he would seldom fail to give a general consistent idea of the affair; and it was obvious, that the manoeuvres of the armies, and the conduct of the generals, on both sides, had occupied as much of his consideration and reflection, as his own individual dangers and adventures.

When we afterwards entered into conversation with some English private soldiers, at Brussels and Antwerp, concerning the actions they had seen, we perceived a very marked difference. They were very ready to enter into details concerning all that they had themselves witnessed, and very anxious to be perfectly correct in their statements; but they did not appear ever to have troubled their heads about the general plan of the actions. They had abundance of technical phrases concerning their own departments of the service; but very few words relative to the manoeuvring of large bodies of men. Their rule seemed to be, to do their own duty, and let their officers do theirs; the principle of the division of labour seemed to prevail in military, as well as in civil affairs, much more extensively in England than in France.

The soldiers of the French imperial guard, in particular, are remarkably intelligent, and in general very communicative. We entered into conversation with some of these men at La Fere, and from one of them, who had been in the great battle at Laon, we had fully as distinct an account of that action as we are able to collect, the next day, from several officers who accompanied us from St Quentin to Cambray, and who had likewise been engaged in it. When we asked him the numbers of the two armies on that day, he replied without the least hesitation, that the allied army was 100,000 and the French 30,000.—Another of these men had been at Salamanca, and after we had granted his fundamental assumption, that the English army there was 120,000 strong, and the French 40,000, he proceeded to give us a very good account of the battle.

These men, as well as almost all the French officers and soldiers with whom we had opportunities at different times of conversing, gave their opinions of the allied armies without any reserve, and with considerable discrimination. Of the Russians and Prussians they said, "Ils savent bien faire la guerre; ils sont de bons soldats;" but of the common soldiers of these services in particular, they said, "Ils sont tres forts, et durs comme l'ame du diable—mais ils sont des veritables betes; ils n'ont point d'intelligence. La puissance de l'armee Francaise," they added, with an air of true French gasconade, "est dans l'intelligence des soldats."—Of the Austrians, they said, "Ils brillent dans leur cavalerie, mais pour leur infanterie, elle ne vaut rien."

From these soldiers we could extract no more particular character of the English troops, than "Ils se battent bien," But it is doing no more than justice to the French officers, even such as were decidedly imperialist, who conversed with us at Paris, and in different parts of the country, to acknowledge that they uniformly spoke in the highest terms of the conduct of the English troops. The expression which they very commonly used, in speaking of the manner in which the English carried on the war in Spain, and in France, was, "loyaute." "Les Russes, et les Prussiens," they said, "sont des grands et beauxhommes, mais ils n'ont pas le coeur ou la loyaute des Anglais. Les Anglais sont la nation du monde qui font la guerre avec le plus de loyaute," &c. This referred partly to their valour in the field, and partly to their humane treatment of prisoners and wounded; and partly also to their honourable conduct in France, where they preserved the strictest discipline, and paid for every thing they took. Of the behaviour of the English army in France, they always spoke as excellent:—"digne de leur civilization."

A French officer who introduced himself to us one night in a box at the opera, expressing his high respect for the English, against whom, he said, he had the honour to fight for six years in Spain, described the steadiness and determination of the English infantry in attacking the heights on which the French army was posted at Salamanca, in terms of enthusiastic admiration. Another who had been in the battle of Toulouse, extolled the conduct of the Highland regiments in words highly expressive of

"The stern joy which warriors feel, In foemen worthy of their steel."

"Il y a quelques regimens des Ecossais sans culottes," said he, "dans l'armee de Wellington, qui se battent joliment." He then described the conduct of one regiment in particular, (probably the 42d or 79th), who attacked a redoubt defended with cannon, and marched up to it in perfect order; never taking the muskets from their shoulders, till they were on the parapet: "Si tranquillement,—sacre Dieu! c'etoit superbe."

Of the military talents of the Duke of Wellington they spoke also with much respect, though generally with strong indications of jealousy. They were often very ingenious in devising means of explaining his victories, without compromising, as they called it, the honour of the French arms. At Salamanca, they said, that in consequence of the wounds of Marmont and other generals, their army was two hours without a commander. At Vittoria again, it was commanded by Jourdan, and any body could beat Jourdan. At Talavera, he committed "les plus grandes sottises du monde; il a fait une contre-marche digne d'un bete." Some of the Duke of Wellington's victories over Soult they stoutly denied, and others they ascribed to great superiority of numbers, and to the large drafts of Soult's best troops for the purpose of forming skeleton battalions, to receive the conscripts of 1813.

The French pride themselves greatly on the honour of their soldiers, and in this quality they uniformly maintain that they are unrivalled, at least on the continent of Europe. To this it is easy to reply, that, according to the common notions of honour, it has been violated more frequently and more completely by the French army than by any other. But this is in fact eluding the observation rather than refuting it. The truth appears to be, that the French soldiers have a stronger sense of honour than those of almost any other service; but that the officers, having risen from the ranks, have brought with them to the most exalted stations, no more refined or liberal sentiments than those by which the private soldiers are very frequently actuated; and have, on the contrary, acquired habits of duplicity and intrigue, from which their brethren in inferior situations are exempt.

When we say of the French soldiers that they have a strong sense of honour, we mean merely to express, that they will encounter dangers, and hardships, and privations, and calamities of every kind, with wonderful fortitude, and even cheerfulness, from no other motive than an esprit du corps—a regard for the character of the French arms. Without provocation from their enemies, without the prospect of plunder, without the hope of victory, without the conviction of the interest of their country in their deeds, without even the consolation of expecting care or attention in case of wounds or sickness,—they will not hesitate to lavish their blood, and sacrifice their lives, for the glory of France. Other troops go through similar scenes of suffering and danger with equal fortitude, when under the influence of strong passions, when fired by revenge, or animated by the hope of plunder, or cheered by the acclamations of victory; but with the single exception of the British army, we doubt whether there are any to whom the mere spirit of military honour is of itself so strong a stimulus.

We have already noticed the state of the French sick and wounded, left in the hospitals at Wilna during the retreat from Russia; a state so deplorable, as to have excited the strongest commiseration among their indignant enemies. This, however, was but a single instance of the system almost uniformly acted on, we have understood, by the French medical staff in Russia, Germany, and Spain, of deserting their hospitals on the approach of the enemy, so as to leave to him, if he did not chuse to see the whole of the patients perish before his eyes, the burden of maintaining them. The miseries which this system must have occasioned, in the campaign of 1813 in particular, require no illustration.

Another regulation of the French army, during the campaign of that year, will shew the utter carelessness of its leaders, in regard to the lives or comforts of the soldiers. When the men who were incapacitated for service by wounds or disease, were sent back to France, they were directed, in the first instance, to Mentz, where their uniforms, and any money they might have about them, were regularly taken from them, and given to the young conscripts who were passing through to join the armies; they were then dressed in miserable old rags, which were collected in the adjacent provinces by Jews employed for that purpose, and in this state they were sent to beg their way to their homes. Such, as we were assured by some of our countrymen, who saw many of these men passing through Verdun, was the reward of thousands of the "grande nation" who had lost their limbs or their health in vainly endeavouring to maintain the glory and influence of their country in foreign states. In the campaign of 1814, which was carried on during the continuance of a frost of almost unprecedented intensity, and in so rapid and variable a manner, and with so large bodies of troops, as to prevent the establishment of regular hospitals or of any thing like a regular Commissariat, the French troops, particularly the young conscripts and national guards, suffered dreadfully; and numbers of them who escaped the swords of their enemies, perished miserably or were disabled for life, in consequence of hardships, and fatigues, and privations.

All these examples were known to the French soldiers—they took place daily before their eyes, and, in the last instance, the allies took pains to let them know, that the only obstacle to honourable peace was the obstinacy of their commander; yet their ardour continued unabated; the young soldiers displayed a degree of valour in every action of both campaigns, which drew forth the warm applause even of their enemies; and it is not to be doubted, that the troops whom Napoleon collected at Fontainbleau, at the end of the campaign in France, were enthusiastically bent on carrying into effect the frantic resolution of attacking Paris, then occupied by a triple force of the allies, from which his officers with difficulty dissuaded him.

In like manner, there is probably no general but Napoleon, who would not have attempted to terminate the miseries of the army during the retreat from Moscow, by entering into negotiation with the Russians; nor is there any army but the French which would have tamely consented to be entirely sacrificed to the obstinacy of an individual. But to have concluded a convention with the Russians would have been compromising the honour of the French arms; and this little form of words seemed to strike more terror to the hearts of the French soldiers, than either the swords of the Russians, or the dreary wastes and wintry storms of Russia, which might have been apostrophised in the words of the poet,

"Alas! even your unhallowed breath May spare the victim fallen low, But man will ask no truce to death, No bounds to human woe."

"He saw, without emotion, (says Labaume), the miserable remains of an army, lately so powerful, defile before him; yet his presence never excited a murmur; on the contrary, it animated even the most timid, who were always tranquil when in presence of the emperor." At the present moment, from all the accounts that we have received, as well as from our own observations of those French soldiers whom we have ourselves seen after their return from Moscow, the sentiments of the survivors of that expedition with regard to Napoleon remained unchanged; and no person who has read any of the narratives of the campaign can ascribe their constancy to any other cause, than that feeling of attachment to the glory of their country, to which the French, however improperly, give the name of military honour.

If the character of the French soldiers is deserving of high admiration for their constancy and courage, it must be observed, on the other hand, that there is a mixture of selfishness in it, an utter disregard of the feelings, and indifference as to the sufferings, not merely of their enemies, or of the inhabitants of the countries which they traverse, but even of their best friends and companions, which forbids us to go farther in their praise. It is as unnecessary, as it would be painful, to enter on an enumeration of the instances of wanton cruelty, violence, and rapacity, which have sullied the fame of their most brilliant deeds in arms. It will be long before the French name will recover the disgrace which the remembrance of such scenes as Moscow, or Saragossa, or Tarragona, has attached to it, in every country of Europe; and it is impossible to have a more convincing proof of the tyrannical and oppressive conduct of the French armies in foreign states, than the universal enthusiasm with which Europe has risen against them,—the indignant and determined spirit with which all ranks of every country have united to rid themselves of an oppression, not less galling to their individual feelings, than degrading to their national character. But it is particularly worthy of remark, that the latest and most authentic writers in France itself, who have given any account of the French armies, have, noticed selfishness, and disregard of the feelings of their own comrades, as well as of all other persons, as one of the most prominent features of their character. We need only refer to Labaume's book on the expedition to Russia, to Miot's work on the Egyptian campaigns, or to Rocca's history of the war in Spain, for ample proofs of the correctness of this observation. Whether this peculiarity is to be ascribed chiefly to their national character, or to the nature of the services in which they have been engaged, it is not very easy to decide.

The dishonourable conduct of the French officers, particularly of the superior officers, in the present year, is much more easily explained than excused. They had risen from the ranks—they had been engaged all their lives in active and iniquitous services—they had been accustomed to look to success as the best criterion of merit, and to regard attachment to their leaders and their colours, as the only duties of soldiers;—they had never thought seriously on morality or religion—they had been applauded by their countrymen and fellow-soldiers, for actions in direct violation of both—and they had been taught to consider that applause as their highest honour and legitimate reward. Under these circumstances, it is easy to see, that they could have little information with regard to the true interests of France, and that they would regard the most sacred engagements as binding only in so far as general opinion would reprobate the violation of them; and when a strong party shewed itself, in the nation as well as the army, ready to support them and to extol their conduct in rising against the government, that their oaths would have no influence to restrain them. It is to be considered, likewise, that a large proportion of the officers had been originally republicans. They had been engaged in long and active military service, and been elated with military glory; in the multiplicity of their duties, and the intoxication of their success as soldiers, they had ceased to be citizens; but during the repose that succeeded the establishment of the Bourbons, when they again found themselves in the midst of their countrymen, their original political feelings and prejudices returned, embittered and exasperated by the influence of their military habits, and the remembrance of their military disgraces. We have ourselves conversed with several officers, who were strongly attached to Napoleon, but whose political views were decidedly republican; and have heard it stated, that the officers of artillery and engineers are supposed to be particularly democratic in their principles.

It is much easier to account for the conduct of the French army since the dethronement of Napoleon, than to point out any means by which that conduct could have been altered. It was stated to us at Paris, that the number of military officers to be provided for by government, was upwards of 60,000. These would certainly comprise a very large proportion of the talents and enterprise of the French nation. The number of them that can have been sincerely devoted to the Bourbons, or that can have been otherwise disposed of since that time, cannot be great; nor do we see by what means it will be possible to reconcile the majority of this very important class of men, to a government which has twice owed its elevation to the discomfiture and humiliation of the French arms.

It may be easily conceived, that in an army, the officers of which have, for the most part, risen from the ranks, the principles of strict military subordination cannot be enforced with the same punctilious rigour as in services where a marked distinction is constantly kept up between officers and soldiers. There is a more gradual transition from the highest to the lowest situations of the French army—a more complete amalgamation of the whole mass, than is consistent with the views of other governments in the maintenance of their standing armies.

It is true, that a change has taken place in the composition of the French army, in this respect, under the imperial government. A number of military schools were established and encouraged in different parts of the country, and a great number of young men were sent to these by their parents, under the understanding, that after being educated in them they should become officers at once, without passing through the inferior steps, to which they would otherwise have been devoted by the conscription. A great number of officers, therefore, have of late years been appointed from these schools to the army, who have never served in the ranks; but the manners and habits which they acquire at the schools are, we should conceive, very little superior to what they might have learnt from the private soldiers, who would otherwise have been their associates. A comparison of the appearance and manner of the pupils of the Ecole Militaire, with those of the young men at the English military colleges, would shew, as strongly as any other parallel that could be drawn, the difference in respectability and gentlemanlike feeling between the English and French officers.

There is so little of uniformity in dress, of regard to external appearance, or of shew of subordination, and inferiority to their officers, in the French soldiers, that a stranger would be apt to consider them as deficient in discipline. The fact is, that they know perfectly, from being continually engaged in active service, what are the essentials of military discipline, and that they are quite careless of all superfluous forms. Whatever regulations are necessary, in any particular circumstances, are strictly enforced; and the men submit to them, not from any principle of slavish subjection to their officers, but rather from deference to their superior intelligence and information, and from a regard to the good of the service.

The French army may, in fact, be said to have little of the feelings which are truly military. The officers have not the strong feeling of humanity, and the high and just sense of honour, not merely as members of the army, but as individuals; the soldiers have not the habit of implicit obedience and attachment to their peculiar duties; and the whole have not the lively sense of responsibility to their country, and dependence on their sovereign, which are probably essential to the existence of an army which shall not be dangerous, even to the state that maintains it. The French army submitted implicitly to Napoleon, because he was their general; but we should doubt if they ever considered themselves, even under his dominion, as the servants of France. They appear, at present, at least, to think themselves an independent body, who have a right to act according to their own judgment, and are accountable to nobody for their actions. In this idea of their own importance they were, of course, encouraged by Napoleon, who, on his return from Elba, spoke of the injuries done by the Bourbons to the army and people, and assigned the former the most honourable place in his Champ de Mai. And it will appear by no means surprising, that they should have acquired these sentiments, when we consider the importance which has been attached to their exploits by their countrymen, the encouragement to which they have been accustomed, the preference to all other classes of men which was shewn them by the late government, and the nature of the services in which they have been engaged, and for which they have been rewarded; circumstances fitted to assimilate them, in reality as well as appearance, rather to an immense band of freebooters, having no principle but union among themselves, and submission to their chiefs, than to an established and responsible standing army.

This observation applies to the feelings and principles of the soldiers taken as a body, not to their individual habits; for, excepting in the case of the detachment of the imperial guard, quartered at Fontainbleau, we never understood that the French soldiers in time of peace, at least among their own countrymen, were accused of outrage or rapine.

There is considerable variety in the personal appearance of the French soldiers. The infantry are generally little men, much inferior to the Russians and Prussians in size and weight; but as they are almost all young, they appear equally well fitted for bearing fatigues, and they have an activity in their gait and demeanour, which accords well with their general character. In travelling through the country, we could almost always tell a French soldier from one of the allies at a distance, by the spring of his step. They have another excellent quality, that of being easily fed. Nothing appeared to excite more astonishment or indignation in France, than the quantity of food consumed by the allied troops. We found at Paris, that the Russian convalescents, occupying the hospitals which had formerly been appropriated to French troops, actually eat three times the rations which the French had been allowed. Frenchmen of the middling and higher ranks appear to have generally very keen appetites, and often surprise Englishmen by the magnitude and variety of their meals; but the peasantry and lower orders are accustomed to much poorer fare than the corresponding classes, at least in the southern part of our island, and the ordinary diet of the French soldiers is inferior to that of the English. In garrison, they are never allowed animal food, at least when in their own country; and the better living to which they are accustomed in foreign countries, and on active service, is a stronger recommendation of war to these volatile and unreflecting spirits, than it might at first be thought.

The French cavalry are almost universally fine men, much superior to the infantry in appearance. The horses of the chasseurs a cheval, and hussars, are small, but active and hardy; and even those of the cuirassiers have not the weight or beauty of the English heavy dragoons, though we have understood that they bear the fatigues and privations, incident to long campaigns, much better.

The imperial guard was composed, like the Russian guard, of picked men, who had already served a certain length of time, and the pay being higher than of the regiments of the line, and great pains being uniformly taken to preserve them as much as possible, from the hardships and dangers to which the other troops were exposed, and to reserve them for great emergencies, it was at once an honour and a reward to belong to them. We saw a review of the elite of the imperial guard on the 8th of May 1814, in presence of the King of France; the regiments of cavalry, of which a great number passed, were very weak in numbers, but the men were uncommonly fine, and the horses strong and active. The finest regiment of infantry of the old guard, with some pieces of cannon, did not defile before the King, but passed out of the Cour de Carousel by a back way, on account, as we understood, of its having shewn strong symptoms of disgust on the entrance of the King into Paris. That regiment, as well as all the rest of the infantry of the old guard, then called the Grenadiers Francais, whom we had ever occasion to see, was composed of the finest men, not merely in point of strength, but of activity and apparent intelligence. The few pieces of artillery of the guard that we saw were in very bad condition, and their equipment particularly mean; but this branch of the service had not then had time to repair the losses it had sustained in the campaign.

The cavalry of the guard appeared to have been the most fashionable service under Napoleon. There were cuirassiers, heavy and light dragoons, chasseurs, hussars, grenadiers a cheval, and lancers of the guard, all of whom had different and splendid uniforms, and presented an uncommonly varied and magnificent appearance when reviewed together. Their magnificence and variety was evidently intended to gratify the taste of the French people for splendid shows, and to attract young men of fortune and expensive habits.

The imperial guard had much more of the air and manner, as well as dress, of regular soldiers, than any other part of the French army; indeed it is impossible to conceive a more martial or imposing figure than that of one of the old grenadiers, (commonly called the vieux moustaches,) in his striking and appropriate costume, armed with his musket and sword, the cross of the legion of honour on his breast, his rough and weather-beaten countenance bearing the impression of the sun of Italy and the snows of Russia, while his keen and restless eye shows, more expressively than words, that he is still "ready, aye ready, for the field."

We thought we could discern in the countenances of the troops of different nations, whom we saw reviewed about this time, the traces of the difference of national character. The general expression of the Russians, we thought, was that of stern obstinate determination; of the Prussians, warm enthusiastic gallantry; of the French, fierce and indignant impetuosity. This may have been fancy, but all who have seen the troops of these different nations, will allow a very striking difference of expression of countenance, as well as of features.