Chalons sur Saone; rather a pretty town: there is a stone fountain here, with a statue of Neptune, well executed. We stopt at the hotel du Parc, a reasonable and tolerably well appointed inn, though by no means deserving of the pompous commendation bestowed upon it in the printed Tourist's Guide, where it is mentioned as being the best in France. Mr. W. suffered some annoyance from bugs, which I must ever consider as great drawbacks to comfort. We were attended at dinner by the first male waiter we had seen since leaving Paris, from which Chalons is about two hundred miles distant. The people in the town stared at and followed us about in rather a troublesome manner; I believe they were attracted by the white hats, and my travelling cap, so different from any of their own costumes.
People talk a great deal about the warmth of the South of France, but all I can say is, that as soon as we approached it, we ordered fires, while we had left our countrymen in frigid England fainting with heat! I may as well indulge myself in a few more desultory remarks while I am about it, particularly as our narrative just now is rather bare of incident. The first is, the great inferiority of the French cutlery to ours: all their knives are extremely coarse and bad; and with regard to the forks and spoons (both of which, to do them justice, are almost always of silver), they do not seem ever to have come in contact with a bit of whiting or a leather rubber since they were made! Plate-powder of course is an unknown invention here. How would our butlers at home (so scrupulously nice in the arrangement of their sideboard) have stared, could they have beheld these shabby appurtenances of a foreign dinner table! They are not less behind-hand also with respect to the locks of their doors, all of which are wretchedly finished, even in their best houses. Their carriages are generally ugly, shabby, badly built, and inelegant; and they have some domestic customs (existing even in the midst of the utmost splendor and refinement,) which are absolutely revolting to the imagination of an English person, and to which no person who knows what real cleanliness and comfort means, could ever be reconciled; but the French are, beyond all doubt, an innately filthy race, – with them l'apparence is all in all.
Leaving Chalons sur Saone, we observed large fields planted with Turkey wheat, called here Turquie; they mix it with other flour in their bread. There is nothing but barren stubble for a length of way, and we should have found the prospect excessively wearying and tiresome, had not a bold hill or two in the distance afforded a slight degree of relief. We saw a man sowing among the stubble, which they plough up after the seed is sown, thereby saving the labour of the harrow; the practice is not general, however.
About three miles from Tournus, we ascended a very steep hill, covered with underwood and vines, and were refreshed by the sight of a little pasture land. From the summit a surprisingly fine country burst upon us – the river Saone leading its tranquil waters through a rich plain, the town of Tournus with its bridge and spires, and the chain of Alpine mountains bounding the distant horizon, were altogether charming; the latter appeared like a continued ridge of gray clouds, Mont Blanc towering far above them all. We formed some idea of the magnitude of this hoary giant from the circumstance of our being able thus to see him at the distance of a hundred and fifty miles! He looked, however, like a thin white vapour, rising amid the lovely blue of the summer sky.
At Tournus, where we stopt to breakfast, the maîtresse de la maison was a very pretty woman, but I cannot praise her taste in china ware; the cups she set before us were of a most disgusting shape and material, and of enormous proportions; they resembled our coarse red flower-pots glazed, and it was with difficulty that I could prevail upon myself to taste the tea or coffee (I forget which) that they contained. The women in this neighbourhood wear a singular head-dress, a black beaver hat, of the size and form of a small soup plate, placed flat upon the crown of the head, with three long knots of broad black riband, hanging down, one behind, and one on each side the face. They have a little white cap, called la coquette, under this, with a coarse open lace border, standing stiff off the temples, something like that of Mary, Queen of Scots. This place is celebrated for its pretty women, and we remarked many ourselves. I took a hasty sketch of one as we changed horses. There is a great quantity of hemp grown here. The weather now began to be intensely hot; and we did not wonder at this, as we were in the same latitude as that of Verona and Venice. The former chill, which I mentioned upon first approaching the south of France, was quite an accidental circumstance, partly induced by our being at that time upon extremely high ground, whereas the temperature of the valleys is very different.
We saw the peasants making ropes by the side of the road; one man carried a distaff in his hand, much bigger than a large stable broom. I bought of a villageoise at Macon one of the little hats and caps before mentioned. She attempted to impose upon me as to the price; but I do not consider this at all as a national trait. I am afraid an English countrywoman would have been equally anxious to make the best bargain she could, fairly or otherwise! The cap was really very becoming, even to my British features. I saw in one of the cottages a loaf of their bread: it was extremely coarse, and as flat, round, and large as a table. There is a grand chain of mountains on the right, called the Charolais. We again observed cows ploughing in the fields: they had all a curious head-dress, a sort of veil or network, to preserve them from the flies, like the military bridles of our dragoon horses. Most of the cattle hereabouts (and we had seen quantities) were of a cream colour. The country is luxuriant, full of chateaux, fertile, and cultivated, more so than any we had yet observed, and it is allowed to be the finest part of France. Mr. W. examined the nature of the soil, and found it fat and rich in the highest degree. I must once more repeat my admiration of the frequent and great beauty of the young children in this country, more particularly in these parts. I saw several with cheeks like the sunny side of a peach; little, round, plump faces, and delicately chiselled features, with a profusion of luxuriant hair hanging in natural ringlets upon their shoulders: the mere babies also are very interesting. The parents throughout France are remarkable for love of offspring4.
About three or four miles from Macon you enter the department of the Maconnais, and afterwards that of the Jura (so called from the mountains of the same name), but formerly known by that of the Lyonnais. We saw at St. George de Rognains a most beautiful woman, a villageoise; her proportions were fine, and rather full; her face very much in the style of our well-known English belles, Lady O. and Mrs. L.; but she was not so large as either of them. She wore the usual costume of her native place, which was more peculiarly marked in the cap. It is extremely becoming, and pretty in itself. I know not how to describe it exactly; but it is flat upon the crown, with a good deal of coarse transparent lace, like wings, full every where but on the brow, across which it is laid low and plain, in the style of some antique pictures I remember to have seen. This superb woman's fine features set it off amazingly. She also wore a flowered cotton gown (of gay colours upon a dark ground), a crimson apron and bib, with a white handkerchief. What a charming portrait would Sir Thomas Lawrence have made of her, and how she would astonish the amateurs of beauty in England, were she suddenly to appear among them! I am thus particular in describing costume, to please the readers of my own sex. We met here some religieuses walking in the road, belonging to a convent in the distance. Their habit was not very remarkable, except that they wore black veils, with high peaks on the front of the head, and long rosaries by their sides.
Villefranche; a populous old town. It was market day; yet not one instance of intoxication did we see, neither here nor in any other part of France through which we had passed. Certainly drunkenness is not the vice of the nation, although they have a due admiration for strong beer, which is sold under the name of bonne bierre de Mars. There is a fine church here, of Gothic architecture.
We did