stays--I mean, has no fortifications. On we run, however.
_Vogue la galere; et voila nous a Paris_, Hotel de Windsor [_Rue
Rivoli_], where we are well lodged. France, so far as I can see, which
is very little, has not undergone many changes. The image of war has,
indeed, passed away, and we no longer see troops crossing the country in
every direction; villages either ruined or hastily fortified;
inhabitants sheltered in the woods and caves to escape the rapacity of
the soldiers--all this has passed away. The inns are much amended. There
is no occasion for that rascally practice of making a bargain--or
_combien_-ing your landlady, before you unharness your horses, which
formerly was a matter of necessity. The general taste of the English
seems to regulate the travelling--naturally enough, as the hotels, of
which there are two or three in each town, chiefly subsist by them. We
did not see one French equipage on the road; the natives seem to travel
entirely in the Diligence, and doubtless _a bon marche_; the road was
thronged with English.

But in her great features France is the same as ever. An oppressive air
of solitude seems to hover over these rich and extended plains, while we
are sensible that, whatever is the motive of the desolation, it cannot
be sterility. The towns are small, and have a poor appearance, and more
frequently exhibit signs of decayed splendour than of thriving and
increasing prosperity. The chateau, the abode of the gentleman, and the
villa, the retreat of the thriving _negociant_, are rarely seen till you
come to Beaumont. At this place, which well deserves its name of the
fair mount, the prospect improves greatly, and country-seats are seen in
abundance; also woods, sometimes deep and extensive, at other times
scattered in groves and single trees. Amidst these the oak seldom or
never is found; England, lady of the ocean, seems to claim it
exclusively as her own. Neither are there any quantity of firs. Poplars
in abundance give a formal air to the landscape. The forests chiefly
consist of beeches, with some birches, and the roads are bordered by
elms cruelly cropped, pollarded, and switched. The demand for firewood
occasions these mutilations. If I could waft by a wish the thinnings of
Abbotsford here, it would make a little fortune of itself. But then to
switch and mutilate my trees!--not for a thousand francs. Ay, but sour
grapes, quoth the fox.

_October_ 30.--Finding ourselves snugly settled