Blackwoods Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 59, No. 365, March, 1846

Now full of hopes, they loose the lengthing twine,Bait harmless hooks, and launch a leadless line!Their shadows on the stream, the sun behind —Egregious anglers! are the fishes blind?Gull'd by the sportings of the frisking bleak,That now assemble, now disperse, in freak;They see not deeper, where the quick-eyed trout,Has chang'd his route, and turned him quick about;See not those scudding shoals, that mend their pace,Of frighten'd bream, and silvery darting dace!Baffled at last, they quit the ungrateful shore,Curse what they fail to catch – and fish no more!Yet fish there be, though these unsporting wightsAffect to doubt what Rondolitier5 writes;Who tells, "how, moved by soft Cremona's string,Along these banks he saw the Allice spring;Whilst active hands, t' anticipate their fall,Spread wide their nets, and draw an ample haul."

Our sportsmen do not confine themselves to the gentle art of angling – they shoot also; and some of them even acquire a sort of celebrity for the precision of their aim. This class of sportsmen may be divided into the in, and the out-door marksmen. These, innocuous, and confining their operations principally to small birds in trees; those, to the knocking the heads off small plaster figures from a stand. The following brief notice of them we transcribe from our Vichy note-book: —

Those of bad blood, and mischievously gay,Haunt "tirs au pistolets," and kill – the day!There, where the rafters tell the frequent crack,To fire with steady hand, acquire the knack,From rifle barrels, twenty feet apart,On gypsum warriors exercise their art,Till ripe proficients, and with skill elate,Their aimless mischief turns to deadly hate.Perverted spirits; reckless, and unblest;Ye slaves to lust; ye duellists profess'd;Vainer than woman; more unclean than hogs;Your life the felon's; and your death the dog's!Fight on! while honour disavow your brawl,And outraged courage disapprove the call —Till, steep'd in guilt, the devil sees his time,And sudden death shall close a life of crime.

In front of some of the hotels you always observe a number of persons engaged successively in throwing a ring, with which each endeavours to encircle a knife handle, on a board, stuck all over with blades. If he succeeds, he may pocket the knife; if not he pays half a franc, and is free to throw again. It is amusing to observe how many half franc pieces a Frenchman's vanity will thus permit him to part with, before he gives over, consigning the ring to its owner, and the blades to his electrical anathema of "mille tonnerres!" A little farther on, just beyond the enclosure, is another knot of people. What are they about? They are congregated to see what passengers embark or disembark (their voyage accomplished) from the gay vessels, the whirligigs or merry-go-rounds (which is the classical expression, let purists decide for themselves) which, gaily painted as a Dutch humming-top, sail overhead, and go round with the rapidity of windmills.

In hopes to cheat their nation's fiend, "Ennui,"These cheat themselves, and seem to go to sea!Their galley launch'd, its rate of sailing fast,Th' Equator soon, and soon the Poles they've past,And here they come to anchorage at last!These, tightly stirrupt on a wooden horse,Ride at a ring – and spike it, as they course.Thus with the aid that ships and horses give,Life passes on; 'tis labour, but they live. —And some lead "bouledogues" to the water's edge,There hunt, à l'Anglais, rats amidst the sedge;And some to "pedicures" present – their corns,And some at open windows practise – horns!In noisy trictrac, or in quiet whist,These pass their time – and, to complete our list,There are who flirt with milliners or books,Or else with nature 'mid her meads and brooks.

But Gauthier's was our lounge, and therefore, in common gratitude, are we bound particularly to describe it. Had we been Dr Darwin we had done it better. As it is, the reader must content himself with Scuola di Darwin—

In Gauthier's shop, arranged in storied boxOf triple epoch, we survey the rocks,A learned nomenclature! Behold in timeStrange forms imprison'd, forms of every clime!The Sauras quaint, daguerrotyped on slate,Obsolete birds and mammoths out of date;Colossal bones, that, once before our flood,Were clothed in flesh, and warm'd with living blood;And tiny creatures, crumbling into dust,All mix'd and kneaded in one common crust!Here tempting shells exhibit mineral stores,Of crystals bright and scintillating ores!Of milky mesotypes, the various sorts,The blister'd silex and the smoke-stain'd quartz;Thy phosphates lead! bedeck'd with needles green,Of Elbas speculum the steely sheen,Of copper ores, the poison'd "greens" and "blues,"Dark Bismuth's cubes, and Chromium's changing hues.

Here, too, (emblematical of our own position with respect to Ireland,) we see silver alloyed with lead. In the "repeal of such union," where the silver has every thing to gain and the lead every thing to lose, it is remarkable at what a very dull heat ('tis scarcely superior to that by which O'Connell manages to inflame Ireland) the baser metal melts, and would forsake the other, by its incorporation with which it derives so large a portion of its intrinsic value, whatever that may be!

Here, too, we pass in frequent review a vast series of casts from the antique; they come from Clermont, and are produced by the dripping of water, strongly impregnated with the carbonate of lime, on moulds placed under it with this view. Some of these impressions were coarse and rusty, owing to the presence of iron in the water; but where the necessary precautions had been taken to precipitate this, the casts came out with a highly polished surface, together with a sharpness of outline and a precision of detail, that left no room for competition to Odellis, else unrivalled Roman casts, which, confronted with these, look like impressions of impressions derived through a hundred successive stages; add, too, that these have the solid advantage over the others of being in marble in place of washed sulphur.

Thus much concerning us and our pastimes, from which it will have appeared that the gentlemen at Vichy pass half the day in nothings, the other half in nothing. As to the ladies, who lead the same kind of out doors life with us, and only don't smoke or play billiards, we see and note as much of their occupations or listlessness as we list.

In unzoned robes, and loosest dishabille,They show the world they've nothing to conceal!But sit abstracted in their own George Sand,And dote on Vice in sentiment so bland!To necklaced Pug appropriate a chair,Or sit alone, knit, shepherdise, and stare!These seek for fashion in a mourning dress,(Becoming mourning makes affliction less.)With mincing manner, both of ton and town,Some lead their Brigand children up and down;Invite attention to small girls and boys,Dress'd up like dolls, a silly mother's toys;Or follow'd by their Bonne, in Norman cap,Affect to take their first-born to their lap —To gaze enraptured, think you, on a face,In which a husband's lineaments they trace?Smiling, to win the notice of their elf?No! but to draw the gaze of crowds on Self.

Sunday, which is always in France a jour de fête, and a jour de bal into the bargain, is kept at Vichy, and in its neighbourhood, with great apparent gaiety and enjoyment by the lower orders, who unite their several arrondissements, and congregate here together.

Comes Sunday, long'd for by each smart coquette,Of Randan, Moulins, Ganat, and Cusset.In Janus hats,6 with beaks that point both ways,Then lively rustics dance their gay Bourrées;7With painted sabots strike the noisy ground,While bagpipes squeal, and hurdy-gurdies sound.Till sinks the sun – then stop – the poor man's fêteBegins not early, and must end not late.Whilst Paris belle in costliest silk array'd,Runs up, and walks in stateliest parade;Each comely damsel insolently kens;(So silver pheasants strut 'midst modest hens!)And marvels much what men can find t' admire,In such coarse hoydens, clad in such attire!And now 'tis night; beneath the bright saloon,All eyes are raised to see the fire balloon,Till swells the silk 'midst acclamations loud,And the light lanthorn shoots above the crowd!Here, 'neath the lines, Hygeia's fount that shade,Smart booths allure the lounger on parade.Bohemia's glass, and Nevers' beaded wares,Millecour's fine lace, and Moulins' polish'd shears;And crates of painted wicker without flaw,And fine mesh'd products of Germania's straw,Books of dull trifling, misnamed "reading light,"And foxy maps, and prints in damaged plight,Whilst up and down to rattling castanettes,The active hawker sells his "oubliettes!"

We have our shows at Vichy, and many an itinerant tent incloses something worth giving half a franc to see; most of them we had already seen over and over again. What then? one can't invent new monsters every year, nor perform new feats; and so we pay our respects to the walrus woman, and to the "anatomie vivante." We look up to the Swiss giantess, and down upon the French dwarf; we inspect the feats of the village Milos, and of those equestrians, familiar to "every circus" at home and abroad, who

Ride four horses galloping; then stoop,Vault from their backs, and spring thro' narrow hoop;Once more alight upon their coursers' backs,Then follow, scampering round the oft trod tracks.And that far travell'd pig —that pig of parts,Whose eye aye glistens on that Queen of hearts;While wondering visitors the feat regard,And tell by looks that that's the very card!

Behold, too, another curiosity in natural history, well deserving of "notice" and of "note," which we append accordingly —

From Auvergne's heights, their mother lately slain,Six surly wolf cubs by their owner ta'en;Her own pups drown'd, a foster bitch supplies,And licks the churlish brood with fond maternal eyes!8

Finally, and to wind up —

Who dance on ropes, who rouged and roaring stand,Who cheat the eyes by wondrous sleight of hand,From whose wide mouth the ready riband falls,Who swallow swords, or urge the flying balls,Here with French poodles vie, and harness'd fleas,Nor strive in vain our easy tastes to please.Whilst rival pupils of the great Daguerre,In rival shops, display their rivals fair!Our first Table d'Hòte Dinner at Vichy

We arrived at Vichy from Roanne just in time to dress for dinner. As every body dines en table d'hôte., we were not wrong in supposing that this would be a good opportunity for studying the habits, "usages de société" and what not, of a tolerably large party (fifty was to be the number) of the better class of French propriètaires. On entering the room, we found the guests already assembled; and everybody in full talk already, before the bell had done ringing, or the tureens been uncovered. The habit of general sufferance and free communion of tongue amongst guests at dinner, forms an agreeable episode in the life of him whom education and English reserve have inured, without ever reconciling, to a different state of things at home. The difference of the English and French character peeps out amusingly at this critical time of the day; when, oh! commend us to a Frenchman's vanity, however grotesque it may sometimes be, rather than to our own reserve, shyness, formality, or under whatever other name we please to designate, and seek to hide its unamiable synonym, pride. Vanity, always a free, is not seldom an agreeable talker; but pride is ever laconic; while the few words he utters are generally so constrained and dull, that you would gladly absolve him altogether from so painful an effort as that of opening his mouth, or forcing it to articulate. Self-love may be a large ingredient in both pride and vanity; but the difference of comfort, according as you have to sit down with one or the other at table, is indeed great. For whilst pride sits stiff, guarded, and ungenial, radiating coldness around him, which requires at least a bottle of champagne and an arch coquette to disperse; vanity, on the other hand, being a female, (a sort of Mrs Pride,) has her conquests to make, and loves making them; and accordingly must study the ways and means of pleasing; which makes her an agreeable voisine at table. As she never doubts either her own powers to persuade, or yours to appreciate them, her language is at once self-complacent, and full of good-will to her neighbour; whilst the vanity of a Frenchman thus leads him to seek popularity, it seems enough to an Englishman that he is one entitled to justify himself, in his own eyes, for being as disagreeable as he pleases.

On the present occasion, not to have joined in a conversation which was general, at whatever disadvantage we might have to enter into it, would, we felt, have been to subject ourselves to remark after dinner; so putting off restraint, and putting on the best face we could, we began at once to address some remarks to our neighbours. We were not aware at the moment how far the Anglomania, which began to prevail some seven years ago in Paris, had spread since we left the French capital. There it began, we remember, with certain members of the medical profession, who had learned to give calomel in English doses. The public next lauded Warren's blacking —Cirage national de Warren– and then proceeded to eat raw crumpets as an English article of luncheon. But things had gone farther since that time than we were prepared to expect. At the table d'hôte of to-day, we found every body had something civil to say about English products; frequently for no other reason than that they were English, it being obvious that they themselves had never seen the articles, whose excellence they all durst swear for, though not a man of them knew wherefore. We had not sat five minutes at table (the stringy bouilli was still going round) when a count, a gentleman used to good breeding and feeding, opened upon us with a compliment which we knew neither how to disclaim nor to appropriate, in declaring in presence of the table that he was a decided partisan for English "Rosbiff;" confirming his perfect sincerity to us, by a "c'est vrai," on perceiving some slight demur to the announcement at mine host's end of the table. We had scarce time to recover from this unexpected sally of the count, when a young notabilité, a poet of the romantic school of France, whose face was very pale, who wore a Circassian profusion of black hair over his shoulders, a satin waistcoat over his breast, and Byron-tie (nœud Byron) round his neck – permitted his muse to say something flattering to us across the table about Shakspeare. Again we had not what to say, nor knew how to return thanks for our "immortal bard;" and this, our shyness, we had the mortification to see was put down to English coldness; for how could we else have seemed so insensible to a compliment so personal? nor were we relieved from our embarrassment till a dark-whiskered man, in sporting costume, (who had brought every thing appertaining thereto to table except his gun, which was in a corner,) gave out, in a somewhat oracular manner, his opinion, that there were no sporting dogs out of England; whistling, as he spoke to Foxe, and to Miss Dashe, to rise and show their noses above the table! The countess next spoke tenderly of English soap, and almost sighed over the soft whiteness of her hands, which she indulgently attributed to the constant use of soap prepared by "Mr Brown de Vindsor." This provoked a man of cultivated beard to declare, that he found it impossible to shave with any razors but English "ones;" concluding with this general remark on French and English manufactures, that the French invented things, but that the English improved them. (Les Français inventent, mais les Anglais perfectionnent.) Even English medicine found its advocates – here were we sitting in the midst of Dr Morison's patients! A lady, who had herself derived great advantage from their use, was desirous of knowing whether our Queen took them, or Prince Albert! It was also asked of us, whether Dr Morison (whom they supposed to be the court physician) was Sir Dr Morison, (Bart.,) or tout simplement doctor! and they spoke favourably of some other English inventions – as of Rogers' teeth, Rowland's macassar, &c.; and were continuing to do so, when a fierce-looking demagogue, seeing how things were going, and what concessions were being made, roused himself angrily; and, to show us that he at least was no Anglo-maniac, shot at us a look fierce as any bonassus; while he asked, abruptly, what we thought in England of one whom he styled the "Demosthenes of Ireland" – looked at us for an answer. As it would have been unsafe to have answered him in the downright, offhand manner, in which we like both to deal and to be dealt by, we professed that we knew but one Demosthenes, and he not an Irishman, but a Greek; which, by securing us his contempt, kept us safe from the danger of something worse; but, our Demosthenic friend excepted, it was a pleasant, unceremonious dinner; and we acquitted ourselves just sufficiently well not to make any one feel we were in the way. A lady now asked, in a whisper, whom we look upon as the first poet, Shakspeare, Dumas, or Lord Byron; and whether the two English poets were both dead. A reply from a more knowing friend saved our good breeding at this pinch. As a proof of our having made our own way amongst the guests at table, we may mention that one sallow gentleman, who had been surveying us once or twice already, at length invited us to tell him, across the table, what case is ours, and who our physician? To be thus obliged to confess our weak organ in public is not pleasant; but every body here does it, and what every body does must be right. A gentleman who speaks broken English favours the table with a conundrum. Another (the young poet) presents us with a brace of dramas, bearing the auspicious titles of "La Mort de Socrate," and "Catilina Romantique" —of which anon. But, before we rise from our dessert, here is the conundrum as it was proposed to us: – "What gentleman always follow what lady?" Do you give it up? Sur-Prise always follow Misse-Take!!

So much for our amusements at Vichy; but our Vichyana would be incomplete, unless we added a few words touching those far-famed sources for which, and not for its amusements, so many thousands flock hither every year. The following, then, may be considered as a brief and desultory selection of such remarks only as are likely to interest the general reader, from a body of notes of a more professional character, of which the destination is different: – Few springs have been so celebrated as those at Vichy, and no mineral waters, perhaps, have performed so many real "Hohenlohes," or better deserved the reputation they have earned and maintained, now for so many centuries! Gentle, indeed, is their surgery; they will penetrate to parts that no steel may reach, and do good, irrespective of persons, alike to Jew or Gentile; but then they should be "drunk on the premises" – exported to a distance (and they are exported every where) they are found to have lost – their chemical constitution remaining unchanged – a good deal of their efficacy. Little, however, can Hygeia have to do with chemistry; for the chemical analysis of all these springs is the same while the modus operandi of each, in particular, is so distinct, that if gout ails you, you must go to the "Grande grille;" if dyspepsia, to the "Hôpital;" or, if yours be a kidney case, to the "Celestius," to be cured – facts which should long ago have convinced the man of retorts and crucibles at home (who affirms that 'tis but taking soda after all), that he speaks beyond his warrant. Did ever lady patroness, desirous of filling her rooms on a route night, invite to that end so many as Hygeia invites to come and benefit by these springs? And what though she reserve the right of patent in their preparation to herself, does she not generously yield the products of her discovery in the restoration of health and comfort to thousands, whom neither nostrum nor prescription, the recipe nor the fiat, could restore? In cases, too, beyond her control, does she not mitigate many sufferings that may not be removed? To all that are galled with gall-stones, to those whom the Chameleon litmus paper of "coming events casts their shadows before;" to Indian livers condemned, else hopelessly, to the fate of Prometheus, preyed upon by that vulture Hepatitis, in its gnawing and chronic forms; and to the melancholy hypochondriac, steeped at once both in sadness and in pains – she calls, and calls loudly, that all these should come and see what great and good things are in store for them at Vichy. And finally, difficult though gouty gentlemen be to manage, Hygeia, nothing daunted on that score, shrinks not from inviting that large army of involuntary martyrs to repair thither at once. Yes! even gout, that has so long laughed out at all pharmacopoeias, and tortured us from the time "when our wine and our oil increased" – Gout, that colchicum would vainly attempt to baffle, that no nepenthe soothes, no opium can send to sleep – Gout, that makes as light of the medical practitioner as of his patient; that murdered Musgrave, and seized her very own historian by the hip9– this, our most formidable foe, is to be conquered at Vichy! Here, in a brief time, the iron gyves of Podagra are struck off, and Cheiragra's manacles are unbound; enabling old friends, who had hitherto shaken their heads in despondency, once more to shake hands.

But Vichy, be it understood, neither cures, nor undertakes to cure, every body; her waters have nothing to do with your head, your heart, or your lungs; their empire begins and ends below the diaphragm; it is here, and here alone, that her mild control quells dangerous internal commotions, establishes quiet in irritated organs, and restores health on the firm basis of constitutional principles. The real doctors at Vichy are the waters; and much is it to be regretted that they should not find that co-operation and assistance in those who administer them, which Hippocrates declares of such paramount importance in the management of all disease; for here (alas! for the inconsistency of man) the two physicians prescribed to us by the government, while they gravely tell their patients that no good can happen to such as will think, fret, or excite themselves, while they formally interdict all sour things at table, (shuddering at a cornichon if they detect one on the plate of a rebellious water-drinker, and denouncing honest fruiterers as poisoners,) yet foment sour discord, and keep their patients in perpetual hot water, alike in the bath and out of the bath; more tender in their regard for another generation, they recommend all nurses to undergo a slight course of the springs to keep their milk from turning sour, yet will curdle the milk of human kindness in our lacteals by instilling therein the sour asperity which they entertain towards each other, and which, notwithstanding the efforts of the ladies to keep peace between them, by christening one their "beau médecin," and the other their "bon médecin," has arrived at such a pitch that they refuse to speak French, or issue one "fiat" in common.10

A remarkable fact connected with the natural history of the Vichy waters is the following: – Whenever the electrical condition of the atmosphere undergoes a change, in consequence of the coming on of a storm, they disengage a large quantity of carbonic acid, while a current of electricity passes off from the surface. At such times baths are borne with difficulty, the patients complaining of præcordial distress, which amounts sometimes to a feeling of suffocation; the like unpleasant sensations being also communicated, though to a less extent, to those who are drinking the waters.11