A Years Journey through France and Part of Spain | Page 8

bad weather, it must be this vast plain, which is
neither land or sea, though not very distant from the latter, and in all
probability was many ages since covered by the ocean.
The first town we came to after passing this vast plain, I have forgot the
name of; but it had nothing but its antiquity and a noble and immense
old castle to recommend it, except a transparent agate statue of the
Virgin in the church, as large as the life, with a tin crown upon her head.
Neither the town nor the inhabitants had any thing of the appearance of
French about them; every thing and every body looked so wild, and the
place was in such a ruinous condition, that I could scarce believe I was
not among the Arabs in Egypt, or the ruins of Persepolis. Without the
town, in a fine beautiful lawn stands a most irregular high and rude
rock, perpendicular on all sides, and under one side of it are ruins of a

house, which I suppose was inhabited by the first Seigneur in the
province. I looked in, and found the ruins full of miserable inhabitants,
I fancy many families; but it exhibited such a scene of woe, that I was
glad to get out again; and upon inquiry, I found it had been in that state
ever since it had been used as an hospital during the last plague.

LETTER XXXVIII.
MARSEILLES.
As the good and evil, which fall within the line of a road, as well as a
worldly traveller, are by comparison, I need not say what a heavenly
country France (with all its untoward circumstances) appeared to us
after having journeyed in _Spain_: what would have put me out of
temper before, became now a consolation. _How glad I should I have
been, and how perfectly content, had it been thus in Spain_, was always
uppermost, when things ran a little cross in France.
Travellers and strangers in France, in a long journey perhaps, have no
connection with any people, but such who have a design upon their
purse. At every Auberge some officious coxcomb lies in wait to
ensnare them, and under one pretence or other, introduces himself; he
will offer to shew you the town; if you accept it, you are saddled with
an impertinent visiter the whole time you stay; if you refuse it, he is
affronted; so let him; for no gentleman ever does that without an easy
or natural introduction; and then, if they are men of a certain age, their
acquaintance is agreeable and useful. An under-bred Frenchman is the
most offensive civil thing in the world: a well-bred Frenchman, quite
the reverse.--Having dined at the table of a person of fashion at Aix, a
pert priest, one the company, asked me many questions relative to the
customs and manners of the English nation; and among other things, I
explained to him the elegance in which the tables of people of the first
fashion were served; and told him, that when any one changed his dish,
that his plate, knife and fork, were changed also, and that they were as
perfectly bright and clean as the day they came from the silver-smith's
shop. After a little pause, and a significant sneer,--Pray Sir, (said he)

and do you not change your napkins also? I was piqued a little, and told
him we did not, but that indeed I had made a little mistake, which I
would rectify, which was, that though I had told him the plate, knife,
and fork, were so frequently changed at genteel tables in England, there
was one exception to it; for it sometimes happened that low under-bred
priests (especially on a Sunday) were necessarily admitted to the tables
of people of fashion, and that the butler sometimes left them to wipe
their knife upon their bread, as I had often seen Lewis the Fifteenth do,
even after eating fish with it.--As it was on a Sunday I had met with
this fop of divinity, at a genteel table, I thought I had been even with
him, and I believe he thought so too, for he asked me no more
questions; yet he assured me at his going out, "he had the honour to be
my most obedient humble servant." This over-strained civility, so
unlike good-breeding, puts me in mind of what was said of poor Sir
WM. ST. Q----N, after his death, by an arch wag at _Bath_: Sir
William, you know, was a polite old gentleman, but had the manners
and breeding rather of the late, than the present age, and though a man
deservedly esteemed for his many virtues, was by some thought too
ceremonious. Somebody at the round table at _Morgan_'s Coffee-house
happened to say,