44 Travels in France 



lights elegant, and pleasing building I ever beheld. Without any 

 magnitude to render it imposing; without any extraordinary 

 magnificence to surprise, it rivets attention. There is a magic 

 harmony in the proportions that charms the eye. One can fix 

 on no particular part of pre-eminent beauty; it is one perfect 

 whole of symmetry and grace. \Vhat an infatuation in modern 

 architects that can overlook the chaste and elegant simplicity 

 of taste manifest in such a work and yet rear such piles of 

 laboured foppery and heaviness as are to be met with in France. 

 The temple of Diana, as it is called, and the ancient baths, with 

 their modern restoration, and the promenade, form parts of the 

 same scene, and are magnificent decorations of the city. I was, 

 in relation to the baths, in ill luck, for the water was all drawn 

 off in order to clean them and the canals. — The Roman pave- 

 ments are singularly beautiful, and in high preservation. My 

 quarters at Nismes were at the Louvre, a large, commodious, 

 and excellent inn, the house was almost as much a fair from 

 morning to night as Beaucaire itself could be. I dined and 

 supped at the table d'hote; the cheapness of these tables suits 

 my finances, and one sees something of the manners of the 

 people ; we sat down from twenty to forty at every meal, most 

 motley companies of French, Italians, Spaniards, and Germans, 

 with a Greek and Armenian; and I was informed that there 

 is hardly a nation in Europe or Asia that have not merchants 

 at this great fair, chiefly for raw silk, of which many millions 

 in value are sold in four days : all the other commodities of the 

 world are to be found there. 



One circumstance I must remark on this numerous table 

 d'hote, because it has struck me repeatedly, which is the taci- 

 turnity of the French. I came to the kingdom expecting to 

 have my ears constantly fatigued with the infinite volubility 

 and spirits of the people, of which so many persons have written, 

 sitting, I suppose, by their English fire-sides. At Montpellier, 

 though fifteen persons and some of them ladies were present, I 

 found it impossible to make them break their inflexible silence 

 with more than a monosyllable, and the whole company sat 

 more like an assembly of tongue-tied quakers than the mixed 

 company of a people famous for loquacity. Here also, at 

 Nismes, with a different party at every meal, it is the same; 

 not a Frenchman will open his lips. To-day at dinner, hopeless 

 of that nation, and fearing to lose the use of an organ they had 

 so little inclination to employ, I fixed myself by a Spaniard, and 

 having been so lately in his country, I found him ready to 



