[Paris,] October 29.—­Breakfasted at Beauvais, and saw its magnificent cathedral—­unfinished it has been left, and unfinished it will remain, of course,—­the fashion of cathedrals being passed away.  But even what exists is inimitable, the choir particularly, and the grand front.  Beauvais is called the Pucelle, yet, so far as I can see, she wears no 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 in our Hotel, we determined to remain here at fifteen francs per day.  We are in the midst of what can be seen, and we are very comfortably fed and lodged.