without the
personal attendance of the owners, I feel quite confident the French
would prefer it.

We are not popular. I suppose the sight of us must be grating to the
feelings. We are like a blight on an apple-tree; we curl up their
leaves, and they writhe under our pressure.

The constant song of our drunken soldiers on the Boulevards commenced
with--

"Louis Dixhuite, Louis dixhuite,
We have licked all your armies and sunk all your fleet."

Luckily the words are not intelligible to the gaping Parisians, who
generally, upon hearing the "Louis Dixhuite," took for granted the song
was an ode in honour of the Bourbons, and grinned approbation. It is
quite ridiculous, Paris cannot know itself. Where are the French?
Nowhere. All is English; English carriages fill the streets, no other
genteel Equipages are to be seen. At the Play Boxes are all English. At
the Hotels, Restaurations--in short, everywhere--John Bull stalks
incorporate. I see an Englishman with his little red book, the Paris
guide, in one hand and map in the other, with a parcel of ragged boys at
his heels pestering him for money. "Monsieur, c'est moi," who am ready
to hold your stick. "Monsieur, c'est moi," who will call your coach.

About the Thuilleries, indeed, and here and there, a few "bien poudred"
little old men, "des bons Papas du Temps passe," may be seen dry as
Mummies and as shrivelled, with their ribbons and Croix St. Louis,
tottering about. They are good, staunch Bourbons, ready, I daresay, to
take the field "en voiture" for once, when taunted by the Imperial
officers for being too old and decrepid to lead troops; an honest
emigrant Marquis replied that he did not see why he should not command a
regiment and lead it on "dans son Cabriolet."

We have been unfortunate in not arriving soon enough to be present at
the Duke of Wellington's Balls. At the last a curious circumstance took
place. (You may rely upon it's being true.) Word was brought to him
that the house was in danger from fire. He went down, and in a sort of
subterranean room some cartridges were discovered close to a lamp
containing a great quantity of oil, and it was evident they had been
placed there with design. The first report was that barrels of gunpowder
had been found, and strange associations were whispered as to Guy Fawkes
and Louis XVIII. being one and the same; but the powder was not
sufficient to do any great mischief, and the general idea is that had it
e