amed)
the devil enters sneezing, and somebody says to the devil, _God bless
you_. They are not, however, all of this stamp. They have _even some_ in
very good taste."

Yes, Monsieur Dourx, I agree with you, I think we have _some_ in very
good taste. I know not in what dramatic work the facetious frenchman has
discovered the introduction of his satanic majesty under the influence
of a cold, and receiving, as he enters, the usual deprecation on such
occasions. I rather suspect that the adventures of Punch, and his fickle
lady, who are always attended by a dancing demon, have afforded the
materials for this sapient observation.

In the course of one of my morning rambles in Paris, I visited the ruins
of the celebrated Bastille, of which prison, only the arsenal, some
fragments of its massy walls, and two or three dungeons remain. The
volcanic vengeance of the people, has swept away this mighty fabric,
which the revolting mind of republican liberty denounced as the
frightful den of despotism, upon the approach to which no marks of
returning footsteps were imprinted, whilst, in her mad career, she
converted every private dwelling in the metropolis into a revolutionary
prison: So much for popular consistency!

In the mutations of time, to what different purposes are the same places
applied! Where the consuming martyr expired[10], the unwieldy prize hog
is exposed to sale; and the modern parisian derives the sources of
warmth and comfort, from a place, the very name of which, once _chilled_
the circulation of his blood. The site of the Bastille is now a magazine
of wood, which supplies the city with fuel.

[10] Smithfield.

Every lover of pure liberty must leap with delight upon the
disincumbered earth, where once stood that gloomy abode of "broken
hearts," and reflect upon the sufferings of the wretched Latude, and the
various victims of capricious pique, or prostitute resentment. It was
here that, in the beautiful lines of Cowper, the hopeless prisoner was
doomed

"To fly for refuge from distracting thought
To such amusements as ingenious woe
Contrives, hard shifting, and without her tools--
To read, engraven on the mouldy walls,
In stagg'ring types, his predecessor's tale,
A sad memorial, and subjoin his own--
To turn purveyor to an overgorg'd
And bloated spider, till the pamper'd pest
Is made familiar, watches his approach,
Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend--"