y reminded me of the fustian pageantry which, upon
the stage, attends the entries and exits of the kings and queens of the
drama.

I have often been surprised to find that the injuries which the cornice
of the entrance, and the capitals of the columns in the hall of the
Thuilleries, have sustained from the ball of cannon, during the horrible
massacre of the 10th of August, 1792, have never been repaired. Every
vestige of that day of dismay and slaughter ought for ever to be
effaced; instead of which, some labour has been exercised to perpetuate
its remembrance. Under the largest chasms which have been made by the
shot is painted, in strong characters, that gloomy date.

In the evening of that day of devastation, from which France may date
all her sufferings, a friend of mine went into the court-yard of the
Thuilleries, where the review is now held, for the purpose of
endeavouring to recognise, amongst the dead, any of his acquaintances.
In the course of this shocking search, he declared to me, that he
counted no less than eight hundred bodies of Swiss and French, who had
perished in that frightful contest between an infatuated people and an
irresolute sovereign. I will not dilate upon this painful subject, but
dismiss it in the words of the holy and resigned descendant of Nahor,
"Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let
the light shine upon it; let darkness and the shadow of death stain it;
let a cloud dwell upon it; let the blackness of the day terrify it."

I have before had occasion to notice the promptitude and activity of the
french police, under the penetrating eye of Mons. Fouche. No one can
escape the vigilance of this man and his emissaries. An emigrant of
respectability assured me, that when he and a friend of his waited upon
him for their passports to enable them to quit Paris for the South of
France, he surprised them by relating to them the names of the towns,
the streets, and of the people with whom they had lodged, at various
times, during their emigration in England.

Whilst I was at Paris, an affair happened very near the hotel in which I
lodged, which in its sequel displayed that high spirit and sensibility
which appear to form the presiding features in the french character, to
which may be attributed all the excesses which have stained, and all the
glory which has embellished it. A lady of fortune, and her only
daughter, an elegant and lovely young woman, resided in t