Vient ouvrir fleur d'innocence,
Et sous la bouche du plaisir,
Elle s'eclot ... sans qu'elle y pense.

Vous, qui pendant vos jeunes ans,
Ne courtisez pas la folie,
Songez donc que cet heureux temps
Ne dure pas toute la vie,
Assez vite il nous faut quitter
Tendres ardeurs, vives jouissances;
Et dans uu coeur qui sait aimer,
La raison vient ... sans qu'on y pense.

Mais enfin, sur l'aile du temps,
On arrive au but du voyage,
Et l'on voit la glace des ans,
Couronner nos fronts a cet age;
S'il fut sensible a la pitie,
S'il cultiva la bienfaisance,
Entre les bras de l'amitie
L'homme finit ... sans qu'il y pense

You must know that they are here great lovers of royalty, and of course
great supporters of the Bourbon Family. The King's printer is a Mons. BREE
l'Aine. He is a very pleasant, well-bred man, and lives in the _Place
Trinite_. I have paid him more than one visit, and always felt additional
pleasure at every repetition of it. My first visit was marked with a
somewhat ludicrous circumstance. On entering the compositors' room, I
observed, pasted upon the walls, in large capital letters, the following
well known words:

GOD SAVE THE KING.

Both Monsieur Bree l'Aine--and his workmen were equally gratified by my
notice and commendation of this sentiment. "It is the favourite sentiment,
Sir, of your country,"--remarked the master. To this I readily assented.
"It is also, Sir, the favourite one of our own," replied M. Bree
l'Aine--and his men readily attested their concurrence in the same reply.
"Ah, Sir, if you would only favour us by _singing the air_, to which these
words belong, you would infinitely oblige us all" ... said a shrewd and
intelligent-looking compositor. "With all my heart"--rejoined I--"but I
must frankly tell you, that I shall sing it rather with heart than with
voice--being neither a vocal nor an instrumental performer." "No matter:
give us only a notion of it." They all stood round in a circle, and I got
through two stanzas as gravely and as efficiently as I was able. The usual
"charmant!" followed my exertions. It was now my turn to ask a favour.
"Sing to me your favourite national air of ROBERT and ARLETTE." "Most
willingly, Sir," replied the forementioned "shrewd and intelligent-looking
compositor." "Tenez: un petit moment: je vais chercher mon violon. Ca ira
mieux."

He left the house in search of his violin. The tune of the National air
which h