derful safety, notwithstanding the
swiftness with which they generally pass through them, and the loose
manner in which the horses are linked together.

But where did we leave our Ladyship? Oh, with her head out of the window
of the hotel, saying something about _her_ France and the other France.
We really beg her pardon for keeping her so long in such a situation,
and hasten to relieve her from it, by placing her, together with Sir C.
M. and the Irish footman, in a,--but here again we are at fault. She has
not had the kindness to inform us what was the species of conveyance
that she consecrated to eternal veneration by employing for her journey
to Paris, and as we have neither time nor space for an adequate
investigation of this important point, we must leave it to be mooted by
other commentators, contenting ourselves with the knowledge that the
illustrious trio arrived safely at the capital.

On reaching the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli, which she had resolved upon
immortalizing by residing in it during her sojourn in Paris, she was
again fearfully agitated by that dreadful fondness for things English,
in France, by which her nervous system had before been so greatly
discomposed. Woful to relate, she was received by "a smart, dapper,
English-innkeeper-looking landlord," and conducted to apartments "which
were a box of boudoirs, as compact as a Chinese toy." "There were
carpets on every floor, chairs that were moveable, mirrors that
reflected, sofas to sink on, footstools to stumble over; in a word, all
the incommodious commodities of my own cabin in Kildare street." Poor
Miladi! this was really too provoking, to have all the trouble and
expense of journeying from Dublin to see just what was to be seen there;
but no matter, it will serve for the subject of some twenty pages in
your intended book. But then the change, so trying to the nerves of a
romantic lady, which had taken place since 1816. In that year, she
remembered, on driving into the paved court of the hotel d'Orleans, she
had seen "an elderly gentleman, sitting under the shelter of a vine, and
looking like a specimen of the restored emigration. His white hair,
powdered and dressed _a l'oiseau royale_; his Persian slippers and _robe
de chambre, a grand ramage_, (we hope, reader, you have a French
dictionary near you) spoke of principles as old as his toilet. He was
reading, too, a loyal paper, loyal, at least, in those days,--the
_Journal des Debats._ Bowing, a