—by Calais and Abbeville—at which place
my Lord Lauderdale was constrained, through
ill-health, to sleep the night, and set down in
Paris then all in a ferment. Conceive of the
poor Doctor what troubled time he must
have had of it, walking about nervously
during that hot, fiery mouth of August, and
picking up what he could. How many times
was he caught in the midst of fighting mobs
along the quays Mazarin and Voltaire, while
gazing down the river and admiring the
buildings. How many times jostled by rough
Citizen Somebody in a red cap—and unsavoury
cap—who would growl at him for an aristocrat.
How many times was he woke up of nights
by shots in the street below, and desperate
clanging of the tocsin, and shrieks, on
which, dressing himself hurriedly, our doctor
would go out very cautiously, leaving my
Lord Lauderdale still dozing in his handsome
chamber.

What might not a random bullet have done
for Doctor Zeluco! And yet how curious it
seems to find oneself reading of these prosy
notes, written by this prosiest of hands,
from the thick, as it were, of the Pandemonium,
—written, as one would write home to
one's friends! Documents, historic records,
and pompous speculation, set out and balanced
formally, are all so much dry bones and dust.
Here, and as in the little memorandum-book,
is out-speaking life. Conceive him describing
easily and without pomp, just as one or other
of us might tell of a stroll down into the
City, how he set forth,—he and my Lord
Lauderdale,—one busy day, for the Hôtel de
Ville,—with the purpose of obtaining
passports. How he and that nobleman were
elbowed by the screaming fisherwomen about
the place, and fellows with scarfs about their
waists: liberty, equality, and fraternity
fellows—all Jacks in office, about the door.
How they got up into Mayor Pétion's
room,—he writing; up to his eyes in business,
—being led in by a mysterious Englishman,
who seemed to have entrée everywhere.
Exceeding civility on the part of Mayor
Pétion, who gossips pleasantly with them on
the state of things, but has a little difficulty
about the passports.

"I have a notion," says Maire Pétion to
milord and the Scotch Gentleman, " that in a
short while Paris will be the safest place for
a man to be in!" How comically does that
notion read now, set down quite innocently
by the Doctor!

Why, even to look at one of the two-sous
pieces the Doctor must have emptied out of
his purse when quitting the country, it had
its own tale to tell, and tells it better than
M. Thiers, ex cathedrâ, that is, from his
Historic Chair. Here it lies before us, well
worn by blood-stained fingers,—here is that
good, puff-cheeked, sheep-faced countenance,
with the fat chin, and hair gathered back
into a foolish pig-tail,—on the other side
the fasces (they were busy acting romance
then) with absurd Caps of Liberty and
such mummery, with an inscription which
should be noted to this effect,—The
Nation, the Law, and (at the tail of all)
the King! Poor King, how significant this
touch!

Mr. Arthur Young, agricultural tourist,
was likewise on his travels during these
times. Not with very much concern for the
rights of man, or prerogative, or kingly veto,
which jargon speeches were rising every day,
like so many kites; but with a true bovine
eye,—an eye to fat crops, and so many quarters
of wheat. Arthur Young, Esquire, the
well-known agricultural tourist, who had
made those well-known journeys through
Ireland and England, who was so great at
cattle-shows and farming dinners,—even that
agricultural eye of his was caught by the
awful shadows of coming events, lying thick
before him on the Paris pavé. He, too, had
a person of quality to look to, no other than
his Seigneurie, the Duc de Liancourt, who
took him down to his estates, and showed
him his noble farming, and standing crops
which were most likely never to be got in.
The king's own agriculturist, also, was
extraordinarily civil to Arthur Young, Esquire;
but still that bovine eye was looking to those
forecast shadows. No wonder, indeed; for
when he went out of an evening for a lounge
in the Palais Eoyal, it was curious all those
crowds about every coffee-house door, straining
their necks eagerly, and pressing on each
other's shoulders. Mr. Young, pushing his
Briton's figure forward, gets within sight and
earshot. A man upon a table or chair in the
coffee-house, declaiming frantically, gesticulating,
and foaming, all on the favourite sing-
song of Rights of Man, Sovereignty of People,
and the rest of it, with noisy orchestral
accompaniment from bye-standers and bye-
sitters,—of bravos and jingling of glasses
and coffee-cups. Astonished Mr. Young
walks away, not knowing what to make
of it, and goes to the French Theatre, to
hear the Earl of Essex and the Maison de
Molière.

Neither does he well know what to make
of that pamphlet avalanche before spoken of,
which has been roaring down the mountains
all this while: "Thirteen out to-day," says he,
quite mystified, "sixteen yesterday,and ninety-
two last week." Stockdale's or Debrett's
great pamphlet emporia at home are sheer
minnows to M. Deseins', the Paris bookseller.

But two or three years before this date,
the most delightful gossip and choicest
scandal-monger had made a trip over, and filled
his note book. Nat. Wraxall, as he was
known at the clubs, had been at the French
Court, furnished with letters to distinguished
people, and had kept his eyes and ears open.
With such a wallet of wicked stories as he
had brought home from those other tours of
his in Germany, and round the Baltic, was it
likely that Nat. Wraxall would pick up nothing