A compromise was made on the spot, for this was a matter to be hushed up, ridicule being far more potent, in Paris, than reason.  This is what you may have heard alluded to, in some of the journals of the day, as the escapade of the Duke of Brunswick.

LETTER VII.

Public Dinner.—­Inconsiderate Impulses of Americans.—­Rambles in Paris.—­The Churches of Paris.—­View from the leads or Notre Dame.—­The Place Royale.—­The Bridges.—­Progress of the Public Works.—­The Palaces of the Louvre and the Tuileries.—­Royal Enclosures in the Gardens of the Tuileries.—­Public Edifices.—­Private Hotels and Gardens.  My Apartments in the house of the Montmorencies.—­Our other Residences.—­Noble Abodes in Paris.—­Comparative Expense of Living in Paris and New York.—­American Shopkeepers, and those of Europe.

Dear ——­

The time between the revolt of the two days, and the 17th July, passed in the usual manner.  The court-martial had made considerable progress in condemning men to be shot, but appeals were made to the Carlist Court of Cassation, which finally adjudged the whole proceedings to be illegal.  In the mean time we got up the dinner for the 4th, Lafayette coming from La Grange expressly to make one among us.  As for this dinner, I have only to say that one of its incidents went to prove how completely a body of Americans are subject to common and inconsiderate impulses, let the motive be right or wrong,—­of how low estimate character is getting to be among us, and to determine me never to be present at another.  It is a painful confession, but truth compels me to say, that, I believe, for the want of a condensed class, that are accustomed to sustain each other in a high tone of feeling and thinking, and perhaps from ignorance of the world, no other people, above the illiterate and downright debased, are so easily practised on and cajoled, as the great mass of our own.  I hope I have never been addicted to the vice of winning golden opinions by a sacrifice of sentiments or principles; but this dinner has given me a surfeit of what is called “popularity,” among a people who, while affecting to reduce everything to a standard of their own creating, do not give themselves time or opportunity to ascertain facts, or weigh consequences.

The weather was pleasant and warm for several weeks, about the close of June and the commencement of July, and, although a slight shade has been cast over our enjoyments by the re-appearance of the cholera, in a greatly diminished degree however, I do not remember to have passed the same period of time in Paris with so much satisfaction to myself.  The town has been empty, in the usual signification of the term, and the world has left us entirely to ourselves.  After completing the morning’s task, I have strolled in the gardens, visited the churches, loitered on the quays, rummaged the shops of the dealers in old furniture and other similar objects.  The