I had longed for such an event with an intensity of feeling not to be described; nay, I had often enjoyed anticipated exultation from indulging in a vague dream of its bare possibility, which absorbed all the gloom and horror of my situation.  Yet when I stepped securely on what, to me, was hallowed ground, an adequate appreciation of the circumstance was far from realised in my feelings.  New sights and sounds began to share my thoughts and engross my comprehension.  In a moment the past vanished, with all its disquietude and alarm; and I entered on the new scene with a taste akin to the appetite of a convalescent.  If I felt any deep emotion, it was only when my mind recurred to the fate of my comrades, or the feelings of joy with which my family would learn the tidings of my safety.  We left our baggage at the Custom house—­mine consisted of a pair of boots stowed away in a rather capacious valise—­handed the keys, in due form, to the commissionaire of police, and directed them to be sent after us to our hotel.  A commissionaire, so they call themselves, appeared in the morning with the keys, which he handed us bowing, adding that all was right.

There was a fete at Boulogne.  Nothing was to be seen but glittering bayonets, and nothing to be heard but the harsh monotonous sound of the drum.  Flags floated in the breeze, and cheers echoed from the distant hills, and everything proclaimed the festivity of liberty.  It was a grand sight, and yet a sad one for me.  I could not help contrasting with the scene before me the fate of my own unfortunate country.  At ten o’clock we were on our way to Paris.

Such was the anxiety with which I gazed on the glad face of that sunny land during the entire of the journey that I could at this moment recognise every object that attracted my attention.  But the scope of this narrative, now drawing rapidly to a close, does not embrace a description of France or Paris.  Many pens have plied the task, and were mine more adequate than any, it were unfit to interweave so bright a theme with the gloomy details of this mournful history.

There remains to be told but one incident.  On our arrival at the Paris terminus, we got into an English omnibus which brought us to an English hotel—­the Hotel de Louvre in the Rue St. Thomas.  There we dined together, some dozen or so of the passengers.  After dinner my friend and I had champagne.  While discussing its merits the conversation turned on Ireland.  Opinions, of course, varied.  Mine, it need scarcely be added, to an Englishman’s ear sounded bloodily, and I urged them with the vehemence of baffled hope.  An old English gentleman of that quiet school which affects liberality and moderation, but entertains deepest animosity, deprecated the violence of my language and sentiments, and expressed his painful astonishment at hearing such opinions from the mouth of a clergyman; “They would not be unbecoming,” added he, with great bitterness of tone, “in that sanguinary