A second reflection corrects however the precipitancy of such a proposal; for it cannot be, in this my first despatch, that you are to receive any thing like an adequate notion of the topics thus hastily thrown together on the first impulse of Parisian inspiration.  Wait patiently, therefore:  and at least admire the methodical precision of my narrative.  My last letter left me on the eve of departure from Falaise; and it is precisely from that place that I take up the thread of my journal.  We were to leave it, as I told you, in the Diligence—­on the evening of the Sunday, immediately following the date of the despatch transmitted.  I shall have reason to remember that journey for many a day to come; but, “post varios casus, &c.”  I am thankful to find myself safely settled in my present comfortable abode.  The Sabbath, on the evening of which the Diligence usually starts for Paris, happened to be a festival.  Before dawn of day I heard incessant juvenile voices beneath the window of my bedroom at the Grand Turc; What might this mean?  Between three and four, as the day began to break, I rose, and approaching the window, saw, from thence, a number of little boys and girls busied in making artificial flower-beds and sand-borders, &c.  Their tongues and their bodily movements were equally unintermitting.  It was impossible for a stranger to guess at the meaning of such a proceeding; but, opening the window, I thought there could be no harm in asking a very simple question—­which I will confess to you was put in rather an irritable manner on my part ... for I had been annoyed by their labours for more than the last hour.  “What are you about, there?” I exclaimed—­“Ha, is it you Sir?” replied a little arch boy—­mistaking me for some one else.  “Yes, (resumed I) tell me what you are about there?” “in truth, we are making Reposoirs for the FETE-DIEU:  the Host will pass this way by and bye.  Is it not a pretty thing, Sir?” exclaimed a sweetly modulated female voice.  All my irritability was softened in a moment; and I was instantly convinced that Solomon never delivered a wiser sentiment than when he said—­“A soft answer turneth away wrath!” I admitted the prettiness of the thing without comprehending a particle of it:  and telling them to speak in a lower key, shut the window, and sought my bed.  But sleep had ceased to seek me:  and the little urchins, instead of lowering their voices, seemed to break forth in a more general and incessant vociferation.  In consequence, I was almost feverish from restlessness—­when the fille de chambre announced that “it was eight o’clock, and the morning most beautiful.”