It has often been said that her fate disgraced the military fame of the English; it is a far fouler blot on the chivalry of France.

* * * * *

St. Germains, June 27.—­I cannot bear this place, another hour in it will kill me; this sultry evening—­this sickening sunshine—­this quiet, unbroken, boundless landscape—­these motionless woods—­the Seine stealing, creeping through the level plains—­the dull grandeur of the old chateau—­the languid repose of the whole scene—­instead of soothing, torture me.  I am left without resource, a prey to myself and to my memory—­to reflection, which embitters the source of suffering, and thought, which brings distraction.  Horses on to Paris!  Vite!  Vite!

Paris, 28.—­What said the witty Frenchwoman?—­Paris est le lieu du monde ou l’on peut le mieux se passer de bonheur;—­in that case it will suit me admirably.

29.—­We walked and drove about all day:  I was amused.  I marvel at my own versatility when I think how soon my quick spirits were excited by this gay, gaudy, noisy, idle place.  The different appearance of the streets of London and Paris is the first thing to strike a stranger.  In the gayest and most crowded streets of London the people move steadily and rapidly along, with a grave collected air, as if all had some business in view; here, as a little girl observed the other day, all the people walk about “like ladies and gentlemen going a visiting:”  the women well-dressed and smiling, and with a certain jaunty air, trip along with their peculiar mincing step, and appear as if their sole object was but to show themselves; the men ill-dressed, slovenly, and in general ill-looking, lounge indolently, and stare as if they had no other purpose in life but to look about them.[B]

July 12.—­“Quel est a Paris le supreme talent? celui d’amuser:  et quel est le supreme bonheur? l’amusement.”

Then le supreme bonheur may be found every evening from nine to ten, in a walk along the Boulevards, or a ramble through the Champs Elysees, and from ten to twelve in a salon at Tortoni’s.

What an extraordinary scene was that I witnessed to-night! how truly French!  Spite of myself and all my melancholy musings, and all my philosophic allowances for the difference of national character, I was irresistibly compelled to smile at some of the farcical groups we encountered.  In the most crowded parts of the Champs Elysees this evening (Sunday), there sat an old lady with a wrinkled yellow face and sharp features, dressed in flounced gown of dirty white muslin, a pink sash and a Leghorn hat and feathers.  In one hand she held a small tray for the contribution of amateurs, and in the other an Italian bravura, which she sung or rather screamed out with a thousand indescribable shruggings, contortions, and grimaces, and in a voice to which a cracked tea-kettle, or a “brazen candlestick turned,” had seemed