to the Palais Royal, for here I had the honour of an introduction to M. Beranger, the poet; and although I had to converse with him through an interpreter, I enjoyed his company very much.  “The people’s poet,” as he is called, is apparently about seventy years of age, bald on the top of the head, and rather corpulent, but of active look, and in the enjoyment of good health.  Few writers in France have done better service to the cause of political and religious freedom, than Pierre Jean de Beranger.  He is the dauntless friend and advocate of the down-trodden poor and oppressed, and has often incurred the displeasure of the Government by the arrows that he has thrown into their camp.  He felt what he wrote; it came straight from his heart, and went directly to the hearts of the people.  He expressed himself strongly opposed to slavery, and said, “I don’t see how the Americans can reconcile slavery with their professed love of freedom.”  Dinner out of the way, a walk through the different apartments, and a stroll over the court, and I bade adieu to the Palais Royal, satisfied that I should partake of many worse dinners than I had helped to devour that day.

Few nations are more courteous than the French.  Here the stranger, let him come from what country he may, and be ever so unacquainted with the people and language, he is sure of a civil reply to any question that he may ask.  With the exception of the egregious blunder I have mentioned of the cabman driving me to the Elysee, I was not laughed at once while in France.

LETTER VIII.

Departure from Paris—­Boulogne—­Folkstone—­London—­Geo. Thompson, Esq., M.P.—­Hartwell House—­Dr. Lee—­Cottage of the Peasant—­Windsor Castle—­Residence of Wm. Penn—­England’s First Welcome—­Heath Lodge—­The Bank of England.

LONDON, Sept. 8th.

The sun had just appeared from behind a cloud and was setting, and its reflection upon the domes and spires of the great buildings in Paris made everything appear lovely and sublime, as the train, with almost lightning speed, was bringing me from the French metropolis.  I gazed with eager eyes to catch a farewell glance of the tops of the regal palaces through which I had passed, during a stay of fifteen days in the French capital.

A pleasant ride of four hours brought us to Boulogne, where we rested for the night.  The next morning I was up at an early hour, and out viewing the town.  Boulogne could present but little attraction, after a fortnight spent in seeing the lions of Paris.  A return to the hotel, and breakfast over, we stepped on board the steamer, and were soon crossing the channel.  Two hours more, and I was safely seated in a railway carriage, en route to the English metropolis.  We reached London at mid-day, where I was soon comfortably lodged at 22, Cecil Street, Strand.  As the London lodging-houses seldom furnish dinners, I lost no time