of the groups near the Hotel-de-Ville, when a man of a very rough appearance with his arms bare and besmeared with proofs that he had been in the strife, turned to him and asked what he thought of the Revolution.  My friend, who was in feeling a thorough bred John Bull, neither liking France, the French, nor any of their proceedings, did not think it was exactly the moment to give vent to all his feelings, answered that it was very fine.

“Oh!” said the Frenchman, “you find it very fine, do you, you’re a foreigner, what countryman are you?”

“I am an Englishman,” was the reply.

“An Englishman! eh!” muttered the Frenchman scanning him with a very scrutinising eye, “and you find our Revolutionary fine, eh! well,” added he! “will you come and take a glass of wine with me?”

The invitation was declined on the plea of business.

“Business,” repeated the Frenchman, “there can be no business to-day, it is a day of fete;” upon which the Englishman, not seeing any means by which he could well get off of it, said he would be happy to take wine with him and should also have great pleasure in paying for it.

“Pay for it,” sternly said the Frenchman, “what do you talk of paying for it, when you are invited, follow me;” the Englishman obeyed, but wished himself well out of the scrape; his conductor took him to one of the lowest sort of wine-houses and they entered a large room where there were above twenty seated, drinking round a table.  His new acquaintance introduced him in due form, saying, I have brought you an Englishman who finds our Revolution very fine; there was a degree of order amongst them and they had a president and vice president, but were very much such rough looking fellows as the one who announced him; as a stranger, he was awarded the seat of honour to the right of the president, but had no sooner been seated, than one man addressed him, saying,

“I have been in England, I was a prisoner and very ill treated.”

“I am sorry for that,” replied the Englishman.

“I was almost starved,” added the other.

“That was not the fault of the people or the intention of the government,” observed my friend, “but was caused by a few rascally contractors who received a handsome sum for the supply of the prisoners, and to make the greater profit they provided bad articles.”

“Well,” said another, “I have seen extracts from the English papers and they speak very highly of our revolution, particularly the Times.”

They next proceeded to give accounts of the share they had taken in the struggle which had just terminated, and some began to state the number that they killed, all of which was far from edifying to my friend, who sat upon thorns notwithstanding they all drank his health, hitting the glasses together according to the custom of olden time.  At several periods he made an effort to go, but they assured him that they could not part with him so soon, called him a bon anglais, now and then giving him a smack on the shoulder as a proof of their friendly feeling towards him.  The Englishman began at last to wish himself anywhere but where he was, and in that manner they kept him for three hours in durance vile; at last he made a bold push for a retreat, declaring he could not stay a minute longer.