He and I went this forenoon to a review of the foot-guards, by Marshal Biron. There was a crowd; and we could with difficulty get within the circle so as to see conveniently. An old officer of high rank touched some people who stood before us, saying,—Ces deux Messieurs sont des étrangers; upon which they immediately made way, and allowed us to pass.—Don’t you think that was very obliging? said I.—Yes, answered he; but, by heavens, it was very unjust. We returned by the Boulevards, where crowds of citizens, in their holiday dresses, were making merry; the young dancing cotillons, the old beating time to the music, and applauding the dancers, all in a careless oblivion of the past, thoughtless of the future, and totally occupied with the present.—These people seem very happy, said I.—Happy! exclaimed B——; if they had common sense or reflection, they would be miserable. Why so?—Could not the minister, answered he, pick out half a dozen of them, if he pleased, and clap them into the Bicetre?—That is true indeed, said I; that is a catastrophe which, to be sure, may very probably happen, and yet I thought no more of it than they. We met, a few days after he arrived, at a French house where we had both been invited to dinner. There was an old lady of quality present, next to whom a young officer was seated, who paid her the utmost attention.—He helped her to the dishes she liked, filled her glass with wine or water, and addressed his discourse particularly to her.—What a fool, says B——, does that young fellow make of the poor old woman! If she were my mother, d—n me, if I would not call him to an account for it.— Though B—— understands French, and speaks it better than most Englishmen, he had no relish for the conversation, soon left the company, and has refused all invitations to dinner ever since. He generally finds some of our countrymen who dine and pass the evening with him at the Parc Royal. After the review this day, we continued together, and being both disengaged, I proposed, by way of variety, to dine at the public ordinary of the Hôtel de Bourbon. He did not like this much at first.—I shall be teased, says he, with their confounded ceremony:—But on my observing, that we could not expect much ceremony or politeness at a public ordinary, he agreed to go. Our entertainment turned out different, however, from my expectations and his wishes: A marked attention was paid us the moment we entered; every body seemed inclined to accommodate us with the best places. They helped us first, and all the company seemed ready to sacrifice every little conveniency and distinction to the strangers: For, next to that of a lady, the most respected character at Paris is that of a stranger. After dinner, B—— and I walked into the gardens of the Palais Royal. There was nothing real in all the fuss those people made about us, says he.