We are not popular. I suppose the sight of us must be grating to the feelings. We are like a blight on an apple-tree; we curl up their leaves, and they writhe under our pressure. The constant song of our drunken soldiers on the Boulevards commenced with-- "Louis Dixhuite, Louis dixhuite, We have licked all your armies and sunk all your fleet." Luckily the words are not intelligible to the gaping Parisians, who generally, upon hearing the "Louis Dixhuite," took for granted the song was an ode in honour of the Bourbons, and grinned approbation. It is quite ridiculous, Paris cannot know itself. Where are the French? Nowhere. All is English; English carriages fill the streets, no other genteel Equipages are to be seen. At the Play Boxes are all English. At the Hotels, Restaurations--in short, everywhere--John Bull stalks incorporate. I see an Englishman with his little red book, the Paris guide, in one hand and map in the other, with a parcel of ragged boys at his heels pestering him for money. "Monsieur, c'est moi," who am ready to hold your stick. "Monsieur, c'est moi," who will call your coach. About the Thuilleries, indeed, and here and there, a few "bien poudréd" little old men, "des bons Papas du Temps passé," may be seen dry as Mummies and as shrivelled, with their ribbons and Croix St. Louis, tottering about. They are good, staunch Bourbons, ready, I daresay, to take the field "en voiture" for once, when taunted by the Imperial officers for being too old and decrepid to lead troops; an honest emigrant Marquis replied that he did not see why he should not command a regiment and lead it on "dans son Cabriolet." We have been unfortunate in not arriving soon enough to be present at the Duke of Wellington's Balls. At the last a curious circumstance took place. (You may rely upon it's being true.) Word was brought to him that the house was in danger from fire. He went down, and in a sort of subterranean room some cartridges were discovered close to a lamp containing a great quantity of oil, and it was evident they had been placed there with design. The first report was that barrels of gunpowder had been found, and strange associations were whispered as to Guy Fawkes and Louis XVIII. being one and the same; but the powder was not sufficient to do any great mischief, and the general idea is that had it exploded, confusion would have ensued, the company would have been alarmed, the ladies would have screamed and fled to the door and street, where parties were in full readiness and expectations of Diamonds, &c....