I remember seeing Mirabeau,[1] Barnave[1] and the Lornettes,[1] and on the same side of the Hall those conspicuous members who thundered against the Clergy, the Feudal Laws, and the despotism of the Throne. I have heard the virtuous Mounier[1] pour forth the language of generous indignation against the motion of Barnave on the emigration of the aunts of the King. Methinks I hear again the nervous eloquence of Cazalis[1] on behalf of his King and the established laws of the country. Here I have heard Mirabeau on the Veto; the celebrated speech of Cardinal Moury[1] on Avignon and the Comtal Venaissin,[1] the gloomy metaphysics of Condorcet[1] and the eloquent if mistaken enthusiasm of Grégoire. [Sidenote: GARDEN OF THE PALAIS ROYALE] I have also beheld, O wretched change!--this Hall polluted by monsters breathing nothing but death and devastation. I have heard in that Tribune the sanguinary suggestions of Danton and Robespierre, the howlings of Marat--the ravings of Brissot, Anarcharsis Cloots[1] and Gondet,[1]1 and the _calembours_ of the Gascon Barrère. There, too, I have seen Tom Paine[1] stand up like a post, while another read a translation of his speech. What noise, what uproar and cabals have originated within these walls! They seem besmeared with human blood. The images they excite arise in dreadful succession, and stalk before my imagination like the shades of Banquo’s line. Never shall I forget the day when in the midst of a solemn speech Gensonne[1]1 was delivering, the impudent little Marat,[1]1 who could scarcely reach his throat, gave him a box on the ear. The other took him in his arms and threw him neck and heels out of the Tribune. XIII GARDEN OF THE PALAIS ROYALE. MANNERS OF THE PEOPLE The greatest beauty in the world becomes by pollution an odious and repulsive creature. Health and charm flourish only in the practice of virtue and in the abodes of innocence. The prostitute is shunned by every woman of honour and reputation, and dens of vice are avoided by every man to whom virtue is not an empty word. I am now about to treat of the Palais Royale, that hot-bed of revolution and crime, that nursery of every loathsome vice, that abomination of all virtue and profanation of all religion. This infernal sink of iniquity is situated in the very centre of Paris, and by certain vicious inhabitants of the capital is considered its brightest ornament, just as the Devils in Milton’s “Paradise Lost” admired the Palace of the Pandemonium. In my last letter I mentioned that Duke of Orleans, who styled himself Philippe Egalité, during the Revolution. This wretch was the proprietor of the Palais Royale. His great grandfather, who was nearly though not quite as great a scoundrel as his great grandson, was the first who made this place the focus for his illicit pleasures; it has ever since been dedicated to Cabal, Bloodshed, Rapine and Debauchery.