The whole of the day’s exhibition was humiliating to every one concerned, save to Bonaparte and his satellites. After all the carriages were ranged in their places and the different regiments of horse and foot taken their positions in front of the Palace, a signal gun was fired, and a little thing leaped with uncommon agility upon the back of a white horse, superbly caparisoned, and set off at full trot along the line, followed by a numerous train of generals and aides-de-camp. Upon inquiry I learnt that the white horse was called Marengo, and its rider was Napoleon Bonaparte, First Consul of France. Nothing was now heard but trumpets and kettledrums, and the whole spectacle was certainly an imposing one; as Bonaparte passed along the officers saluted and the men presented arms. He never returned a single salute. His dress was very plain but extremely neat, in the uniform of the Consular Guard--a blue coat, faced with white, gold epaulettes, white kerseymere breeches and waistcoat, a small hat with a tri-colour bow. None of the portraits or engravings which I have seen in England purporting to resemble this man are exactly like him. The picture by Masquier, representing him on his return from reviewing the Consular Guard, though the best likeness we have, is nevertheless a feeble representation of what is one of the most penetrating and animated countenances in the world. The complexion of Bonaparte is sallow, his face oval and his chin long, his eyes are of a dark blue, so dark as to appear black at a distance, they are keen and piercing, long in form and sunk deeply in his head. His black hair is cut short and he wears no powder. His smile is sweet and fascinating, but his visage terrible when ruffled with anger. His voice deep-toned, rather coarse and disfigured by a provincial accent.[5] He looks extremely well on horseback, his carriage thereon remarkably erect, and not unlike that of a riding master or cavalry drill sergeant. The lineaments of his face bespeak a violent nature, it is marked with the expression of dark and unruly passions. Upon the whole I do not hesitate to acknowledge he possesses the most interesting countenance I ever beheld. [Sidenote: PROCESSION TO NOTRE DAME] After the First Consul had reviewed his troops “au trot” he hastily dismounted, shot like an arrow into the Palace, and soon after the general procession to Nôtre Dame began to form, and commenced with the slow march of the infantry towards the Cathedral.