Yesterday, then, being marked in the calendar as sacred to St. Jacques and St. Philippe, was kept as the fête of the present King of the French. The weather was brilliant, and everything looked gay, particularly around the courtly region of the Tuileries, Champs Elysées, and all parts near or between them. Being assured by a philosophical looker-on upon all such assemblings of the people as are likely to show forth indications of their temper, that the humours of the Champs Elysées would display more of this than I could hope to find elsewhere, I was about to order a carriage to convey us there; but my friend stopped me. "You may as well remain at home," said he; "from a carriage you will see nothing but a mob: but if you will walk amongst them, you may perhaps find out whether they are thinking of anything or nothing." "Anything?--or nothing?" I repeated. "Does the _anything_ mean a revolution? Tell me truly, is there any chance of a riot?" Instead of answering, he turned to a gentleman of our party who was just returned from the review of the troops by the king. "Did you not say you had seen the review?" he demanded. "Yes; I am just come from it." "And what do you think of the troops?" "They are very fine troops,--remarkably fine men, both the National Guards and the troops of the line." "And in sufficient force, are they not, to keep Paris quiet if she should feel disposed to be frolicsome?" "Certainly--I should think so." It was therefore determined, leaving the younger part of the females behind us however in case of the worst, that we should repair to the Champs Elysées. No one who has not seen a public fête celebrated at Paris can form an idea of the scene which the whole of this extensive area presents: it makes me giddy even to remember it. Imagine a hundred swings throwing their laughing cargoes high into the air; a hundred winged ships flying in endless whirl, and bearing for their crews a _tête-à-tête_ pair of holiday sweethearts: imagine a hundred horses, each with two prancing hoofs high poised in air, coursing each other in a circle, with nostrils of flame; a hundred mountebanks, chattering and gibbering their inconceivable jargon, some habited as generals, some as Turks,--some offering their nostrums in the impressive habit of an Armenian Jew, and others rolling head-over-heels upon a stage, and presenting a dose with the grin of Grimaldi. We stopped more than once in our progress to watch the ways of one of these animals when it had succeeded in fascinating its prey: the poor victim was cajoled and coaxed into believing that none of woman born could ever taste of evil more, if he would but trust to the one only true, sure, and certain specific.