Immediately after parade next day, Ronald departed from Clichy on a visit to Paris, "the City of delights," as an enthusiastic French author has termed it,—the famous Paris of which so much has been said, sung, and written. But Ronald was, to a certain degree, disappointed. The look of every man was sad and louring. The armed sentinels of the allies were in every street, their guards on every barrier; cannon were planted to rake every thoroughfare and avenue, and the artillery-men were around them, match in hand, by day and night. The soldier slept with his accoutrements on, and the horse in his harness; and to ensure the peace of the capital, the whole of the troops were ready to act on a moment’s notice. The banner of Blucher waved over Paris, and his advance was in front of it, in position on the Orleans road; a brigade of British occupied the Champs Elysées, and the union jack and the white standard of Austria waved over the summit of Montmartre. Proud Gaul was completely humbled, and the Parisian had lost all his swagger, his laughter, and lightness of head and heart. Many of the British officers were insulted, abused,—I believe were spit upon by the lower classes, when the allies first entered the French metropolis. The people had no other means of giving loose to the sentiments of rage, hatred, and hostility which boiled within them. A resort to open violence in arms would only have ended in the destruction of Paris, and the annihilation of its inhabitants. The defeat on the plains of Waterloo will not be soon forgotten in France. Like the murder of Joan of Arc, it will be handed down from parent to child; and thus, from one generation to another, the hereditary hatred to "perfidious Albion" will increase rather than diminish. In Paris, and in France generally, the Highland garb attracted more attention, and perhaps respect, than that of any other nation. Notwithstanding the bitter hatred which the French avowedly bear to the whole Isle of Britain, they sometimes make a distinction between the Scot and his southern neighbour, as if they were now, as of old, politically aliens to each other. At the cafés, the restaurateurs, the concerts, theatres, promenades, the Boulevards, the Jardin des Tuileries, the Champ de Mars, the Bois de Boulogne, and public places of every kind, the officers who wore the Celtic garb found themselves treated with the utmost respect, attention, and even kindness, when their countrymen belonging to regiments ’in breeks’ experienced marked coldness and aversion. The figure of a Highland officer passing a milliner’s shop, invariably brought all the girls in it rushing to the door. "An officer of the Scots!" was the cry, and all the pretty grisettes were in the street in a moment, to stare at and talk of the stranger until he was out of sight.