The english drama, however, has not escaped the animadversions of a french critic, whose taste and liberality are not very congenial with those of my charming, and generous friend. "Their tragedies," he says, (speaking of the english) "it is true, though interesting, and replete with beauties, are nevertheless dramatic monsters, half _butchery_, and half _farce_. Grotesque characters, and extravagant pleasantry constitute the chief part of their comedies. In one of them, (not named) the devil enters sneezing, and somebody says to the devil, _God bless you_. They are not, however, all of this stamp. They have _even some_ in very good taste." Yes, Monsieur Dourx, I agree with you, I think we have _some_ in very good taste. I know not in what dramatic work the facetious frenchman has discovered the introduction of his satanic majesty under the influence of a cold, and receiving, as he enters, the usual deprecation on such occasions. I rather suspect that the adventures of Punch, and his fickle lady, who are always attended by a dancing demon, have afforded the materials for this sapient observation. In the course of one of my morning rambles in Paris, I visited the ruins of the celebrated Bastille, of which prison, only the arsenal, some fragments of its massy walls, and two or three dungeons remain. The volcanic vengeance of the people, has swept away this mighty fabric, which the revolting mind of republican liberty denounced as the frightful den of despotism, upon the approach to which no marks of returning footsteps were imprinted, whilst, in her mad career, she converted every private dwelling in the metropolis into a revolutionary prison: So much for popular consistency! In the mutations of time, to what different purposes are the same places applied! Where the consuming martyr expired[10], the unwieldy prize hog is exposed to sale; and the modern parisian derives the sources of warmth and comfort, from a place, the very name of which, once _chilled_ the circulation of his blood. The site of the Bastille is now a magazine of wood, which supplies the city with fuel. [10] Smithfield. Every lover of pure liberty must leap with delight upon the disincumbered earth, where once stood that gloomy abode of "broken hearts," and reflect upon the sufferings of the wretched Latude, and the various victims of capricious pique, or prostitute resentment. It was here that, in the beautiful lines of Cowper, the hopeless prisoner was doomed "To fly for refuge from distracting thought To such amusements as ingenious woe Contrives, hard shifting, and without her tools-- To read, engraven on the mouldy walls, In stagg'ring types, his predecessor's tale, A sad memorial, and subjoin his own-- To turn purveyor to an overgorg'd And bloated spider, till the pamper'd pest Is made familiar, watches his approach, Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend--"