with private dwellings, and we next trace him to the Elysee, St. Cloud,
Versailles, the Tuileries, Fontainbleau, and finally, came his decline,
which I need not relate to you.

After visiting the Gobelins, passing through its many rooms, seeing here
and there a half-finished piece of tapestry; and meeting a number of the
members of the late Peace Congress, who, like myself had remained behind
to see more of the beauties of the French capital than could be
overtaken during the Convention week. I accepted an invitation to dine
with a German gentleman at the Palais Royal, and was soon revelling amid
the luxuries of the table. I was glad that I had gone to the Palais
Royal, for here I had the honour of an introduction to M. Beranger, the
poet; and although I had to converse with him through an interpreter, I
enjoyed his company very much. "The people's poet," as he is called, is
apparently about seventy years of age, bald on the top of the head, and
rather corpulent, but of active look, and in the enjoyment of good
health. Few writers in France have done better service to the cause of
political and religious freedom, than Pierre Jean de Beranger. He is the
dauntless friend and advocate of the down-trodden poor and oppressed,
and has often incurred the displeasure of the Government by the arrows
that he has thrown into their camp. He felt what he wrote; it came
straight from his heart, and went directly to the hearts of the people.
He expressed himself strongly opposed to slavery, and said, "I don't
see how the Americans can reconcile slavery with their professed love of
freedom." Dinner out of the way, a walk through the different
apartments, and a stroll over the court, and I bade adieu to the Palais
Royal, satisfied that I should partake of many worse dinners than I had
helped to devour that day.

Few nations are more courteous than the French. Here the stranger, let