LETTER XVI
Paris, December 26, 1792.
I ſhould immediately on the receipt of your letter, my dear friend, have thanked you for your punctuality, for it highly gratified me, had I not wiſhed to wait till I could tell you that this day was not ſtained with blood. Indeed the prudent precautions taken by the National Convention to prevent a tumult, made me ſuppoſe that the dogs of faction would not dare to bark, much leſs to bite, however true to their ſcent; and I was not miſtaken; for the citizens, who were all called out, are returning home with compoſed countenances, ſhouldering their arms. About nine o'clock this morning, the king paſſed by my window, moving ſilently along (excepting now and then a few ſtrokes on the drum, which rendered the ſtillneſs more awful) through empty ſtreets, ſurrounded by the national guards, who, cluſtering round the carriage, ſeemed to deſerve their name. The inhabitants flocked to their windows, but the caſements were all ſhut, not a voice was heard, nor did I ſee any thing like an inſulting geſture.—For the firſt time ſince I entered France, I bowed to the majeſty of the people, and reſpected the propriety of behaviour ſo perfectly in uniſon with my own feelings. I can ſcarcely tell you why, but an aſſociation of ideas made the tears flow inſenſibly from my eyes, when I ſaw Louis ſitting, with more dignity than I expected from his character, in a hackney coach, going to meet death, where ſo many of his race have triumphed. My fancy inſtantly brought Louis XIV before me, entering the capital with all his pomp, after one of the victories moſt flattering to his pride, only to ſee the ſunſhine of proſperity overſhadowed by the ſublime gloom of miſery. I have been alone ever ſince; and, though my mind is calm, I cannot diſmiſs the lively images that have filled my imagination all the day.—Nay, do not ſmile, but pity me; for, once or twice, lifting my eyes from the paper, I have ſeen eyes glare through a glaſs-door oppoſite my chair and bloody hands ſhook at me. Not the diſtant ſound of a footſtep can I hear.—My apartments are remote from thoſe of the ſervants, the only perſons who ſleep with me in an immenſe hotel, one folding door opening after another.—I wiſh I had even kept the cat with me!—I want to ſee ſomething alive; death in ſo many frightful ſhapes has taken hold of my fancy.—I am going to bed—and, for the firſt time in my life, I cannot put out the candle.
m. w.
FOOTNOTES:
[67-A] To Original Stories.
[69-A] Counteſs Mount Caſhel.
[82-A] This alludes to a fooliſh propoſal of marriage for mercenary conſiderations, which the gentleman here mentioned thought proper to recommend to her. The two letters which immediately follow, are addreſſed to the gentleman himſelf.
