their ancient honours, and to hear the shout of Vive le Roi! as the king passed through the entrance-hall. How like a dream is this rapid and happy change! After mass the officer again joined us, and after leading us through one of the beautiful saloons, magnificently fitted up with paintings and Gobelins tapestry, offered to conduct us to the Louvre, where we wished to proceed. We would have declined giving him this trouble, but giving mamma his arm, and pushing through the crowd in the first hall, he landed us in safety amongst the ancient paintings, offering, at the same time, if we would return next day, to show us the whole palace. This proposal, fearful of intruding on his time, mamma declined. But the evening is closing in upon us with the most elevated ideas of French politeness. After leaving the Louvre we took a long walk, and were alternately pleased and disappointed. The gardens of the Tuileries did not quite come up to our expectations, but we were amused by the troops of gaily-dressed people, whom we saw spending their day out of doors, in what papa called strenuous idleness,' their children playing around them, and they themselves seated on cane chairs, which we were told were hired by the day for so many sous a-piece; there they sat looking quite pleased with their exertions, giving the little ones every now and then, a roasted chestnut, or a sip of lemonade. I fear Miss Hannah More would have looked rather grave at such a mode of education. With many of the public buildings we were much struck; la Place Louis XV. is very fine, and deeply interesting, from the remembrance of the dreadful tragedy acted there. It is to be hoped the poor Duchess d'Angoulême is now able to view it with less acute feelings than ours this morning; if not, she is exposed to a perpetual martyrdom. But we saw it for the first time-to-morrow we might view it with more composure. Emily, is it not mysterious, the effect of time upon the human heart, even while memory and the power to feel remain the same? I am thinking a great deal more on this subject, but have got into a bewilderment, and cannot express my feelings. My ideas seemed to be packed up with my clothes-only a few words are lying about, and they are not the right ones. So good night, dear friend." I have thus given a specimen of the commencement of Florence's journal, and shall in future resort to it at such times as I think it may prove interesting to my young readers. After remaining some days in Paris, Mr. Percy proceeded with his family towards the south of France, and on reaching Nevers, Florence wrote as follows in her diary. 93 CHAPTER IX. "Nevers, November 13. 66 I HAVE not written for some days; indeed I have had little to describe; the country since leaving Fontainbleau has been uniformly flat and uninteresting, and the inns rather dirty and uncomfortable. This morning, after breakfast, we went to see a convent. One of the sisters conducted us over the building -it formed a square, the ground in the interior being laid out as a flower garden, and the cloisters ornamented with pots of roses and carnations: there was an air of quiet repose over the whole scene, which inspired us with feelings of respect and awe. Above the door of the chapel we saw the following inscription:- Ah que ce Maison est terrible, c'est la Maison de Dieu, et la porte du Ciel.' On entering, our conductress, after sprinkling herself with holy water, knelt down and became absorbed in her devotions. Several of the sisters were kneeling in prayer, and no sound broke the stillness around, save the occasional light footsteps of a nun as she left the chapel. Our attention was particularly attracted by the youthful figure and pensive attitude of one of those kneeling figures; no look or motion betrayed a consciousness of our presence. She slowly rose from her knees, and discovered to us a countenance of extreme loveliness, and in the bloom of youth, yet the traces of care were on her brow, and we fancied we could read a mournful history in her mild blue eyes. We left the chapel saddened by this idea, and the figure of this nun still haunts my imagination. "We have met here a lady who has just arrived from Montpelier; she gives such an account of the cold winds which prevail there in winter, that papa has determined to proceed to Aix, or perhaps to the neighbourhood of Marseilles. This town appeared to us large when seen from the bridge, but |