ample decorations;
horses, with their Norman dimensions and undocked honours; men, on whose
more high though not less courteous demeanour, the revolution seems to
have wrought no democratic plebeianism--all strike on the mind with a
vague and nameless impression of antiquity; a something solemn even in
gaiety, and faded in pomp, appear to linger over all you behold; there
are the Great French people unadulterated by change, unsullied with the
commerce of the vagrant and various tribes that throng their mighty mart
of enjoyments.

The strangers who fill the quartiers on this side the Seine pass not
there; between them and the Faubourg there is a gulf; the very skies
seem different--your own feelings, thoughts--nature itself--alter,
when you have passed that Styx which divides the wanderers from the
habitants; your spirits are not so much damped, as tinged, refined,
ennobled by a certain inexpressible awe--you are girt with the
stateliness of Eld, and you tread the gloomy streets with the dignity of
a man, who is recalling the splendours of an ancient court where he once
did homage.

I arrived at Thornton's chambers in the Rue St. Dominique. "Monsieur,
est-il chez lui?" said I to the ancient porteress, who was reading one
of Crebillon's novels.

"Oui, Monsieur, au quatrieme," was the answer. I turned to the dark and
unclean staircase, and, after incredible exertion and fatigue, arrived,
at last, at the elevated abode of Mr. Thornton.

"Entrez," cried a voice, in answer to my rap. I obeyed the signal, and
found myself in a room of tolerable dimensions and multiplied utilities.
A decayed silk curtain of a dingy blue, drawn across a recess, separated
the chambre a coucher from the salon. It was at present only half drawn,
and did not, therefore, conceal the mysteries of the den within; the bed
was still unmade, and apparently of no very inviting cleanliness; a red
handkerchief, that served as a nightcap, hung pendant from the foot of
the bed; at a little distance from it, more towards the pillow, were a
shawl, a parasol, and an old slipper. On a table, which stood between
the two dull, filmy windows, were placed a cracked bowl, still reeking
with the less of gin-punch, two bottles half full, a mouldy cheese, and
a salad dish; on the ground beneath it lay two huge books, and a woman's
bonnet.

Thornton himself sat by a small consumptive fire, in an easy chair;
another table, still spread with the appliances of breakfas