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The traveller fared slowly on his way, who fared towards Paris

from England in the autumn of the year one thousand seven hundred

and ninety-two. More than enough of bad roads, bad equipages, and

bad horses, he would have encountered to delay him, though the

fallen and unfortunate King of France had been upon his throne in

all his glory; but, the changed times were fraught with other

obstacles than these. Every town-gate and village taxing-house

had its band of citizen-patriots, with their national muskets in

a most explosive state of readiness, who stopped all comers and

goers, cross-questioned them, inspected their papers, looked for

their names in lists of their own, turned them back, or sent them

on, or stopped them and laid them in hold, as their capricious

judgment or fancy deemed best for the dawning Republic One and

Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death.