May, 1792.

You, my dear _____, who live in a land of pounds, ſhillings, and pence, can ſcarcely form an idea of our embarraſſments through the want of them. 'Tis true, theſe are petty evils; but when you conſider that they happen every day, and every hour, and that, if they are not very ſerious, they are very frequent, you will rejoice in the ſplendour of your national credit, which procures you all the accommodation of paper currency, without diminiſhing the circulation of ſpecie. Our only currency here conſiſts of aſſignats of 5 livres, 50, 100, 200, and upwards: therefore in making purchaſes, you muſt accommodate your wants to the value of your aſſignat, or you muſt owe the ſhopkeeper, or the ſhopkeeper muſt owe you; and, in ſhort, as an old woman aſſured me to-day, "C'eſt de quoi faire perdre la tete," and, if it laſted long, it would be the death of her. Within theſe few days, however, the municipalities have attempted to remedy the inconvenience, by creating ſmall paper of five, ten, fifteen, and twenty ſols, which they give in exchange for aſſignats of five livres; but the number they are allowed to iſſue is limited, and the demand for them ſo great, that the accommodation is inadequate to the difficulty of procuring it. On the days on which this paper (which iſ called billets de confiance) is iſſued, the Hotel de Ville is beſieged by a hoſt of women collected from all parts of the diſtrict—Peaſants, ſmall ſhopkeepers, fervant maids, and though laſt, not leaſt formidable— fiſhwomen. They uſually take their ſtand two or three hours before the time of delivery, and the interval is employed in diſcuſſing the news, and execrating paper money. But when once the door is opened, a ſcene takes place which bids defiance to language, and calls for the pencil of a Hogarth. Babel was, I dare ſay, comparatively to this, a place of retreat and ſilence. Clamours, revilings, contentions, tearing of hair, and breaking of heads, generally conclude the buſineſs; and, after the loſs of half a day's time, ſome part of their clothes, and the expence of a few bruiſes, the combatants retire with ſmall bills to the value of five, or perhaps ten livres, as the whole reſource to carry on their little commerce for the enſuing week. I doubt not but the paper may have had ſome ſhare in alienating the minds of the people from the revolution. Whenever I want to purchaſe any thing, the vender uſually anſwers my queſtion by another, and with a rueful kind of tone inquires, "En papier, madame?"—and the bargain concludes with a melancholy reflection on the hardneſs of the times.

The decrees relative to the prieſts have likewiſe occaſioned much diſſenſion; and it ſeems to me impolitic thus to have made religion the ſtandard of party. The high maſs, which is celebrated by a prieſt who has taken the oaths, is frequented by a numerous, but, it muſt be confeſſed, an ill-dreſt and ill-ſcented congregation; while the low maſs, which is later, and which is allowed the nonjuring clergy, has a gayer audience, but is much leſs crouded.—By the way, I believe many who formerly did not much diſturb themſelves about religious tenets, have become rigid Papiſts ſince an adherence to the holy ſee has become a criterion of political opinion. But if theſe ſeparatiſts are bigoted and obſtinate, the conventionaliſts on their ſide are ignorant and intolerant.

I enquired my way to-day to the Rue de l'Hopital. The woman I ſpoke to aſked me, in a menacing tone, what I wanted there. I replied, which waſ true, that I merely wanted to paſs through the ſtreet as my neareſt way home; upon which ſhe lowered her voice, and conducted me very civilly.—I mentioned the circumſtance on my return, and found that the nuns of the hoſpital had their maſs performed by a prieſt who had not taken the oaths, and that thoſe who were ſuſpected of going to attend it were inſulted, and ſometimes ill treated. A poor woman, ſome little time ago, who conceived perhaps that her ſalvation might depend on exerciſing her religion in the way ſhe had been accuſtomed to, perſiſted in going, and was uſed by the populace with ſuch a mixture of barbarity and indecency, that her life was deſpaired of. Yet this is the age and the country of Philoſophers.—Perhaps you will begin to think Swift's ſages, who only amuſed themſelves with endeavouring to propagate ſheep without wool, not ſo contemptible. I am almoſt convinced myſelf, that when a man once piques himſelf on being a philoſopher, if he does no miſchief you ought to be ſatiſfied with him.

We paſſed laſt Sunday with Mr. de ____'s tenants in the country. Nothing can equal the avidity of theſe people for news. We ſat down after dinner under ſome trees in the village, and Mr. de _____ began reading the Gazette to the farmers who were about us. In a few minutes every thing that could hear (for I leave underſtanding the pedantry of a French newſpaper out of the queſtion) were his auditors. A party at quoits in one field, and a dancing party in another, quitted their amuſements, and liſtened with undivided attention. I believe in general the farmers are the people moſt contented with the revolution, and indeed they have reaſon to be ſo; for at preſent they refuſe to ſell their corn unleſs for money, while they pay their rent in aſſignats; and farms being for the moſt part on leaſes, the objections of the landlord to this kind of payment are of no avail. Great encouragement is likewiſe held out to them to purchaſe national property, which I am informed they do to an extent that may for ſome time be injurious to agriculture; for in their eagerneſs to acquire land, the deprive themſelves of cultivating it. They do not, like our cruſading anceſtors, "ſell the paſture to buy the horſe," but the horſe to buy the paſture; ſo that we may expect to ſee in many places large farms in the hands of thoſe who are obliged to neglect them.

A great change has happened within the laſt year, with regard to landed property—ſo much has been ſold, that many farmers have had the opportunity of becoming proprietors. The rage of emigration, which the approach of war, pride, timidity, and vanity are daily increaſing, haſ occaſioned many of the Nobleſſe to ſell their eſtates, which, with thoſe of the Crown and the Clergy, form a large maſs of property, thrown as it were into general circulation. This may in future be beneficial to the country, but the preſent generation will perhaps have to purchaſe (and not cheaply) advantages they cannot enjoy. A philanthropiſt may not think of this with regret; and yet I know not why one race is preferable to another, or why an evil ſhould be endured by thoſe who exiſt now, in order that thoſe who ſucceed may be free from it.—I would willingly plant a million of acorns, that another age might be ſupplied with oaks; but I confeſs, I do not think it quite ſo pleaſant for us to want bread, in order that our deſcendants may have a ſuperfluity.

I am half aſhamed of theſe ſelfiſh arguments; but really I have been led to them through mere apprehenſion of what I fear the people may have yet to endure, in conſequence of the revolution.

I have frequently obſerved how little taſte the French have for the country, and I believe all my companions, except Mr. de _____, who took (as one always does) an intereſt in ſurveying his property, were heartily ennuyes with our little excurſion.—Mad. De _____, on her arrival, took her poſt by the farmer's fire-ſide, and was out of humour the whole day, inaſmuch as our fare was homely, and there was nothing but ruſtics to ſee or be ſeen by. That a plain dinner ſhould be a ſerious affair, you may not wonder; but the laſt cauſe of diſtreſs, perhaps you will not conclude quite ſo natural at her years. All that can be ſaid about it is, that ſhe is a French woman, who rouges, and wears lilac ribbons, at ſeventy-four. I hope, in my zeal to obey you, my reflections will not be too voluminous.—For the preſent I will be warned by my conſcience, and add only, that I am, Yours.

June 10, 1792.

You obſerve, with ſome ſurprize, that I make no mention of the Jacobinſ— the fact is, that until now I have heard very little about them. Your Engliſh partizans of the revolution have, by publiſhing their correſpondence with theſe ſocieties, attributed a conſequence to them infinitely beyond what they have had pretenſions to:—a prophet, it iſ ſaid, is not honoured in his own country—I am ſure a Jacobin is not. In provincial towns theſe clubs are generally compoſed of a few of the loweſt tradeſmen, who have ſo diſintereſted a patriotiſm, as to beſtow more attention on the ſtate than on their own ſhops; and as a man may be an excellent patriot without the ariſtocratic talents of reading and writing, they uſually provide a ſecretary or preſident, who can ſupply theſe deficiencieſ—a country attorney, a Pere de l'oratoire, or a diſbanded capuchin, is in moſt places the candidate for this office. The clubs often aſſemble only to read the newſpapers; but where they are ſufficiently in force, they make motions for "fetes," cenſure the municipalities, and endeavour to influence the elections of the memberſ who compoſe them.—That of Paris is ſuppoſed to conſiſt of about ſix thouſand members; but I am told their number and influence are daily increaſing, and that the National Aſſembly is more ſubſervient to them than it is willing to acknowledge—yet, I believe, the people at large are equally adverſe to the Jacobins, who are ſaid to entertain the chimerical project of forming a republic, and to the Ariſtocrates, who wiſh to reſtore the ancient government. The party in oppoſition to both theſe, who are called the Feuillans,* have the real voice of the people with them, and knowing this, they employ leſs art than their opponents, have no point of union, and perhaps may finally be undermined by intrigue, or even ſubdued by violence.

*They derive this appellation, as the Jacobins do theirs, from the convent at which they hold their meetings.

You ſeem not to comprehend why I include vanity among the cauſes of emigration, and yet I aſſure you it has had no ſmall ſhare in many of them. The gentry of the provinces, by thus imitating the higher nobleſſe, imagine they have formed a kind of a common cauſe, which may hereafter tend to equalize the difference of ranks, and aſſociate them with thoſe they have been accuſtomed to look up to as their ſuperiors. It is a kind of ton among the women, particularly to talk of their emigrated relations, with an accent more expreſſive of pride than regret, and which ſeems to lay claim to diſtinction rather than pity.

I muſt now leave you to contemplate the boaſted miſfortunes of theſe belles, that I may join the card party which forms their alleviation.— Adieu.

June 24, 1792.

You have doubtleſs learned from the public papers the late outrage of the Jacobins, in order to force the King to conſent to the formation of an army at Paris, and to ſign the decree for baniſhing the nonjuring Clergy. The newſpapers will deſcribe to you the proceſſion of the Sans-Culottes, the indecency of their banners, and the diſorders which were the reſult— but it is impoſſible for either them or me to convey an idea of the general indignation excited by theſe atrocities. Every well-meaning perſon is grieved for the preſent, and apprehenſive for the future: and I am not without hope, that this open avowal of the deſigns of the Jacobins, will unite the Conſtitutionaliſts and Ariſtocrates, and that they will join their efforts in defence of the Crown, as the only meanſ of ſaving both from being overwhelmed by a faction, who are now become too daring to be deſpiſed. Many of the municipalities and departmentſ are preparing to addreſs they King, on the fortitude he diſplayed in thiſ hour of inſult and peril.—I know not why, but the people have been taught to entertain a mean opinion of his perſonal courage; and the late violence will at leaſt have the good effect of undeceiving them. It iſ certain, that he behaved on this occaſion with the utmoſt coolneſs; and the Garde Nationale, whoſe hand he placed on his heart, atteſted that it had no unuſual palpitation.

That the King ſhould be unwilling to ſanction the raiſing an army under the immediate auſpice of the avowed enemies of himſelf, and of the conſtitution he has ſworn to protect, cannot be much wondered at; and thoſe who know the Catholic religion, and conſider that this Prince iſ devout, and that he has reaſon to ſuſpect the fidelity of all who approach him, will wonder ſtill leſs that he refuſes to baniſh a claſs of men, whoſe influence is extenſive, and whoſe intereſt it is to preſerve their attachment to him.

Theſe events have thrown a gloom over private ſocieties; and public amuſements, as I obſerved in a former letter, are little frequented; ſo that, on the whole, time paſſes heavily with a people who, generally ſpeaking, have few reſources in themſelves. Before the revolution, France was at this ſeaſon a ſcene of much gaiety. Every village had alternately a ſort of Fete, which nearly anſwers to our Wake—but with this difference, that it was numerouſly attended by all ranks, and the amuſement was dancing, inſtead of wreſtling and drinking. Several ſmall fields, or different parts of a large one, were provided with muſic, diſtinguiſhed by flags, and appropriated to the ſeveral claſſes of dancerſ—one for the peaſants, another for the bourgeois, and a third for the higher orders. The young people danced beneath the ardour of a July ſun, while the old looked on and regaled themſelves with beer, cyder, and gingerbread. I was always much pleaſed with this village feſtivity: it gratified my mind more than ſelect and expenſive amuſements, becauſe it was general, and within the power of all who choſe to partake of it; and the little diſtinction of rank which was preſerved, far from diminiſhing the pleaſure of any, added, I am certain, to the freedom of all. By mixing with thoſe only of her own claſs, the Payſanne* was ſpared the temptation of envying the pink ribbons of the Bourgeoiſe, who in her turn was not diſturbed by an immediate rivalſhip with the ſaſh and plumes of the provincial belle. But this cuſtom is now much on the decline. The young women avoid occaſions where an inebriated ſoldier may offer himſelf as her partner in the dance, and her refuſal be attended with inſult to herſelf, and danger to thoſe who protect her; and as this licence iſ nearly as offenſive to the decent Bourgeoiſe as to the female of higher condition, this ſort of fete will moſt probably be entirely abandoned.

*The head-dreſs of the French Payſanne is uniformly a ſmall cap, without ribbon or ornament of any kind, except in that part of Normandy which is called the Pays de Caux, where the Payſanneſ wear a particular kind of head dreſs, ornamented with ſilver.

The people here all dance much better than thoſe of the ſame rank in England; but this national accompliſhment is not inſtinctive: for though few of the laborious claſs have been taught to read, there are ſcarcely any ſo poor as not to beſtow three livres for a quarter's inſtruction from a dancing maſter; and with this three monthſ' noviciate they become qualified to dance through the reſt of their lives.

The rage for emigration, and the approach of the Auſtrians, have occaſioned many reſtrictions on travelling, eſpecially near the ſeacoaſt of frontiers. No perſon can paſs through a town without a paſſport from the municipality he reſides in, ſpecifying his age, the place of hiſ birth, his deſtination, the height of his perſon, and the features of hiſ face. The Marquis de C____ entered the town yeſterday, and at the gate preſented his paſſport as uſual; the guard looked at the paſſport, and in a high tone demanded his name, whence he came, and where he was going. M. de C____ referred him to the paſſport, and ſuſpecting the man could not read, perſiſted in refuſing to give a verbal account of himſelf, but with much civility preſſed the peruſal of the paſſport; adding, that if it was informal, Monſieur might write to the municipality that granted it. The man, however, did not approve of the jeſt, and took the Marquiſ before the municipality, who ſentenced him to a month's impriſonment for his pleaſantry.

The French are becoming very grave, and a bon-mot will not now, aſ formerly, ſave a man's life.—I do not remember to have ſeen in any Engliſh print an anecdote on this ſubject, which at once marks the levity of the Pariſians, and the wit and preſence of mind of the Abbe Maury.—At the beginning of the revolution, when the people were very much incenſed againſt the Abbe, he was one day, on quitting the Aſſembly, ſurrounded by an enraged mob, who ſeized on him, and were hurrying him away to execution, amidſt the univerſal cry of a la lanterne! a la lanterne! The Abbe, with much coolneſs and good humour, turned to thoſe neareſt him, "Eh bien mes amis et quand je ſerois a la lanterne, en verriez vous pluſ clair?" Thoſe who held him were diſarmed, the bon-mot flew through the croud, and the Abbe eſcaped while they were applauding it.—I have nothing to offer after this trait which is worthy of ſucceeding it, but will add that I am always Yours.

July 24, 1792.

Our revolution aera has paſſed tranquilly in the provinces, and with leſſ turbulence at Paris than was expected. I conſign to the Gazette-writerſ thoſe long deſcriptions that deſcribe nothing, and leave the mind aſ unſatiſfied as the eye. I content myſelf with obſerving only, that the ceremony here was gay, impreſſive, and animating. I indeed have often remarked, that the works of nature are better deſcribed than thoſe of art. The ſcenes of nature, though varied, are uniform; while the productions of art are ſubject to the caprices of whim, and the viciſſitudes of taſte. A rock, a wood, or a valley, however the ſcenery may be diverſified, always conveys a perfect and diſtinct image to the mind; but a temple, an altar, a palace, or a pavilion, requires a detail, minute even to tediouſneſs, and which, after all, gives but an imperfect notion of the object. I have as often read deſcriptions of the Vatican, as of the Bay of Naples; yet I recollect little of the former, while the latter ſeems almoſt familiar to me.—Many are ſtrongly impreſſed with the ſcenery of Milton's Paradiſe, who have but confuſed ideas of the ſplendour of Pandemonium. The deſcriptions, however, are equally minute, and the poetry of both is beautiful.

But to return to this country, which is not abſolutely a Paradiſe, and I hope will not become a Pandemonium—the ceremony I have been alluding to, though really intereſting, is by no means to be conſidered as a proof that the ardour for liberty increaſes: on the contrary, in proportion aſ theſe fetes become more frequent, the enthuſiaſm which they excite ſeemſ to diminiſh. "For ever mark, Lucilius, when Love begins to ſicken and decline, it uſeth an enforced ceremony." When there were no foederations, the people were more united. The planting trees of liberty ſeems to have damped the ſpirit of freedom; and ſince there has been a decree for wearing the national colours, they are more the marks of obedience than proofs of affection.—I cannot pretend to decide whether the leaders of the people find their followers leſs warm than they were, and think it neceſſary to ſtimulate them by theſe ſhows, or whether the ſhows themſelves, by too frequent repetition, have rendered the people indifferent about the objects of them.—Perhaps both theſe ſuppoſitionſ are true. The French are volatile and material; they are not very capable of attachment to principles. External objects are requiſite for them, even in a ſlight degree; and the momentary enthuſiaſm that iſ obtained by affecting their ſenſes ſubſides with the concluſion of a favourite air, or the end of a gaudy proceſſion.

The Jacobin party are daily gaining ground; and ſince they have forced a miniſtry of their own on the King, their triumph has become ſtill more inſolent and deciſive.—A ſtorm is ſaid to be hovering over us, which I think of with dread, and cannot communicate with ſafety—"Heaven ſquare the trial of thoſe who are implicated, to their proportioned ſtrength!"— Adieu.

Auguſt 4, 1792.

I muſt repeat to you, that I have no talent for deſcription; and, having ſeldom been able to profit by the deſcriptions of others, I am modeſt enough not willingly to attempt one myſelf. But, as you obſerve, the ceremony of a foederation, though familiar to me, is not ſo to my Engliſh friends; I therefore obey your commands, though certain of not ſucceeding ſo as to gratify your curioſity in the manner you too partially expect.

The temple where the ceremony was performed, was erected in an open ſpace, well choſen both for convenience and effect. In a large circle on this ſpot, twelve poſts, between fifty and ſixty feet high, were placed at equal diſtances, except one larger, opening in front by way of entrance. On each alternate poſt were faſtened ivy, laurel, &c. ſo as to form a thick body which entirely hid the ſupport. Theſe greens were then ſhorn (in the manner you ſee in old faſhioned gardens) into the form of Doric columns, of dimenſions proportioned to their height. The intervening poſts were covered with white cloth, which was ſo artificially folded, as exactly to reſemble fluted pillarſ—from the baſes of which aſcended ſpiral wreaths of flowers. The whole waſ connected at top by a bold feſtoon of foliage, and the capital of each column was ſurmounted by a vaſe of white lilies. In the middle of thiſ temple was placed an altar, hung round with lilies, and on it was depoſed the book of the conſtitution. The approach to the altar was by a large flight of ſteps, covered with beautiful tapeſtry.

All this having been arranged and decorated, (a work of ſeveral days,) the important aera was uſhered in by the firing of cannon, ringing of bells, and an appearance of buſtle and hilarity not to be ſeen on any other occaſion. About ten, the members of the diſtrict, the municipality, and the judges in their habits of ceremony, met at the great church, and from thence proceeded to the altar of liberty. The troops of the line, the Garde Nationale of the town, and of all the ſurrounding communes, then arrived, with each their reſpective muſic and colours, which (reſerving one only of the latter to diſtinguiſh them in the ranks) they planted round the altar. This done, they retired, and forming a circle round the temple, left a large intermediate ſpace free. A maſs was then celebrated with the moſt perfect order and decency, and at the concluſion were read the rights of man and the conſtitution. The troops, Garde Nationale, &c. were then addreſſed by their reſpective officers, the oath to be faithful to the nation, the law, and the King, was adminiſtered: every ſword was drawn, and every hat waved in the air; while all the bands of muſic joined in the favorite ſtrain of ca ira.— This was followed by crowning, with the civic wreaths hung round the altar, a number of people, who during the year had been inſtrumental in ſaving the lives of their fellow-citizens that had been endangered by drowning or other accidents. This honorary reward was accompanied by a pecuniary one, and a fraternal embrace from all the conſtituted bodies. But this was not the graveſt part of the ceremony. The magiſtrates, however upright, were not all graceful, and the people, though they underſtood the value of the money, did not that of the civic wreaths, or the embraces; they therefore looked vacant enough during this part of the buſineſs, and grinned moſt facetiouſly when they began to examine the appearance of each other in their oaken crowns, and, I dare ſay, thought the whole comical enough.—This is one trait of national pedantry. Becauſe the Romans awarded a civic wreath for an act of humanity, the French have adopted the cuſtom; and decorate thus a ſoldier or a ſailor, who never heard of the Romans in his life, except in extracts from the New Teſtament at maſs.

But to return to our fete, of which I have only to add, that the magiſtrates departed in the order they obſerved in coming, and the troopſ and Garde Nationale filed off with their hats in the air, and with univerſal acclamations, to the ſound of ca ira.—Things of this kind are not ſuſceptible of deſcription. The detail may be unintereſting, while the general effect may have been impreſſive. The ſpirit of the ſcene I have been endeavouring to recall ſeems to have evaporated under my pen; yet to the ſpectator it was gay, elegant, and impoſing. The day waſ fine, a brilliant ſun glittered on the banners, and a gentle breeze gave them motion; while the ſatiſfied countenances of the people added ſpirit and animation to the whole.

I muſt remark to you, that devots, and determined ariſtocrates, ever attend on theſe occaſions. The piety of the one is ſhocked at a maſs by a prieſt who has taken the oaths, and the pride of the other is not yet reconciled to confuſion of ranks and popular feſtivities. I aſked a woman who brings us fruit every day, why ſhe had not come on the fourteenth as uſual. She told me ſhe did not come to the town, "a cauſe de la foederation"—"Vous etes ariſtocrate donc?"—"Ah, mon Dieu non—ce n'eſt pas que je ſuis ariſtocrate, ou democrate, mais que je ſuiſ Chretienne.*"

*"On account of the foederation."—"You are an ariſtocrate then, I ſuppoſe?"—"Lord, no! It is not becauſe I am an ariſtocrate, or a democrate, but becauſe I am a Chriſtian."

This is an inſtance, among many others I could produce, that our legiſlators have been wrong, in connecting any change of the national religion with the revolution. I am every day convinced, that this and the aſſignats are the great cauſes of the alienation viſible in many who were once the warmeſt patriots.—Adieu: do not envy us our fetes and ceremonies, while you enjoy a conſtitution which requires no oath to make you cheriſh it: and a national liberty, which is felt and valued without the aid of extrinſic decoration.—Yours.

Auguſt 15.

The conſternation and horror of which I have been partaker, will more than apologize for my ſilence. It is impoſſible for any one, however unconnected with the country, not to feel an intereſt in its preſent calamities, and to regret them. I have little courage to write even now, and you muſt pardon me if my letter ſhould bear marks of the general depreſſion. All but the faction are grieved and indignant at the King'ſ depoſition; but this grief is without energy, and this indignation ſilent. The partizans of the old government, and the friends of the new, are equally enraged; but they have no union, are ſuſpicious of each other, and are ſinking under the ſtupor of deſpair, when they ſhould be preparing for revenge.—It would not be eaſy to deſcribe our ſituation during the laſt week. The ineffectual efforts of La Fayette, and the violences occaſioned by them, had prepared us for ſomething ſtill more ſerious. On the ninth, we had a letter from one of the repreſentativeſ for this department, ſtrongly expreſſive of his apprehenſions for the morrow, but promiſing to write if he ſurvived it. The day, on which we expected news, came, but no poſt, no papers, no diligence, nor any meanſ of information. The ſucceeding night we ſat up, expecting letters by the poſt: ſtill, however, none arrived; and the courier only paſſed haſtily through, giving no detail, but that Paris was a feu et a ſang.*

* All fire and ſlaughter.

At length, after paſſing two days and nights in this dreadful ſuſpence, we received certain intelligence which even exceeded our fears.—It iſ needleſs to repeat the horrors that have been perpetrated. The accountſ muſt, ere now, have reached you. Our repreſentative, as he ſeemed to expect, was ſo ill treated as to be unable to write: he was one of thoſe who had voted the approval of La Fayette's conduct—all of whom were either maſſacred, wounded, or intimidated; and, by this means, a majority was procured to vote the depoſition of the King. The party allow, by their own accounts, eight thouſand perſons to have periſhed on thiſ occaſion; but the number is ſuppoſed to be much more conſiderable. No papers are publiſhed at preſent except thoſe whoſe editors, being memberſ of the Aſſembly, and either agents or inſtigators of the maſſacres, are, of courſe, intereſted in concealing or palliating them.—-Mr. De _____ has juſt now taken up one of theſe atrocious journals, and exclaims, with tears ſtarting from his eyes, "On a abattu la ſtatue d'Henri quatre!*"

*"They have deſtroyed the ſtatue of Henry the Fourth."

The ſacking of Rome by the Goths offers no picture equal to the licentiouſneſs and barbarity committed in a country which calls itſelf the moſt enlightened in Europe.—But, inſtead of recording theſe horrors, I will fill up my paper with the Choeur Bearnais.

It was publiſhed ſome time ago in a periodical work, (written with great ſpirit and talents,) called "The Acts of the Apoſtles," and, I believe, has not yet appeared in England. The ſituation of the King gives a peculiar intereſt to theſe ſtanzas, which, merely as a poetical compoſition, are very beautiful. I have often attempted to tranſlate them, but have always found it impoſſible to preſerve the effect and ſimplicity of the original. They are ſet to a little plaintive air, very happily characteriſtic of the words.

Perhaps I ſhall not write to you again from hence, as we depart for A_____ on Tueſday next. A change of ſcene will diſſipate a little the ſeriouſneſs we have contracted during the late events. If I were determined to indulge grief or melancholy, I would never remove from the ſpot where I had formed the reſolution. Man is a proud animal even when oppreſſed by miſfortune. He ſeeks for his tranquility in reaſon and reflection; whereas, a poſt-chaiſe and four, or even a hard-trotting horſe, is worth all the philoſophy in the world.—But, if, as I obſerved before, a man be determined to reſiſt conſolation, he cannot do better than ſtay at home, and reaſon and phoſophize.

Adieu:—the ſituation of my friends in this country makes me think of England with pleaſure and reſpect; and I ſhall conclude with a very homely couplet, which, after all the faſhionable liberality of modern travellers, contains a great deal of truth:

Yours, &c.

Auguſt 22, 1792.

The hour is paſt, in which, if the King's friends had exerted themſelves, they might have procured a movement in his favour. The people were at firſt amazed, then grieved; but the national philoſophy already begins to operate, and they will ſink into indifference, till again awakened by ſome new calamity. The leaders of the faction do not, however, entirely depend either on the ſupineneſs of their adverſaries, or the ſubmiſſion of the people. Money is diſtributed amongſt the idle and indigent, and agents are nightly employed in the public houſes to comment on newſpapers, written for the purpoſe to blacken the King and exalt the patriotiſm of the party who have dethroned him. Much uſe has likewiſe been made of the advances of the Pruſſians towards Champagne, and the uſual mummery of ceremony has not been wanting. Robeſpierre, in a burſt of extemporary energy, previouſly ſtudied, has declared the country in danger. The declaration has been echoed by all the departments, and proclaimed to the people with much ſolemnity. We were not behind hand in the ceremonial of the buſineſs, though, ſomehow, the effect was not ſo ſerious and impoſing as one could have wiſhed on ſuch an occaſion. A ſmart flag, with the words "Citizens, the country is in danger," waſ prepared; the judges and the municipality were in their coſtume, the troops and Garde Nationale under arms, and an orator, ſurrounded by hiſ cortege, harangued in the principal parts of the town on the text of the banner which waved before him.

All this was very well; but, unfortunately, in order to diſtinguiſh the orator amidſt the croud, it was determined he ſhould harangue on horſeback. Now here aroſe a difficulty which all the ardour of patriotiſm was not able to ſurmount. The French are in general but indifferent equeſtrians; and it ſo happened that, in our municipality, thoſe who could ſpeak could not ride, and thoſe who could ride could not ſpeak. At length, however, after much debating, it was determined that arms ſhould yield to the gown, or rather, the horſe to the orator—with this precaution, that the monture ſhould be properly ſecured, by an attendant to hold the bridle. Under this ſafeguard, the rhetorician iſſued forth, and the firſt part of the ſpeech was performed without accident; but when, by way of relieving the declaimer, the whole military band began to flouriſh ca ira, the horſe, even more patriotic than hiſ rider, curvetted and twiſted with ſo much animation, that however the ſpectators might be delighted, the orator was far from participating in their ſatiſfaction. After all this, the ſpeech was to be finiſhed, and the ſilence of the muſic did not immediately tranquillize the animal. The orator's eye wandered from the paper that contained his ſpeech, with wiſtful glances toward the mane; the fervor of his indignation againſt the Auſtrians was frequently calmed by the involuntary ſtrikings he waſ obliged to ſubmit to; and at the very criſis of the emphatic declaration, he ſeemed much leſs occupied by his country's danger than his own. The people, who were highly amuſed, I dare ſay, conceived the whole ceremony to be a rejoicing, and at every repetition that the country was in danger, joined with great glee in the chorus of ca ira.*

*The oration conſiſted of ſeveral parts, each ending with a kind of burden of "Citoyens, la patri eſt en danger;" and the arrangers of the ceremony had not ſelected appropriate muſic: ſo that the band, who had been accuſtomed to play nothing elſe on public occaſions, ſtruck up ca ira at every declaration that the country was in danger!

Many of the ſpectators, I believe, had for ſome time been convinced of the danger that threatened the country, and did not ſuppoſe it much increaſed by the events of the war; others were pleaſed with a ſhow, without troubling themſelves about the occaſion of it; and the maſs, except when rouzed to attention by their favourite air, or the exhibitions of the equeſtrian orator, looked on with vacant ſtupidity. —This tremendous flag is now ſuſpended from a window of the Hotel de Ville, where it is to remain until the inſcription it wears ſhall no longer be true; and I heartily wiſh, the diſtreſſes of the country may not be more durable than the texture on which they are proclaimed.

Our journey is fixed for to-morrow, and all the morning has been paſſed in attendance for our paſſports.—This affair is not ſo quickly diſpatched as you may imagine. The French are, indeed, ſaid to be a very lively people, but we miſtake their volubility for vivacity; for in their public offices, their ſhops, and in any tranſaction of buſineſs, no people on earth can be more tediouſ—they are ſlow, irregular, and loquacious; and a retail Engliſh Quaker, with all his formalities, would diſpoſe of half his ſtock in leſs time than you can purchaſe a three ſolſ ſtamp from a briſk French Commis. You may therefore conceive, that thiſ official portraiture of ſo many females was a work of time, and not very pleaſant to the originals. The delicacy of an Engliſhman may be ſhocked at the idea of examining and regiſtering a lady's features one after another, like the articles of a bill of lading; but the cold and ſyſtematic gallantry of a Frenchman is not ſo ſcrupulous.—The officer, however, who is employed for this purpoſe here, is civil, and I ſuſpected the infinity of my noſe, and the acuteneſs of Mad. de ____'s chin, might have diſconcerted him; but he extricated himſelf very decently. My noſe is enrolled in the order of aquilines, and the old lady's chin pared off to a "menton un peu pointu."—[A longiſh chin.]

The carriages are ordered for ſeven to-morrow. Recollect, that ſeven females, with all their appointments, are to occupy them, and then calculate the hour I ſhall begin increaſing my diſtance from England and my friends. I ſhall not do it without regret; yet perhaps you will be leſs inclined to pity me than the unfortunate wights who are to eſcort us. A journey of an hundred miles, with French horſes, French carriages, French harneſs, and ſuch an unreaſonable female charge, is, I confeſs, in great humility, not to be ventured on without a moſt determined patience.—I ſhall write to you on our arrival at Arras; and am, till then, at all times, and in all places, Yours.

Heſdin.

We arrived here laſt night, notwithſtanding the difficulties of our firſt ſetting out, in tolerable time; but I have gained ſo little in point of repoſe, that I might as well have continued my journey. We are lodged at an inn which, though large and the beſt in the town, is ſo diſguſtingly filthy, that I could not determine to undreſs myſelf, and am now up and ſcribbling, till my companions ſhall be ready. Our embarkation will, I foreſee, be a work of time and labour; for my friend, Mad. de ____, beſides the uſual attendants on a French woman, a femme de chambre and a lap-dog, travels with ſeveral cages of canary-birds, ſome pots of curiouſ exotics, and a favourite cat; all of which muſt be diſpoſed of ſo as to produce no interſtine commotions during the journey. Now if you conſider the nature of theſe fellow-travellers, you will allow it not ſo eaſy a matter as may at firſt be ſuppoſed, eſpecially as their fair miſtreſſ will not allow any of them to be placed in any other carriage than her own.—A fray happened yeſterday between the cat and the dog, during which the birds were overſet, and the plants broken. Poor M. de ____, with a ſort of rueful good nature, ſeparated the combatants, reſtored order, and was obliged to purchaſe peace by charging himſelf with the care of the aggreſſor.

I ſhould not have dwelt ſo long on theſe trifling occurrences, but that they are characteriſtic. In England, this paſſion for animals is chiefly confined to old maids, but here it is general. Almoſt every woman, however numerous her family, has a nurſery of birds, an angola, and two or three lap-dogs, who ſhare her cares with her huſband and children. The dogs have all romantic names, and are enquired after with ſo much ſolicitude when they do not make one in a viſit, that it was ſome time before I diſcovered that Nina and Roſine were not the young ladies of the family. I do not remember to have ſeen any huſband, however maſter of his houſe in other reſpects, daring enough to diſplace a favourite animal, even though it occupied the only vacant fauteuil.

The entrance into Artois from Picardy, though confounded by the new diviſion, is ſufficiently marked by a higher cultivation, and a more fertile ſoil. The whole country we have paſſed is agreeable, but uniform; the roads are good, and planted on each ſide with trees, moſtly elms, except here and there ſome rows of poplar or apple. The land iſ all open, and ſown in diviſions of corn, carrots, potatoes, tobacco, and poppies of which laſt they make a coarſe kind of oil for the uſe of painters. The country is entirely flat, and the view every where bounded by woods interſperſed with villages, whoſe little ſpires peeping through the trees have a very pleaſing effect.

The people of Artois are ſaid to be highly ſuperſtitious, and we have already paſſed a number of ſmall chapels and croſſes, erected by the road ſide, and ſurrounded by tufts of trees. Theſe are the inventions of a miſtaken piety; yet they are not entirely without their uſe, and I cannot help regarding them with more complacence than a rigid Proteſtant might think allowable. The weary traveller here finds ſhelter from a mid-day ſun, and ſolaces his mind while he repoſes his body. The glittering equipage rolls by—he recalls the painful ſteps he has paſt, anticipateſ thoſe which yet remain, and perhaps is tempted to repine; but when he turns his eye on the croſs of Him who has promiſed a recompence to the ſufferers of this world, he checks the ſigh of envy, forgets the luxury which excited it, and purſues his way with reſignation. The Proteſtant religion proſcribes, and the character of the Engliſh renderſ unneceſſary, theſe ſenſible objects of devotion; but I have always been of opinion, that the levity of the French in general would make them incapable of perſevering in a form of worſhip equally abſtracted and rational. The Spaniards, and even the Italians, might aboliſh their croſſes and images, and yet preſerve their Chriſtianity; but if the French ceaſed to be bigots, they would become atheiſts.

This is a ſmall fortified town, though not of ſtrength to offer any reſiſtance to artillery. Its proximity to the frontier, and the dread of the Auſtrians, make the inhabitants very patriotic. We were ſurrounded by a great croud of people on our arrival, who had ſome ſuſpicion that we were emigrating; however, as ſoon as our paſſports were examined and declared legal, they retired very peaceably.

The approach of the enemy keeps up the ſpirit of the people, and, notwithſtanding their diſſatiſfaction at the late events, they have not yet felt the change of their government ſufficiently to deſire the invaſion of an Auſtrian army.—Every village, every cottage, hailed uſ with the cry of Vive la nation! The cabaret invites you to drink beer a la nation, and offers you lodging a la nation—the chandler's ſhop ſellſ you ſnuff and hair powder a la nation—and there are even patriotic barbers whoſe ſigns inform you, that you may be ſhaved and have your teeth drawn a la nation! Theſe are acts of patriotiſm one cannot reaſonably object to; but the frequent and tedious examination of one'ſ paſſports by people who can't read, is not quite ſo inoffenſive, and I ſometimes loſe my patience. A very vigilant Garde Nationale yeſterday, after ſpelling my paſſport over for ten minutes, objected that it was not a good one. I maintained that it was; and feeling a momentary importance at the recollection of my country, added, in an aſſuring tone, "Et d'ailleurs je ſuis Anglaiſe et par conſequent libre d'aller ou bon me ſemble.*" The man ſtared, but admitted my argument, and we paſſed on.

*"Beſides, I am a native of England, and, conſequently, have a right to go where I pleaſe."

My room door is half open, and gives me a proſpect into that of Mad. de L____, which is on the oppoſite ſide of the paſſage. She has not yet put on her cap, but her grey hair is profuſely powdered; and, with no other garments than a ſhort under petticoat and a corſet, ſhe ſtands for the edification of all who paſs, putting on her rouge with a ſtick and a bundle of cotton tied to the end of it.—All travellers agree in deſcribing great indelicacy to the French women; yet I have ſeen no accounts which exaggerate it, and ſcarce any that have not been more favourable than a ſtrict adherence to truth might juſtify. Thiſ inattractive part of the female national character is not confined to the lower or middling claſſes of life; and an Engliſh woman is as likely to be put to the bluſh in the boudoir of a Marquiſe, as in the ſhop of the Griſette, which ſerves alſo for her dreſſing-room.

If I am not too idle, or too much amuſed, you will ſoon be informed of my arrival at Arras; but though I ſhould neglect to write, be perſuaded I ſhall never ceaſe to be, with affection and eſteem, Yours, &c.

Arras, Auguſt, 1792.

The appearance of Arras is not buſy in proportion to its population, becauſe its population is not equal to its extent; and as it is a large, without being a commercial, town, it rather offers a view of the tranquil enjoyment of wealth, than of the buſtle and activity by which it iſ procured. The ſtreets are moſtly narrow and ill paved, and the ſhopſ look heavy and mean; but the hotels, which chiefly occupy the low town, are large and numerous. What is called la Petite Place, is really very large, and ſmall only in compariſon with the great one, which, I believe, is the largeſt in France. It is, indeed, an immenſe quadrangle—the houſes are in the Spaniſh form, and it has an arcade all round it. The Spaniards, by whom it was built, forgot, probably, that this kind of ſhelter would not be ſo deſirable here as in their own climate. The manufacture of tapeſtry, which a ſingle line of Shakeſpeare haſ immortalized, and aſſociated with the mirthful image of his fat Knight, has fallen into decay. The manufacturers of linen and woollen are but inconſiderable; and one, which exiſted till lately, of a very durable porcelain, is totally neglected. The principal article of commerce iſ lace, which is made here in great quantities. The people of all ages, from five years old to ſeventy, are employed in this delicate fabrick. In fine weather you will ſee whole ſtreets lined with females, each with her cuſhion on her lap. The people of Arras are uncommonly dirty, and the lacemakers do not in this matter differ from their fellow-citizens; yet at the door of a houſe, which, but for the ſurrounding ones, you would ſuppoſe the common receptacle of all the filth in the vicinage, iſ often ſeated a female artizan, whoſe fingers are forming a point of unblemiſhed whiteneſs. It is inconceivable how faſt the bobbins move under their hands; and they ſeem to beſtow ſo little attention on their work, that it looks more like the amuſement of idleneſs than an effort of induſtry. I am no judge of the arguments of philoſophers and politicianſ for and againſt the uſe of luxury in a ſtate; but if it be allowable at all, much may be ſaid in favour of this pleaſing article of it. Children may be taught to make it at a very early age, and they can work at home under the inſpection of their parents, which is certainly preferable to crouding them together in manufactories, where their health is injured, and their morals are corrupted.

By requiring no more implements than about five ſhillings will purchaſe, a lacemaker is not dependent on the ſhopkeeper, nor the head of a manufactory. All who chooſe to work have it in their own power, and can diſpoſe of the produce of their labour, without being at the mercy of an avaricious employer; for though a tolerable good workwoman can gain a decent livelihood by ſelling to the ſhops, yet the profit of the retailer is ſo great, that if he rejected a piece of lace, or refuſed to give a reaſonable price for it, a certain ſale would be found with the individual conſumer: and it is a proof of the independence of thiſ employ, that no one will at preſent diſpoſe of their work for paper, and it ſtill continues to be paid for in money. Another argument in favour of encouraging lace-making is, that it cannot be uſurped by men: you may have men-milliners, men-mantuamakers, and even ladieſ' valets, but you cannot well faſhion the clumſy and inflexible fingers of man to lace-making. We import great quantities of lace from this country, yet I imagine we might, by attention, be enabled to ſupply other countries, inſtead of purchaſing abroad ourſelves. The art of ſpinning is daily improving in England; and if thread ſufficiently fine can be manufactured, there is no reaſon why we ſhould not equal our neighbourſ in the beauty of this article. The hands of Engliſh women are more delicate than thoſe of the French; and our climate is much the ſame aſ that of Bruſſels, Arras, Liſle, &c. where the fineſt lace is made.

The population of Arras is eſtimated at about twenty-five thouſand ſouls, though many people tell me it is greater. It has, however, been lately much thinned by emigration, ſuppreſſion of convents, and the decline of trade, occaſioned by the abſence of ſo many rich inhabitants.—The Jacobins are here become very formidable: they have taken poſſeſſion of a church for their meetings, and, from being the ridicule, are become the terror of all moderate people.

Yeſterday was appointed for taking the new oath of liberty and equality. I did not ſee the ceremony, as the town was in much confuſion, and it waſ deemed unſafe to be from home. I underſtand it was attended only by the very refuſe of the people, and that, as a gallanterie analogue, the Preſident of the department gave his arm to Madame Duchene, who ſellſ apples in a cellar, and is Preſidente of the Jacobin club. It is, however, reported to-day, that ſhe is in diſgrace with the ſociety for her condeſcenſion; and her parading the town with a man of forty thouſand livres a year is thought to be too great a compliment to the ariſtocracy of riches; ſo that Mons. Le Preſident's political gallantry has availed him nothing. He has debaſed and made himſelf the ridicule of the Ariſtocrates and Conſtitutionaliſts, without paying his court, as he intended, to the popular faction. I would always wiſh it to happen ſo to thoſe who offer up incenſe to the mob. As human beings, as one's fellow creatures, the poor and uninformed have a claim to our affection and benevolence, but when they become legiſlators, they are abſurd and contemptible tyrants.—A propoſ—we were obliged to acknowledge this new ſovereignty by illuminating the houſe on the occaſion; and this was not ordered by nocturnal vociferation as in England, but by a regular command from an officer deputed for that purpoſe.

I am concerned to ſee the people accuſtomed to take a number of incompatible oaths with indifference: it neither will nor can come to any good; and I am ready to exclaim with Juliet—"Swear not at all." Or, if ye muſt ſwear, quarrel not with the Pope, that your conſciences may at leaſt be relieved by diſpenſations and indulgences.

To-morrow we go to Liſle, notwithſtanding the report that it has already been ſummoned to ſurrender. You will ſcarcely ſuppoſe it poſſible, yet we find it difficult to learn the certainty of this, at the diſtance of only thirty miles: but communication is much leſs frequent and eaſy here than in England. I am not one of thoſe "unfortunate women who delight in war;" and, perhaps, the ſight of this place, ſo famous for itſ fortifications, will not be very amuſing to me, nor furniſh much matter of communication for my friends; but I ſhall write, if it be only to aſſure you that I am not made prize of by the Auſtrians. Yours, &c.

Liſle, Auguſt, 1792.

You reſtleſs iſlanders, who are continually racking imagination to perfect the art of moving from one place to another, and who can drop aſleep in a carriage and wake at an hundred mile diſtance, have no notion of all the difficulties of a day's journey here. In the firſt place, all the horſes of private perſons have been taken for the uſe of the army, and thoſe for hire are conſtantly employed in going to the camp—hence, there is a difficulty in procuring horſes. Then a French carriage iſ never in order, and in France a job is not to be done juſt when you want it—ſo that there is often a difficulty in finding vehicles. Then there is the difficulty of paſſports, and the difficulty of gates, if you want to depart early. Then the difficulties of patching harneſs on the road, and, above all, the inflexible ſang froid of drivers. All theſe thingſ conſidered, you will not wonder that we came here a day after we intended, and arrived at night, when we ought to have arrived at noon. —The carriage wanted a trifling repair, and we could get neither paſſports nor horſes. The horſes were gone to the army—the municipality to the club—and the blackſmith was employed at the barracks in making a patriotic harangue to the ſoldiers.—But we at length ſurmounted all theſe obſtacles, and reached this place laſt night.

The road between Arras and Liſle is equally rich with that we before paſſed, but is much more diverſified. The plain of Lens is not ſuch a ſcene of fertility, that one forgets it has once been that of war and carnage. We endeavoured to learn in the town whereabouts the column waſ erected that commemmorates that famous battle, [1648.] but no one ſeemed to know any thing of the matter. One who, we flattered ourſelves, looked more intelligent than the reſt, and whom we ſuppoſed might be an attorney, upon being aſked for this ſpot,—(where, added Mr. de ____, by way of aſſiſting his memory, "le Prince de Conde ſ'eſt battu ſi bien,") —replied, "Pour la bataille je n'en ſais rien, mais pour le Prince de Conde il y a deja quelque tems qu'il eſt emigre—on le dit a Coblentz."* After this we thought it in vain to make any farther enquiry, and continued our walk about the town.

*"Where the Prince of Conde fought ſo gallantly."—"As to the battle I know nothing about the matter; but for the Prince of Conde he emigrated ſome time ſince—they ſay he is at Coblentz."

Mr. P____, who, according to French cuſtom, had not breakfaſted, took a fancy to ſtop at a baker's ſhop and buy a roll. The man beſtowed ſo much more civility on us than our two ſols were worth, that I obſerved, on quitting the ſhop, I was ſure he muſt be an Ariſtocrate. Mr. P____, who is a warm Conſtitutionaliſt, diſputed the juſtice of my inference, and we agreed to return, and learn the baker's political principles. After aſking for more rolls, we accoſted him with the uſual phraſe, "Et vous, Monſieur, vous etes bon patriote?"—"Ah, mon Dieu, oui, (replied he,) il faut bien l'etre a preſent."*

*"And you, Sir, are without doubt, a good patriot?"—"Oh Lord, Sir, yes; one's obliged to be ſo, now-a-days."

Mr. P____ admitted the man's tone of voice and countenance as good evidence, and acknowledged I was right.—It is certain that the French have taken it into their heads, that coarſeneſs of manners is a neceſſary conſequence of liberty, and that there is a kind of leze nation in being too civil; ſo that, in general, I think I can diſcover the principles of ſhopkeepers, even without the indications of a melancholy mien at the aſſignats, or lamentations on the times.

The new doctrine of primeval equality has already made ſome progreſs. At a ſmall inn at Carvin, where, upon the aſſurance that they had every thing in the world, we ſtopped to dine, on my obſerving they had laid more covers than were neceſſary, the woman anſwered, "Et les domeſtiques, ne dinent ils pas?"—"And, pray, are the ſervants to have no dinner?"

We told her not with us, and the plates were taken away; but we heard her muttering in the kitchen, that ſhe believed we were ariſtocrates going to emigrate. She might imagine alſo that we were difficult to ſatiſfy, for we found it impoſſible to dine, and left the houſe hungry, notwithſtanding there was "every thing in the world" in it.

On the road between Carvin and Liſle we ſaw Dumouriez, who is going to take the command of the army, and has now been viſiting the camp of Maulde. He appears to be under the middle ſize, about fifty years of age, with a brown complexion, dark eyes, and an animated countenance. He was not originally diſtinguiſhed either by birth or fortune, and haſ arrived at his preſent ſituation by a concurrence of fortuitouſ circumſtances, by great and various talents, much addreſs, and a ſpirit of intrigue. He is now ſupported by the prevailing party; and, I confeſs, I could not regard with much complacence a man, whom the machinations of the Jacobins had forced into the miniſtry, and whoſe hypocritical and affected reſignation has contributed to deceive the people, and ruin the King.

Liſle has all the air of a great town, and the mixture of commercial induſtry and military occupation gives it a very gay and populouſ appearance. The Lillois are highly patriotic, highly incenſed againſt the Auſtrians, and regard the approaching ſiege with more contempt than apprehenſion. I aſked the ſervant who was making my bed this morning, how far the enemy was off. "Une lieue et demie, ou deux lieues, a moinſ qu'ils ne ſoient plus avances depuis hier,"* repled ſhe, with the utmoſt indifference.—I own, I did not much approve of ſuch a vicinage, and a view of the fortifications (which did not make the leſs impreſſion, becauſe I did not underſtand them,) was abſolutely neceſſary to raiſe my drooping courage.

*"A league and a half, or two leagues; unleſs, indeed, they have advanced ſince yeſterday."

This morning was dedicated to viſiting the churches, citadel, and Colliſee (a place of amuſement in the manner of our Vauxhall); but all theſe things have been ſo often deſcribed by much abler pens, that I cannot modeſtly pretend to add any thing on the ſubject.

In the evening we were at the theatre, which is large and handſome; and the conſtant reſidence of a numerous garriſon enables it to entertain a very good ſet of performers:—their operas in particular are extremely well got up. I ſaw Zemire et Azor given better than at Drury Lane.—In the farce, which was called Le Francois a Londres, was introduced a character they called that of an Engliſhman, (Jack Roaſtbeef,) who payſ his addreſſes to a nobleman's daughter, in a box coate, a large hat ſlouched over his eyes, and an oaken trowel in his hand—in ſhort, the whole figure exactly reſembling that of a watchman. His converſation iſ groſs and ſarcaſtic, interlarded with oaths, or relieved by fits of ſullen taciturnity—ſuch a lover as one may ſuppoſe, though rich, and the choice of the lady's father, makes no impreſſion; and the author haſ flattered the national vanity by making the heroine give the preference to a French marquis. Now there is no doubt but nine-tenths of the audience thought this a good portraiture of the Engliſh character, and enjoyed it with all the ſatiſfaction of conſcious ſuperiority.—The ignorance that prevails with regard to our manners and cuſtoms, among a people ſo near us, is ſurprizing. It is true, that the nobleſſe who have viſited England with proper recommendations, and have been introduced to the beſt ſociety, do us juſtice: the men of letters alſo, who, from party motives, extol every thing Engliſh, have done us perhaps more than juſtice. But I ſpeak of the French in general; not the lower claſſeſ only, but the gentry of the provinces, and even thoſe who in other reſpects have pretenſions to information. The fact is, living in England is expenſive: a Frenchman, whoſe income here ſupports him as a gentleman, goes over and finds all his habits of oeconomy inſufficient to keep him from exceeding the limits he had preſcribed to himſelf. His decent lodging alone coſts him a great part of his revenue, and obliges him to be ſtrictly parſimonious of the reſt. This drives him to aſſociate chiefly with his own countrymen, to dine at obſcure coffee-houſes, and pay his court to opera-dancers. He ſees, indeed, our theatres, our public walks, the outſide of our palaces, and the inſide of churches: but this gives him no idea of the manners of the people in ſuperior life, or even of eaſy fortune. Thus he goes home, and aſſerts to his untravelled countrymen, that our King and nobility are ill lodged, our churches mean, and that the Engliſh are barbarians, who dine without ſoup, uſe no napkin, and eat with their knives.—I have heard a gentleman of ſome reſpectability here obſerve, that our uſual dinner was an immenſe joint of meat half dreſt, and a diſh of vegetables ſcarcely dreſt at all.—Upon queſtioning him, I diſcovered he had lodged in St. Martin's Lane, had likewiſe boarded at a country attorney's of the loweſt claſs, and dined at an ordinary at Margate.

Some few weeks ago the Marquis de P____ ſet out from Paris in the diligence, and accompanied by his ſervant, with a deſign of emigrating. Their only fellow-traveller was an Engliſhman, whom they frequently addreſſed, and endeavoured to enter into converſation with; but he either remained ſilent, or gave them to underſtand he was entirely ignorant of the language. Under this perſuaſion the Marquis and his valet freely diſcuſſed their affairs, arranged their plan of emigration, and expreſſed, with little ceremony, their political opinions.—At the end of their journey they were denounced by their companion, and conducted to priſon. The magiſtrate who took the information mentioned the circumſtance when I happened to be preſent. Indignant at ſuch an act in an Engliſhman, I enquired his name. You will judge of my ſurprize, when he aſſured me it was the Engliſh Ambaſſador. I obſerved to him, that it was not common for our Ambaſſadors to travel in ſtage-coaches: this, he ſaid, he knew; but that having reaſon to ſuſpect the Marquis, Monſieur l'Ambaſſadeur had had the goodneſs to have him watched, and had taken this journey on purpoſe to detect him. It was not without much reaſoning, and the evidence of a lady who had been in England long enough to know the impoſſibility of ſuch a thing, that I would juſtify Lord G____ from this piece of complaiſance to the Jacobins, and convince the worthy magiſtrate he had been impoſed upon: yet this man is the Profeſſor of Eloquence at a college, is the oracle of the Jacobin ſociety; and may perhaps become a member of the Convention. This ſeems ſo almoſt incredibly abſurd, that I ſhould fear to repeat it, were it not known to many beſides myſelf; but I think I may venture to pronounce, from my own obſervation, and that of others, whoſe judgement, and occaſions of exerciſing it, give weight to their opinions, that the generality of the French who have read a little are mere pedants, nearly unacquainted with modern nations, their commercial and political relation, their internal laws, characters, or manners. Their ſtudies are chiefly confined to Rollin and Plutarch, the deiſtical works of Voltaire, and the viſionary politics of Jean Jaques. Hence they amuſe their hearers with alluſionſ to Caeſar and Lycurgus, the Rubicon, and Thermopylae. Hence they pretend to be too enlightened for belief, and deſpiſe all governments not founded on the Contrat Social, or the Profeſſion de Foi.—They are an age removed from the uſeful literature and general information of the middle claſſeſ in their own country—they talk familiarly of Sparta and Lacedemon, and have about the ſame idea of Ruſſia as they have of Caffraria. Yours.