But this is nothing to my travels-So I twicetwice beg pardon for it.

CHARACTER.

VERSAILLES.

AND how do you find the French? said the Count de B ****, after he had given me the passport. The reader may suppose that after so obliging a proof of courtesy, I could not be at a loss to say something handsome to the inquiry.

— Mais passe, pour cela-Speak frankly, said he ; do you find all the urbanity in the French which the world give us the honour of?--I had found every thing, I said, which confirmed it—Vraiment, said the count,-Les Francois sont polis.-To an excess, replied I.

The count took notice of the word excesse; and would have it I meant more than I said. I defended myself a long time as well as I could against it—he insisted I had a reserve, and that I would speak my opinion frankly.

I believe, Monsieur le Count, said I, that man has a certain compass, as well as an instrument; and that the social and other calls have occasion by turns for every key in him; so that if you begin a note too high or too low, there must be a want

either in the upper or under part, to fill up the system of harmony.-The Count de B **** did not understand music, so desired me to explain it some other way. A polished nation, my dear count, said I, makes every one its debtor; and, besides, Urbanity itself, like the fair sex, has so many charms, it goes against the heart to say it can do ill; and yet, I believe there is but a certain line of perfection that man, take him altogether, is empowered to arrive at-if he gets beyond, he rather exchanges qualities than gets them. I must not presume to say how far this has affected the French in the subject we are speaking of—but should it ever be the case of the English, in the progress of their resentments, to arrive at the same polish which distinguishes the French, if we did not lose the politesse du cœur, which inclines men more to human actions than courteous ones-we should at least lose that distinct variety and originality of character which distinguishes them, not only from each other, but from all the world besides.

I had a few king William's shillings, as smooth as glass, in my pocket, and foreseeing they would be of use in the illustration of my hypothesis, I had got them into my hand when I had proceeded so far

See, Monsieur le Count, said I, rising up, and laying them before him upon the table-by jingling and rubbing one against another for seventy years together in one body's pocket or another's, they are

become so much alike, you can scarce distinguish one shilling from another.

The English, like ancient medals, kept more apart, and passing but few people's hands, preserve the first sharpness which the fine hand of Nature has given them-they are not so pleasant to feel—but in return, the legend is so visible, that at the first look you see whose image and superscription they bear. But the French, Monsieur le Count, added I, wishing to soften what I had said, have so many excellencies, they can the better spare this—they are a loyal, a gallant, a generous, an ingenious, and good tempered people as is under heaven-if they have a fault-they are too serious.

Mon Dieu! cried the count, rising out of his chair.

Mais vous plaisantez, said he, correcting his exclamation-I laid my hand upon my breast, and with earnest gravity assured him, it was my most settled opinion.

The count said he was mortified-he could not stay to hear my reasons, being engaged to go that moment to dine with the Duc de C* 将奖。

But if it is not too far to come to Versailles to eat your soup with me, I beg, before you leave France, I may have the pleasure of knowing you retract your opinion—or in what manner you support it. But if you do support it, Monsieur Anglois, said he, you must do it with all your powers, because you have the whole world against you. I promised the

M

count I would do myself the honour of dining with him before I set out for Italy-so took my leave.

THE TEMPTATION.

PARIS.

WHEN I alighted at the hotel, the porter told me a young woman with a band-box had been that moment inquiring for me.-I do not know, said the porter, whether she is gone away or no. I took the key of my chamber of him, and went up stairs ; and when I had got within ten steps of the top of the landing before my door, I met her coming easily down.

It was the fair fille de chambre I had walked along the Quai de Conti with: Madam de R * * * * had sent her upon some commissions to a merchande des modes, within a step or two of the hotel de Modene; and as I had failed in waiting upon her, had bid her inquire if I had left Paris; and if so, whether I had not left a letter addressed to her.

As the fair fille de chambre was so near my door, she turned back, and went into the room with me for a moment or two whilst I wrote a card.

It was a fine still evening in the latter end of the month of May—the crimson window curtains (which were of the same colour of those of the bed) were

drawn close-the sun was setting, and reflected through them so warm a tint into the fair fille de chambre's face-I thought she blushed-the idea of it made me blush myself— —we were quite alone; and that super-induced a second blush before the first could get off.

-'tis

There is a sort of a pleasing half-guilty blush, where the blood is more in fault than the mansent impetuous from the heart, and Virtue flies after it-not to call it back, but to make the sensation of it more delicious to the nerves-'tis associated.

But I'll not describe it.-I felt something at first within me which was not in strict unison with the lesson of virtue I had given her the night before-I sought five minutes for a card-I knew I had not one. I took up a pen-I laid it down again-my hand trembled the devil was in me.

I know as well as any one he is an adversary, who, if we resist, will fly from us-but I seldom resist him at all, from a terror, that though I may conquer, I may still get a hurt in the combat-so I give up the triumph, for security; and instead of thinking to make him fly, I generally fly myself.

The fair fille de chambre came close up to the bureau where I was looking for a card-took up first the pen I cast down, then offered to hold me the ink: she offered it so sweetly, I was going to accept it but I durst not-I have nothing, my dear, said I, to write upon.-Write it, said she, simply, upon any thing.