already dwelt too long in a former letter. To a superficial observer, perhaps, one who merely contemplates the city of Paris, through the medium of its works of art, or scenes of gaiety and amusement, the pictures I have drawn may seem too strongly marked and deeply coloured-but it can be so regarded only by a superficial observer. For my own part, my heart sickens at the review of what I have written, when I think how far beneath the reality any description, of which my pen is capable, must be. The circumstance that the grosser forms of vice are wanting in the public haunts, mark, if possible, a deeper dereliction of principle, and renders the scene more dangerous. In our own metropolis, alas! there is enough of vice, and crimes are perpetrated of the deepest die.-But then, vice is recognised as vice, and shunned and abhorred by virtue. It keeps its own form, uses its own language, and preserves its own limits.-But here, vice has the language and the forms of virtue-walks hand in hand with virtue-is adorned with the same attire-admitted into the same society-occupies the same seat-and, I had almost said, reposes on the same couch.-She is to be found in the shop of the respectable tradesman, in forms that in London would be shrouded with the greatest secrecy, or, if discovered, brand the vender with deserved infamy— but here, the softer sex become the ministers of lust, by exposing them to such as choose to purchase, and that too with unblushing countenance, as if they

were the simplest articles of lawful commerce-the fine arts have lent their aid to decorate and adorn the monster, and to give a soft and classic air to her most disgusting expressions-while the brilliant genius and the exuberant imagination of the author, have invested it as with dazzling gems and a gorgeous robe.

But all these considerations apart-it is enough for a man, that has any principle of religion, or integrity, or humanity within him, to walk the streets of Paris, and reflect, that he is passing through the city, in which, a little more than a quarter of a century ago, the oracles of God were publicly disowned, the Christian sabbath utterly abolished, reason elevated to the throne of the Supreme, and liberty declared to be the only God—that he is surrounded by a people, who, after having embrued their hands in the blood of their lawful prince, and filled their capital with enormities, at the recital of which, the whole civilized world shuddered with a thrilling horror, while all was consecrated by the sacred name of liberty and freedom-at length placed the crown they had dashed to the earth upon an upstart's brow, and fell prostrate, in all the abjectness of submission, to lick the dust beneath the despot's feet-A people, that followed at his beck through seas of blood, intoxicated with spoil and glutted with gore, while they yielded to him as to their destiny, and plighted their homage to him

E

as their God-till the great ruler of the nations was pleased to reverse his fortune, and who then, with one consent, abandoned him to his fate-an exile on the ocean, and the shadow of a king-A people too, who could repeat their servility and their treachery when his fortunes brightened once again, and again grew dark-and who are now sunk in the arms of a superstition and a sensuality, as deep, as deadly, and as gross, as that from whose embrace they rushed to the wild extremes of anarchy, and the cold breast of atheism-I say these reflections are enough to quicken the footsteps of a man, who has the fear of God or the principles of humanity within him, lest the earth should open, and swallow up a city which has been the theatre of such enormitics, and is still the haunt of such pollution and impiety! Your's, &c.

LETTER XII.

Paris.

MY DEAR

0

WE dined to-day at Veres, in the Palais Royal, the most celebrated Restaurateur's in Paris. Our object was to have a fair specimen of French cookery, of which one has heard so much; and also to observe the mode of proceeding in one of these temples dedicated to luxury and appetite. We were rather early, and amongst the first of the devotees: thus we had leisure to survey the scene, and make our observations on the place. Every thing here is contrived for effect, and art has done her utmost to give to the eating-house an air of gaiety and elegance. On entering the room, the first object that arrested our attention was the mistress, a young and beautiful woman, most elegantly dressed, reclining at her ease on an elevated seat, commanding a view of the spacious apartment. There was nothing of the coarseness, and hurry, and officiousness of the landlady about herbut delicate, dignified, and easy, she seemed as if enthroned, the presiding genius of the place.— Around her the waiters gather to receive her orders,

and to make reports, from time to time, of the progress of affairs; while from the mirrors that surround the room, and reflect the parties, in a most amazing variety, upon each other, she can perceive, almost at one glance, how all her customers are occupied. The next thing to which our attention was drawn, as you will naturally suppose, was the carte, or bill of fare, at the immensity of which, a London epicure-a city alderman, would have started! What a boundless variety!-Fish, flesh, and fowl-rôti, bouilli-fricassée-fricandeausoups-sauces-inconceivable combinations--indescribable compositions-unutterable names"earth, air and ocean plundered of their sweets," and all decked out, combined-adorned-and wrought up to the highest pitch of flavour and of goût, to quicken the most languishing appetite, and win the admiration of the most fastidious epicure. The time advanced-the devotees came in-the shrine of the divinity, for such the fair one that presided seemed, was surrounded, and the mysteries began. The tables were rapidly filled, and as quickly covered, and every party seemed determined and prepared to do his best in discharging the duties and honours of the place. I observed that most performed their part with astonishing rapidity—plate after plate was quickly emptied-dish after dish rapidly discussed and dismissed-glass after glass of hermitage or burgundy, from the bottle, placed, for coolness, in a vessel filled with ice, thrown off';