politican, said, Tout ce que je puis vous dire, monsieur, c'est que votre pauvre roi est bien à plaindre.

This solicitude of theirs for the happiness and glory of royalty extends in some degree to all crowned heads whatever: But with regard to their own monarch, it seems the reigning and darling passion of their souls, which they carry with them to the grave.

A French soldier, who lay covered with wounds on the field of Dettingen, demanded, a little before he expired, of an English officer, how the battle was likely to terminate; and being answered, that the British troops had obtained a great victory; Mon pauvre roi, said the dying man, que fera-t-il ?

For my part, my friend, although I heartily wish his majesty all public and domestic happiness, yet if the smallest solicitude about either should disturb my dying moments, it will be the strongest proof that my own affairs, spiritual and temporal, your concerns, as well as those of my other private friends, are in most a comfortable situation.

Adieu.

P. S. I have not seen the marquis for several days. He had informed me, at our very first meeting, that he was paying his court to a young lady of family, at his mother's desire, who was impatient to see him married. He said, he could refuse his mother nothing, parcequ'elle étoit le meilleur enfant du monde: Besides, he said, the young lady was very pretty and agreeable, and he was over head and ears in love with her. He has told me since, that every thing was arranged, and he expected to be in a short time the happiest man in the world, and would have the honour of presenting me to his bride very soon. I shall let you know my opinion of the lady when I see her-but let her be what she will, I am sorry that F—— thinks of marrying so early in life: for a Frenchman of five-and-twenty, is not quite so sedate an animal as as Englishman of fifteen.

LETTER VIII.

Paris.

I have

THER HERE is an absolute penury of public news. nothing particular to inform you of concerning myself; but you hold me to my engagement: So here I am seated to write to you, and shall resume the subject of my last letter, in hopes, however, that my pen may gather materials as it moves.

In whatever light this prejudice in favour of monarchy may appear to the eye of philosophy; and though of all passions the love of a king, merely because he is a king, is perhaps the silliest; yet it surely ought to be considered as meritorious by those who are the objects of it.

No people existing, or who did ever exist, have had so just a claim to the gratitude and affections of their sovereign, as the French. They rejoice in his joy, are grieved at his grief, proud of his power, vain of his accomplishments, indulgent to his failings. They cheerfully yield their own conveniences to his superfluities, and are at all times willing to sacrifice their lives for his glory.

A king, one would imagine, must be a perfect monster of selfishness and insensibility, who did not love such subjects, and who did not bestow some time and attention to promote their happiness: Yet the French nation has not had a monarch worthy of all this regard since the days of Henry IV, and of all their kings they used him the worst.

Of the three brothers who immediately preceded him, the first was a sickly creature, as feeble in mind as in body; the second, a monster of superstition and cruelty; and the third, after a dawn of some brightness, allowed his meridian to be obscured by the grossest clouds of effeminacy and voluptuousness. Their Italian mother, who governed all the three, seems to have been perfectly unrestrained by any feelings of humanity or of conscience,

and solely guided by motives of interest, and the most perfidious policy.

The princes who have succeeded, as well as those who reigned before the fourth Henry, serve as foils which display his bright qualities with double lustre.

Notwithstanding all the inducements which the French kings have to promote the happiness of their subjects, it may be many centuries before they are blessed with one who shall have that passion in such a high degree.

A character in which the great and amiable virtues are so finely blended, is very rarely produced in any nation. How small then must be the chance that this prize shall fall to the individual who is destined for the throne? Henry received an education very different from that which is generally bestowed on kings. His character was formed in the hardy school of adversity; his mind was strengthened by continual exertions of courage and prudence. He was taught humanity by suffering under the rod of tyranny, and experiencing the pangs of the unfortunate. Having frequently stood in need of friends, he knew the value of their attachment, and his heart became capable of friendship.

Difficulties and dangers often strike out particles of genius which otherwise might remain latent and useless, and contribute to the formation of a vigorous character, by animating those sparks of virtue which a life of indolence would have completely extinguished.

Those people who, from their earliest infancy, have found every thing provided for them, who have not much ambition, and consequently are seldom excited to any great exertion of their faculties, generally feel these faculties dwindle and grow weak, for the same reason that a man's arms would become gradually feeble, and at length perfectly useless, if he were to wear them in a scarf for any considerable time.

That the faculties of the understanding, like the sinews of the body, are relaxed by sloth and strengthened by exercise, nobody will doubt. I imagine the same analogy

holds in some degree between the body and the qualities of the heart Benevolence, pity, gratitude, are, I suspect, exceedingly apt to stagnate into a calm, sluggish insensibility in that breast which has not been agitated from real misfortunes.

People do not fully enter into distresses which they never have felt, and which they think they run but a small risk of feeling. Accordingly it has been remarked, that those who have been favoured through life with the smiles of fortune, and whose time has been spent in the amusements of courts and luxurious indulgences, very often acquire an astonishing insensibility to the misfortunes of others. The character the most perfectly cold of all I ever knew, devoid of friendship, gratitude, and in some instances dead to natural affection, belongs to a woman of elevated rank whose life hitherto has been a continued series of fortunate events.

Yet while all their cares are contracted, and all their feelings absorded, within the compass of their own skin, such people seem often convinced, that they themselves are of the most humane dispositions and the most extensive benevolence, upon no better foundation, than because they have felt themselves affected by the artful distresses of a romance, and because they could shed a few barren tears at a tragedy,

If to these symptoms of sensibility, they can add, that of having occasionally given a guinea when the contribution has been set a-going, or have parted with a little superfluous money to free themselves from importunity, they have then carried benevolence to the utmost length of their idea of that virtue.

They have no notion of any thing beyond this; nor would they make one active exertion, postpone a single party of pleasure, or in any shape interrupt the tranquillity of their own indolence, to perform the most essential service (I will not say to a friend, such people can have none) to any of the human race.

There are many exceptions, but in general those per

i

sons who are exposed to the stings and arrows of outrageous fortune, who have experienced the base indifference of mankind, and have in some degree felt what wretches feel, are endued with the truest sympathy, and enter, with the most lively sensibility, into the situation of the unfortunate.

Non ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco,* said Dido, who had been obliged to fly from her country, to Eneas, who had been witness to the destruction of his.

Dido and Æneas!-How in the name of wandering have we got into their company? I could no more have guessed at this, than at the subject of one of Montaigne's Essays from the title. We set out, I believe, with something about France;-but you cannot expect that I should attempt to take up a thread which is left so far behind.

Adieu.

LETTER IX.

Paris.

I MENTIONED in a former letter, that my friend F was on the point of being married. He called at my lodgings a little while ago. His air was so very gay, that I imagined he had some agreeable news to communicate. Me voilà au désespoir, mon cher ami, said he, with a loud laugh.—You are the merriest man I ever saw in that situation, said I.-He then informed me, that the old marquis de P. his mistress's father, had waited on his mother, and, after ten thousand apologies and circumlocutions, had given her to understand, that certain things had intervened, which rendered it impossible that he should ever have the honour of being father-in-law to her son; and requested her to inform him, how infinitely uneasy he and

Like you, an alien in a land unknown,

I learn to pity woes, so like my own. DRYD.