e world; and I mean to follow the windings of the various streams that
disembogue into a terrific gulf, in which all the dignity of our nature
is absorbed. For every thing has conspired to make the French the most
sensual people in the world; and what can render the heart so hard, or so
effectually stifle every moral emotion, as the refinements of sensuality?

The frequent repetition of the word French, appears invidious; let me
then make a previous observation, which I beg you not to lose sight of,
when I speak rather harshly of a land flowing with milk and honey.
Remember that it is not the morals of a particular people that I would
decry; for are we not all of the same stock? But I wish calmly to
consider the stage of civilization in which I find the French, and,
giving a sketch of their character, and unfolding the circumstances which
have produced its identity, I shall endeavour to throw some light on the
history of man, and on the present important subjects of discussion.

I would I could first inform you that, out of the chaos of vices and
follies, prejudices and virtues, rudely jumbled together, I saw the fair
form of Liberty slowly rising, and Virtue expanding her wings to shelter
all her children! I should then hear the account of the barbarities that
have rent the bosom of France patiently, and bless the firm hand that
lopt off the rotten limbs. But, if the aristocracy of birth is levelled
with the ground, only to make room for that of riches, I am afraid that
the morals of the people will not be much improved by the change, or the
government rendered less venal. Still it is not just to dwell on the
misery produced by the present struggle, without adverting to the
standing evils of the old system. I am grieved--sorely grieved--when I
think of the blood that has stained the cause of freedom at Paris; but I
also hear the same live stream cry aloud from the highways, through which
the retreating armies passed with famine and death in their rear, and I
hide my face with awe before the inscrutable ways of providence, sweeping
in such various directions the besom of destruction over the sons of men.

Before I came to France, I cherished, you know, an opinion, that strong
virtues might exist with the polished manners produced by the progress
of civilization; and I even anticipated the epoch, when, in the course of
improvement, men would labour to become virtuous, without being goaded on
by misery. But now, the persp