I have read, in some French author, a maxim to this effect:—­“Act with your friends as though they should one day be your enemies;” and the existing government seems amply to have profited by the admonition of their country-man:  for notwithstanding they affirm, that all France supports, and all England admires them, this does not prevent their exercising a most vigilant inquisition over the inhabitants of both countries.—­It is already sagaciously hinted, that Mr. Thomas Paine may be a spy, and every householder who receives a lodger or visitor, and every proprietor who lets a house, is obliged to register the names of those he entertains, or who are his tenants, and to become responsible for their conduct.  This is done at the municipality, and all who thus venture to change their residence, of whatever age, sex, or condition, must present themselves, and submit to an examination.  The power of the municipalities is indeed very great; and as they are chiefly selected from the lower class of shop-keepers, you may conclude that their authority is not exercised with much politeness or moderation.

The timid or indolent inhabitant of London, whose head has been filled with the Bastilles and police of the ancient government, and who would as soon have ventured to Constantinople as to Paris, reads, in the debates of the Convention, that France is now the freeest country in the world, and that strangers from all corners of it flock to offer their adorations in this new Temple of Liberty.  Allured by these descriptions, he resolves on the journey, willing, for once in his life, to enjoy a taste of the blessing in sublimate, which he now learns has hitherto been allowed him only in the gross element.—­He experiences a thousand impositions on landing with his baggage at Calais, but he submits to them without murmuring, because his countrymen at Dover had, on his embarkation, already kindly initiated him into this science of taxing the inquisitive spirit of travellers.  After inscribing his name, and rewarding the custom-house officers for rummaging his portmanteau, he determines to amuse himself with a walk about the town.  The first centinel he encounters stops him, because he has no cockade:  he purchases one at the next shop, (paying according to the exigency of the case,) and is suffered to pass on.  When he has settled his bill at the Auberge “a l’Angloise,” and emagines he has nothing to do but to pursue his journey, he finds he has yet to procure himself a passport.  He waits an hour and an half for an officer, who at length appears, and with a rule in one hand, and a pen in the other, begins to measure the height, and take an inventory of the features of the astonished stranger.  By the time this ceremony is finished, the gates are shut, and he can proceed no farther, till the morrow.  He departs early, and is awakened twice on the road to Boulogne to produce his passport:  still, however, he keeps his temper, concluding, that the new light has not