“I will make no reflection on this act, nor on the system of paying informers—­your heart will already have anticipated all I could say.  I will only add, that if you determine to remain in France, you must observe a degree of circumspection which you may not hitherto have thought necessary.  Do not depend on your innocence, nor even trust to common precautions—­every day furnishes examples that both are unavailing.—­Adieu.—­My husband offers you his respects, and your little friend embraces you sincerely.  As soon as any change in our favour takes place, I will communicate it to you; but you had better not venture to write—­I entrust this to Louison’s mother, who is going through Amiens, as it would be unsafe to send it by the post.  —­Again adieu.—­Yours,

“Adelaide de ____.”

     Amiens, 1793.

It is observable, that we examine less scrupulously the pretensions of a nation to any particular excellence, than we do those of an individual.  The reason of this is, probably, that our self-love is as much gratified by admitting the one, as in rejecting the other.  When we allow the claims of a whole people, we are flattered with the idea of being above narrow prejudices, and of possessing an enlarged and liberal mind; but if a single individual arrogate to himself any exclusive superiority, our own pride immediately becomes opposed to his, and we seem but to vindicate our judgement in degrading such presumption.

I can conceive no other causes for our having so long acquiesced in the claims of the French to pre-eminent good breeding, in an age when, I believe, no person acquainted with both nations can discover any thing to justify them.  If indeed politeness consisted in the repetition of a certain routine of phrases, unconnected with the mind or action, I might be obliged to decide against our country; but while decency makes a part of good manners, or feeling is preferable to a mechanical jargon, I am inclined to think the English have a merit more than they have hitherto ascribed to themselves.  Do not suppose, however, that I am going to descant on the old imputations of “French flattery,” and “French insincerity;” for I am far from concluding that civil behaviour gives one a right to expect kind offices, or that a man is false because he pays a compliment, and refuses a service:  I only wish to infer, that an impertinence is not less an impertinence because it is accompanied by a certain set of words, and that a people, who are indelicate to excess, cannot properly be denominated “a polite people.”

A French man or woman, with no other apology than "permettez moi," ["Give me leave.”] will take a book out of your hand, look over any thing you are reading, and ask you a thousand questions relative to your most private concerns—­they will enter your room, even your bedchamber, without knocking, place themselves between you and the fire, or take hold of your clothes to guess what they cost; and