Your Lordship will pardon me for this no very long reflection on the short, but excellent speech of the plumed Director to the ambassador of Cappadocia.  The Imperial ambassador was not in waiting, but they found for Austria a good Judean representation.  With great judgment, his Highness, the Grand Duke, had sent the most atheistic coxcomb to be found in Florence, to represent at the bar of impiety the House of Apostolic Majesty, and the descendants of the pious, though high-minded, Maria Theresa.  He was sent to humble the whole race of Austria before those grim assassins, reeking with the blood of the daughter of Maria Theresa, whom they sent half dead, in a dung-cart, to a cruel execution; and this true-born son of apostasy and infidelity, this renegado from the faith and from all honor and all humanity, drove an Austrian coach over the stones which were yet wet with her blood,—­with that blood which dropped every step through her tumbrel, all the way she was drawn from the horrid prison, in which they had finished all the cruelty and horrors not executed in the face of the sun.  The Hungarian subjects of Maria Theresa, when they drew their swords to defend her rights against France, called her, with correctness of truth, though not with the same correctness, perhaps, of grammar, a king:  “Moriamur pro rege nostro, Maria Theresa.” SHE lived and died a king; and others will have subjects ready to make the same vow, when, in either sex, they show themselves real kings.

When the Directory came to this miserable fop, they bestowed a compliment on his matriculation into their philosophy; but as to his master, they made to him, as was reasonable, a reprimand, not without a pardon, and an oblique hint at the whole family.  What indignities have been offered through this wretch to his master, and how well borne, it is not necessary that I should dwell on at present.  I hope that those who yet wear royal, imperial, and ducal crowns will learn to feel as men and as kings:  if not, I predict to them, they will not long exist as kings or as men.

Great Britain was not there.  Almost in despair, I hope she will never, in any rags and coversluts of infamy, be seen at such an exhibition.  The hour of her final degradation is not yet come; she did not herself appear in the Regicide presence, to be the sport and mockery of those bloody buffoons, who, in the merriment of their pride, were insulting with every species of contumely the fallen dignity of the rest of Europe.  But Britain, though not personally appearing to bear her part in this monstrous tragi-comedy, was very far from being forgotten.  The new-robed regicides found a representative for her.  And who was this representative?  Without a previous knowledge, any one would have given a thousand guesses before he could arrive at a tolerable divination of their rancorous insolence.  They chose to address what they had to say concerning this nation to the ambassador of America.  They did not apply to