The rage for emigration, and the approach of the Austrians, have occasioned many restrictions on travelling, especially near the seacoast of frontiers.  No person can pass through a town without a passport from the municipality he resides in, specifying his age, the place of his birth, his destination, the height of his person, and the features of his face.  The Marquis de C____ entered the town yesterday, and at the gate presented his passport as usual; the guard looked at the passport, and in a high tone demanded his name, whence he came, and where he was going.  M. de C____ referred him to the passport, and suspecting the man could not read, persisted in refusing to give a verbal account of himself, but with much civility pressed the perusal of the passport; adding, that if it was informal, Monsieur might write to the municipality that granted it.  The man, however, did not approve of the jest, and took the Marquis before the municipality, who sentenced him to a month’s imprisonment for his pleasantry.

The French are becoming very grave, and a bon-mot will not now, as formerly, save a man’s life.—­I do not remember to have seen in any English print an anecdote on this subject, which at once marks the levity of the Parisians, and the wit and presence of mind of the Abbe Maury.—­At the beginning of the revolution, when the people were very much incensed against the Abbe, he was one day, on quitting the Assembly, surrounded by an enraged mob, who seized on him, and were hurrying him away to execution, amidst the universal cry of a la lanterne! a la lanterne! The Abbe, with much coolness and good humour, turned to those nearest him, "Eh bien mes amis et quand je serois a la lanterne, en verriez vous plus clair?" Those who held him were disarmed, the bon-mot flew through the croud, and the Abbe escaped while they were applauding it.—­I have nothing to offer after this trait which is worthy of succeeding it, but will add that I am always Yours.

July 24, 1792.

Our revolution aera has passed tranquilly in the provinces, and with less turbulence at Paris than was expected.  I consign to the Gazette-writers those long descriptions that describe nothing, and leave the mind as unsatisfied as the eye.  I content myself with observing only, that the ceremony here was gay, impressive, and animating.  I indeed have often remarked, that the works of nature are better described than those of art.  The scenes of nature, though varied, are uniform; while the productions of art are subject to the caprices of whim, and the vicissitudes of taste.  A rock, a wood, or a valley, however the scenery may be diversified, always conveys a perfect and distinct image to the mind; but a temple, an altar, a palace, or a pavilion, requires a detail, minute even to tediousness, and which, after all, gives but an imperfect notion of the object.  I have as often read descriptions of the Vatican, as of the Bay of Naples; yet I recollect little of the former, while the latter seems almost familiar to me.—­Many are strongly impressed with the scenery of Milton’s Paradise, who have but confused ideas of the splendour of Pandemonium.  The descriptions, however, are equally minute, and the poetry of both is beautiful.