In the evening we were at the theatre, which is large and handsome; and the constant residence of a numerous garrison enables it to entertain a very good set of performers:—­their operas in particular are extremely well got up.  I saw Zemire et Azor given better than at Drury Lane.—­In the farce, which was called Le Francois a Londres, was introduced a character they called that of an Englishman, (Jack Roastbeef,) who pays his addresses to a nobleman’s daughter, in a box coate, a large hat slouched over his eyes, and an oaken trowel in his hand—­in short, the whole figure exactly resembling that of a watchman.  His conversation is gross and sarcastic, interlarded with oaths, or relieved by fits of sullen taciturnity—­such a lover as one may suppose, though rich, and the choice of the lady’s father, makes no impression; and the author has flattered the national vanity by making the heroine give the preference to a French marquis.  Now there is no doubt but nine-tenths of the audience thought this a good portraiture of the English character, and enjoyed it with all the satisfaction of conscious superiority.—­The ignorance that prevails with regard to our manners and customs, among a people so near us, is surprizing.  It is true, that the noblesse who have visited England with proper recommendations, and have been introduced to the best society, do us justice:  the men of letters also, who, from party motives, extol every thing English, have done us perhaps more than justice.  But I speak of the French in general; not the lower classes only, but the gentry of the provinces, and even those who in other respects have pretensions to information.  The fact is, living in England is expensive:  a Frenchman, whose income here supports him as a gentleman, goes over and finds all his habits of oeconomy insufficient to keep him from exceeding the limits he had prescribed to himself.  His decent lodging alone costs him a great part of his revenue, and obliges him to be strictly parsimonious of the rest.  This drives him to associate chiefly with his own countrymen, to dine at obscure coffee-houses, and pay his court to opera-dancers.  He sees, indeed, our theatres, our public walks, the outside of our palaces, and the inside of churches:  but this gives him no idea of the manners of the people in superior life, or even of easy fortune.  Thus he goes home, and asserts to his untravelled countrymen, that our King and nobility are ill lodged, our churches mean, and that the English are barbarians, who dine without soup, use no napkin, and eat with their knives.—­I have heard a gentleman of some respectability here observe, that our usual dinner was an immense joint of meat half drest, and a dish of vegetables scarcely drest at all.—­Upon questioning him, I discovered he had lodged in St. Martin’s Lane, had likewise boarded at a country attorney’s of the lowest class, and dined at an ordinary at Margate.