Arras, September 1, 1792.

Had I been accompanied by an antiquary this morning, his sensibility would have been severely exercised; for even I, whose respect for antiquity is not scientific, could not help lamenting the modern rage for devastation which has seized the French.  They are removing all “the time-honoured figures” of the cathedral, and painting its massive supporters in the style of a ball-room.  The elaborate uncouthness of ancient sculpture is not, indeed, very beautiful; yet I have often fancied there was something more simply pathetic in the aukward effigy of an hero kneeling amidst his trophies, or a regal pair with their supplicating hands and surrounding offspring, than in the graceful figures and poetic allegories of the modern artist.  The humble intreaty to the reader to “praye for the soule of the departed,” is not very elegant—­yet it is better calculated to recall the wanderings of morality, than the flattering epitaph, a Fame hovering in the air, or the suspended wreath of the remunerating angel.—­But I moralize in vain—­the rage of these new Goths is inexorable:  they seem solicitous to destroy every vestige of civilization, lest the people should remember they have not always been barbarians.

After obtaining an order from the municipality, we went to see the gardens and palace of the Bishop, who has emigrated.  The garden has nothing very remarkable, but is large and well laid out, according to the old style.  It forms a very agreeable walk, and, when the Bishop possest it, was open for the enjoyment of the inhabitants, but it is now shut up and in disorder.  The house is plain, and substantially furnished, and exhibits no appearance of unbecoming luxury.  The whole is now the property of the nation, and will soon be disposed of.—­I could not help feeling a sensation of melancholy as we walked over the apartments.  Every thing is marked in an inventory, just as left; and an air of arrangement and residence leads one to reflect, that the owner did not imagine at his departure he was quitting it perhaps for ever.  I am not partial to the original emigrants, yet much may be said for the Bishop of Arras.  He was pursued by ingratitude, and marked for persecution.  The Robespierres were young men whom he had taken from a mean state, had educated, and patronized.  The revolution gave them an opportunity of displaying their talents, and their talents procured them popularity.  They became enemies to the clergy, because their patron was a Bishop; and endeavoured to render their benefactor odious, because the world could not forget, nor they forgive, how much they were indebted to him.—­Vice is not often passive; nor is there often a medium between gratitude for benefits, and hatred to the author of them.  A little mind is hurt by the remembrance of obligation—­begins by forgetting, and, not uncommonly, ends by persecuting.

We dined and passed the afternoon from home to-day.  After dinner our hostess, as usual, proposed cards; and, as usual in French societies, every one assented:  we waited, however, some time, and no cards came—­ till, at length, conversation-parties were formed, and they were no longer thought of.  I have since learned, from one of the young women of the house, that the butler and two footmen had all betaken themselves to clubs and Guinguettes,* and the cards, counters, &c. could not be obtained.