To do the rest of the French justice, I mean such as like us, they adopt only our egregious follies, and in particular the flower of them, horse-racing![1] Le Roi Pepin, a racer, is the horse in fashion.  I suppose the next shameful practice of ours they naturalize will be the personal scurrilities in the newspapers, especially on young and handsome women, in which we certainly are originals!  Voltaire, who first brought us into fashion in France, is stark mad at his own success.  Out of envy to writers of his own nation, he cried up Shakspeare; and now is distracted at the just encomiums bestowed on that first genius of the world in the new translation.  He sent to the French Academy an invective that bears all the marks of passionate dotage.  Mrs. Montagu happened to be present when it was read.  Suard, one of their writers, said to her, “Je crois, Madame, que vous etes un peu fache de ce que vous venez d’entendre.”  She replied, “Moi, Monsieur! point du tout!  Je ne suis pas amie de Monsieur Voltaire.”  I shall go to town the day after to-morrow, and will add a postscript, if I hear any news.

[Footnote 1:  “A rage for adopting English fashions (Anglomanie, as it was called) began to prevail; and, among the different modes in which it was exhibited, it is especially noticed that tea was introduced, and began to share with coffee the privilege of affording sober refreshment to those who aspired in their different ways to give the tone to French society.  A less innocent novelty was a passion for horse-racing, in which the Comte d’Artois and the Duc de Chartres set the example of indulging, establishing a racecourse in the Bois de Boulogne.  The Count had but little difficulty in persuading the Queen to attend it, and she soon showed so decided a fancy for the sport, and became so regular a visitor of it, that a small stand was built for her, which in subsequent years provoked unfavourable comments, when the Prince obtained her leave to give luncheon to some of their racing friends, who were not in every instance of a character entitled to be brought into a royal presence” (the Editor’s “Life of Marie Antoinette,” c.  II).]

Dec. 3rd.

I am come late, have seen nobody, and must send away my letter.

OSSIAN—­CHATTERTON.

TO THE REV.  WILLIAM COLE.

STRAWBERRY HILL, June 19, 1777.

I thank you for your notices, dear Sir, and shall remember that on Prince William.  I did see the Monthly Review, but hope one is not guilty of the death of every man who does not make one the dupe of a forgery.  I believe M’Pherson’s success with “Ossian"[1] was more the ruin of Chatterton[2] than I. Two years passed between my doubting the authenticity of Rowley’s poems and his death.  I never knew he had been in London till some time after he had undone and poisoned himself there.  The poems he sent me were transcripts in his own hand, and even in that circumstance he told a lie: