AUTEUIL, NEAR PARIS, 10th May, 1785.

Did you ever, my dear Betsey, see a person in real life such as your imagination formed of Sir Charles Grandison?  The Baron de Stael, the Swedish Ambassador, comes nearest to that character, in his manners and personal appearance, of any gentleman I ever saw.  The first time I saw him I was prejudiced in his favor, for his countenance commands your good opinion:  it is animated, intelligent, sensible, affable, and without being perfectly beautiful, is most perfectly agreeable; add to this a fine figure, and who can fail in being charmed with the Baron de Stael?  He lives in a grand hotel, and his suite of apartments, his furniture, and his table, are the most elegant of anything I have seen.  Although you dine upon plate in every noble house in France, I cannot say that you may see your face in it; but here the whole furniture of the table was burnished, and shone with regal splendor.  Seventy thousand livres in plate will make no small figure; and that is what his Majesty gave him.  The dessert was served on the richest china, with knives, forks, and spoons of gold.  As you enter his apartments, you pass through files of servants into his ante-chamber, in which is a throne covered with green velvet, upon which is a chair of state, over which hangs the picture of his royal master.  These thrones are common to all ambassadors of the first order, as they are immediate representatives of the king.  Through this ante-chamber you pass into the grand salon, which is elegantly adorned with architecture, a beautiful lustre hanging from the middle.  Settees, chairs, and hangings of the richest silk, embroidered with gold; marble slabs upon Muted pillars, round which wreaths of artificial flowers in gold entwine.  It is usual to find in all houses of fashion, as in this, several dozens of chairs, all of which have stuffed backs and cushions, standing in double rows round the rooms.  The dining-room was equally beautiful, being hung with Gobelin tapestry, the colors and figures of which resemble the most elegant painting.  In this room were hair-bottom mahogany-backed chairs, and the first I have seen since I came to France.  Two small statues of a Venus de Medicis, and a Venus de ——­ (ask Miss Paine for the other name), were upon the mantelpiece.  The latter, however, was the most modest of the kind, having something like a loose robe thrown partly over her.  From the Swedish Ambassador’s we went to visit the Duchess d’Enville, who is mother to the Duke de Rochefoucault.  We found the old lady sitting in an easy-chair; around her sat a circle of Academicians, and by her side a young lady.  Your uncle presented us, and the old lady rose, and, as usual, gave us a salute.  As she had no paint, I could put up with it; but when she approached your cousin I could think of nothing but Death taking hold of Hebe.  The duchess is near eighty, very tall and lean.  She was dressed in a silk chemise, with very large sleeves, coming