’The few general observations he made on French society at this time I shall mention.  He observed that, among the families of the old nobility, domestic happiness and virtue had much increased since the Revolution, in consequence of the marriages which, after they lost their wealth and rank, had been formed, not according to the usual fashion of old French alliances, but from disinterested motives, from the perception of the real suitability of tempers and characters.  The women of this class in general, withdrawn from politics and political intrigue, were more domestic and amiable. . . .

’With regard to literature^he observed that it had considerably degenerated.  For the good taste, wit, and polished style which had characterised French literature before the Revolution there was no longer any demand, and but few competent judges remained.  The talents of the nation had been forced by circumstances into different directions.  At one time, the hurry and necessity of the passing moment had produced political pamphlets and slight works of amusement, formed to catch the public revolutionary taste.  At another period, the contending parties, and the real want of freedom in the country, had repressed literary efforts.  Science, which flourished independently of politics, and which was often useful and essential to the rulers, had meanwhile been encouraged, and had prospered.  The discoveries and inventions of men of science showed that the same positive quantity of talent existed in France as in former times, though appearing in a new form.’

The charms of Paris and its society were rudely broken by Edgeworth receiving one morning a visit from a police officer requiring him immediately to attend at the Palais de Justice.  Edgeworth was in bed with a cold when this summons came.  He writes to Miss Charlotte Sneyd:—­’My being ill was not a sufficient excuse; I got up and dressed myself slowly, to gain time for thinking—­drank one dish of chocolate, ordered my carriage, and went with my exempt to the Palais de Justice.  There I was shown into a parlour, or rather a guard-room, where a man like an under-officer was sitting at a desk.  In a few minutes I was desired to walk upstairs into a long narrow room, in different parts of which ten or twelve clerks were sitting at different tables.  To one of these I was directed—­he asked my name, wrote it on a printed card, and demanding half a crown, presented the card to me, telling me it was a passport.  I told him I did not want a passport; but he pressed it upon me, assuring me that I had urgent necessity for it, as I must quit Paris immediately.  Then he pointed out to me another table, where another clerk was pleased to place me in the most advantageous point of view for taking my portrait, and he took my written portrait with great solemnity, and this he copied into my passport.  I begged to know who was the principal person in the room, and to him I applied to learn the cause of the