I am perfectly well, though to be sure Lapland is the torrid zone in comparison of Paris.  We have had such a frost for this fortnight, that I went nine miles to dine in the country to-day, in a villa exactly like a green-house, except that there was no fire but in one room.  We were four in a coach, and all our chinks stopped with furs, and yet all the glasses were frozen.  We dined in a paved hall painted in fresco, with a fountain at one end; for in this country they live in a perpetual opera, and persist in being young when they are old, and hot when they are frozen.  At the end of the hall sat shivering three glorious maccaws, a vast cockatoo, and two poor parroquets, who squalled like the children in the wood after their nursery-fire!  I am come home, and blowing my billets between every paragraph, but can scarce move my fingers.  However, I must be dressed presently, and go to the Comtesse de la Marche,(918) who has appointed nine at night for my audience.  It seems a little odd to us to be presented to a princess of the blood at that hour—­ but I told you, there is not a tittle In which our manners resemble one another; I was presented to her father-in-law the Prince of Conti last Friday.  In the middle of the lev`ee entered a young woman, too plain I thought to be any thing but his near relation.  I was confirmed in my opinion, by seeing her, after he had talked to her, go round the circle and do the honours of it.  I asked a gentleman near me if that was the Comtesse de la Marche?  He burst into a violent laughter, and then told me it was Mademoiselle Auguste, a dancer!—­Now, who was in the wrong?

I give you these as samples of many scenes that have amused me, and which will be charming food at Strawberry.  At the same time that I see all their ridicules, there is a douceur in the society of the women of fashion that captivates me.  I like the way of life, though not lively; though the men are posts, and apt to be arrogant, and though there are twenty ingredients wanting to make the style perfect.  I have totally washed my hands of their savans and Philosophers, and do not even envy you Rousseau, who has all the charlatanerie of Count St. Germain(919 to make himself singular and talked of.  I suppose Mrs. Montagu, my Lord Lyttelton, and a certain lady friend of mine, will be in raptures with him, especially as conducted by Mr. Hume.  But, however I admire his parts, neither he nor any genius I have known has had common sense enough to balance the impertinence of their pretensions.  They hate priests, but love dearly to have an altar at their feet; for which reason it is much pleasanter to read them than to know them.  Adieu! my dear Sir!

Jan. 15.