Paris, June 30,1787.
On my return to Paris, it was among my first attentions to go to the rue
Chaussee d'Antin, No. 17, and inquire after my friends whom I had left
there. I was told they were in England. And how do you like England,
Madam? I know your taste for the works of art gives you little
disposition to Anglomania. Their mechanics certainly exceed all others
in some lines. But be just to your own nation. They have not patience,
it is true, to set rubbing a piece of steel from morning to night, as a
lethargic Englishman will do, full charged with porter. But do not their
benevolence, their cheerfulness, their amiability, when compared with
the growling temper and manners of the people among whom you are,
compensate their want of patience? I am in hopes that when the splendor
of their shops, which is all that is worth seeing in London, shall
have lost the charm of novelty, you will turn a wishful eye to the good
people of Paris, and find that you cannot be so happy with any others.
The Bois de Boulogne invites you earnestly to come and survey its
beautiful verdure, to retire to its umbrage from the heats of the
season.
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