We went to walk in the town this morning, the 13th.

We went to walk in the town this morning, the 13th. The description of one French town on the Sunday will serve for all which we have seen. They are every day sufficiently filthy, but on Sunday, from the concourse of people, more than commonly so. They never have a pavement to fly to for clean walking, and for safety from the carriages. If you are near a shop, a lane, or entry when a carriage comes along, you may fly in, if not, you must trust to the civility of the coachman, who, if polite, will only splash you all over. On Sundays, their markets are held the same as on other days, and nearly all the shops had their doors open, but their windows shut. Thus they cheat the Devil, and, as they think, render sufficient homage to him who hath said, on that day "thou shalt do no manner of work." Yet while all this is going on, the churches are open, and those who are inclined go in, and take a minute, a quarter, half an hour, or an hour's devotion, as they think fit. We entered the nearest of these churches, and saw, what is always to be seen in them, a great deal, at least, of the outward shew of religion, and something in a few individuals of the congregation which looked like real devotion. After church, we went to the convent of St Mary, and were all admitted, both ladies and gentlemen. The nuns there are not, by any means, strictly confined; they are of that description who go abroad and attend the sick. Their pensioners (chiefly children from four to sixteen) are allowed to go and see their friends; and they were all presented to us. They are taught to read, write, work, &c. and are well fed and clothed. This convent was very neat and clean. The building formed a complete square, and the ground in the interior was very beautifully laid out as a garden. The cloisters were ornamented with pots of roses and carnations in full bloom, with the care of which the young pensioners amused themselves. They have a very pretty small chapel, over the outer door of which is written, [5]"Grand silence;" and over the inner this inscription; whose menacing promises is so ill suited to the spirit and temper of its conclusion: "Ah, que ce maison est terrible, c'est la maison de Dieu, et la porte du ciel." The holy sisters were of all ages, and many of them pretty—one, the handsomest woman I have seen in France.

The ladies are just returned from a longer walk, and report the town to be ugly, and the streets insufferably dirty. Its manufactures are china, glass, and enamelled goods; toys of glass beads, and little trifles. The shopkeepers are, as in every town we have been at, perfect Jews, devoid of any thing like principle in buying and selling. We are every day learning more and more how to overcome our scruples with regard to beating them down. They always expect it, and only laugh at those who do not practise it.