Arras, September 1, 1792.

Had I been accompanied by an antiquary this morning, his sensibility
would have been severely exercised; for even I, whose respect for
antiquity is not scientific, could not help lamenting the modern rage for
devastation which has seized the French. They are removing all "the
time-honoured figures" of the cathedral, and painting its massive
supporters in the style of a ball-room. The elaborate uncouthness of
ancient sculpture is not, indeed, very beautiful; yet I have often
fancied there was something more simply pathetic in the aukward effigy of
an hero kneeling amidst his trophies, or a regal pair with their
supplicating hands and surrounding offspring, than in the graceful
figures and poetic allegories of the modern artist. The humble intreaty
to the reader to "praye for the soule of the departed," is not very
elegant--yet it is better calculated to recall the wanderings of
morality, than the flattering epitaph, a Fame hovering in the air, or the
suspended wreath of the remunerating angel.--But I moralize in vain--the
rage of these new Goths is inexorable: they seem solicitous to destroy
every vestige of civilization, lest the people should remember they have
not always been barbarians.

After obtaining an order from the municipality, we went to see the
gardens and palace of the Bishop, who has emigrated. The garden has
nothing very remarkable, but is large and well laid out, according to the
old style. It forms a very agreeable walk, and, when the Bishop possest
it, was open for the enjoyment of the inhabitants, but it is now shut up