September 2, 1792.

We were so much alarmed at the theatre on Thursday, that I believe we
shall not venture again to amuse ourselves at the risk of a similar
occurrence. About the middle of the piece, a violent outcry began from
all parts of the house, and seemed to be directed against our box; and I
perceived Madame Duchene, the Presidente of the Jacobins, heading the
legions of Paradise with peculiar animation. You may imagine we were not
a little terrified. I anxiously examined the dress of myself and my
companions, and observing nothing that could offend the affected
simplicity of the times, prepared to quit the house. A friendly voice,
however, exerting itself above the clamour, informed us that the
offensive objects were a cloak and a shawl which hung over the front of
the box.--You will scarcely suppose such grossness possible among a
civilized people; but the fact is, our friends are of the proscribed
class, and we were insulted because in their society.--I have before
noticed, that the guards which were stationed in the theatre before the
revolution are now removed, and a municipal officer, made conspicuous by
his scarf, is placed in the middle front box, and, in case of any tumult,
is empowered to call in the military to his assistance.

We have this morning been visiting two objects, which exhibit this
country in very different points of view--as the seat of wealth, and the
abode of poverty. The first is the abbey of St. Vaast, a most superb
pile, now inhabited by monks of various orders, but who are preparing to
quit it, in obedience to the late decrees. Nothing impresses one with a