September 4.

I resume my pen after a sleepless night, and with an oppression of mind
not to be described. Paris is the scene of proscription and massacres.
The prisoners, the clergy, the noblesse, all that are supposed inimical
to public faction, or the objects of private revenge, are sacrificed
without mercy. We are here in the utmost terror and consternation--we
know not the end nor the extent of these horrors, and every one is
anxious for himself or his friends. Our society consists mostly of
females, and we do not venture out, but hover together like the fowls of
heaven, when warned by a vague yet instinctive dread of the approaching
storm. We tremble at the sound of voices in the street, and cry, with
the agitation of Macbeth, "there's knocking at the gate." I do not
indeed envy, but I most sincerely regret, the peace and safety of
England.--I have no courage to add more, but will enclose a hasty
translation of the letter we received from M. P____, by last night's
post. Humanity cannot comment upon it without shuddering.--Ever Yours,
&c.


"Rue St. Honore, Sept. 2, 1792.

"In a moment like this, I should be easily excused a breach of promise in
not writing; yet when I recollect the apprehension which the kindness of
my amiable friends will feel on my account, I determine, even amidst the
danger and desolation that surround me, to relieve them.--Would to Heaven
I had nothing more alarming to communicate than my own situation! I may
indeed suffer by accident; but thousands of wretched victims are at this
moment marked for sacrifice, and are massacred with an execrable
imitation of rule and order: a ferocious and cruel multitude, headed by