not feel the burning reflexion from the white sand, which in
summer is almost intolerable.

In the character of the French, considered as a people, there are
undoubtedly many circumstances truly ridiculous. You know the
fashionable people, who go a hunting, are equipped with their
jack boots, bag wigs, swords and pistols: but I saw the other day
a scene still more grotesque. On the road to Choissi, a fiacre,
or hackney-coach, stopped, and out came five or six men, armed
with musquets, who took post, each behind a separate tree. I
asked our servant who they were imagining they might be archers,
or footpads of justice, in pursuit of some malefactor. But guess
my surprise, when the fellow told me, they were gentlemen a la
chasse. They were in fact come out from Paris, in this equipage,
to take the diversion of hare-hunting; that is, of shooting from
behind a tree at the hares that chanced to pass. Indeed, if they
had nothing more in view, but to destroy the game, this was a
very effectual method; for the hares are in such plenty in this
neighbourhood, that I have seen a dozen together, in the same
field. I think this way of hunting, in a coach or chariot, might
be properly adopted at London, in favour of those aldermen of the
city, who are too unwieldy to follow the hounds a horseback.

The French, however, with all their absurdities, preserve a
certain ascendancy over us, which is very disgraceful to our
nation; and this appears in nothing more than in the article of
dress. We are contented to be thought their apes in fashion; but,
in fact, we are slaves to their taylors, mantua-makers, barbers,
and other tradesmen. One would be apt to imagine that our own
tradesmen had joined them in a combination against us. When the