THE avenues that lead from the banks of the river to the immense capital of the British empire, are ill calculated to impress a stranger with the idea that he is entering the first city in the world. It was almost night-fall when D'Alonville passed through the Borough, and through the city; and at such a season of the year, and such a time of the evening, every object appeared to him as dark and dreary as his own destiny. Though accompanied by Ellesmere, he had, on his landing experienced some of that behaviour by which the lower class of people in England disgrace themselves in their conduct towards foreigners—and while the mob had abused both D'Alonville and Ellesmere as Frenchmen on their going on shore, the authorized enqueries of the Custom-house, evidently indicated unusual suspicion and mistrust. It was at the period when every foreigner was suspected of being a Jacobin, and when there were undoubtedly many agents of that society sent round Europe, at once to inform their club of the disposition of other countries, and to blow up every spark of spirit, resembling that which had occasioned in their own so dreadful a conflagration. To the antipathy which the inferior class of the English have been taught to entertain against every other nation, but particularly against the French, together with the numbers that had lately taken

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 shelter in England, was now added doubts, left every foreigner was an incendiary; and the assurances of Ellesmere, on behalf of his friend, were hardly sufficient to secure him from molestation. To a stranger, so imperfectly acquainted with the language, as to be unable to follow their rapid dialogue, the loud tones, and rough language used on such occasions, seems doubly harsh and menacing; the specimen of national hospitality with which D'Alonville was greeted on his first touching English ground, was not very flattering, no much calculated to raise his depressed spirits.

     The unceasing attention, however, of his friend, who would not go to his usual lodgings, but remained at the hotel with him, and the cheerfulness and neatness of every thing around him, a good supper, and an excellent bed, reanimated in some degree the weary wanderer; and the next morning, while Ellesmere wrote to his friends in Staffordshire, D'Alonville found himself disposed to give to the Abbé de St. Remi, a much more favorable description of England and Englishmen, than he had been inclined to do the evening before.

     It was at this period, that the cruel mockery of trying the injured and insulted King of France was carrying on at Paris; and though nobody then imagined that the Convention would have been so impolitic as to have committed an action which, without answering any possible purpose, made enemies of every considerable power of Europe; yet, while the master to whom his father's life had been dedicated, to whom he had himself sworn allegiance, was suffering the ignominy of being arraigned as a criminal, and while public expectation fearfully waited the event. D'Alonville did not think it consistent for one of

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 his nation, and in his situation, to appear in public places; he declined therefore the pressing instances of Ellesmere, who was eager to show him whatever was most worth seeing in London, and when his friend at his earnest entreaty left him of an evening to join his acquaintance, he remained at the hotel, where he had but too much time to meditate on his situation.

     Every day indeed in which he passed through the streets of London, gave him occasion for "meditation even to madness." He saw numbers of his country men thrown from every comfort of life, on the bounty of a nation, which, by an effort of generosity, conquered, or at least concealed, their ancient enmity, to send them assistance. Yet while the English with one hand rescued, with the other they seemed disposed to draw the sword against a whole people, of which the mass appeared to be sullied with crimes unknown before in the history of mankind. To the common people of England, who have little means of distinguishing, all foreigners were formerly considered as Frenchmen. They now heard of the atrocities committed by the French as a nation, and having still less the power of discrimination, involved every one of that nation in universal condemnation; adding to their long rooted national hatred, the detestation raised by these horrors, of which every day brought some new detail. This made London an abode extremely uneasy to D'Alonville. He knew that of the English nation, it now might be said, in respect to its conduct towards his countrymen, as was side of one of its most illustrious literary characters, of whose tenderness of heart and harshness of manners so much has been related —

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 And that while he was hissed and insulted in the streets of London, there was hardly an opulent, or even easily-circumstanced family in the houses that formed those streets, but what had contributed to relieve the necessities of the French, who had been thrown destitute on their shore; yet was there so much pain in every reflection that crossed his mind on the subject, that is dejection every hour encreased; nor could he sometimes help asking himself, as he sat alone of an evening, What he had to do in England? What he had to do in London?

     Alas! these questions served only to introduce another—"What had he to do any where?" Nothing, in truth, but to return to the Continent, and enter again into the army, or to endeavour to get into France, disguised and unknown; there to join those, who, revolted by the infamous measures that had lately been taken, were secretly endeavouring to re-establish their dethroned monarch.

     This last part appeared to D'Alonville the most desirable: he wrote, therefore, to the Marquis de Magnevilliers, (for the communication between the two countries was yet open) couching his letter in such terms as he thought least likely to be understood, should it be intercepted; directed under a feigned name; and giving him, with the same precautions, an address where he might be heard of in London; and determining to wait no longer in England than till he could obtain an answer, which might serve as a guide to his future conduct, he readily accepted the continual invitation of Ellesmere, (which was

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 warmly repeated in letters his friend received from Sir Maynard and Lady Ellesmere;) and agreed to go with him to the family seat in Staffordshire.

     D'Alonville had been introduced during his short stay in London, to Mr. Ellesmere, the elder brother of his friend, and his wife, Lady Sophia. But though they were well bred, and spoke French like people of education, D'Alonville was never tempted to renew the visit, though he received a civil common place invitation. Mr. Ellesmere seemed emmersed in politics, and gave very little attention to whatever passed that had nothing to do with his pursuits. His wife was a fine lady, and rather a prettyish woman: she passed her mornings in going form shop to shop, occupied in the study of uniting two objects which do not easily assimilate—show and economy.—It was necessary for Lady Sophia to be well dressed, to have every thing in the most fashionable style, and even to be quoted as a model of elegance for the imitation of others; but as the finances of her husband, (though the whole family were sacrificed to the splendor of his establishment,) were by no means equal to the disbursement necessary to this end, if it were to be obtained only of the most expensive devisers of fashion, Lady Sophia condescended to encounter, several times in the week, the thick atmosphere of the City, or Holborn-hill, and the materials thus purchased, were, by her own ingenuity, aided by that of a female cousin and her own maid, so well arranged, that for appearance, she was allowed to rank high in the list of fashion. But as from his pursuits, her husband had acquired a set of ideas peculiar to the persons he lived among, Lady Sophia had her head filled with the names of warehouses

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 and millenary rooms, cheap hosiers, and places where contraband dealers secretly disposed of the articles of their illicit commerce. Such speculations were so constantly in her mind, that she had hardly time to qualify herself for the small talk of the day; but this was usually supplied for her by the female cousin, who possessed every talent and every accomplishment; who was the model of fashion and the oracle of wit, understood all sciences and all languages, and lived only among people of the very first world, and foreigners of distinction. D'Alonville did not happen to meet this combination of all that was admirable and attractive; but heard from Lady Sophia, how concerned she was, that Miss Milsington was engaged that evening to dine with her aunt, the Duchess of—, to meet the Duke of—, and a long list of ambassadors and plenipos. D'Alonville cared very little for the disappointment, nor did he recollect the name, when talking with his friend Ellesmere, as they travelled together towards Stafford, of the days they had passed in London, and the people they had seen. Ellesmere exclaimed against the generality of the women. "What moppets they are," said he. "Is there one among the dressed dolls we met the other day at dinner at my brother's, or those who formed the circle in the evening, that a man who has five ideas, can never think of a second time? Can any human being be less rational than my sister-in-law, Lady Sophia? And yet these women are what are called accomplished."

     "And I dare say they are so," replied D'Alonville; "and surely some of them—many of them must be allowed to be handsome."

     "Yes, your French taste perhaps may call them so; and that my dear friend is the very fault I find with your taste. Their beauty is

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 mere gilding and painting, like the fitting up of your rooms; and for their accomplishments—the very name of them disgusts me."

     "Really, my good friend," answered D'Alonville, "if I did not know you so well as I do, I should suspect that, in this dissenting from the general opinion, you affected singularity.—What are then the accomplishments which you admire?"

     "Oh! not what are called so by courtesy; not playing a dozen lessons on a harp or piano-forte, which interrupt all conversation, and tire the unfortunate hearers to death; not painting a rose an hearts-ease, which, if one did not know them by prescription, might as well be a piony and an auricula; not speaking a few phrases of French with a broad English accent, and calling every foreigner Mounshere, as I heard one of those Miss Westwoods call you; girls that are said to be well educated, though I think them hateful, little, formal, conceited things!" Oh! deliver me from such accomplishments!"

     "Well," said D'Alonville, "but this Mademoiselle whose name I did not hear enough to remember—the lady of whom Lady Sophia said so much."

     "Aye, Miss Milsington. What, your curiosity was raised, my good friend, by the mention of Miss Milsington!—No, I will not attempt it, for it is impossible to describe her; nor would I diminish, by giving you a foretaste of what she is, the pleasure it must, I think, give you to see, for you will probably see her one day or other, a non descript in the female world."

     "But is she handsome?"

     "Beauty you know depends upon taste."

     "Let me put the question in another manner.—do you think her handsome?"

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     "She is not very young," answered D'Alonville, smiling, and evading the question; "but that if you retain the taste established not many years since in France, may diminish none of her perfections in your eyes."

     "The lady," said D'Alonville, "appears to be not more a favorite than those we have already canvassed."

     "Yet her accomplishments I do not deny," continued Ellesmere. "She certainly speaks your language like a native of France; understands and speaks Italian; is so much mistress of music as to compose; and, as far as I know, executes every other lady-like science, in their respective lines, like an artist. Yet you see that, highly allied, and living always among people of fashion, and tout paitrie, to borrow an expression which my own language does not furnish, with all these graces, Miss Milsington is unmarried; a proof that I am not singular in my opinion of her, though I believe I am extremely singular in having the courage to own it."

     "In a word" said D'Alonville, "she is not at all like the beautiful Polonese, Alexina?"

     "Alexina!" replied Ellesmere, "Alexina! by heavens there is no more resemblance between them, than between the Midecean Venus, and one of those cherry-checked figures, clad in red and green, which a Jew carries about on a board."

      "La comparison est un peu fort," cried D'Alonville.

     On their arrival late in the evening, at Eddisbury-Hall, the seat of Sir Maynard, they found a group assembled of very different characters from those that Ellesmere had treated with so much severity.

     Sir Maynard Ellesmere was now turned sixty. In his person he resembled the idea given in the

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 old Ballad of "The old Courier of the Queens ;" and in his manners he observed much of the formality and ceremony now so generally exploded. Though he had been disappointed in his views of aggrandizing and enriching his house, by some of those comfortable sinecures which make up to so many noble families for the prodigality or unrequited zeal of their ancestors, he was still the most loyal of country gentleman, and held in utter abhorrence, all who did not implicitly believe in the infallibility of powers and princes. His detestation of all such persons was supposed to be considerably augmented, since a neighbouring estate, larger than his own, had been purchased by a rich Dissenter, who, from a very humble origin, had risen to great wealth, by being concerned in a manufacture in an adjoining county. Though no intercourse had ever subsisted between the two houses, so great was the enmity Sir Maynard bore the proprietor of this estate, that he would not suffer his family to notice any persons around them, who visited this obnoxious Presbyterian; and dismissed the apothecary, whose ancestors had for two generations felt the pulse of the Ellesmere family, because he had been too assiduous in paying his court to the new comers, and had made his visits at Eddisbury Hall, during a fit of the rheumatism, to which Lady Ellesmere was subject, with less alacrity, as Sir Maynard fancied, than he used to do when his attention was not divided with this opulent patient. In other respects, Sir Maynard was a good neighbour, and affected popularity. His table was more hospitable than his fortune could with prudence allow; and he made a very respectable figure as chairman of the sessions, and foreman of the grand jury. He was a good

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 master, and his servants grew old in his service and as a husband and a father, he had through life acquitted himself well: the only error he had committed being perhaps sacrificing too much to the eldest son of the family, which promised to have no favorable effect on the destiny of his five other children. Lady Ellesmere was one of those women to whom might be applied, with great truth, the epithet which usually means nothing—that of a very good sort of woman. She had been handsome in her youth without being vain; and though she brought Sir Maynard a good fortune, being a co-heiress, she had resigned with great cheerfulness her house in town, and, when it became necessary to retrench their expences, retired to the country, where she had supplied, as well as she could, to her three daughters, the deficiencies which inevitably happened in their education from want of masters which only London could supply. But though she had been well educated herself, she was not a great proficient in what are called accomplishments; and the instructions she gave were rather useful than ornamental—such as were likely to make her daughters good wives to country gentlemen, if country gentlemen had been what they once were. For such wives, however, it did not appear that there now existed any demand. Miss Ellesmere was in her twenty-seventh year—without being very handsome she had an agreeable countenance, and a genteel figure; but there was an air of melancholy about her, which was imputed to a disappointment she had met with a few years before, when a marriage between her and a young clergyman had been broken off upon Sir Maynard finding it impossible to fulfill, in regard to her fortune, the engagement he at first seemed willing to enter into on behalf of his daughter.

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 Miss Mary, the second daughter, a year younger than D'Alonville's friend, was a sprightly girl of two and twenty; who did not take much pains to conceal the reluctance with which she should wither on the virgin thorn, only that her elder brother might have a few thousands less to pay out of the family estate. Though she was not hansome, there was something smart and piquant in her whole appearance; and at the public meetings of the country, where she had within the last eighteen months been seen (for Lady Ellesmere kept her as long as she could from coming out, as it is called) she had been enough the object of admiration to make her long to try her fortune in London.—For this purpose she had imagined a little plan to procure an invitation from Lady Sophia; but she had failed, as Lady Sophia seemed not to like either the trouble of expence of introducing her husband's sisters into circles, where their appearance could not be supported by their father, but by lessening his allowance to his eldest son. Miss Mary, therefore, was compelled to remain the belle of rural balls; and to limit her present hopes of conquest to the very few young men who were within twenty miles. Her younger sister, Theodora, was about eighteen; but being not tall, and very fair, she passed for at least three years younger; and was dressed and treated as a child. The younger brother of the family, who was designed by Sir Maynard for the church, had been just entered at Oxford on leaving Eaton College; but he was now at home, for the festivals of the Christmas recess, and those which celebrate the commencement of the new year, were not yet over, when Edward Ellesmere introduced to the family thus described, his friend the Chevalier D'Alonville.