not inclined to be of the same sentiments. I have already been obliged to tell her, that we are very retired sort of people, and do not like company; I find she does not esteem us the better for it; and this morning (as I passed through the kitchen without speaking to her) I overheard her exclaim, "Ah mon dieu ! comme ces Anglois sont sauvages." I believe we must take more notice of her, otherwise we shall certainly have our rent raised; but she is as fat as a pig, and as ugly as the devil, and lays on a quantity of paint on each of her swelled cheeks, that looks like a great plaster of red Morocco. Her picture is hanging in the room where I am now writing, as well as that of her husband, who, by the by, is a ninny; they are no less vile curiosities than the originals.-He is drawn with his snuff-box open in one hand, and a dish of coffee in the other; and at the same time, fait l'aimable à Madame. I took notice of this triple occupation, which seemed to imply something particular. She told me that the thought was her's; that her husband was exceedingly fond of snuff and of coffee, and wanted by this to show, that he was still more occupied with her than with either of them.I could not help applauding the ingenuity of

the conceit. Madame is painted with an immense bouquet in her breast, and an orange in her right hand, emblematic of her sweetness and purity: and has the prettiest little smirk on her face you can imagine. She told me, that she insisted on the painter drawing her avec le souris sur le visage, but as he had not esprit enough to make her smile naturally, she was obliged to force one, "qui n'étoit pas toutà-fait si jolie que le naturel, mais qui vaudroit toujours mieux que de parroitre sombre." I agreed with her perfectly; and assured her it became her very much; "parceque les dames grasses sont toujours de bonne humeur."—I found however that she would willingly have excused me the latter part of the compliment, which more than lost all that I had gained by the former. "Il est vrai (said she, a good deal piqued), j'ai un peu de l'embonpoint, mais pas tant grasse pourtant." I pretended to excuse myself, from not understanding all the finesse of the language; and assured her, that de l'embonpoint was the very phrase I meant to make use of. She accepted the apology, and we are again reconciled; for, to give the devil his due, they are good humoured. She made me a courtesy, and repeated, "Oui, Monsieur, pour

parler comme il faut, il faut dire de l embonpoint. -On ne dit pas grasse." I assured her, bowing to the ground, that the word should for ever be rased from my vocabulary. She left me with a gracious smile, and a courtesy, much lower than the first; adding, "Je sçavois bien que Monsieur étoit un homme comme il faut ;" at the same time tripping off on her tiptoes, as light as a feather, to show me how much I had been mistaken. This woman made me recollect (what I have always observed) how little the manners of the French are to be changed by their connexion with other nations; allowing none to be in any degree worthy of imita tion but their own. Although she has now been here these twenty years, she is still as perfectly French, as if she had never been without the gates of Paris; and looks upon every woman in Palermo with the utmost con tempt, because they have never seen that capital, nor heard the sublime music of its opera. She is likewise (allowing for the difference of rank) an admirable epitome of all French women, whose universal passion has ever been the desire of admiration, and of appearing young: and ever would be, I believe, were they to live to the age of a thousand. Any person that

will take a look of the withered death's heads in their public places, covered over with a thick mask of paint, will be convinced of this.-Now, our old ladies, when they get to the wrong side of sixty, generally take a jump up to the borders of fourscore, and appear no less vain of their years than ever they were of their youth. I know some of them, that I am sure are not less happy, nor less contented, nor (I might almost add) less admired with their wrinkles, than ever they were with their dimples. I do not know whether a cheerful old woman, who is willing to appear so, is more respectable, or more estimable; or a withered witch, who fills up every wrinkle with varnish, and at fourscore attempts to give herself the bloom of four-and-twenty, is ridiculous and contemptible:-but as dinner is on the table, I shall leave it to you to determine. Adieu.

LETTER XXII.

Palermo, June 23.

I SHALL have a great deal to write you about this city; we are every day more delighted with it, and shall leave it with much regret. We have now delivered our letters, in consequence of which we are loaded with civilities, and have got into a very agreeable set of acquaintance. But I shall first attempt to give you some little idea of the town, and then speak of its inhabitants. It is by much the most regular I have seen, and is built upon that plan, which I think all large cities ought to follow. The two great streets intersect each other in the centre of the city, where they form a handsome square, called the Ottangolo, adorned with elegant uniform buildings. From the centre of this square, you see the whole of these noble streets, and the four great gates of the city which terminate them; the symmetry and beauty of which produce a fine effect. The whole of these are to be magnificently illuminated some time next month, and must certainly