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The events of Paris which are any way remarkable are ſo generally circulated, that I do not often mention them, unleſs to mark their effect on the provinces; but you will be ſo much miſled by the public paperſ with regard to the death of Marat, that I think it neceſſary to notice the ſubject while it is yet recent in my memory. Were the clubs, the Convention, or the ſections of Paris to be regarded as expreſſing the ſenſe of the people, the aſſaſſination of this turbulent journaliſt muſt be conſidered being the caſe, that the departments are for the moſt part, if not rejoiced, indifferent—and many of thoſe who impute to him the honour of martyrdom, or aſſiſt at his apotheoſis, are much better ſatiſfied both with his chriſtian and heathen glories, than they were while he was living to propagate anarchy and pillage. The reverence of the Convention itſelf is a mere political pantomime. Within the laſt twelve months nearly all the individuals who compoſe it have treated Marat with contempt; and I perfectly remember even Danton, one of the members of the Committee of Salut Publique, accuſing him of being a contre revolutionnaire.

But the people, to uſe a popular expreſſion here, require to be electrified.—St. Fargeau is almoſt forgotten, and Marat is to ſerve the ſame purpoſes when dead, to which he contributed while living.—An extreme groſſneſs and want of feeling form the characteriſtic feature of the Pariſians; they are ignorant, credulous, and material, and the Convention do not fail on all occaſions to avail themſelves of theſe qualities. The corpſe of Marat decently encloſed in a coffin would have made little impreſſion, and it was not pity, but revenge, which was to be excited. The diſguſting object of a dead leper was therefore expoſed to the eyes of a metropolis calling itſelf the moſt refined and enlightened of all Europe—

"And what t'oblivion better were conſign'd, Is hung on high to poiſon half mankind."

I know not whether theſe lines are moſt applicable to the diſplay of Marat's body, or the conſecration of his fame, but both will be a laſting ſtigma on the manners and morals of Paris.

If the departments, however, take no intereſt in the loſs of Marat, the young woman who aſſaſſinated him has created a very lively one. The ſlighteſt anecdotes concerning her are collected with avidity, and repeated with admiration; and this is a ſtill farther proof of what you have heard me advance, that neither patriotiſm nor humanity has an abundant growth in this country. The French applaud an act in itſelf horrid and unjuſtifiable, while they have ſcarcely any conception of the motive, and ſuch a ſacrifice ſeems to them ſomething ſupernatural.—The Jacobins aſſert, that Charlotte Corday was an emiſſary of the allied powers, or, rather, of Mr. Pitt; and the Pariſians have the complaiſance to believe, that a young woman could devote herſelf to certain deſtruction at the inſtigation of another, as though the ſame principleſ which would lead a perſon to undertake a diplomatic commiſſion, would induce her to meet death.

I wrote ſome days ago to a lady of my acquaintance at Caen, to beg ſhe would procure me ſome information relative to this extraordinary female, and I ſubjoin an extract of her anſwer, which I have juſt received:

"Miſs Corday was a native of this department, and had, from her earlieſt years, been very carefully educated by an aunt who lives at Caen. Before ſhe was twenty ſhe had decided on taking the veil, and her noviciate waſ juſt expired when the Conſtituent Aſſembly interdicted all religious vowſ for the future: ſhe then left the convent, and reſided entirely with her aunt. The beauty of her perſon, and particularly her mental acquiſitions, which were ſuperior to that of French women in general, rendered an object of much admiration. She ſpoke uncommonly well, and her diſcourſe often turned on the ancients, and on ſuch ſubjects aſ indicated that maſculine turn of mind which has ſince proved ſo fatal to her. Perhaps her converſation was a little tinctured with that pedantry not unjuſtly attributed to our ſex when they have a little more knowledge than uſual, but, at the ſame time, not in ſuch a degree as to render it unpleaſant. She ſeldom gave any opinion on the revolution, but frequently attended the municipalities to ſolicit the penſions of the expelled religious, or on any other occaſion where ſhe could be uſeful to her friends. On the arrival of Petion, Barbaroux, and others of the Briſſotin faction, ſhe began to frequent the clubs, and to take a more lively intereſt in political affairs. Petion, and Barbaroux eſpecially, ſeemed to be much reſpected by her. It was even ſaid, ſhe had a tender partiality for the latter; but this I believe is untrue.—I dined with her at her aunt's on the Sunday previous to her departure for Paris. Nothing very remarkable appeared in her behaviour, except that ſhe waſ much affected by a muſter of the recruits who were to march againſt Paris, and ſeemed to think many lives might be loſt on the occaſion, without obtaining any relief for the country.—On the Tueſday following ſhe left Caen, under pretext of viſiting her father, who lives at Sens. Her aunt accompanied her to the gate of the town, and the ſeparation waſ extremely ſorrowful on both ſides. The ſubſequent events are too well known to need recital."

On her trial, and at her execution, Miſs Corday was firm and modeſt; and I have been told, that in her laſt moments her whole figure waſ intereſting beyond deſcription. She was tall, well formed, and beautiful—her eyes, eſpecially, were fine and expreſſive—even her dreſſ was not neglected, and a ſimple white diſhabille added to the charms of this ſelf-devoted victim. On the whole, it is not poſſible to aſcertain preciſely the motives which determined her to aſſaſſinate Marat. Her letter to Barbaroux expreſſes nothing but republican ſentiments; yet it is difficult to conceive that a young woman, who had voluntarily embraced the life of a cloiſter, could be really of this way of thinking.—I cannot but ſuppoſe her connection with the Deputies aroſe merely from an idea that they might be the inſtruments of reſtoring the aboliſhed government, and her profeſſion of republican principles after ſhe waſ arreſted might probably be with a view of ſaving Duperret, and others of the party, who were ſtill in the power of the Convention.—Her ſelection of Marat ſtill remains to be accounted for. He was, indeed, the moſt violent of the Jacobins, but not the moſt dangerous, and the death of ſeveral others might have been more ſerviceable to the cauſe. Marat was, however, the avowed perſecutor of prieſts and religion, and if we attribute any influence to Miſs Corday's former habits, we may ſuppoſe them to have had ſome ſhare in the choice of her victim. Her refuſal of the miniſtry of a conſtitutional prieſt at the ſcaffold ſtrengthens thiſ opinion. We pay a kind of involuntary tribute of admiration to ſuch firmneſs of mind in a young and beautiful woman; and I do not recollect that hiſtory has tranſmitted any thing parallel to the heroiſm of Charlotte Corday. Love, revenge, and ambition, have often ſacrificed their victims, and ſuſtained the courage of their voluntaries under puniſhment; but a female, animated by no perſonal motives, ſenſible only to the miſfortunes of her country, patriotic both from feeling and reflection, and ſacrificing herſelf from principle, is ſingular in the annals of human nature.—Yet, after doing juſtice to ſuch an inſtance of fortitude and philanthropic devotion, I cannot but ſincerely lament the act to which it has given riſe. At a time when ſo many ſpirits are irritated by deſpair and oppreſſion, the example may be highly pernicious, and a cauſe, however good, muſt always be injured by the uſe of ſuch means in its ſupport.—Nothing can ſanctify an aſſaſſination; and were not the French more vindictive than humane, the crimes of the republican party would find a momentary refuge in this injudicious effort to puniſh them.

My friend La Marquiſe de ____ has left Paris, and is now at Peronne, where ſhe has engaged me to paſs a few weeks with her; ſo that my next will moſt probably be dated from thence.—Mr. D____ is endeavouring to get a paſſport for England. He begins to regret having remained here. His temper, naturally impatient of reſtraint, accords but ill with the portion of liberty enjoyed by our republicans. Corporal privations and mental interdictions multiply ſo faſt, that irritable people like himſelf, and valetudinarians like Mrs. C____ and me, could not chooſe a worſe reſidence; and, as we are now unanimous on the ſubject, I hope ſoon to leave the country.—There is, as you obſerve in your laſt, ſomething of indolence as well as friendſhip in my having ſo long remained here; but if actions were always analyzed ſo ſtrictly, and we were not allowed to derive a little credit from our weakneſſes, how many great characterſ would be reduced to the common level. Voltaire introduced a ſort of rage for anecdotes, and for tracing all events to trifling cauſes, which haſ done much more towards exploding the old-faſhioned ſyſtem or the dignity of human nature than the dry maxims of Rochefaucault, the ſophiſms of Mandeville, or even the malicious wit of Swift. This is alſo another effect of the progreſs of philoſophy; and this ſort of moral Quixotiſm, continually in ſearch of evil, and more gratified in diſcovering it than pained by its exiſtence, may be very philoſophical; but it is at leaſt gloomy and diſcouraging; and we may be permitted to doubt whether mankind become wiſer or better by learning, that thoſe who have been moſt remarkable either for wiſdom or virtue were occaſionally under the influence of the ſame follies and paſſions as other people.—Your uncharitable diſcernment, you ſee, has led me into a digreſſion, and I have, without intending it, connected the motives of my ſtay with reflections on Voltaire's General Hiſtory, Barillon's Letters, and all the ſecret biography of our modern libraries. This, you will ſay, iſ only a chapter of a "man's importance to himſelf;" but public affairs are now ſo confuſed and diſguſting, that we are glad to encourage any train of ideas not aſſociated with them.

The Commiſſioners I gave you ſome account of in a former letter are departed, and we have lately had Chabot, an Ex-capuchin, and a patriot of ſpecial note in the Convention, and one Dumont, an attorney of a neighbouring village. They are, like all the reſt of theſe miſſionaries, entruſted with unlimited powers, and inſpire apprehenſion and diſmay wherever they approach.

The Garde Nationale of Amiens are not yet entirely ſubdued to the times, and Chabot gave ſome hints of a project to diſarm them, and actually attempted to arreſt ſome of their officers; but, apprized of his deſign, they remained two nights under arms, and the Capuchin, who is not martially inclined, was ſo alarmed at this indication of reſiſtance, that he has left the town with more haſte than ceremony.—He had, in an harangue at the cathedral, inculcated ſome very edifying doctrines on the diviſion of property and the right of pillage; and it is not improbable, had he not withdrawn, but the Amienois would have ventured, on thiſ pretext, to arreſt him. Some of them contrived, in ſpite of the centinel placed at the lodging of theſe great men, to paſte up on the door two figures, with the names of Chabot and Dumont; in the "fatal poſition of the unfortunate brave;" and though certain events in the lives of theſe Deputies may have rendered this perſpective of their laſt moments not abſolutely a novelty, yet I do not recollect that Akenſide, or any other author, has enumerated a gibbet amongſt the objects, which, though not agreeable in themſelves, may be reconciled to the mind by familiarity. I wiſh, therefore, our repreſentatives may not, in return for thiſ admonitory portrait of their latter end, draw down ſome vengeance on the town, not eaſily to be appeaſed. I am no aſtrologer, but in our ſublunary world the conjunction of an attorney and a renegade monk cannot preſent a fortunate aſpect; and I am truly anxious to find myſelf once again under the more benign influence of your Engliſh hemiſphere.—Yours.