At twelve o’clock, the beverage I have mentioned, which the french think unwholesome at all times, and which even the english fear to take at so late an hour, was placed near the fire, on a large table, surrounded with cakes, creams, custards, a large tureen of soup, and a bowl of punch, the party crowded round the table, and helped themselves to the refreshments it contained. When the ceremony was over, those who did not return to the card tables, entered into conversation; and as literary subjects were still the favourite theme, a young man, with a pompous manner, and a solemn tone of voice, said, addressing himself to me, “Is it true, sir, that there are englishmen, so blinded by national prejudice, as to prefer _votre bizarre_ Shakspeare[31], to our divine Racine?” Endeavouring to avoid a discussion, which I knew the answer I was inclined to give would create, I contented myself with observing, that Shakspeare and Racine were such different authors, that it was absurd to compare them. “As well,” said I, “might you draw a resemblance between the beauties of Switzerland, and those of Versailles.” “The proper simile,” retorted the first speaker, “would be between Versailles and a barren heath, on which some few beautiful plants may have been accidentally scattered, by the capricious hand of nature.” The whole circle joined in the triumph, which my antagonist supposed he had gained, and I in vain attempted to recapitulate, and to translate some of the striking passages of Shakespear. Though all condemned our “heaven-inspired poet,” I soon perceived, that few had ever read, and none understood the sublime work which they presumed to criticise. “Speaking of english authors,” cried the member of the ci-devant académie française, “makes one think of english orators. I see, by Chateau-Brian’s account of England, that the cause of Mr. Fox’s retirement from parliament, has been at last discovered; and that it arose from his mental powers having been weakened by the effect of excessive drinking. To this I suppose one must attribute his late unwarrantable attack on the house of Bourbon.” Astonished at this extraordinary assertion, I took the liberty of assuring the gentleman, that Mr. Fox’s talents were as perfect as ever, and that his last speech was one of the finest efforts of human reasoning. “_Pardonnez_,” cried the academician. “Mr. Fox could never reason. He was indeed once a fine declaimer, but as to the powers of argument, he never possessed them.” I was ridiculous enough to combat this absurd opinion, and to assure him, that there was not an englishman, (whatever his political sentiments might be) who would not willingly bear testimony to the wonderful argumentative talents of the extraordinary man in question.