All over the country, in the autumn of 1792, two subjects only were talked of, the Revolution in France, and the adventures of the emigrants to England. Little settlements of refugees had been, or were being, formed in various districts. One coterie had established themselves at Richmond, where they received much attention from Horace Walpole. Other unfortunates found their way to Bury. A third colony, and not the least important, sought retirement in the Vale of Mickleham. The fugitives, of course, were not only of different ranks, but of different political complexions. The Revolution had begun to devour its children; and some of the exiles had helped to raise the passion which swept them away. Suffolk had been visited in the spring by the celebrated Countess of Genlis, governess to the children of Philip Egalité, Duke of Orleans. This lady, who was now called Madame de Sillery, or Brulard, hired a house at Bury for herself and her party, which included an authentic Mademoiselle d’Orléans, besides the Pamela who afterwards married Lord Edward Fitzgerald, and another young girl. Her establishment also comprised a number of men, who were treated by the ladies sometimes as servants, sometimes as equals. The vagaries of this curious household and its mistress provoked comments which drove them from the county before Miss Burney entered it. It was rumoured that Madame Brulard’s departure was hastened by the arrival of the Duke de Liancourt, who warmly denounced her influence over her infamous protector as a principal cause of the French anarchy. Yet the nobleman just named was himself known as a friend of the people. He it was who, bursting into the King’s closet to report the fall of the Bastille, had been the first to utter the word _Revolution_. Arthur Young, who, like most other well-to-do Englishmen at that moment, was ready to forswear every popular principle he had formerly professed, inveighed against the Duke’s folly, while he pitied the misfortunes of a man to whom his travels had laid him under obligation. Fanny met the new-comer at her host’s table, and heard from his own lips the story of his escape from France. Being in command at Rouen when news of the bloody Tenth of August reached that city, and finding a price set on his head by the Jacobins, De Liancourt, with some difficulty, made his way to the sea, where he embarked in an open boat, and set sail, covered with faggots, for the opposite coast. He entertained his friends at Bradfield Hall with an account of his landing at Hastings, describing how he had walked to the nearest public-house, and, to seem English, had called for ‘_pot portère_,’ and then, being extremely thirsty, for another; how, overcome by the strange liquor, he had been carried upstairs in a helpless state, and put to bed; how he had woke up before day-break in a miserable room, and fancied himself in a French _maison de force_; how, on creeping