The bishop’s town-house I have mentioned. At a distance of less than a mile down the river stands what was once his country residence; but it is now the property of a naval officer, who bought it at a sale of national domains. I walked out to it the other day, and found it neither very large, nor very magnificent. It commands a good prospect of the river, and is pleasantly situated at the head of a large garden, filled by stone steps and strait walks. I found a gardener at work in it, who shewed me a superb orangery, where, in large wooden cases, stand the finest orange and lemon-trees which I ever saw growing out of their native climes, and bearing ripe fruit in the month of March. I asked the gardener about the last bishop, who was a constitutional one, and was told, that he was guillotined about a year ago, at Brest, for being a federalist. I had heard so before.----“Was not he,” said I, “dragged away suddenly, and denied the consolation of taking leave of his family, who were in the house?”----“I believe,” answered the gardener, “he was; but those things were so common some time since, that no body attended to them. I mind my work, and ask no questions.”----I gave him an _assignat_ of small value, which he expected, and went away. But a building which would have excited my curiosity more than the palaces of bishops and the houses of nobility, I arrived here too late to see----a Temple of Reason, built for the exercise of the new religion of France.----It stood on the summit of a lofty hill, close to the town, and consisted only of a few posts, from which rafters met at the top in a point to support the roof, the sides being open. Within it was adorned by festoons of oak-leaves, and was backed by at tree of liberty. It was the favourite rendezvous of the party of Robespierre, under whose auspicious reign it was erected. Here they swore eternal enmity to kings, and extirpation to aristocrates; and here their dances and sports were held, and the laws were read. In July last (not above ten days before the fatal _neuf Thermidor_) all the unmarried young women, and even all the children of the town, down to seven years old, were compelled to march in procession up the hill, preceded by the mayor and a band of music, and to take an oath never to marry any but true republicans and _sans-culottes_. About three months ago this edifice was either blown down, or its foundation secretly undermined in the night; and only a few broken posts and a little thatch now proclaim, “_Ilium fuit_.”