On ye 25th we arrived here, Bowood, where we have found a numerous party. The Archbishop of Bordeaux,[28] a man who practises the piety and resignation his profession bids him teach. Tho’ fallen from a high dignity which he supported with honour, he has not been heard to utter an unavailing regret upon the past; he is truly respectable. His Grand Vicaire, L’Abbé Landrecelles, is also entitled to praise for his philosophy. Another Abbé, who is sensible, also was here. Indeed, the whole class of clergy have alone distinguished themselves by their conduct; they acted from principle, and are rewarded with universal esteem and respect. Mr. Dugald Stuart[29] and his wife, from Edinburgh, were here: he is reserved, and I did not hear him speak, but he is supposed deservedly to enjoy a high reputation. She is clever, well-informed, and pleasing. I read Voltaire’s _Memoirs_, written by himself; I do not think any of his works abound with more genuine wit. The whole narrative of his connection with the King of Prussia is a _chef d’œuvre_, but tho’ he tells his own story, yet it is evident that he was in the wrong in their quarrel. The Duke of York has met with a check in his attack on Alkmaer; he seems to have quarrelled with Abercromby,[30] as his official dispatch is silent in his praise. I fear the whole expedition will fail, and prove a useless waste of blood and treasure. There is some perverse quality in the mind that seems to take an active pleasure in destroying the amusement it promises to itself. It never fails to baffle my expectations; so sure as I propose to my imagination an agreeable conversation with a person where past experience warrants the hope, so sure am I disappointed. I feel it perpetually, for example, with Dumont; with him I have passed very many cheerful hours. This knowledge tempts me to renew our walks, the consequence is we both yawn. I can only account for it from a mutual effort to revive the same topics, or that we both endeavour to infuse a liveliness equal to what we remember pervaded our past conversations; and where there is labour there is always failure. It is now got over; we have ascertained that we each vary in _agrément_, either from condition, weather, or other circumstances; and we have made up our minds to it, and are four times in five highly gratified. I am convinced there is a period in all intimacies where that feeling takes place. I am so persuaded of the impracticability of arranging, ‘_Now_ we will be pleasant,’ that I shun settling a meeting: chance does favourably what method would destroy. He possesses a fund quite inexhaustible of amusement, literature, anecdotes, lively observation, disquisition upon grave subjects; all this combined with a good heart and temper. He spends his leisure too much upon an occupation that I should doubt repaying him with fruit equal to the labour. He is translating and elucidating a metaphysical system upon legislation, jurisprudence, etc., of Bentham’s.