nday; when the sun is to shine, the king is to be fine,
the water-works are to play, and the new knights of the Holy Ghost are
to be installed! Ever since Wednesday, the day we were there, we have
done nothing but dispute about it. They say, we did not see it to
advantage, that we ran through the apartments, saw the garden _en
passant_, and slubbered over Trianon. I say, we saw nothing. However, we
had time to see that the great front is a lumber of littleness, composed
of black brick, stuck full of bad old busts, and fringed with gold
rails. The rooms are all small, except the great gallery, which is
noble, but totally wainscoted with looking-glass. The garden is littered
with statues and fountains, each of which has its tutelary deity. In
particular, the elementary god of fire solaces himself in one. In
another, Enceladus, in lieu of a mountain, is overwhelmed with many
waters. There are avenues of water-pots, who disport themselves much in
squirting up cascadelins. In short, 'tis a garden for a great child.
Such was Louis Quatorze, who is here seen in his proper colours, where
he commanded in person, unassisted by his armies and generals, and left
to the pursuit of his own puerile ideas of glory.

[Footnote 1: A celebrated coffee-house, near the Temple Gate in Fleet
Street, where quarto poems and pamphlets were taken in.]

We saw last week a place of another kind, and which has more the air of
what it would be, than anything I have yet met with: it was the convent
of the Chartreux. All the conveniences, or rather (if there was such a
word) all the _adaptments_ are assembled here, that melancholy,
meditation, selfish devotion, and despair would require. But yet 'tis
pleasing. Soften the terms, and mellow the uncouth horror that reigns
here, but a little, and 'tis a charming solitude. It stands on a large
space of ground, is old and irregular. The chapel is gloomy: behind it,
through some dark passages, you pass into a large obscure hall, which
looks like a combination-chamber for some hellish council. The large
cloister surrounds their burying-ground. The cloisters are very narrow
and very long, and let into the cells, which are built like little huts
detached from each other. We were carried into one, where lived a
middle-aged man not long initiated into the order. He was extremely
civil, and called himself Dom Victor. We have promised to visit him
often. Their habit is all white: but besides this he was infinitely