“. . . I never can get to see a paper; and if anyone of our Bears call, the whole family leave the room when I say a word about Politics, or else order them to talk of something else; and, of course, the conversation turns on Murphy or Irish Potatoes, or Tommy Paine, whose effigy they burnt at Pembroke the other day. Nay, they talk of immortalizing Miss Wollstonecraft in the like manner; but all end in Damning all Politics: what good will they do men? and what rights have men that three meals a-day will not supply? So argues a Welshman. I heard a clergyman say that he was sure there was no more harm in shooting a Frenchman, than in lifting his piece at a Bird. And a gentleman—I cannot find out who—sent me this receipt:—
“‘An effectual cure for the bite of a Mad Frenchman: Mix a grain of common sense in the milk of human nature with two grains of honour, and half-a-dram of loyalty; let the patient take this night and morning, and he will be in his senses all day.’”
