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LETTER III.
September 25th, 1770.
WE quitted the neighbourhood of Geneva today at noon. Do not expect from me a description of this famous city and republic; I am neither qualified nor inclined to descant upon the merits of their form of government, laws, &c. – nor is the town at all to my taste; I mean its streets, architecture, &c. It is very dirty, and I should imagine trade flourishes prodigiously by the number of carts and drays with which the streets are crowded. Our host was not unreasonable, and we parted without any dispute. I write this from a little village called Friangean, situated in a bottom, surrounded by high mountains. Our inn has a dangerous appearance, but that is all; for the poor people do every thing in their power to oblige us. They have dressed an elegant little supper, consisting of a fine young turkey, a tongue à la daube, two sallads, one of anchovy, the other of lettice; a dessert composed of cheese, biscuits, Maspinerie, almonds in shell, butter churned since our arrival, and very good wine both white and red. Is not this a sumptuous repast for such a savage place? And what do you think they charge us, including our courier? Only five livres, five sols, French. I dare say you thought Savoy afforded nothing but acorns and goat's whey. – From Geneva to this place, our road has not been abso-
